Chapter Nineteen Violet #4
It’s strange to read. Nothing belongs to us here, not even the heavily censored newspaper. Still, it doesn’t stop the editors and reporters from producing quality—albeit authorized—articles.
“Can I help you?” a man asks. I vigorously clear my throat and tell him I’ve been sent by Mrs. Hata, then give him the drawings. He nods admiringly at them. “One of these will work great.”
Near the press, a couple of editors talk among themselves.
I hear one say, “I wonder how the Salt Lake City trip will go.” I know he’s talking about Mr. Nomura and the other representatives who are trying to secure the ability for nissei to serve in the war.
Even though it could result in a draft, Mr. Nomura is adamant that we be treated like all other Americans.
I wonder, suddenly, if Ren would want to enlist. Or if he might even be drafted.
Immediately, I push the thought away. I do not want to contemplate life without him. I won’t even consider it.
“The younger crowd is getting very agitated,” a woman adds. “They’ll be furious if the draft is instated here.”
“A bunch of hotheads,” the man agrees. “Lately there have been fights, and they aren’t just scuffles between friends. Things are getting bad.”
I leave. I don’t want to hear any more. I should go straight to school, but instead I go to Akira’s barrack.
I’ve been thinking about Mrs. Hata’s story about Prometheus and the eagle.
If Akira was put here by incorrectly seeking worship, perhaps some sort of reverse of it might work, if I could just figure out what.
Perhaps I could provide him with sincere worship—but how?
When I walk up the steps, they vibrate, a strong force coming from inside. The vibrations pulse through me and turn my vision double. Unlike last time, I try to knock, but there’s no response. I step inside, and my heart skitters to a stop.
Everything is a blur. Shadowy hands dance inside the mirror.
They pin Oda against the surface, knocking off his samurai helmet, his face contorted in fury.
They pluck at the bonsais’ leaves and scoop great handfuls of water from the basin, splashing it everywhere.
They shake the panels and toss the cushions.
Koi fish swim panicked through the air, and the crane dives into the painted reeds for shelter on the screen.
At first, I don’t see Akira. Then I realize the shadowy hands scrabble and swarm over a figure against the wall in the way ants swarm pastry dropped at a picnic.
“Akira!” I scream. At my voice, the hands startle. Then, together, they disappear.
But their havoc remains. Water spills across the barrack and gushes through the knotholes.
Koi fish plop down with great splashes while the bonsai trees bend over their shorn leaves.
Oda shakes himself like a wet dog. Akira stumbles forward.
His hair stands up in spiky tufts, his clothes are askew, and the crack in his face now cuts across his brow and down to his left cheek. I’m so fearful, it’s hard to breathe.
“Who disturbs me?” he demands, glaring balefully at me. He doesn’t seem aware that the crack has grown.
“Akira. It’s me.” My breath punches out of me all at once. “We have to stop this. Your shadows—they’re getting worse. You’re in danger. We’re in danger.”
His chest heaves, but something belligerent crosses his face. “And what do you expect of me?” Akira demands. “I don’t bring restlessness with me like a bag or a hat. Every soul has its discord, its tingling, itching, crawling, and throbbing. It is not my fault.”
A desperate longing for Otōsan comes over me. I wish he was here to protect us, to keep us safe. He would never let anything happen to us.
“I’m trying to figure out how to free you,” I say. “You were punished for seeking false worship from the spirits in Yomi. What if I offer you correct worship? What might work? An icon maybe?”
He softens. “I’ve always longed for an icon—a gilded one done in tempera paint, perhaps.” Then woefully he says, “I imagine it must be an offering from the times of the gods, when they walked among mortals and were known. And whatever the offering is, it must be imbued with divine magic.”
My heart sinks. Fear rises like a tide swirling around my ankles, trying to tug me out to the sea. Relics seem to be the only solution. They are already rare, but are probably even rarer here, with few daring to bring anything so undeniably Japanese. Where might I find one?
Akira seems to understand my worry. His hand flaps through the air toward me as though he’d like to soothe me but is unsure how. The crack on his face widens, just a bit. Desperately, he paws at it, lips parting in horror. A shudder works through him.
“Please, mortal girl,” he whispers, “don’t let the shadows devour me.”
Raw terror fills his eyes. It’s unlike any expression I’ve seen on his face before. It’s a primal terror, the sort humans feel because we can perish.
“I won’t,” I say, but the fear I see in his eyes swims through me, too. My mind grasps for solutions, moving too fast to form any coherent thoughts before jumping, panicked, to the next one. Then, finally, a single thought demolishes the others. I can’t vanquish it.
What if I can’t fix this?