An older piece. Just wanted to show that I do write ‘nice’ things as well. Image by Frankisek Staud.

Seahorses

Tominaga-cho, Gion, came to life in the early afternoon, before the purple of dusk seeped into the horizon behind the mountains and whilst the ground was still warm from the midday sun. Outside the ochaya, the subtle and electric voice of the shamisen lilted to the river, coaxed from its three taut strings by the deft fingers of the geisha. It puddled with the murmurs and delighted laughs of the people on the bridge, the children throwing chilled seahorses to the river dragon below. His scales were puckered and fringed, like an old slipper, and wafted as he twisted and coiled in the water. When the paper cones were empty, they threw them into the river and watched the dragon sink them with a stream of bubbles from a curled nostril, before sucking them into his teeth.

Inside the ochaya, the tatami were hot underfoot, and Otonashi shifted her feet minutely beneath her, sat on her heels and feeling the warmth seep up through her kimono. The shamisen had fallen still and quiet as the teahouse’s honoured guest made a request to the musician geisha. He was poured a new cup of sake as he spoke.

Otonashi remained in the posture the last dance had left her in, her back held straight by the thick obi and her hands resting on her thighs, palms hovering over the silk. Her painted face was still, the subdued frown having threatened to crease and line the white coat of her skin as she read their lips. She knew the dance Daichi had asked to see, and she slipped a hand behind her to collect the fan tucked at the edge of the thick tatami mat.

Peripherally, she saw Makoto take up the shamisen and begin to pluck, singing low and quivering notes to accompany it. The faint gold ripples reached Otonashi quickly, pressing like a weak wind into her kimono and telling her skin the rhythm. She rose in one smooth motion, the round edge of the kimono splayed out like a platform, the stitched pattern falling straight. Her heavy sleeves slipped back past her wrists, her left hand hidden and the fan sliding open in her right.

The dance was at once elegant and effortless but equally controlled and challenging. Otonashi’s thighs ached as she remained bent at the knee, turning her body back and forth with the flipping fan. Her eyes remained perfectly glazed, fixed ahead as she tipped and rocked her head, the sound ripples coming faster as the song progressed. Her free hand touched the air as if she were rippling the river outside, drawing eddies and furls in the golden arcs.

The river dragon purred against the reeds as his scales were stroked, the music dull and thudding to him but the dance light and caressing. There were no more seahorses plopping into the water, and he wondered if the children were going back to the seller’s cart for more. After a few moments he decided that they were not, but he did not swim on upstream immediately. He waited for the dancing geisha to finish, and for the ghostly touches to end.

Afterwards, Daichi paid the ochaya mistress the geishas’ flower money, and with a short bow to all three women, stepped out into the street. The ground did not hold the warmth as well as the tatami mats had, despite being in the sun, and Daichi was quietly glad his lacquered sandals lifted him away from the chill.

Walking up the steep steps that took him to the top of the bridge, he followed the gazes and pointing hands of the people to the river dragon. The dragon was running his claws through the listless water weeds, twining the fronds through his toes to pull them taut before snapping them free. Daichi watched the weeds flutter downstream until the wind-chimes of the ochaya played. The mistress had knocked them with her hand as a means of drawing the rickshaw man’s attention.

Otonashi stepped into her wooden sandals easily, Makoto only touching the silk at her elbow when she too was ready to go. The mistress bowed lower than they and cast an eye over their obi to check the fans were with them. The shamisen was scuttled to the rickshaw in the small hands of a maid, the girl bowing clumsily before running back inside.

Their exquisite umbrellas shielded them from the sun, and Daichi watched the two women step up to and sit back in the rickshaw. The driver lifted the wooden forks and pulled straight into a jog. They disappeared quickly into the tightly knitted houses, leaving the riverside in seconds.

Looking back into the water, he saw that the river dragon had also departed. No doubt he was seeking another bridge with more children to throw chilled seahorses to him.

First published in MS Talent Volume 1

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This entry was posted on Sunday, May 18th, 2008 at 2:00 pm and is filed under Short Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.