The Lush Plantain

Haruka refused to accept it. The seed of madness had been planted, and it was threatening to consume him. This time, he didn’t call for a bodyguard. He beckoned one of the undertakers, a man with a professionally somber face.

He didn’t bother with a long preamble. After a few brief words about the tragedy, he cut straight to the point, his voice deceptively calm. “Do you think I look like the Lady?”

The undertaker had no knowledge of the Fujiwara family’s labyrinthine internal affairs and simply assumed Haruka was a legitimate, grieving young master. He straightened the collar of his black suit and offered a practiced, sympathetic smile. “Young Master, with your handsome looks, who else but the Lady could have given birth to such an outstanding child?”

For the first time in his life, Haruka hated his own face. He rested his hand lightly on the cool wood of the coffin. “And do you think I look like her?”

The undertaker gave the coffin a cursory, professional glance and immediately looked away, chuckling softly. “Young Master, you have a strange sense of humor. Is this woman a relative of the Lady?”

Haruka’s smile vanished. “She is my family,” he said, his voice dropping, each word a chip of ice. “She has nothing to do with the Lady.”

The faint sunlight that had been warming the undertaker’s skin seemed to freeze. He stared at the young master of the Fujiwara family, a sudden, primal unease settling in his stomach. “Isn’t your family… also the Lady’s family?”

“Do I look like her or not!” The command was sharp, absolute.

“No!” the undertaker blurted out, a shiver running down his spine. He was genuinely frightened by this boy, by the sudden, terrifying shift from gentle grief to cold fury. But then he saw Haruka’s expression change again, melting back into a gentle, apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry,” Haruka said, his voice soft and full of regret. “My relative has just passed away, and I’m not in a good state of mind. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” the undertaker said quickly, though he found the boy’s placid smile deeply unnerving. But then Haruka’s voice grew quieter, softer, and began to tremble with what sounded like a suppressed sob.

Is he crying? the undertaker thought, surprised by the boy’s fragility.

Haruka pointed to the body of Yukishiro Tomoe, his voice now laced with a raw, pleading quality. “Is there really no resemblance at all?”

The undertaker could only see the back of his severe black kimono, the wisteria crest of the Fujiwara family embroidered on it in stark silver thread. He hesitated. “This lady passed away from an illness. She lost her hair and teeth. Even with the work of a professional mortician, we could only restore her to about seventy or eighty percent of her original appearance. With all due respect, it’s impossible to tell.”

Then he heard Haruka’s voice, changed again, now perfectly, chillingly calm. “I see.”

The undertaker looked at his back, an inexplicable sense of dread creeping into his heart.

Haruka’s gaze went past the coffin. The sun was scorching, and the lush plantain trees nearby seemed to sway in the shimmering heat. The morning mist had been completely burned away, leaving the world sharp and brutally clear.

“I have no more questions. You may go.”

The undertaker finally moved, walking away but glancing back at Haruka every few steps. The young masters of these wealthy families, he thought, they truly are different from the rest of us.

Haruka wiped the last of his tears away and spoke to the woman in the coffin, his voice a low, fierce whisper. “I don’t care if you gave birth to me or not. You will always be my mother.”

He looked around. No one was watching. He ignored the sharp gravel on the ground and knelt, his voice clear and steady. “May your spirit in heaven bless me, so that ‘the good may advance and the wicked retreat’.” This time, his words were articulate, without a trace of the mumbled reluctance he’d shown when bowing to the Fujiwara ancestors.

He bowed once, his forehead touching the earth, then stood and bowed three more times before he was finished.

He spent a few more moments alone with her body, a silent, final farewell. Then he went to find Lady Murasaki. She was sitting under the cool, deep shade of a distant cypress tree, on a folding chair, a small table with sweets and tea beside her.

When she saw Haruka approaching, she beckoned to him. “Come, sit.”

Haruka felt like a deflated tire, all his energy and resolve drained away. He collapsed into the folding chair beside her.

Lady Murasaki took out her handkerchief and gently dabbed the corners of his red-rimmed eyes. He started to pull away, but then a thought stopped him. He let her, turning his head to look at her peerless face. A wave of bitter self-loathing washed over him. She’s so beautiful, he thought with a self-deprecating sneer. How could she possibly have given birth to a son like me?

“There, there, don’t cry anymore,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice soft and coaxing, a mother comforting her child.

Haruka felt a surge of shame and could no longer hold back the question that was poisoning him. “Are you really my mother?”

Lady Murasaki didn’t speak. She simply pulled Haruka into an embrace and whispered in his ear, her breath warm and sweet, “Silly child.”

The warm breath in his ear made him feel weak, and in her arms, he felt a kind of enveloping, unconditional love he had never received from Yukishiro Tomoe. He found he no longer had the will, or the desire, to dig for the truth.

“Alright, it’s time to bury your former ‘mother’,” Lady Murasaki said, gently releasing him and resuming her usual elegant and dignified demeanor. She saw him standing there, his lips pressed together in a thin, stubborn line, saying nothing.

She took his hand, her touch as gentle as if she were afraid of breaking a delicate doll, and carefully led him forward. Haruka felt a strange sense of joy radiating from her, as if they were strolling through a valley filled with flowers and birdsong. It was as if she were trying to infect him with her triumphant mood.

Each lost in their own thoughts, they slowly arrived back at the coffin.

“I truly hate this woman,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “I wish I could flay her skin and pull out her tendons. However, for your sake, I can let her go. And she did raise you for all these years. That is a debt of gratitude. That is why I have decided to give you her burial as your third gift.”

“Thank you, Moth—”

“Are you still calling me Mother?” Lady Murasaki looked at him, a strange, hungry longing in her eyes.

Haruka felt trapped. In front of Yukishiro Tomoe’s body, he forced the word out. “Thank you… Mama.”

“Good boy.” In front of Tomoe’s open coffin, Lady Murasaki pulled Haruka into a tight, possessive embrace, stroking his head. “But this gift is not yet big enough.”

Haruka felt a mix of shame and powerlessness. “The gift Mama has given me… I already like it very much…”

“It’s not enough,” Lady Murasaki said, her voice firm. She pointed to a square pit dug not far away, a dark wound in the perfect green earth. “This is the grave to bury your mother in.”

Haruka nodded. The area was beautiful, with birds singing and flowers blooming, surrounded by groves of ancient, silent trees. It was more beautiful than any park for the living. To be buried here, with one’s body intact, was a luxury most people could only dream of.

“Let me show you another place,” Lady Murasaki said.

Haruka had no interest, but he followed her. After walking for about ten minutes, he saw a grand, imposing gravestone. When he saw the prefix “Fujiwara,” he froze. Lady Murasaki whispered in his ear, “You’ve guessed correctly. It’s your father, the one who took our name.”

Haruka stared at the gravestone, at the cold, carved characters, and a deep, potent hatred began to bloom in his heart. Though he had never spoken of his father, it was impossible not to feel a shred of bitter resentment. First, for abandoning his impoverished mother and child for a life of luxury. Second, for condemning him to this hell of doubt and suspicion. He wanted to dig his father out of the grave and grind his bones to dust.

Lost in his silent rage, Haruka didn’t notice the look of profound, icy disgust and contempt in Lady Murasaki’s eyes as she, too, stared at the grave.

She pointed to an empty plot to the left of his father’s grave. “Mama respects your opinion, so I have prepared two gravesites. Do you want your former mother to be buried in that lonely place over there, or here, next to your father?”