The Whistling Wind 

The moment Haruka opened the door, a bone-chilling wind swept in, a physical assault that made him shiver. He looked up at the sky; the gentle, honey-colored sun had been frozen out, completely hidden behind a mass of dark, heavy, bruised-looking clouds.

“It’s so cold. It was such a nice sunny day this morning,” Haruka said, pulling his thin kimono tighter around himself. The cold had already seeped through the thin cotton of his tabi socks.

“I checked the weather forecast earlier,” Kiyohime said, her own voice small against the wind. “It’s supposed to be a thunderstorm tonight.”

Haruka looked at the gloomy, oppressive sky. It certainly felt like a storm was coming. It was only October, the beginning of autumn, but the weather was fickle—hot one moment, cold the next; a gentle breeze, then a howling wind. It was impossible to know what the next moment would bring.

The two of them left the house, the residual warmth of the room quickly snatched away by the encroaching cold. They were walking directly into the wind. Haruka felt as if a layer of invisible frost were forming on his face, and his hands and feet felt as if they had been soaked in ice water, a penetrating chill that went straight to his bones. The maids, assuming the weather would remain fair, had prepared only thin autumn clothes for him.

Haruka glanced to his side. Kiyohime’s clothes were even thinner than his. The usually lively, defiant girl had her head bowed, her shoulders hunched, clearly feeling the cold. Seeing this, he quietly quickened his pace and moved slightly in front of her, using his own small body to block the worst of the biting wind.

Kiyohime felt a little warmer and obediently, gratefully, followed behind him. “Haruka,” she said in a low voice, “you’re going the wrong way. The path to the left is shorter.”

“Suzune is still waiting for me on the other side,” Haruka said, his voice steady.

“Oh,” Kiyohime said. Her small, cold hand gently took hold of his arm. Seeing that he didn’t mind, she slowly pressed her whole body against his side, feeling their shared, precious warmth. A cozy, contented feeling spread through her heart. If her mother weren’t waiting for them, she would have wished for their steps to slow, to walk forever in this vast, cold, empty place, as long as she was with him.

Haruka saw a black dot in the distance. After a long walk against the wind, the dot resolved into a human figure. It was Murakami Suzune, standing ramrod straight, the cold wind whipping her gentle, long hair to one side, a solitary, loyal statue.

“Young Master, Young Mistress…” Suzune’s voice trembled with cold.

“It’s so cold,” Haruka said with concern, his own discomfort forgotten. “You didn’t have to wait out here.”

“I was afraid you would come out and not be able to find me,” Suzune said with a smile that looked frozen on her pale face. “I’d rather be in the wind and wait for you.”

Haruka touched her hand. It was ice-cold, lifeless. “Let’s go,” he said immediately. “Don’t just stand here.”

Suzune felt the warmth of his small hand envelop hers. She wanted to pull hers back, out of propriety, but he held it fast, and so, the hand that had not wanted to let go in the first place, was even more reluctant to do so now.

Haruka walked forward, holding both their hands. Kiyohime disliked Suzune, but seeing that she was now Haruka’s “property,” she tolerated it, pretending not to see, her own hand still linked with his arm.

The three of them walked from the west side and, in a short while, arrived at the area where the guests were staying. Suzune, afraid that being seen holding hands would reflect poorly on the Young Master, gently pulled her hand away. Kiyohime, however, nonchalantly draped her arm over Haruka’s shoulder, a casual, possessive gesture. Suzune couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang of envy at the Second Young Mistress’s effortless, unthinking freedom.

Up ahead, the servants were still scattering coarse salt, their mouths murmuring the same monotonous prayer: “May the good advance and the wicked retreat.” Beside them were two rows of servants with brooms, gently sweeping the salt so it spread out evenly across the stone paths.

Kiyohime, afraid the other two didn’t know, explained, “That old miko told them to do that. She says it can eliminate bad luck.” She spoke lightly, her subconscious clearly believing it was all just foolish superstition.

Seeing the three of them approach, the servants all stopped their work and bowed. “Good day, Young Master, Young Mistress, Ms. Stewardess.” The order of their greeting represented the clear hierarchy of the three in their minds. They looked past Suzune, their eyes only on the two masters. Haruka smiled and nodded; Kiyohime let out a long, bored yawn. They were born of the same mother, the servants couldn’t help but think, but their personalities are so different. They still firmly believed the rumors they had been fed.

Haruka called over two of the servants. “Go and inform the Head Butler that I have arrived with the Second Young Mistress.” He then turned to Suzune. “You go with them. After you’ve delivered the message, go back to your room. I’ll have someone call for you if I need you.”

Suzune understood that Haruka had seen her shivering in the cold and was giving her a chance to go back and rest. Though she was reluctant to leave him, she couldn’t refuse the Young Master’s kindness in front of everyone. “Yes, Young Master,” she said obediently, and led the two servants away.

Haruka and Kiyohime wasted no more time. They entered the building and arrived at the hall where the guests were being entertained.

Lady Murasaki was seated in the head seat. Below her, on luxurious sofas and around elegant coffee tables, sat the same group of beautiful, powerful guests. In their conversation and laughter, they were more beautiful than the painted court ladies hanging on the walls, more vibrant than the potted palms, chrysanthemums, and evergreens that stood silently in the corners of the room.

Just then, Lady Murasaki clapped her hands, a sharp, crisp sound that cut through the pleasant chatter, signaling for them to be quiet. Her bright eyes looked past the carved, openwork screen and directly at Haruka.

Haruka’s breathing slowed. Lady Murasaki smiled, a slow, intimate smile meant only for him. “Haruka, come here,” she said. In that moment, the beautiful guests were instantly robbed of their brilliance, becoming mere background players.

Haruka walked around the screen and across the thick, red carpet that seemed to drink all sound. The guests all bloomed with radiant smiles.

“Good day, Young Master.”

“You’ve arrived, Young Master.”

“You’re dressed so thinly, Young Master. Aren’t you cold?”

Their fawning, honeyed greetings completely, pointedly, ignored Kiyohime, who was standing right beside him.

Lady Murasaki, unwilling to show her true, unguarded smile in front of others, simply looked down at him with warm, deeply affectionate eyes.

Haruka slowly walked forward, up the two low steps to the dais, and stood beside her. Lady Murasaki pinched the thin fabric of his kimono between her fingers, her long, elegant eyebrows furrowed in disapproval. “Your clothes are so thin,” she whispered. “Don’t those servants know to dress you more warmly?”

Haruka felt it was his own fault and didn’t want her to take her anger out on others. He took her hand and said softly, “I’m not cold. My body is very warm.”

Lady Murasaki felt the warmth of his small hand. She heard one of the guests below tease, her voice a little too loud, “My lady, at that age, a boy’s body is like a furnace. If we women lean against him, we’ll be dried out in no time.”

Lady Murasaki smiled. “The phrase ‘dried out’ is quite unique. Are you comparing us all to wet clothes?”

Her words were light, as if she were continuing the joke, but a sudden, deathly heaviness fell over the room. The laughter instantly died, frozen in the air.

Lady Murasaki slowly stroked the smooth, carved armrest of her chair. The women below, who could command wind and rain in the outside world, didn’t dare to make a sound, not even the slightest movement.

Lady Murasaki pointed a single, elegant finger at the woman who had spoken. “You. Bring my son a haori.”