We don’t argue until I ask to stay at the shrine until the new year.
Father turns to look at me, expressionless. He makes a dark silhouette while standing near the garden windows, keeping his hands clasped behind his back. Mother and I kneel on cushions around the chabudai—a short-legged table used for dining, working, or studying. She shifts her weight, and the lines in her brow deepen. She looks at my father before she says: “I don’t think that’s wise.”
It’s a polite way of saying absolutely not.
“There should always be a Fujikawa at the family shrine,” I say, wishing I could tell them my real reasons for wanting to stay there. The yokai have attacked me three times now—if I live at home, I worry my family could become targets, no matter how many magical wards protect the house. Instead of saying these things, I insist, “It’s tradition.”
“I’m not sure you can handle the responsibility, Kira,” Mother says, lifting her chin. “When you went to Tokyo on ‘shrine business,’ you left me with the odious task of explaining your disappearance to the authorities and your school. I know you wanted to grieve, but running to Goro-san was not the answer.”
“You embarrassed your mother and me,” Father says, his attention trained on the gardens outside. An unspoken warning again lingers in his tone.
“I’m sorry,” I say, performing a polite bow to my mother. Shame hooks into my back and tugs downward, making my shoulder blades ache. “I didn’t intend to make you worry, or to embarrass you or Father. I only wanted to do what was right, and to honor Grandfather’s memory.”
“And yet you were not here for his wake.” Father scoffs, shaking his head. “This is why I did not want her spending so much time with your father, Midori. The man has filled her head with folklore, rather than facts and figures.”
“Grandfather taught me Shinto, not folklore,” I say, balling my hands in my lap. It’s hard to keep my tone even, especially in the face of Father’s dispassion for the family shrine. He will never understand what the shrine means to me, even if he is family; Father doesn’t want to understand.
Mother purses her lips, casting her gaze to the floor. The tension tightens between us, so taut I could almost reach out and pluck the air like a shamisen string. Mother used to be a priestess at the Fujikawa Shrine. Grandfather required my father to take her family name when they married. Mother was an only child, and Grandfather insisted that the shrine remain in the Fujikawa family. From my grandparents’ stories, I know Mother left the shrine days after I was born. Nobody will tell me why. Nobody wants to discuss the events that turned me into my parents’ cursed child, an outcast in my own home.
The only place I have ever felt comfortable is the Fujikawa Shrine. I intend to return there, and to stay there.
I rise from the chabudai table, step back, and kneel in seiza position. I place my hands on the floor, making a triangle with my thumbs and forefingers, and bow forward. Custom requires I hold the bow for the space of two blinks, then straighten gracefully.
When I sit up, I meet my mother’s gaze. “Mother, allow me to honor our family’s past by preserving our shrine for the future.”
This time, Mother doesn’t look to Father—this choice belongs to her. I suspect she knows I’m lying about the attack on the shrine, my trip to Tokyo, Goro, all of it; there’s a glimmer of regret in the deep, black mirrors of her eyes. I’ve lived with this woman for the sixteen years of my life, and yet my mother has always been a mystery to me.
Seconds pass. Mother inclines her head in a nod. “Very well. You may stay at the Fujikawa Shrine through the end of the year, so long as you maintain your grades and do not shame your father and me any further. You are to listen to Goro and respect him as you would me. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Mother,” I say, bowing again. My hair slides forward, hiding my smile.
“Good,” she says, rising from her seat.
Both my parents leave the room without another word.
I don’t arrive at the Fujikawa Shrine until late in the afternoon.
The torii gate at the bottom of the shrine steps leans to one side, its hashira poles propped up with wooden bolsters. Shadows curl against the stairs. I shiver as the temperature plunges. While the trees that line the shrine’s steps are evergreen, I can see the tops of the shrine’s maples, their bare, skeletal fingers reaching toward the sky.
Part of me doesn’t want to climb these stone steps. I’m not ready to see the rest of the destruction, not yet. So many memories linger in this place: brilliant festival days, when people from all over the city would come to watch me dance; serene moon-viewing parties and sunsets spent with Grandfather; the gentle smiles of the other miko; quiet afternoons spent sweeping the cobblestones; and the gentle laughter of children, feeding the koi in our ponds with their parents.
I can’t let one nightmare ruin a lifetime of good memories. But today, I’m already weary straight down to the depths of my soul. I spent the better part of the afternoon getting scolded, then ignored by my parents. While I don’t blame them for being angry with me—I shamed and terrified them by running away—I wish we could have spent one moment together, honoring Grandfather at the family kamidana. Grandfather deserved at least that much from us.
I pluck a piece of blue-and-white police tape out of the bushes near the torii gate. With a growl, Oni-chan leaps out, startling me. He jumps up to try to catch the tape in his claws. I dangle it for him, laughing as he wiggles his rear end and springs. He snatches the tape away.
“How are you able to walk on shrine grounds, little demon?” I ask him. He cocks his head at me, and then I remember that this ground is no longer sacred. Under my current plan, the shrine won’t be rededicated until the last day of December, in a special oharae ceremony that will purify this place.
That is, of course, assuming any of us survive that long.
Still carrying the tape in his mouth, Oni-chan bounds up a few of the shrine steps and stops, looking back at me as if to say, Aren’t you coming?
With a small smile, I start up the stone steps. My suitcase wheels bang on each ledge, useless. Oni-chan trots ahead of me, flicking his dual tails.
As the shrine comes into view, my spirit dims. Silvery webs still cover half the buildings, making it seem like the gods have stretched a funerary shroud over the main hall. The verandas are curtained off by sheets of leaves caught in cascading webs. Spongy green scum covers the pond, and a thick layer of leaves rests atop the cobblestones. Shadows gather in the courtyards, and I wonder what might be watching me in the growing darkness.
I expected the destruction, even braced myself for it—but nothing could truly prepare me to face the wounds my enemies left on my home.
I am surprised, however, to see buildings framed in neat steel scaffolds. A massive dumpster sits in one of the courtyards, full to the brim with the shrine’s broken bones. Someone has started reconstruction, and from the looks of it, they’ve been at it for several days now. Perhaps O-bei Katayama intends to keep her promises and will make restitution for her crimes.
It doesn’t matter what she does, I think. She’ll never be able to bring back Grandfather.
“Hello?” I call out, as much to hail the kitsune as to break the oppressive silence. Nothing moves. “Shiro? Goro? Is anyone here?”