Hana stared at the origami creation. “You were right about the Shiikuin finding out about Haruto helping us. We cannot go back to his home.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because Haruto just told us where to go instead.”
Keishin picked up the folded paper. “A star?”
Chapter Thirty-two
The Valley of Stars
Blue slushies, as it turned out, had a purpose other than giving you a brain freeze. Keishin watched Hana pour one out over the floor. He jumped and sank into the blue puddle, pleasantly surprised that he didn’t feel cold.
The trip was quick, over before Keishin could even begin trying to understand what it meant to travel to a star. Foxes made of sand and living scrolls had forced him to redefine what “fantastic” meant, and a star, he was certain, was going to test the new definition’s limits. It was therefore quite understandable that Keishin had a difficult time hiding his disappointment when he reached their destination.
“This is not what you expected,” Hana said, surveying a small village at the bottom of a gently sloping hill.
“I think that I must have misheard you. I thought you said we were going to a star.”
Hana smiled. “You heard correctly. But we will not be seeing one star. We will be seeing many. That village has one responsibility. Each night, it creates the sky.”
—
The energy throughout the village’s cobbled streets buzzed in the air and tingled against Keishin’s skin. No matter where you looked, you could not find a single person standing still. Everyone, including the smallest child, had a task. Baskets flowed inan endless stream down both sides of the street, ferried on backs and shoulders. Small groups hunched over worktables cutting washi paper or splitting bamboo into thin spars, barely pausing to speak or look up from their work. The children were charged with carrying around trays of food and drink. A little girl with chubby hands stopped and offered Keishin and Hana savory rice crackers.
“Thank you,” Keishin said, taking a round, golden-brown cracker from her.
She bowed and smiled in a way that puffed up her cheeks. She carried her tray down the street, searching for the next person to share her crackers with.
“Every person in this town is working toward the singular goal of getting the night sky ready. Some prepare the stars. Some clean. Some make sure the others do not go thirsty or hungry while working. At the end of the day, they put up the sky and go to bed. The next morning, they do everything all over again.”
“I think that out of everything I have seen and heard since stepping into your world, what you just told me makes the least sense. What do you mean they’re getting the night sky ready? How do you prepare the stars?”
“It is better if you see it for yourself,” Hana said. “Come.”
—
They stopped at the end of the street across from a two-story wooden house. A cart, being unloaded by two men, was parked in front of it. The men handed baskets of small, silk-wrapped packages to two women who carried the baskets inside the house.
“This is where the whole process begins,” Hana said. “Think of this entire village as a workshop. Each street is assigned aspecific task, and each house along that street is responsible for fulfilling the various elements of that task. This house is in charge of collecting and sorting hope.”
“Hope?” Keishin arched a brow.
“Even in a world like ours, where our entire life is mapped out for us, we still need to hope, or at least have the illusion of it. On our birthdays, we are allowed to send our hopes to this village. We write them down a few weeks before our birthday and send them here. It is the village’s duty to send them up to the sky,” Hana said. “That is what those baskets contain. Hope. Every household on this street is charged with collecting and sorting them.
“But not all hopes are the same. Some require more work than others. The homes that are in charge of preparing the hopes people have about love have the most difficult duty.”
—
Keishin and Hana were warmly welcomed into a home along the next street as though they were longtime friends of the family. Suzuki Fumiko, a stooped elderly woman who had a harder time seeing than chattering away, led them to a room where a small group of people were gathered around a table, painting on thin sheets of paper.
“It is not often that we have visitors come to our village.” Fumiko squinted at Keishin. “I am always happy to see the faces of those who send their hopes here.”
“Thank you for allowing us to see your work, Suzuki-san,” Hana said.
“It is my children who paint now. My eyes gave up on me before my mind and hands did. But oh, what beauty I used to paint. Everyone said that my work was the prettiest in the village. Even better than my sister’s. Faces were my specialty.Lips. Eyes. Noses. I painted all of them with the greatest care,” she said, barely taking a breath. “Oh. I apologize,” she said with a chuckle. “Here I go again. It is an old woman’s vice to ramble and take advantage of people who are too polite to tell her to be quiet.”
Keishin smiled, finding her chattering soothing. It gave him something to think about other than being chased by the Shiikuin. It also made the day with Hana feel like one wherein they were simply two tourists with nothing on their minds except wondering where they were going to have lunch and buy souvenirs. In a way, it was like a date—their second, if he counted the imaginary one they had while riding his song. It even came with all the tiny bubbles that fizzed and popped in your stomach as you stood next to each other, hands close enough to touch. “We are happy to listen to whatever you wish to tell us.”
