Spinning Silk Page 3

  If the night were warm, as they had recently begun to be, I would withdraw the shoji doors of the mill behind the house. By the light of the moon, I worked my designs into the silk. The night and the moon seemed to transport me to a different place and time—a place more beautiful than any I had ever seen by the harsh light of the sun.

  The loom was kind, so yielding, so productive. It seemed to become part of me as I wove rhythmically, up and back, back and forth. The waking dreams I dreamt, I spun tenderly into the threads at my hands. And though the silken illusions of my imagination were, perhaps lovelier, I was pleased with the physical representation. I knew they were good and they nourished me enough to preserve me through the drudgery of daylight hours.

  I was in this place of happiness when I heard the swift thwack! I knew well, but had only once before heard by night. It was Madame’s whip as she had sent it flying against the hardwood of the veranda. “What do you think you are doing? Did anyone authorize you to spend my resources in this way?” She stood behind me now, examining the design on the half-completed piece of fabric.

  I turned and bowed my head to the tatami. “Madame! There is no excuse for me. Please be merciful!”

  Madame was deaf to my pleas. She tore my work down from the loom. She held it by two ends and ripped it through the center with the horrible shriek of breaking silk thread. I retrieved my destroyed fabric from the floor and stared at it, bitter tears flooding my eyes.

  “You will pay for every cent of the thread you have wasted on your own vain ambition. Disrobe!”

  I obeyed. And I felt the sting of her switch cut clean through my skin, but my thoughts were only for the other weavings I had hidden within my chest, like illicit children secreted away in the attic. If Madame went searching, she would find them. I breathed audibly in relief when she left me and returned directly to her rooms in the house.

  My gaze went to the horizon. I had little time before sunrise. Without pausing even to wash the blood from my back, I pulled on my robe, and dashed back to the house and the bed closet where Cook and Kame still slept in thick mounds upon their futon. I dug deep into my chest, piling musty winter clothing and blankets up high beside it. Then, taking a breath, I gave a tug, and pulled up the false bottom and withdrew my fabric, literally years of work I kept guarded carefully in the bottom of my chest.

  I took it up gently in my hands, and wrapped it in a small woolen blanket. Then I stepped out to the garden, my bare feet padding nimbly over the cold gravel walk. I reached the shed, and being as quiet as possible so as to avoid awakening Shin, I found a small cedar barrel, placed my bundle inside, and sealed it back up with a lid. By the light of the moon, I scanned the exterior of the garden shed for a shovel. Finding one, I retreated to the outer edges of the garden. I thrust the shovel into the hard-packed earth, and found it yielded easily. I dug and dug for over an hour, then dropped to my knees feeling around the cold earth for signs of excess dampness.

  Then I brushed the clay from my hands pushed the four-tou barrel into the hole, then began pushing the damp earth back over the top of the barrel. I did my best to restore the patch to its original condition, but it worried me. As sun sent its first rays over the garden wall, I remained, staring at the patch of earth. Would it really go unnoticed? A sharp snap of a twig broke my fixation on the bare earth beneath me.

  I lifted my head toward the sound. Shin stood a little way off, staring down at me with suspicion-hardened eyes. Mud covered my feet up to my knees. My robe draped clumsily around my shoulders, half concealing, half exposing the bloody evidence of Madame’s midnight beating. I looked, I’m sure, as if I were a criminal desperate to hide a murdered body. And if Shin bore any grudge toward me for the beating he had borne in my behalf, he would have ample material with which to settle scores.

  I pulled my robe around my knees and met his stare, daring him to speak, to raise any wicked accusation....any boundless demand. The shriek of a heron shattered the stillness, and I braced myself, knowing what would come.

  In all the vulnerability of my orphaned youth, I had never stood so exposed as I did then to the whim of a fellow servant. To keep my secret, Shin could have extracted any promise from me. I would not—could not—have withheld it from him. I was his slave. Any servant in his position would claim me his. It was his right.

