by Raye Johnsen
***********
Fushigi Yuugi is copyright Watase Yuu,
Flower Comics, Studio Perriot, Pioneer Entertainment and Viz Communications.
I have neither any rights nor any claim to any. All comparisons to my wits
will be taken in stride.
***********
I was born. Some people would say that was my first mistake.
My family were poor. But I can't say that was the source of my troubles. There is every likelihood that my father would have still been a sadistic drunkard if we had been rich. More, in fact; he had to be sober to plough straight, and he couldn't beat us senseless and harvest at the same time.
My mother hated her life. She hated her family for marrying her to my father. She hated my father for being a drunken sadist. She hated us, for being his children. And she hated herself, for not being brave enough to escape.
I do not sympathize with her, for all
that I can see how it must have been. Her husband would come in, sometimes
sober, sometimes already drunk. Anyone in sight would be treated to a diatribe
on their shortcomings - most usually her. There would always be something
wrong with dinner; usually she'd be abused over that, but occasionally
the plate would be flung at her. Then
he would sit to one side after eating,
getting drunk. For all I pride myself on the elegance of my person, there
is no point in using elegant phrases to describe it, for it was the most
inelegant process I have ever had the misfortune to witness. He would guzzle
the wine from a dark brown pot, full-bellied and short-necked as the man
who drank from it. He would not bother with a glass. The mouth of the bottle
never quite matched his, and rivulets of dark red liquid would trickle
over his hollowed cheeks in a grotesque parody of an actor's makeup. Then
he would become more belligerent, and strike whomever was closest,
or had managed to annoy him, or who spoke loudest in the conversation.
He didn't care whom he beat; all he cared for was the wet smack of
his fist against flesh, the sound of the pained sobbing, the cowed look
in his children's eyes. If these were feigned, he never noticed.
My mother was a victim, my brothers and
sisters were victims and I think my father was a victim, too. All of them,
prisoners of one man's pain that not even he comprehended. Perhaps he was
as
his father had been to him; perhaps not.
I neither know nor care.
But one day I decided, as I was flung against the wall, the sour coppery taste of my own blood filling my mouth as one of my milk teeth was knocked loose from my five-year-old gums, that I would not be a victim too.
******
After that day, I could not be as I had been. I started to wander, staying out of my father's way. Nobody notices a child who makes no sound, and so I saw much that a child would not ordinarily see and heard much that a child does not ordinarily hear. I did not understand much, but I saw enough to realize that my father was not alone. Nor even unusual.
People live to control each other. People live to hate each other. And people do not have to be struck to be afraid. All they have to do is care.
So I decided not to.
My family huddled in fear before my father. I huddled with them, acting the fear I no longer let myself feel.
I fell from the blow I refused to feel anything except physical pain from. My whimpers were excellent.
I hid the eyes I could no longer cry with.
Perhaps I would have grown up differently if things had continued in this manner. Perhaps. But then the slavers came, and they saw me.
********
The first I knew of the deal was when I came home from wandering one afternoon. My mother saw me in the small garden and she came out and took me to the well, washing my face and hands. This was unusual; normally she simply yelled at me to do it myself. She was none too gentle about it, either.
Being pulled to the front door, I was surprised to see my father smiling and shaking hands with a tall man in a long white surcoat. Had I been older, I would have been aware that this marked the man as a slave-trader. Had I been more worldly, I would have noted how fat the little coin bag my father held so closely was.
"Here he is," my mother said calmly. Her eyes were flicking to the little bag too. She dropped my hand and pushed me towards the man.
"Well now, boy," the man said. He gestured at the wagon behind him, covered with thick canvas over a wicker frame. "You'll be coming with me, now, so get up in the wagon."
I nodded, ignoring my parents, walking behind the wagon to the open end. The man boosted me up into the darkness, and I stood for a little, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom, before sitting down against the outside rim. The slaver tied down the canvas stoutly behind me. There were a few older girls, two other little boys, and some adults already there.
The wagon started to lurch forward, leaving the people who had birthed and raised me behind, squabbling over thirty silver coins.
*******
The journey was long and boring, there in the slaver's wagon. One of my fellow child-slaves insisted on crying as we lumbered along the road. Between his sobs, he called for his mother.
It was the first time I had seen a child who wanted their parent, and I couldn't understand it. As he spoke of his mother, the notion that he actually wanted to be with her was somehow shocking. What was more shocking to me was the way two of the girls automatically moved to comfort and soothe the boy, accepting his desire as 'natural'.
