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Author's Note: For the sake of controversy and conflict of opinion, I will refer to this story as a "saga," namely because the story covers the childhood of our main character, Date Seiji. Of course, we all know these short reflections are more appropriately titled "vignettes," as they are able to stand alone as individual tales. In any case, I have envisioned specific scenarios for each vignette with the following being the most difficult of the set to write. As a result, it has taken me much longer than anticipated to produce the second chapter for "The Pixie's Diary."
Of all my stories, "The Pixie's Diary" is my absolute favorite, as it deals solely with Seiji at a period of his life when relationships are a key factor in shaping his character for the future—specifically, the relationship between Seiji and his father. Since the story revolves around their interaction, I'd like to stress the importance—once again—of a father's influence and presence within the family unit. I feel the father is the most significant (and ultimately dominant) figure of the household, and I cherish that interaction to all other filial relationships.
Also, please forgive my blatant change of tense at the beginning of the chapter. Using correct tense is a must as far as I'm concerned, but there were unavoidable exceptions due to the subject matter of the first several paragraphs. Since my beginning paragraph is a definition (and the following paragraph merely an extension of that definition), the "present" tense used is speaking in a general term, as though my "spring" is a generalization for a "spring" found everywhere else. It is also used to emphasize that while the story occurs at some point in the past, the concept of "spring" still applies today, as it is a constant, never-ending cycle.
Please review with any corrections or suggestions. Thank you.
Disclaimer: Ronin Warriors/Yoroiden Samurai
Troopers is © to Sunrise, Nagoya TV, and Sony Music Entertainment.
"The Pixie's Diary"
Entry 2: "Seiji"
By Boggy
By definition, spring is the season of the year occurring between winter and summer, during which the weather becomes warmer and plants revive, extending in the Northern Hemisphere from the vernal equinox to the summer solstice and popularly considered to comprise March, April, and May.
While this definition is accurate by scientific terms—and certainly applies to the country of Japan—most residents of Sendai generally refer to spring as a frozen moment in time; when the beauty of the sakura blossom is at its fullest. The sun's gentle beams warm the air, and the wind blows whimsically at the welcome change from winter's glacial pique. Eager to play the wind and sun's magical game, the sakura branches extend to the sky, swaying in rhythm to nature's silent song. With each swinging motion, yet another sakura blossom falls to the ground, sprinkling the earth with God's wonders and covering the ground in a blanket of brilliant coral. Truly, the changing of winter to spring is a marvelous site.
In particular, the spring of our story is an exceptionally marvelous site.
Now, most will argue that the image of spring pales in comparison to the fairy-like movements of our pixie child. In fact, most believe that spring is inspired, or even jealous of the infant beauty. The sakura branches dance not only to welcome the breath of spring, but also to mimic the girl's light footsteps as she strolls softly along the awakening earth.
Some argue that the impish girl is not a girl at all, but an ethereal projection of the sun. Blind spots form when an individual stares too closely into the sun. These blind spots distort the eye's vision and form a hallucination from the recesses of one's mind—in this case, the image of an unfathomably beautiful child.
Even more argue that the image of the child is romanticized to indulge weary travelers with fantastic stories in aberration from the cliché tales of beautiful maidens and powerful samurai. Only those who've never seen the child themselves, however, entertain such stories.
Regardless of the story told, the impact of this child's existence remains.
Thursday was another good day for the child. In fact, she
had been spared from spells and sudden illness for the past week. These moments
of wellness and peace were rare blessings in the Date household, and the mother
cherished her brief moment of relief.
However, the mother couldn't help but wonder if these periods of reprieve were a sign of the child's hopeful recovery, or a foul tease of the universe at a foolish attempt to keep faith. But so long as the child showed signs of production, so long as she breathed another breath and lived another day, the mother would continue to believe in a bright future for her terribly ill fated child.