  Instead, he averted his eyes, bowed low and remained bowed for several seconds in a signal of deep reverence. Then he retreated within the garden shed where he slept. I stood dumb for several seconds before I realized he didn’t intend to speak.

  I exhaled in a rush of breath. Nothing! He’d asked for nothing! I hardly dared believe I could be so lucky, but had much to do yet before I could let myself take any time for reflection. I hurried to the well and stopped short. A bucket of freshly drawn water stood to one side. Next to it rested a clean washing towel. My gaze shot back to the shed.

  Had he done this for me?

  6

  Fingers trembling, I splashed myself hastily, barely feeling the cold water on my cheeks, knees and neck. I managed to clean myself passably before the house began to awaken, and hurried back inside to dress and then repack my chest. As Kame returned from the servant’s washing basin, I closed my chest with a satisfying thwump.

  She regarded me warily. “Where have you been this morning? You look as though you’ve been at the springs.”

  “I had to wash. Madame beat me.”

  “This morning already?”

  “Yes.”

  Kame dipped her head and muttered, “Well at least she’ll be well out of my way.”

  * * *

  All morning long, Madame made her search—violating every crevice of the house before she was finished. Meanwhile, I retreated to a near corner of the garden with a small piece of complicated needlework, needle trembling uselessly between my thumb and forefinger while I watched. I bent my head to the job anyway, senseless to balmy garden breezes. Not everything escaped my notice, however.

  It was only a tiny viol, standing innocently beside the now empty washing bucket I had previously attributed to Shin. Goaded by curiosity, I rose to examine it. Opening it released an earthy aroma of white pine. It was a salve made from the bark and intended for healing abrasion. I glanced around for a sign of Shin or any other person it might belong to, then inhaled again, longingly, while my back sent me stinging reminders of Madame’s angry switch.

  Did I dare?

  Pressing my index finger against the salve, I applied a touch to the tender areas of my neck, and winced. Even reaching behind was too painful and I couldn’t reach far enough. It didn’t seem worth taking what might not be intended for me, particularly if I couldn’t make use of it without a nurse.

  I replaced the jar and returned to my seat. As I worked, I kept one eye on the well, wondering whether I would see Shin return for his medicine. It was not the kind of thing to misplace carelessly. As I worked and watched, I wondered about him.

  Who was he? Where did he come from? And what business did he have interfering with me? Surely there was nothing for him to gain by meddling, and quite a bit to lose. It seemed ludicrous to think Tatsuo was right in his superstitions, but I could make no other sense of anything. How did he so often enter my thoughts? How was I so aware of him? How did I sense his nearness without the slightest visual detection?

  And if Tatsuo were correct in his suspicions, could I really believe Shin a sympathetic being? Mightn’t he also mean something terrible for me? After all, my quality of life had not improved since his arrival. It had only declined.

  Madame had discovered my disobedience and was more watchful than ever. Satomi, too, was stirred up against me constantly. I no longer dared spend my nights at the loom. I had neither the comfort of the garden, nor the pleasure of my own work. How long would it go on this way?

  For a long time, I hardly dared pursue my thoughts to their logical conclusions. They seemed to validate suspicions of the supernatural, or my own madness. But there was one occurr
ence I couldn’t deny and it stanched the fear that had bloomed up in my breast.

  The night following Madame’s beating, I dreamed. This dream pressed into my mind with a vivid recollection that lasted long after waking. As the day wore on, it never faded, but ran continuously through the back of my mind.

  I saw a garden…spreading around me, wild with growth. Poppies spilling from their beds. Pale azaleas carpeting the roots around a wood. And upon the branches of those tall pine trees, white lace fabrics draping—glistening in the warm afternoon sun. The fabrics were more delicately woven than anything I had ever seen and I gazed at them in hypnotic wonder.