It was the first time I had considered that not all parents were as mine. What I had seen of the other parents in the village had been much the same as my own; scoldings and discipline. I had never bothered to notice the affection some families had for each other before. It had been too alien to comprehend.
It was still too alien. So I merely listened, and did not try to understand.
One of the girls looked up from where she was patting the boy's shoulder, seeing me watching. "Don't you miss your mother?" she asked me curiously.
I shrugged. "Not particularly," I replied.
She looked puzzled. "I thought that they were your parents, the ones who sold you," she said softly.
"They were," I told her.
She looked taken aback at that. "You're cold," she said, seemingly apropos of nothing.
"No, it's quite warm," I told her, deliberately misunderstanding her. I didn't know why her sympathy was so repugnant. "If you're cold, sit here and you'll warm up soon."
She shook her head and went back to the crying boy.
Even at that age, he was much more interesting than the two young women beside him. He had long, shiny black hair and his skin was the dusky golden tones of a Southerner. He had Konan blood in him somewhere, for his eyes were the clear silver-grey that is so common in that land. He was altogether quite beautiful.
I would later learn that the town where he was sold on was notorious for its slave-brothels. It was a ready market for those slaves who were recalcitrant, catering as it did to those who preferred unwilling partners. His tears condemned him to a life of no more than three more years, being raped repeatedly every single night.
He was nine years old when he climbed out of a wagon for the last time. The same age as I. Were it not for my parents' early education in the futility of care, it might have been me.
*******
It took two months for the slave caravan to reach the southeastern corner of Koutou.
This was the true centre of Koutou; to the north lay the lands of the Hin, the islands of the Jyousei, and the huge country of Hokkan, which our Emperors no longer turned envious eyes upon. To the West lay the country of Sairou, blessed by Byakkoseikun, whom our armies had been destroyed by a century before. And to the South lay Konan, in the hands of an old Emperor with only two boy-children to inherit.
At that time, though, I only knew we had arrived in a city far larger than any we had passed through.
I was the only survivor of the motley group of slaves I had joined in the wagon. The pretty boy who had cried, one of the girls and a woman who had been chained to the side of the wagon had all been sold to the brothels of Mir'al; the men had dropped, one by one, into the hands of landowners needing farm help; the other girl and the adult women had been sold to a woman with smoldering eyes, and the other boy had been bought by another trader. I wasn't sorry to see him go; he wasn't pretty to look at and he was sly. The slaver who had bought him had been speaking of training a replacement, and I thought his choice entirely appropriate. The two would cheat each other mercilessly.
Other slaves had been picked up on the way. Adults who couldn't pay their rents and taxes, children sold by their parents and those who were already slaves sold as their owners grew tired of or displeased with them.
I had not yet been sold for a variety of reasons. My price was the highest in the caravan, as I was healthy, compliant, pretty, a virgin and a child. Those who could afford me could afford any slave.
When I was led out onto the paved ground of the market square before the opera, I had no notion that this was the market of last resort for such as I. The slavers didn't like dealing with the men of the opera.
I would later learn the tricks as I bargained for other boys - how to haggle every copper of a boy's price, how to condescend in precisely the right manner, how to make the men edgy and uncomfortable, and thus poor bargainers. It is a question of attitude, as the slavers must sell to all. They are hardened. It was considered a difficult part to act, and thus only the best did it.
However, they clearly didn't have their best out that day, as the opera paid fifty gold coins for me. That was a profit of forty-five in gold for the slavers, and so they were very cheerful as they bade me farewell, with admonishments to "be a good boy".
*********
The opera was a huge, cavernous series of buildings.
There was the opera proper, the stage with the seating for the paying customers set around it, with storage for props and costumes behind it. There was the apprentice barracks, where boys like me, who joined or were sold to the opera slept. There were the apartments of the fully-graduated actors, who had standing contracts and parts in the opera. There were rehearsal rooms, training rooms, classrooms and kitchens.
Yet this was not all bunched up higglety-piggelty, as with the legendary theatres of the Hin and their cousins to the far West, where it was rumoured that such establishments held all their functions beneath but one roof. The opera presented one gate to the world, but behind our garden walls stood several interconnected buildings.
Ironically, for all our self-sufficiency, the goal of every actor was to leave. For only those who were the best, who would earn enough to live in the luxury custom decreed for actors, would ever be able to afford to reside elsewhere.
I decided that I would be among them as I was shown to my place in the barracks.
**********
I can say many things about the custom of mentoring. Some of them are even printable.
