“This is the Horishi’s room,” Hana said.
Keishin looked up from the floor. A burst of color filled his irises. He shielded his face with his hands. Inside a black-and-white scroll, four panels of a brightly painted fusuma were blinding. Keishin squinted, waiting for his sketched eyes to adjust.
A moonlit lake, surrounded by mountains half-covered by fog, stretched across the fusuma. A small boat moved slowly across the water, leaving a trail of ripples in its wake. It stopped beneath the full moon. Keishin leaned closer, trying to see if its occupants had paused to look at him too, but the two panels in the middle of the painting slid open, breaking the little boat in half.
A blindfolded girl, no older than twelve, sat behind a low wooden table in the center of the room. Keishin shot a glance at Hana. “She’s a child.”
“The eldest of the Horishi’s children takes over when the Horishi passes, no matter how old they are,” Hana whispered. “Remember, once we step inside, you must not speak.”
Keishin nodded.
Hana greeted the seated girl with a low bow. “Horishi-san.”
“Ishikawa Hana,” the girl said as though she were able to see Hana through her blindfold. “Welcome.”
Keishin followed Hana inside and bowed, but kept silent as Hana had instructed.
The girl turned toward him, tilted her head slightly, then shifted her attention back to Hana.
“Horishi-san,” Hana said. “I have a question that I was hoping you could provide an answer to.”
The Horishi nodded. “Please sit.”
Keishin sat down on the tatami mat, folding his knees beneath him. His eyes swept over the tattooing instruments on the table. Nomi of varying sizes were arranged in a row. From afar they looked like long, slim paintbrushes with bamboo handles. Upon closer inspection, Keishin saw that the tips were not soft bristles, but tiny needles fastened to the bamboo with silk string. Next to the nomi was an ink stone. Keishin had watched a documentary on traditional tattoo techniques and knew that the stone was used for grinding charcoal blocks into black ink. The blocks arranged next to the Horishi’s ink stone, however, were not black, but a bright, shimmering blue.
“What do you wish to know that is not already written over your skin?” the Horishi said, sounding far older than her years.
“Death,” Hana said.
“The one thing that neither I nor your skin can tell you. Death ends your story as it pleases.”
“Not my death. My mother’s.”
“Your mother’s fate is known by all. She was a thief and was executed for her crime.”
“Yes.”
“And yet you have doubts. You think that there is a chance she may still be alive.”
Hana nodded.
“In the years since my father passed, I have learned that mostpeople do not wish to hear the answers they seek. Know that once I speak it, I cannot take the truth back.”
“I understand.”
“Show me your right arm.”
Hana rolled up her sleeve and held out her arm.
The young girl rinsed her hands in a silver bowl and patted them dry. She ran her fingers over Hana’s skin and stopped at a spot just above her elbow. “A chrysanthemum,” she said, admiring an invisible patch of ink. “My father took great care in crafting your mother’s symbol.” The girl chose a nomi and poised it over the spot she had selected on Hana’s arm. “This will hurt. Stay still.”
“I am ready.”
The Horishi pressed the nomi into Hana’s skin, jabbing the needles along the lines of a design only she could see. Little droplets of blood formed along the nomi’s path. Keishin watched Hana take slow, measured breaths without flinching. Hana, he thought, was used to hiding pain.
The Horishi straightened, lifting the nomi from Hana’s arm. “The ink from your mother’s symbol will tell us what has become of her. Blue means she is alive. If it is black, then she is…”
“Dead,” Hana said. “I understand.”