  A shallow bed of silk lay across a shady patch of grass. As my gaze fell upon it, a sense of fatigue overwhelmed me. I couldn’t resist falling down onto the bed and drifting into the most profound sleep I had ever slept. I could recall nothing more, but the distinct impression that this sleep was a healing slumber, and that while there, I would regenerate at a far faster pace than was usual.

  When I awakened to the rough surface of my worn futon in Madame Ozawa’s house, the scent of pine lingered heavily in the air. Something cold and solid filled my right hand. When I opened my palm, I realized with a start what I held:

  The glass jar of pine salve I had found earlier that day at the well.

  Stranger yet, I became aware of the cooling sensation of the salve massaged into the ravaged skin of my neck and back. But I had no memory of how it came to be there, or what invisible hand had applied it. My face flushed at the thought of this intrusion, but I checked the thought. I had a growing conviction Shin had some kind of magical power. If he really were an immortal, then whatever he determined, either for or against me, I couldn’t hope to escape.

  Later that morning, I stole a glance at my neck in a small mirror above the washing basin and gasped at what I saw—or what I didn’t see. My scars were faint—nearly healed. I didn’t know how that could be, but there it was, impossible to deny.

  My dream returned to my mind’s eye. Something strange, even supernatural, was happening to me.

  I stole another glance at myself in the mirror. Whatever was happening seemed to have swept over my countenance. I didn’t look merely well. I almost didn’t dare to see, and yet I couldn’t look away. Surely others could see it too.

  * * *

  In spite of contrary evidence, the dream, my healed neck, even my reflection in the mirror taught me to believe Shin meant goodwill for me. This confidence seemed to grow up within me, and touched everything, even the work of my hands. The change was so powerful that even uniform patterns became distinctly my own. Fabrics that should have matched exactly with other weavers’ shone more clearly and more brightly from my loom.

  Suddenly, Madame could sell my work for more money, because it was far finer, more elegant than anything the other weavers produced.

  Yet it was a curious phenomenon, and strangers began to wonder.

  7

  When a noblewoman and kitsuke artist visited for an advanced peek at the newest summer-weight silks, I noticed her speaking with Madame, and fingering a pale green brocade of my weaving with an appreciative caress. “Madame Ozawa, may I ask, who is this brilliant protégé who is weaving your most lovely silk? You cannot intend to keep us ever in the dark.”

  Madame Ozawa gently retrieved the green brocade. “I am perfectly comfortable keeping House secrets, Madame Sato. You have yours, too, I know.”

  “Yes, but this is different. There is something very special about some fraction of your fabric. You are harboring a genius in your mill and people are beginning to talk. Someday, your prized weaver is going to be identified, and you should welcome it. She will bring you good fortune and you must show her to the world.”

  Madame bowed politely, though I could sense her frustration. “Of course, of course, but let’s discuss it no more. Fame can sometimes destroy weaker creatures. You wouldn’t wish to endanger my pet, would you?”

  “No, but an artist is not a pet.”

  Madame Ozawa gently guided her guest out of the room and into her private salon where others, and in particular, I could no longer overhear their conversation.

  I brightened at the notice Madame Sato had taken of one of my recent pieces. It was heartening to think that even while I copied Madame’s patterns, I could transcend the mundane with a spirit of creation all my own. She had taken much, but Madame Ozawa couldn’t take everything from me. And yet this creativity wasn’t all my own. I couldn’t take full credit, and I wondered how to explain it if confronted.

  As the days passed, I grew more content in my work and though Madame now saw all of her customers in private conference, she couldn’t hide the fact that she was receiving more and more customers from wider regions. She couldn’t hide my dwindling inventories, no matter how quickly I worked or how late into the night. And Madame Ozawa began to do something I never expected; she began to give me more freedom. She didn’t explicitly say, “Weave whatever you wish, Furi.” But one day, she asked my opinion on a piece of embroidery.