In the opera house I was sold to, the new boys were given over to the complete care of the final-grade students. Each student would take one (or more, if there was an oversupply) of the boys, supervising his study and his care, ensuring his well-being. If one was placed with a concientious, caring or benevolent mentor, this was not too bad. If one was placed with a neglectful or malicious mentor, it could be Hell. Either way, a mentor had complete control over his boy. And this included his contact with other students or the public.
Every mentor would use his boy for sex. This was expected, of both the mentors and the boys. It was no secret and those who could not cope with it were given little sympathy. Actors were generally considered to be available for sex and the only difference between the actor and the boy was that the actor would negotiate his own price while the mentor did it for the boy. It was also considered a part of rehearsal for actors playing romantic or married couples in current productions to develop sexual relationships. So a mentor who did not have sex with his boy was considered to be failing to prepare his boy to carry out these duties and was disciplined accordingly.
Many mentors would set their boy's prices very high. This was an accepted tactic, because it made it seem as if the mentor was indeed making his boy available, while at the same time subtly discouraging customers, limiting the number who were likely to follow up the issue. It also added to the prestige of the opera.
My mentor, Long Shin, was one of the better ones, if not the best among his peers. He quietly explained the situation to me, and what was going to happen. He was gentle, using shiatsu and oils to ensure I only felt a little pain for a short time. And he took great pains to give me pleasure from his touch.
As if that was not enough, Long was beautiful. His skin was as pale as a Hin's, and his eyes the deep blue that was common in that race. His hair was curly, adding further proof to the notion that he had Hin blood, but it was the true blue-black of Koutou.
He was kind in other things, too, ensuring I was clothed and fed correctly, that I attended my classes and did well in the training of voice and body, and that I was not pestered by other students. I was very impressed, and I fell hopelessly in love for the first time in my life.
I became very jealous of the other senior boys - they got to spend time with Long-sama! When I found a shirt that highlighted my onyx hair or flattered my golden eyes, it was immediately laid aside, so that it might remain pristine and perfect for the next time Long-sama called me to his room.
I did not admit the possibility to myself that Long-sama did not feel the same way about me. I wilfully closed my eyes to the custom of creating off-stage relationships to enhance on-stage romances. I carefully ignored the fact that Long-sama would call me to his room only at regular intervals, and that I would seek him out far more often than the other way around.
In this wilful blindness, I began to release the coldness I had enshrouded myself in. I remained reserved, and I still kept myself apart from my peers - they were, after all, my rivals - but I began to permit myself emotions.
Foolishness is the province of the young, but whatever the age, it is still painful. Both at the time and in memory.
*******
At the end of my third year with the Opera, Long-sama was elevated to the rank of full actor. The director began giving him lead and chief supporting roles. Usually feminine roles. I did not see the signal that I should have in that, and continued to idolise him.
By this time I was no longer considered a novice. In fact, I was the most gifted of all my group, and it's undisputed leader. I accepted that. It seemed to me only my due.
In my freedom and position, I began to visit Long-sama unsummoned. Although he never made me unwelcome, he often pled tiredness or duties to cut my visit short. However, he would occasionally sleep with me; often enough that I did not have to face the thought that he did not truly desire our relationship.
The thought that he was still protecting me, even from my own pain, never crossed my mind.
*******
It was at this time that I first visited the sea.
The sea was not as I had felt it would be. The blue-grey of the water was pretty, certainly; but not the crystal blue of the waves on the painted backdrops I was familiar with. The waves drew back and forth with forthright certainty and immovable purpose; but where were the roaring mountains of water that pounded the strand in frustrated rage?
And yet, I felt something as I stood there, scowling at the sea for not being the magnificent force the poets all described. As the water washed back and forth over my bare feet, cooling sun-heated skin, I suddenly felt a sense of restraint. That the sea was all that the poets described and more; but that it leashed itself, holding itself in check.
For what reason? Why would the sea restrain its power? I asked myself.
Because power exercised without discipline is ineffective, something whispered inside me.
If the sea did that every day, it would be expected, avoided and ignored, the little voice continued.
I blinked, stood still and listened. Listened with everything inside me, and I heard the Sea.
I heard the scream of the seagull, and the answering shriek of the osprey. The frantic scudding of the crabs and the ~swwsssh~ of the small fish and plankton that were their prey. The excited chuckling of the pod of dolphins just outside the harbour and the frantic squeaks of the tuna they were chasing. They all combined and merged in a symphony of life, a song I knew, that I'd been moving to all my life.
As I stood on the sand, blankly ignoring the land, hearing only the Sea, something bumped against my ankle. It was a perfect, joined clam shell. Scratched and eroded into the shell was what looked like a character - ironically, 'clam'.
