Shifting Horizons
An imaginative composed by Scarlett (Year 10)
The soft periwinkle brushstrokes of dusk drape lazily across the evening sky.
The moon, unaware of its own benevolence, offers solemn protection to my brother Mirio and I, concealing our disappearance beneath the approaching night. It seems we complete all our tasks under the comforting veil of darkness; its familiar presence has become our only escape. This is our only chance, our one opportunity to prove ourselves, not to our father, but to Japan as a whole. I kick off my getas - dreadful wooden footwear - with a heavy sigh of relief, and pull the grass-woven sandals out of my cloth bag- our sole source of survival for our imminent trip to the capital city, Edo.
Mirio emerges from the shed situated at the back of our property; something of beauty, but also power, and freedom is cradled carefully in his arms. His skill for ceramics is our ticket to a future of meaning, of dining with Emperor Ninkō himself.
“Ready to leave, Tatsu? While father has already drunk himself into a stupor for tonight, I worry he’ll hear us,” Mirio whispers with a sense of urgency, gesturing behind him. “Get your blade.”
Pottery isn’t our only ticket. It turns out I can handle a sword pretty well, all of those sleepless nights spent training covertly under the stars have paid off, and in turn an opportunity has arisen. The steel of the blade twinkles pale purple in the half-light, radiant and sharp much like the gentle stars above; only its purpose is not to give guidance in the dark, but to carve out bloodshed with its pure edge, drowning the light.
I secure the strap around my torso and fit the blade into the sheath pocket against my back. Mirio drapes a heavy coat made of a sack over my shoulders, proficiently concealing the shape of the blade. I feel like a potato preparing to be shipped to Edo, not a future hatamoto.
“Father will literally kill you if he knows you’ve taken his prized katana.” A tinge of panic laces Mirio’s voice.
I think back to the first time father caught me training:
I had taken a basic copper blade from his forging shed, knowing it held the least value from the countless times I watched him work though the hole in the shed wall; only my thought process was completely repudiated after I found myself thrown into the very same wall, left starved with a broken arm.
After our mother passed, father engulfed himself in alcohol and only projected bitterness and violence onto us, even seven years later.
Now I am eighteen and Mirio is sixteen. “It doesn't matter if we have no need to ever see him again.” I grin, castle bells chiming for the nineteenth hour signalling our time to depart.
Mirio hands the man our ticket as we board the ship, I pull my hood further over my face as we make our way below deck.
This boat route has been opened exclusively for candidates, most travel is usually restricted by the Emperor.
Sitting huddled against damp wood in an isolated corner, I read the Shogunate’s wanted poster once again.
Mirio cups his pottery in a steady grip, the remnants of blue glaze still clinging to his hands, rough and stained as proof of the weeks he spent in his room perfecting it; finding glazes, paints, and scaling the ups and downs of Nagasaki for a rare pearlescent porcelain, apparently only found through port trade from a land known as ‘Korea.’
I hand my brother the paper, sienna-brown eyes begin scanning it over and over with serrated precision, as if imprinting the characters written with expensive ink into his clearly swimming brain will somehow drown out the swelling waves of uncertainty flooding our minds. I pity Mirio as he shields the creation with thin robes that scratch his gooseflesh skin, catching stray sprays of salt water before they can damage the crockery.
“You know it really is ironic, I finally came up with a name for my work: Ruler of One Thousand Oceans. But really, it shouldn't even be getting wet.” Mirio smiles down at the teapot. It is large, but the real beauty is in its design.
Its body is a smooth pearl white, painted soft blue with underglaze forming detailed waves rising high near the lid that features a tiny, carved lizard perched in its centre. However, the real celestial beacon of the piece is the dragon. The majestic royal blue head serves as the spout, its elongated body carved with rigour down to each scale curving around the waves till the tail wraps up and over into an ‘S’ shape as the handle.