Interestingly enough, it was not only the child's health that showed gradual signs of improvement; the weather had also taken a turn for the better. The wind had long since lost its arctic chill, and the greenery of Mother Earth was at its fullest.
Nature's greatest gift, however, was to be the newborn child that would soon grace the halls of the Date family's lovely home. The child was, excitably enough, due any day.
The thrill of childbirth always reaches its peak with a couple's first child, but the anticipation of a newborn never dies. The mother felt this anticipation with every waking moment, so much that she longed for the hour when the baby would finally release itself from her stomach's slumbering care.
Of course, whether the child was to be a boy or girl was the topic of heated discussion at family dinners, particularly among the house elders.
This was the mother's third pregnancy. She had already provided the family with a son to continue the Date line, but a second male would give additional protection to their prestigious clan, especially considering the conditions regarding their current male.
Those conditions, of course, were never spoken of in the format of casual conversation.
Regardless of the baby's gender, the mother would love and care for the child, as would the father. To be perfectly honest, her husband enjoyed their children to a greater degree than even herself. He was always equipped with a soft smile and a gentle embrace for his little ones, and the innocent chirp of "Otousama" never failed to catch the attention of his keen ears.
To a certain extent, he was probably going for popularity points, given he spent more time at the police station taking cases and filling out paperwork than he did coming home at a decent hour. Only in rare instances was he able to put the children to bed, or enjoy a warm dinner in the evenings—and he was certainly no stranger to sleeping at the office.
More importantly, the atmosphere of the entire dojo shifted depending on the father's influential absence or presence. With the father home, the children seemed to float, as though the weight of the universe was flung from their backs. They slept soundly in their beds, wisped away by the gentle waves of an unspoken dream, conjured only by the callow thoughts of an innocent child.
With her husband gone, an uneasy heaviness, perhaps even fear, hung over the shoulders of their children. Their youngest, especially, would listen near the main gate for the ringing of bells and the sound of her father's familiar footsteps. This action continuously struck the mother as odd, given the mischievous child seemed concerned only of her father's whereabouts and not the happenings or whereabouts of any other family member. Nor did the child seem much concerned with anything save causing terror in the household or blatantly ignoring the demands of her elders.
For the moment, though, the child was still. She sat quietly near the main gate, awaiting her father's definite arrival. He had called earlier in the day, promising to be home by dinner. Through some absentminded rambling—as mothers often have when left companionless in an empty house—she must have mentioned this fact to the child. The mother now scolded herself for allowing such information to slip.
The child, knowing her father would soon return, refused to budge from her sitting post at the gate's walkway. The mother, realizing the girl had gone into "stubborn mode," would be hard-pressed to remove the child without some sort of confrontation.
Today was not a good day for confrontations.
Slapping the child's leg was something the mother had grown accustomed to. Her father had used similar forms of discipline during her own innocence, and was a firm believer that an occasional swatting was always the best medicine for a child gone astray. Because of this mindset, she felt neither remorse nor guilt for discouraging her child's negative behavior.
Even with the use of physical force, the child was an infuriating element. Approached by an adult, the child would typically escape to "higher ground" for fear of being held or embraced by a person of unfamiliar turf or unwanted attention. Quite surprising was the child's determination when approached by an adult with the intentions of enforcing discipline. The typically fleeting child would stand her ground firmly, allowing the ominous glares of her elders to clash against the passionate defiance of her own.
Playing fate's next move carefully, the mother approached her small child with motherly affection. With an arm outstretched to catch the pale hand of her daughter, the mother initiated her plan of cheerfully coaxing the child into submission.
"Do you feel that, child?" On hearing her mother's voice, the girl glanced upward. She paid no attention to the outstretched hand.
"Your father approaches. I can feel his essence in the wind."
In truth, she felt no such spiritual force in the air. What she could see were the ominous, black clouds looming overhead. If she did not hurry, both she and the child would be caught in a vicious rainstorm. The child was certain to catch cold if left at the mercy of the elements.
