Chapter Twenty-Three Violet
Chapter Twenty-Three
Violet
Mama is frightened.
Her factory closed early today. Everyone senses the changing, furious tide.
It’s receded from shore, exposing jagged driftwood, long-buried buckets, and broken silver dollar shells.
It’s shown us what’s there, but it won’t stay away for long.
It’ll surge, rise, flood. It’ll sweep things away with it, take them out to sea, drown them.
I can only pray my plan will work.
“What are you doing?” Mama asks as I reach into a box where we keep odds and ends. The Buddha icon that the Kimuras gave us is there, wrapped in a cloth. I glance at her. The last thing I want is to scare her or make her feel unsafe. I force myself to slow down and smile.
“Oh, just seeing if there’s anything I might use as a hair ribbon.”
“A hair ribbon? At a time like this, Violet?” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “At least our section of the camp is quiet, thank Jesus.”
“It’s true. No one was headed in this direction.
” I try to sound as calm and reassuring as possible.
“I think we’ll be just fine. Why don’t you nap, Mama?
If anything changes, I’ll wake you up.” I lift the icon out, pretending to only be interested in the fabric.
Convinced I’m only intent on crafting accessories, Mama plods over to her bed and sits down.
I watch her through my peripheral vision.
She’s always in motion, bustling about from dawn to dusk, so when she finally stops, she collapses.
It happens now. Her body sinks onto the cot. Her eyes close.
I’m glad. She needs rest. And I need to focus.
Carefully, I inspect the icon. Expensive icons have gold leafing and painted images.
This one has gold paint to imitate leafing and a print, which has been glued onto the plaque.
Age has already caused the print to begin separating from the plaque.
Slowly, I work it off, mindful not to tear the print.
Then I scrape off the remnants of adhesive sticking to the plaque.
It’s the only thing I have for glue. I pick up Ren’s icon board and press the gooey bits on, then I grab up my sketch.
Akira stares back at me, captured in pencil.
I’ve drawn the wind swirling behind him like the ocean, his head cast back, fingers spread.
I press it onto the plaque. The glue is more tacky than sticky but it holds, barely.
It’s just missing one thing—magic. Ancient, divine magic.
I take out my deer, which nestles in my hand.
I almost don’t know if I can do it. But I must. Slowly, tediously, I work a small splinter off the bottom of its foot with a roofing nail.
Usually, I feel its magic, but as I rub the nail against it, it becomes completely silent.
I hate it. Then there’s a gentle swell, as though the deer is helping me, offering itself, allowing me to make a sacrifice of it.
It reveals a patch of rich, natural cherry underneath.
I never realized how much patina the deer has.
Time has turned its exterior into a dark, muddied hue.
I whisper, “I’m sorry,” as I detach a splinter and put it back into my pocket.
Then, trying to stay quiet, I use a roofing nail and one of my slingback heels as a hammer to create a hole in the side of the plaque. Mama doesn’t even stir. I slip the splinter into the hole. There. I don’t know if it’s enough magic or if it will even work, but I must try.
I’m scared. Danger surrounds us. I hear it, slithering through the camp like a sea monster through seawater, and I see it, above my head, Akira’s shadow pressing down.
A few blocks over, I encounter men running toward the police post. I wait until they pass, hiding in the shadows.
Where is Akira? I pause for a moment, lost, frightened, alone.
But I’m not truly alone. I haven’t been, not since Otōsan gave me his relic. I draw it out, still thrumming with warmth, and whisper into its ear, “Take me to the Nameless Faceless God.”