I turned and began to walk back to the Opera House, turning the gift of the Sea over and over in my fingers.
The Sea restrained its power, unleashing itself without warning or mercy? It hid its strength, ensuring no effective barriers could be erected against it?
So would I.
******
As I entered the Opera once more, my feet unconciously began to trace the route to Long-sama's rooms. Finding myself outside them, I raised my hand to knock - and then I suddenly heard my name mentioned. I pushed the door slightly ajar - the better to hear what was being said - and strained my ears.
"It's just a childhood infatuation," Long-sama was saying. "We all had them when we were that age. It'll pass."
"He's very serious about it," said the other man in the room (I identified Qi Hsaio, the male lead from the current production, after a few moments' thought).
Long-sama laughed - and I felt something inside me shatter. It was obviously me and my feelings they were discussing, and Long-sama was dismissing them as 'just an infatuation'...
"Weren't we all?" he was answering Qi-san lightly, as my heart was breaking. "He'll get over it, I'm sure. He's perceptive - he'll soon see reality."
"I don't know," Qi-san said slowly. I felt unreasoning anger as I heard his voice. Why was it that the one who took my love from me was the one who recognised the seriousness of my feelings? "Chuin-kun is very good at creating illusions. Even we who act with him and know that it's just illusion find ourselves believing in them. He could easily lose himself in them too."
There was a slight /thump/, as though something had been thrown down onto a seat or cushion. "If you're so worried about him," Long-sama snapped, and I winced at the peevishness of his voice, "you sleep with him. Let him weave his illusions around you."
"You don't mean that," Qi-san said, after a long moment.
"You're supposed to be having sex with me right now, and we're talking about him! What am I supposed to think?!"
"That I care about your brother, too?"
"He's not my brother," Long-sama snapped. "He's some kid I got lumbered with!"
I fled. And each step back to my little cubby proved the old saying: 'opening oneself to care is to walk upon knives'.
As I curled up on my bed, cradling my knees to my chest and cupping the feet that felt as if they should be bloody stumps, I remembered a decision I had made when I was but a child, and I swore it to myself again: that I would not care. Ever. About anything.
********
The little clam had fallen from my pocket as I had flung myself upon my bed, in what I had decided would be my last emotional act. I picked it up and held it gently, running my fingers over its smooth ridges. As I did, I fantasised that Long-sama had heard my flying footsteps outside his room and followed me. Realizing what I had overheard, he embraced me, assurances that I was mistaken, that he did care, falling from his lips....
My finger pressed against the muscle that was the clam's hinge, swinging the clamshell open. And Long-sama appeared in the middle of the room, doing what I had just imagined. All my resolve fell away, and I flung myself at him... to land on the floor beyond him.
The image of Long-sama continued to mouth apologies as I waved my hand through his head. It was rather disconcerting to see my fingers disappear inside his cheek as I poked at him.
I closed the clam and he disappeared. I opened it and he reappeared.
I held the clam and thought of nothing. After four years of meditation training, it was easy. I opened the clam.
I wasn't in my room. I wasn't anywhere. There wasn't any light, any sound or any scent. There was nothing to touch.
I shut the clam again very quickly.
I spent the rest of my afternoon experimenting. After the first half-hour, I also became very good at visualizing. I think it was the illusion of people with transparent skins that did that.
******
The next two years passed in a blur. I spent most of my free time experimenting with my clam or on the seashore, listening to the Sea and gathering more clams.
I studied hard and well, until I was considered one of the senior trainees at fifteen - three years younger than what was customary.
I never spoke to Long Shin again.
******
When I was fifteen, I won a supporting role in our latest production: 'The Path of Knives'. It was a drama about the prophet who had first delivered the prophecy of the Seven Shishiseishi of Seiryuu. I played a Court Princess; it was my first female role.
What I remember most, though, was that the final speech of the play was sinply a recitation of the prophecy of the Seven Shishiseishi, including their names.
Amiboshi.
Suboshi.
Soi.
Ashitare.
Nakago.
Miboshi.
Tomo.
As I heard the word, "Tomo", I felt the world change beneath my feet and the Sea sing in my bones. It was me, my name, my true name; stars and stones had known me before my birth and that was what they called me. I was - I am Seiryuu no Shishiseishi Tomo.
My illusions made sudden sense; that had to be my power. My destiny was not and had never been my own; but now I knew it was Seiryuu's.
It would not stay that way.
I resolved myself. Three years. Three more years to earn my price and set my path, and then....
And then I would place myself in Seiryuu's service. I would lead the Shishiseishi, as was my role. And I would reclaim my destiny, on the path of knives.