Much to the mother's dismay, the child refused to buy into her act. The small girl knew of similar tactics that adults often used to gain her favor. Their actions were always phony, with ulterior motives in mind. The fact that her own mother had stooped to such methods infuriated her.
She refused to accept the hand of a corrupted mother!
Irritated, the small girl moved away from her mother and inched closer to the gate. Her eyes stared straight ahead, as though her mother had never approached her. This act of indifference aggravated the mother, but she had learned that patience was a necessity when dealing with her rebellious daughter.
Following suit, the mother took a step towards the child in hopes of catching the hem of her kimono. In response to her mother's advances, the child moved further away, this time leveling an icy glare in the older woman's direction. Both bodies stared hard at one another, the mother leaning over slightly from her last attempt to grab the child. Now it was simply a matter of willpower.
The mother broke first.
"Impertinent girl! What wrongdoings have I committed to deserve such an ill-behaved daughter? How is it that I find strength to tolerate you?"
Almost immediately, the mother regretted her words.
Refusing to be spoken to in such a harsh manner, the child ran off in the opposite direction, sprinting across the Date estate as quickly as her petite body would carry her. The elaborate bow at the back of her kimono fluttered in the wind.
Hadn't she known better, the mother would have sworn she saw a fairy.
The child did not bother to look back. She sprinted
through a chrysanthemum patch near the dojo, across the stone steps of the
family shrine, and past the side walls of the main house to a trickling stream
that ran through a circle of trees at the edge of the Date's estate.
Stopping just short of the stream, the child approached the sparkling water with caution and fatigue. As she peered over the edge and onto the water's surface, an odd feeling enveloped her senses. Lifting a small hand to her face, the child ran a pale finger over the flushed skin, as though wiping away an invisible blemish. She stared long and hard at her reflection, analyzing the girl trapped within the water's magic. And as her eyes pierced the clear liquid, she jumped at a newfound realization.
It suddenly became clear as to who her mother had been speaking to. It was not her, the child reasoned, as it was not her reflection that stared back at her in the stream.
The girl in the water—she was an imposter!
After a bit of huffing, puffing, and an occasional harsh
word, the mother caught up with her child at the water's edge. She stopped just
short of the stream, choosing to stand quietly by a nearby tree to catch her
breath.
Before addressing her daughter, she stared up at the blackening sky, noticing its condition had taken a turn for the worse. Frowning, she placed a steady hand against the bark of a sakura tree and prayed for the confidence and wisdom to handle her child. She would have to contend with the matter quickly if she was to return the child to the safety and security of their house. The mother worried, however, about the cooperation of her daughter. She had said, after all, a round of rather harsh and upsetting words; her child was not so forgiving.
Though the clouds above had darkened considerably, a small patch of sunlight struggled through the menacing storm clouds. Interestingly enough, the brilliant light pouring through the darkness came not from the sun, but from the child that stood a few feet to the front of her mother. Challenging the very laws of nature, she stood uninhibited in all her unveiled luminance; a black, draping object clasped between the fragile fingers of her tiny hand.
Aware of her mother's presence, the child flicked her head around to face the woman directly. Her violet gaze pierced through the howling winds and into the eyes of her startled mother. Wary, but not intimidated, the mother flung herself into the icy nothingness of her child's pupils.
A light rain began to trickle against the rough bark of the sakura trees. Their magical blossoms of pink and white hues plummeted to the ground at the mercy of the mighty winds. Streaks of purple and yellow illuminated the sky, personifying the silent screams passing between mother and child. The heavens boomed passionately at the flashing performance, applauding the great masterpiece of God. The trickling of water was nature's only proof that somewhere, somehow, time continued to move forward.
Out of instinct, or some subconscious need to restore the ripple of time, the mother took an advancing step towards her daughter.
It is still unknown as to what motivated the child's actions. Perhaps the child felt the need to express herself in a way words could not communicate. Perhaps the child was consumed by an insuppressible anger. Maybe the child longed for a degree of attention with such an intensity that only through an unpredictable act of absurdity could she attain such recognition.