“The emperor will find clarity in it, no matter its ironic name. I think it’s amazing.” I grab Mirio’s cheek, pinching it around. While he may be sixteen- practically an adult, I still see him as that optimistic little boy who used to use his imagination and creativity to cheer me up when life turned dark. He laughs and huddles closer, shrinking away from the numbing spatters of water.
Mirio takes a long breath, as though preparing to dive deep underwater into the icy depths our ship thrashes upon.
“Want to know a secret? I based the art off of us. I am the lizard: quiet, reserved, and very particular. Whereas you, you have a fiery spirit that cannot be extinguished, like dragon’s flames. You’re fearless, good at everything you try, and I know you’ll be successful. When we arrive, I’ll show the emperor how our talent is represented.” He runs a hand through his wiry black hair as I beam at him, the most warm and safe I have felt in a long time.
“You’re the kindest person I know. We’ll make it, you and I. We’ve mastered our skills too much for failure.”
Doubt is a bonfire, it begins with a single spark, but the more contingent embers of thought added to a pang of uncertainty, like oil to flames, leads to a wildfire destroying all sense of judgement.
As we arrive at the port of Edo following two days of rough seas, unsanitary conditions and a diet of rice and pickled meats, I notice Mirio’s anxiety for our trial has escalated. He scribbles a phrase I can only decipher as poetic nonsense with a piece of charcoal he found in between the planks of the deck, desperate to express his thoughts I’m guessing. It does prove one thing, though: My ambition to live a better life far outweighs any thoughts of apprehension that Edo can throw into my head, but as I watch Mirio’s twitching hands and alarmed gaze fixed on the nearing shore, I realise sharp fear is shining through the sanguine boy I once knew.
We may be in over our heads.
After meeting at the Port, an imperial advisor leads candidates toward the palace for evaluation.
“I’m still trying to figure out why the shogunate would invite anyone to showcase their skills, many would exploit this chance, or worse, an assassination attempt on the emperor, yes?” Mirio hisses quietly, eyes darting to the other candidates as we are led in a guarded line to the palace gates.
“The shogun won’t let that happen, he’s known for his brutality with punishment. The emperor's a mere figurehead looking for personalised art, let’s worry about oursel-”
I pause mid sentence as we approach the palace gates, its five-storey pagoda radiating an overwhelming aura of opulence and power, surrounded by a crystal-clear moat brimming with graceful koi fish. Mirio and I exchange brief, starry-eyed glances, yet we can’t keep them off of the ethereal palace, our prospecting future.
Lined up in the courtyard are many supposed swordsmen and artists, every one of them a man. At the head of the courtyard is a throne where the emperor sits, adjacent to the shogun and his fleet of hatamoto, what I hope to be by the end of the day.
The shogun’s clear, rising voice instantly silences the quiet chatter.
“Thirty new hatamoto will be selected today out of the hundreds of you, however, the emperor will only require one personal artist. Much luck.”
I notice Mirio winces as the shogun emphasises the word one, and I grab his hand in reassurance. We watch as many men are instantly rejected, ignored, or even shunned by the emperor and shogunate for poor talent- a regular occurrence.
They are hard figures to impress.
As we approach the front, a noticeable distance separates us from the platform guarded by six hatamoto. We bow simultaneously, curt but low, and the pair survey us judgingly.
“One at a time.” The shogun snaps.
“We’re siblings. I’d like to present my ceramics to the emperor, and my, um, brother.. would like to display his sword skills.” Mirio states.
Ninkō looks bored as he obviously senses my brother’s restlessness. I draw my blade quickly and angle it towards the base of the platform, a perfect distraction.
The Shogun’s disapproving look fades as he catches sight of the sunlit metal reflecting flourishes of crystalline light onto the throne.
“That’s tamagahane; jewel-steel, very rare. Where could you have gotten that? Look at the state of your clothing.” He crosses his arms.
“Forger in the family. May I present my skills?” A shadow of a smile creeps across my face at his recognition. Just as the Shogun cocks his head and opens his mouth as if to speak, the Emperor interjects
“Boy, show me your art.” Ninkō sniffs, straightens himself and temporarily dismisses my shining katana.
