The Third Gift

Haruka knew she was fast asleep, so he had been especially gentle, his movements as quiet as a falling leaf, when trying to place the pillow. Looking at her weary, unguarded profile, he’d felt like a thief with a guilty conscience. When Lady Murasaki suddenly grabbed his wrist, the illusion shattered, and he was naturally, profoundly startled.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Lady Murasaki slowly opened her eyelids. Seeing the small silk pillow clutched in Haruka’s hand, her stern, sharp-edged face gradually softened, the hardness melting away like ice in the sun. She didn’t need him to explain; she already understood what he had been trying to do. She let go of his hand and, unable to suppress her bone-deep sleepiness, let out a small, delicate yawn. To maintain her composure, she covered her mouth with her hand, straightened her impossibly straight back, and glanced out the window with heavy, sleepy eyes. “We still have a long way to go. You should get some sleep too.”

But she saw Haruka avoiding her gaze, his head turned away. Puzzled, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Haruka mumbled, his voice thick, “N-nothing.”

Lady Murasaki was instantly displeased. She gently, but firmly, turned his face toward hers. Her lips, though unpainted, were a vibrant, delicate red, a stark slash of color in her pale face. She exhaled a soft breath that made him feel drowsy, and just looking at her face, so close, made him dizzy. “From now on, when you speak to Mother, you look me in the eyes. Do you understand?”

Haruka looked into the deep, captivating pools of her eyes, nodded, and grunted, “Mm,” before quickly looking away, his heart racing. Am I sleepy too? he wondered, his own thoughts feeling slow and syrupy. Suddenly, his forehead felt a soft, warm pressure.

Haruka froze. He saw Lady Murasaki’s crimson lips right before his eyes, a breath away from his skin. She was commanding him with a single, whispered word: “Sleep.”

Haruka didn’t want to obey. “I… I’m not tired.”

Lady Murasaki ignored him. She took the pillow from his hands, firmly placed it behind his back, and adjusted the built-in headrest with practiced efficiency. Watching her fuss over him, this small, unexpected act of care, Haruka felt an indescribable emotion swell in his chest. He shifted his body; the seat she had adjusted was indeed very comfortable.

“Sleep for a while. We’ll be there soon.”

“Where are we going?” Haruka finally couldn’t help but ask, the question a small rebellion.

“Wherever Mama goes, Haruka goes.” She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she reached out her jade-like hand and gently caressed his face. Haruka felt mesmerized by her touch, a moth drawn to a beautiful, dangerous flame. Her fingers moved from his cheek up to his smooth forehead, down the straight, noble bridge of his nose, and gently, irresistibly, closed his eyelids.

Maybe I really am tired, he thought, surrendering as he closed his eyes. As he drifted into a warm, fragrant haze, he felt a faint, ghost-like tickle on his Adam’s apple. But he didn’t want to move. He fell into a deep sleep and began to dream.

He dreamed he was being held by Yukishiro Tomoe. He was incredibly, deliriously excited. Mama is finally willing to hold me. But Tomoe’s face gradually blurred, twisting and reforming until it was replaced by the breathtaking, terrifying beauty of Lady Murasaki’s. His expression shifted to shock, but he didn’t wake up, his dream-self only thinking, “Why is it her? Why is it her?”

After a long internal struggle, a battle fought in the deep recesses of his mind, Haruka woke up in a daze. He found a thin, silk blanket covering him. Alarmed, he tried to sit up and nearly tumbled off the seat. Sometime while he was asleep, the car had stopped. His seatbelt was unbuckled, and he was lying on his side on the wide leather seat as if in a bed, with a blanket over him and a pillow behind his head.

Haruka looked around. The car was empty. Panicked, he opened the door and stumbled out into the cool, damp air. He found himself in a bright, open space. Lady Murasaki was standing not far away, her posture regal and serene, as if she were taking in everything within her sight, as if she owned the very world. Suddenly, she turned and looked directly at him.

Haruka’s heart seemed to stop. He slowly walked over. “We’re here?”

“We’ve been here for a long time.”

“Why didn’t you wake me…”

“Because I could afford to wait for you.”

Lady Murasaki said calmly, reaching out to smooth Haruka’s messy hair. A stubborn lock of hair at his forehead refused to be tamed, springing back up no matter which way she pressed it.

“Let me do it,” Haruka said, a hint of frustration in his voice.

Lady Murasaki looked into his bright, clear eyes and felt a flicker of annoyance. This child is so disobedient. “I can handle it,” she said coldly. She beckoned a bodyguard, whispered a few words, and soon the bodyguard returned with a damp towel.

Lady Murasaki wrung out the excess water and used the damp towel to press down the rebellious strand of hair. It finally lay flat. A hint of a triumphant smile touched her lips. “Even your hair must obey me.” Her hands didn’t stop there. She straightened his collar and smoothed his kimono, making sure he was perfectly, flawlessly presentable. Only then did she step back. She looked him over with an appreciative gaze. “Now you look like my son.”

Haruka said nothing, simply calling out “Mother,” leaving the word to hang in the still air between them.

Lady Murasaki nodded and took his hand. He didn’t resist.

They walked along a small, moss-lined path, bodyguards clearing the way, and passed through a tall, imposing gate. The scenery inside was completely different. Haruka looked around. There were vibrant red flowers, lush green grass, the sweet scent of blossoms, and the cheerful, oblivious chirping of birds. Small groves of dense, ancient trees were scattered about like thoughtful pauses in a poem.

At first, he thought he had entered a park, until he saw the nearby, meticulously cared-for gravestones. He realized it was a massive cemetery. The resting place of the dead was more vibrant and alive than the homes of the living.

Lady Murasaki led Haruka to a clean, simple grave. Without any offerings, she simply placed a cushion on the ground and knelt to pay respects to her ancestor. Haruka stood about two meters behind her. Looking back, he saw the bodyguards, dark and solid as iron, standing like unmoving sentinels at the four corners.

“Haruka, come here,” Lady Murasaki called. “Pay respects to our ancestor. Ask him to bless you so that ‘the good may advance and the wicked retreat’.”

He’s not my ancestor, Haruka thought. Why would he protect me? But seeing Lady Murasaki’s serious, unyielding expression, he had no choice but to kneel and bow. Bowing to the dead costs me nothing, he reasoned. But he mumbled the prayer indistinctly, the words feeling foreign and false on his tongue.

After two bows, Lady Murasaki led him to the next grave. They didn’t pay much respect to the ancestors, but they did a lot of walking. His head didn’t hurt from bowing, but his legs were getting sore.

Bringing me to a cemetery to bow to these irrelevant ‘ancestors’—could this be her third gift? he wondered. Whatever the deeper meaning, he didn’t much care for this gift.

Lady Murasaki saw the look on his face and smiled faintly, a secret amusement in her eyes.

Seeing her smile, Haruka thought, Maybe the gift is something else? His curiosity piqued, he quickened his pace. After walking deeper into the cemetery for about ten minutes, he saw a team of undertakers in stark black suits standing next to a sleek, Western-style coffin.

“Open the coffin,” Lady Murasaki commanded, her voice cutting through the peaceful air. “Let my son see her one last time.”

Puzzled, Haruka slowly approached the jet-black, polished coffin. He looked inside, and a wave of sorrow so immense, so powerful, surged up from the depths of his heart that it stole the breath from his lungs.

Lying inside, peaceful and still, was Yukishiro Tomoe.