  “What do you think of this butterfly, Furi? If you could change anything, what would it be?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. Madame had never asked my opinion in this way before, and at first I thought it was a trap. So I replied with a terse, “Nothing Madame. It is perfect as it is.”

  But she pushed me. “Of course, it is a classic design. I know it wants nothing, really. But there is an artisan in Yoshioka prefecture selling a variation on this design, and making quite a sensation. I think we might do as well as he does. What would you do if you had to change it?”

  “Of course, it would be inferior to the original,” I prefaced, to be safe, “But if I had to make a change, I would do this…” I traced a design of a butterfly with added dimension, implying more movement. Madame only nodded, and said nothing more.

  Later that week, she asked my opinion about another design and then another, and slowly, I began to see that she wanted me to replicate them. I knew she did not want me to work them during the daytime. I felt distinctly that she wanted me to weave or embroider them at night, unseen by the other weavers.

  I could go on pretending not to understand, but something inside me yearned to do more. I decided to make a test. And so I arose from my futon at midnight and worked at my loom until dawn. In the morning, I crept into the silk closet where Madame stored all of my work, and placed the fabric gently atop the small pile of silks of my own weaving. Then I crept back to my futon and slept one final hour before the house awakened.

  The following day, Madame made no sign of affirmation or approval. No. But neither did she make any sign of anything amiss. She behaved as though nothing had happened at all. I had no question of her having seen my nighttime production. She saw it, and she must have approved. In fact, the following evening, when I crept back into the closet, I noticed it had been removed, possibly already sold.

  Madame began to speak to me briefly. She began to mention a design that was popular in a distant prefecture…or something she or someone had heard of the Emperor’s daughter herself having worn. I knew then that she wanted me to try something similar. Perhaps I should have known better than to let her lead me along with her hints, but I ached to create, and I hoped against hope that Madame Sato was right. Someday, I would be known to the world. Someday, I would be free to work as I wished, and receive free commendation for what I had done.

  I was not the only one to notice the increase in demand for my work. Other weavers noticed as well, and tensions between us began to rise. A few of them tried to mimic me. But since I confined my most innovative work to the night, mimicry wasn’t possible. They began to complain about me. If they could not think of an honest complaint, they invented one.

  “Madame, Furi has taken my spools. I don’t know why, but they’re gone and no one else would do it.”

  “I did not. You’ve hid them yourself in the closet,” I defended myself.

  “See! It must have been her.
Here they are in the closet. Only the thief could have known it.”

  Madame sensed the jealousy, and wanted to appease her paid weavers, and made a display of whipping me, though I think a bit half-heartedly. But I couldn’t be grateful to Madame for her tepid abuse. I burned at the injustice. It seemed no matter how well I did, I would always receive her hatred.

  But no amount of abuse could satisfy Madame’s weavers. They saw how quickly I produced, and they knew their own work was not met with anywhere near the same demand. They grew more jealous, defensive of their own work. They began to whisper among themselves so quietly I could not hear more than one or two dropped words together, but one of the words was Shin.

  I knew the weavers were plotting against us. I also knew I couldn’t depend upon Madame to defend me. She may not like to be rid of me altogether, and I took some confidence from that. But since I had no one in whom I could confide my worries, I worked and waited for the attack to come.

  8

  Tension filled the workroom as the weavers bent over their looms, hands busy, and eyes wary. Expectant. I read anticipation in their exchange of meaningful glances, and in the way they watched for Madame and for me.

  I met their eyes with a challenge in my own. And for a moment, I believe I scared them.

  But they would pursue their conspiracy.

  It happened as soon as Satomi had conveniently finished her late morning breakfast. I never doubted her cooperation in the scheme. She stomped in, bawling an affected plaint, and calling for her mother. “She’s done it again! She’s taken Grandmother’s cane!”

  This time the theft was not my doing, but it didn’t matter. I would be thoroughly whipped for it anyway.