Thomas Randall - Spirits of the Noh

Daisuke rode down a short hill into a narrow street. He let the bike coast as he swung around a tight corner, and had to swerve to avoid an old man who stood in the road cradling some kind of lizard in his arms as if it were an infant.

“Be careful, young fool!” the old man shouted, and Daisuke looked back to see him brandishing a gnarled fist.

Now, that was strange. He knew from having his grandmother living in the house with him and his parents that old people could be peculiar. But the wide-eyed old man with his lizard-baby made his grandmother seem boring by comparison. He ought to have a long, white beard. Crazy old men should all have long, white beards.

He raced past a library and an old church, then pedaled up a winding street among apartment buildings. A shortcut brought him buzzing down a lovely road lined with small shops, a wonderful view of Miyazu Bay ahead, and then Daisuke turned left, passed a park, and headed for a dingy, more industrial area of the city, where office buildings and noodle stands gave way to warehouses nearer the waterfront.

Blinking to clear his vision, he realized that twilight had snuck up on him. An indigo haze had replaced the golden light of early evening. Night came on late this time of year, but when it arrived, it did so swiftly.

Now he began to get tired, and wished he had taken the bus today, as he did in winter, instead of riding his bicycle. Ever since they had begun working on this play, the days had been longer, and he had been up later working on his homework. Daisuke decided that tomorrow, he would take the bus for sure.

Only a mile or so from home, he put an extra effort into pedaling. The wind had shifted and, though it had been a very warm day, the breeze off the bay cooled the back of his neck. As he passed a tiny restaurant where his father often took him when the women of the house were not at home, the smell of cooking fish filled his nostrils and his stomach growled painfully.

Daisuke began to daydream about what his mother might have cooked. He hoped for tuna and some curry bread. There would simply be no way for him to focus on his homework if he had to eat tempura and pickled plums again.

The darkness gathered around him, seeming to seep in from between the buildings as he reached the crest of a short hill. With a sigh, he stopped pedaling, grateful for the rest, letting the bike coast. He sat up high on the seat, guiding the bike with only his fingertips. The wind whipped at his hair and he breathed in the fresh bay air.

Something darted into the road in front of him. Daisuke scrabbled for the handlebars, fingers latching on, and twisted to avoid the figure looming up in front of him. He thought of the old man cradling the lizard, but in the gathering darkness he could make out only a silhouette, shifting and uncertain. He had the impression of hands reaching for him, but by then disaster had already struck. He’d swerved too far. The handlebars snapped sideways, the front tire following suit, and the bike pitched him forward. He flipped through the air, arms flailing, the world turned upside down.

Daisuke hadn’t time to utter a cry of panic before he struck the pavement and began to bounce and slide, pavement scouring the skin from his right arm, tearing his pants and scraping his leg. As he rolled, he struck his head, and the darkness closed in at the edges of his vision, swallowing him for long seconds.

When he opened his eyes, he lay on his side in the street, in the dark. A jagged shadow farther down the road he recognized as the wreckage of his bicycle. It hurt him just to breathe, and when he tried to shift, spikes of pain jabbed into his side and ran up his arm. Where he’d scraped the pavement, his skin sang with even more pain.

Panic seized him. The road was dark. He could hear no traffic. No one had emerged to call an ambulance for him. Someone there, in the road, had caused his accident, but he didn’t hear a siren. They must have run away, maybe afraid to be blamed.

But where did that leave Daisuke?

In his agony, frightened at how hard it was to breathe, he began to cry, wondering how long it would be before his parents became worried and came to look for him. He imagined his mother in the kitchen, or sitting at the table, waiting, and the tears flowed more freely. He sobbed once, and a fresh wave of pain enveloped him, nearly forcing him again into unconsciousness.

And then he heard it-a rustle against the pavement, a scrape and hiss.

Daisuke froze. “Hello?” he managed, although even that was difficult. Maybe the person had not run away after all. Maybe they had called, and help was on the way. “Are you there?”

No reply. He tried to turn, but it hurt too much.

“Hello?” he tried again.

He heard another rustle, and a low shush, as if someone stood just behind him, breathing, watching. His pain and hope began to be replaced by fear.

Then a new sound reached him, a soft hiss, that started a few feet behind him, but swiftly came nearer, until it had become an almost intimate whisper, inches from his ear.

Kara sat at her computer, scanning through some of the photos she had taken in and around Miyazu City over the past few months. She loved taking pictures, and since Sakura often used photographic reference to inspire her art for their manga, Kara had visited some of the prettier sites in the area with her camera. Ancient prayer shrines and mountain villages always gave her a quiet sense of peace and made her feel the weight of history.

Often, her friends would come along on these jaunts. Sometimes Miho and Sakura would join her, and on others, Hachiro had been her companion. The term break had consisted mostly of exploring the area with them at her side. When classes were in session, she spent so much time at school that it had been wonderful to discover beautiful, out-of-the-way spots she would otherwise never have encountered.

She came upon a cute photo of Hachiro. They’d climbed to the top of Takigami Mountain to visit the observatory. Afterward, Hachiro had climbed onto a large, jagged rock and Kara had knelt on the ground. When he’d thrust out his arms as if they were wings, she had snapped the picture, and with the blue sky and white clouds behind him, Hachiro appeared to be flying. No Photoshop, no tweaking.

The picture made her smile.

On a whim, inspired by a burst of affection, she clicked to make the photo her computer’s desktop background. As she sat back to admire the result, a wave of fatigue swept over her, and she yawned, stretching in her chair. When Miho had first asked her and Sakura to help with the Noh club’s endeavor, the idea had intrigued her, but it certainly made her days seem longer. The clock on her computer screen told her that ten thirty had come and gone.

She had eaten dinner quickly and then hit the books, finishing her homework about forty-five minutes ago. Normally she read a little before bed, or played her guitar for a while, but tonight she had wanted to catch up on e-mail, check in with a few friends from home, and upload new pictures to her Facebook page. She had lost herself in the photos, and now all she wanted was to go to sleep. Facebook would have to wait until tomorrow night, or even the weekend.

With another glance at the photo of “flying” Hachiro, she got up from her chair. The room-like the house-was small, but somehow she had learned to keep it fairly neat. She cleared her books off her bed and made an orderly stack of them on the bureau. With a sigh, she glanced at her guitar on its stand in the corner, tempted to play just a little, but her bed called to her as well, and she found her pillow far more tempting than the strings of her guitar. Shaking the urge to play from her fingers, she went out into the hall.

The door to her father’s room stood open, so she peeked in to find him stretched out on his bed in New England Patriots pajama pants and a plain white T-shirt. He’d propped his head on pillows and a book rested on his chest, barely held open by faltering hands. His eyes were closed, though he did not seem entirely asleep. Rob Harper had a habit of drifting off while reading, and then muttering offhandedly the next morning about having lost his place in the book.