The cherry blossoms were in full bloom. The golden sun warmed the air with his rugged breath. The grass was fresh with beaded tears, and, combed by the spirits of the wind—dancing in seesawed. The flowers, in agreement, nodded their heads. The trees rustled their pliant stalks. The birds tweeted. The dragonflies with their fast wings droned around the bickering streams—silver with their light. The cicadas buzzed.
The stones were warm. A fish leaped out of the crystalline water and returned to it with a loud splash. The frogs croaked in their ponds on top of their lily pads. The merry laughter of children playing in the water could be heard. A deer vanished in the woods. The shrines’ bells tolled. A sudden chill. A gentle warmth. A gust of wind. All was calm. Spring had arrived.
Then a tender petal detached itself from a cherry blossom stalk, fast in flight. Fast in flight it crossed Yin, capital of Yi Tai—past the noble yakatas and the imperial residence, past the murmurs and festive preparations—past the cheers and bright coloured people. ‘On you go tender petal!’ the wind spirits seemed to encourage. And on it proceeded, far from Yin, deep into its outskirts. To the countryside.
Where the ox heaves the heavy cart, and the labourer, with calloused hand, tends to the flooded rice in the terraced fields. Past the humble minka houses and
their shades—to a shinden-zukuri, a manor for great lords and ladies it was
led, by the wind spirits’ curly breath caressed—to gently repose on a tender
letter with a seasonal branch tied, on top of a bundai.
O citadel in amber flame,The cherry blossoms no longer pale,But, besprinkled with heavy dew,Present their sweet perfumes in full bloom,The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.Without their niveous mantle, in season new
So it was escribed on the perfumed letter—a scroll of the finest washi paper, as pink and delicate and fresh as Spring’s softest petals. Revising it, deep in reflection and thought, was she who had composed it. Just as delicate. Her hair was extremely long, ornamented with kanzashi and luscious combs, issuing gently to the wooden floor.
She wore a six-layered robe—a jūnihitoe—as verdant as newborn grass and with sleeves as long as was proper for her station. Around her waist a sash. And her skin was as pale as her hair and eyes were dark. Her countenance, though still in the Spring of youth, bore the semblance of those profoundly learned in various subjects and studies. But her dark eyes were troubled.
At a hair’s breadth, revising the letter with her, was another maid. Her wear was not as extravagant or layered as the aforementioned, possessing only three layers, were the other possessed six. Nor her robe as rich, wearing a simple kosode and over it an uchigi—the inner and outer robes respectively. Her sleeves were refined, practical in use, and of a silent green patterned in modest elegance with the kagura. Her hair was as long and straight as fine silk, neatly arranged and in gentle descend.
No ornaments she wore, showing the disparity between their upbringings, stations, and educations.
If the first was in the Spring of her beauty the second was in her Autumn. Where the first was warm, delicate, and welcoming, the other was subtle, and rough, and chilly—but not devoid of her Autumn fire, blinking warmly in the hearth. So different they were and yet so alike, as the seasons as tied.
‘O-hime-sama, the river must follow its course. The clouds cannot choose where their rain shall fall, as we cannot choose how our lives shall end.’
The nyōbō inclined her head in humble submission, in case she had misspoken out of turn or too boldly, and in so incited her gentle mistress’ anger. A prolonged peaceful silence ensued. The birds tweeted in the garden. The water trickled in the fountains as the lake’s verdure was gently stirred by a meek wind. A fish leaped into the air and fell loudly in the water with a long splash. The cicadas resumed their buzzing.
‘Umi-dono,’ answered the hime calmly in soft reply after a while. ‘The rain may not know where it is to fall, but all eyes are blinded by the sun, in so forgetting its light.’