Happy holidays, everyone!
I'd like to say THANK YOU! to Aeanagwen and
Quicksilver for beta'ing this story.
A Quick Author's Note:
Starlit Reflections is an Alternate Universe. Events
in SR or any of its sidestories do not necessarily
occur in canon Fushigi Yuugi.
In other words: this is not and makes no attempt to
be a retelling of the history of Seiryuu no
Shishiseishi Tomo as recorded by Watase-sensei. In
point of fact, it is very, very DIFFERENT, and it was
intended to be. It is the history of the Seiryuu no
Shishiseishi Tomo who appears in Starlit Reflections.
Canon weenies: You Have Been Warned.
Raye
=====
raye_j@yahoo.com
http://members.tripod.com/raye__1/
I believe in dragons, unicorns, good men
and other mythical creatures.
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-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
-- File: Walking.txt
-- Desc: Walking.txt
Walking on Knives
A Starlit Reflections Sidestory
by Raye Johnsen
raye_j@yahoo.com
***********
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.