Mirio steps forward, offers his work with outstretched arms, sunlight dancing amongst each pearlescent brush stroke; transforming every scale into a tiny, shimmering lake within a sea of sparkling white as he effortlessly rotates the teapot between the fingertips of his two hands. Fascination darts across Ninkō’s face as he taps a finger to his chin, he is startled as the Shogun whispers something into his ear, long and suspenseful. Ninkō nods and the Shogun points to me, I shrink slightly under my hood.
“The scrawny boy will throw his creation skyward, up to the sun.” He gestures at Mirio with a flick of his hand, armoured and adorned with gold. “If you can slice it straight in half, you will become hatamoto and he will be selected as Ninkō’s artist.”
I fail to restrain a click of my tongue and flash a panicked look at Mirio, but an ambitious grin flickers across his lips.
“For mother, for us.” He flexes his arms as the ambience in the air turns deadly.
I take position, chewing on my lip as he tosses the teapot so high that it momentarily blocks out the sun. Reactively, I spring from the earth in a leap and my blade finds the dragon’s neck, feeding its edge through the hollow porcelain swiftly, steadily until pressure is released out the other side. The satisfaction proves glorious, a candle never given the opportunity to be lit now set ablaze with blinding flames.
The dreaded sensation of wispy, long hair flowing out into the cool morning wind and across my small, hollow face seals my fate before the harsh words of the hatamoto register in my mind.
“She’s a woman!”
I lose my balance and my thoughts pivot drastically to Mirio’s punishment for my reckless decision. My life falls before my eyes, as does my body in a surreal blur of complete desolation. A tsunami of moments I have strived to bury deep in my subconscious - moments I am reminded of only in callous dreams - flood back to me; yet the very opportunity to escape it stands right in front of me- a life away from cruel Nagasaki.
Ultimately I reach for the blurring light on the horizon, Edo.
Tears sting my eyes as I use every ounce of strength left to push my underfed body into overdrive, twist midair, and fall into a bow much lower than our first.
The two halves of porcelain thud against the bare earth around me before I reach the mark of my downfall at nobility’s feet.
Deafening silence follows; the sound of pride burnt to ash in a pitiful pile at the bottom of my heart. Hot blood courses through my veins in apprehension over my fate.
Cut glass, cut air. I don’t dare raise my head.
I suppose there is no room for a woman in a man’s world.
Hushed murmurs ripple through men great and small, noble and poor like an inferno as I hear the unmistakable unsheathe of a katana- audibly belonging to the Hatamoto who stands closest to my exposed body.
Before I can react, my bowed neck is drawn up from my chin by the blunt of his glimmering blade, Mirio is restrained by another as he spits desperate curses and threats at them.
“Do something!” He screams at the Shogun,
I see the samurai’s eyes: wild, dark and violent like a starving black bear.
“She’s an animal, let us dispose of her,” he snarls.
The man looks to the Shogun for direction, however his face remains an intrigued, stone mask as though pondering, waiting, expecting me to make a move.
I lurch backward, kick the Hatamoto’s legs out from under him and snatch his blade as he falters, stumbling shocked like a drunk. Must be a low rank.
This time I look at the higher ups; gaze flickering between the Shogun and Ninkō like a sailor deciding upon the right constellation to follow on a starlit journey.
We hear it before we see it.
Mirio and I lock eyes instantaneously as the Emperor begins clapping, slowly yet earnestly under his many layers of robes and glances to the Shogun expectantly.
Shogun Tokugawa Leyoshi’s eyes glitter with a silky, almost dangerous intent as a smirk plays on his lips
“She is just what the Tokugawa Shogunate needs. Transcendent. Powerful.”
I suppress a matching smirk as I perform the saikeirei almost automatically; a deep, graceful bow to express my respect and gratitude, and flay both blades out with my outstretched arms, a cursed sea eagle soaring above adversaries.
I suppose new horizons are shifting in our favour.