Tightening her grip, the child thrust the black imposter into the stream. It fell forcefully against the water's surface, settling momentarily before submerging. The child watched the object float peacefully, an unreadable melancholy masking her fair features.
Though the child stared at the object for but a mere moment, it felt like an eternity to the mother. She watched as the unmasked child turned to face her, staring at the forbidden features shining in the darkness. The imposter had been thrust from the child's body, and behind it stood the inevitable, painful reality.
Reality spoke a thousand truths to the woman. Like an infant yanked from her mother's arms at birth, she had, at some point, lost sight of who her child truly was. Instead of fighting the illness that plagued the innocent's body, she struggled against the very person she fought so hard to protect. At what point had the child become her enemy? At what point had she lost sight of the true evil that controlled their lives?
Suddenly, it became clear. She remembered what is was that fueled her faith. It was more than just relieving the child of a reoccurring illness, or protecting an important heir to the throne of a prestigious family. It was more than impressing obnoxious kin with an appropriate and obedient child who would bring boundless honor and pride to their clan. It was more than holding one's head high in the face of hopelessness and humiliation. It was more…
Restoring the child's health was the same as restoring the child's soul. Somewhere along the way, she had lost sight of that.
Voice barely above a whisper, the mother spoke an unbreakable promise to the child. "I will free you. I will free your soul, and destroy the imposter who imprisons your heart."
She extended an arm down to the child, her expression serious and hopeful. The mother's offer was again refused, but the child stared at her with a thoughtfulness that had somehow lost its way in their earlier confrontation. The mother took special note of this, and smiled inwardly. Perhaps there was hope for her child after all.
So involved was the mother in her revelation that several moments passed before she realized a light coat had been placed around her shoulders.
It was her husband's jacket.
Mentally exhausted, the woman aligned her weary body with that of her husband's, pulling either end of the raincoat closer to her body to shield herself from the cascading showers. She took a moment to analyze his face.
His expression was calm and his features quiet, but his eyes sparkled with a revelation of their own, as though the unveiled child standing before them held as much meaning to him as it had for her.
Running a gentle hand through her soaked hair, his fingers traced the smooth lines of her jaw, causing her neck to arch at the sensation. Her fingers grazed against his own lightly, and she smiled at his affectionate touch.
An intimate moment passed between them, understood only by the language of lifelong lovers. That secret exchange was the bond that held them together, even in the midst of chaos and havoc. Though young and inexperienced, that bond proved sufficient enough to hold their turbulent family together.
Reluctantly, the father's gaze broke from his wife and drifted towards the child standing quietly by the streamside. His child, his precious and mischievous child, had begun a staring war against the drenched, sopping wig. With such an eccentric habit of waging battles, the father often wondered if the spirit of some reincarnated samurai was trapped within the child's soul, whose suppressed love for battle manifested itself in the shape of his fair-haired, pixie-like child. Laughing silently at the absurdity of his scenario, he spoke softly to capture the child's attention.
"Seiji."
The boy turned sharply at the sound of the familiar voice, his expression drawn back in pout irritation. Although annoyed by the interruption of his battle, relief appeared on the child's face at the sight of his father.
Overcome by formalities, the child stood upright, his form extended full-length. The boy was fairly tall for his age, and the dignity with which he composed himself filled the father with an unmatched sense of pride. He smiled for a moment, repeating the boy's name yet again.
"Seiji."
At that point, the mother once again leaned forward, her hand extended towards the child in offering. Pondering for but a moment, the child glided forward to embrace his mother's touch, his fingertips brushing lightly against her own. The mother smiled.
And with that, the trio left the circle of trees at the edge of their estate. They passed the side walls of their house and proceeded towards the stone steps of the family shrine, before crossing the chrysanthemum patch and entering the main hall of their dojo.
Maybe, just maybe, the child was searching for an identity.