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The night air was thick and humid, and it was pierced by cries of pain. The small home near the seashore was not elaborate or opulent, but it was normally comfortable. Tonight, however, there was no indication of comfort anywhere within. Yoritomo Takhime ground her teeth against the pain, twisting the sheets in her grasp so tightly that she feared they might tear off in her hand. The midwife was working diligently, whispering things to her in an attempt to calm her, but Takhime would not hear them. The baby was not supposed to come for weeks yet! Her beloved Minoken would not return for at least a month! She did not want to welcome the baby alone.
“We are close, my lady.” the midwife whispered. “Be strong. Your child comes quickly.”
Takhime nodded and close her eyes. Minoken. He was working on a vessel helping to resupply the forces fighting against the destroyers. It was dangerous work, running up the rivers into the mainland, but he was a brilliant sailor and already his captain had indicated he would be in line for a ship of his own if the war went much longer. She wanted the war over so that he could be home again, but she knew how much he wanted a kobune of his own. She would be strong for him, for their daughter. With one final cry of pain, she pushed.
“it is done!” the midwife cried, and Takhime slumped against the sheets, exhausted. She smiled and wept at the same time, grateful both for the end of the discomfort and the arrival of her… her…. “Why isn’t she crying?” Takhime whispered. “Where is my daughter?”
The midwife’s face appeared in her field of vision. She was so pale, so frightened. “My lady, I… I am sorry. The baby… the baby is not… she…”
“What?” Takhime cried. “what is it? What’s wrong? Give me the baby!”
With shaking hands, the midwife handed the tiny, unmoving bundle to the mother, and Takhime’s cries became shrieks of primal anguish.
***
It was well past midnight. Takhime stood at the seashore, the water up to her stomach. She wept, wailed, and sobbed without ceasing. It felt as if her soul had been torn out of her body and trapped in a tiny, still flesh in her arms. She would have willed her life away if it could make the little one live, but she could not. In some distant corner of her mind she knew that this was a reality of life; her mother had given birth to six children, and only four had lived. But nothing could have prepared her for this. There was no preparation for pain of this magnitude. This was a would that would never, could never heal.
Takhime bent down and released her little daughter into the sea. She never drew her first breath. She would never laugh, or know her parents. The horror of it, the tragedy, was more than Takhime could bear. As the little thing drifted away into the sea, she stared at the tiny birthmark on her elbow. It was that image that would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. She knew in that moment it would be so. Takhime wailed and pulled at her hair. She needed Minoken desperately, and he was not there.
***
The small home near the seashore had once been a pleasant place, but that was long since passed. It had fallen into a disgraceful state of disrepair, and it was only because of its relative seclusion that its dilapidated state was tolerated; simply put, too few saw it to care for its fate. It scarcely seemed fit to be called a home, but home it was. Yoritomo Takhime haunted its interior, rarely venturing beyond. If not for the kindness and pity of her family, she would would long ago have died and joined her husband and daughter.
News of Yoritomo Minoken’s death had reached her almost exactly one year ago, mere days after the stillbirth of their only child. The pain of losing their daughter had seemed so overwhelming, so beyond imagining, that Takhime had foolishly assumed she could suffer nothing worse. The Fortunes had cursed her for her arrogance, and her husband’s loss had broken her mind., at least for a time. Now she drifted aimlessly among the ramshackle remnants of their home, a ghost of her former self. Despite her youth she seemed ancient and withered, and even her siblings and cousins who came to see her and bring food did not tarry long. It was just as well; she had no taste for comfort of others. Thus it was that the pounding upon her door in the middle of the late evening startled her.
Takhime arose from her seat like a phantom, staring at the door with large, expressionless eyes that were well accustomed to the dim light within. Novelty, if nothing else, compelled her to go to the door and after only a moment she drew it back. The curiosity in her heart was the first true feeling she had known since the courier arrived on here door with that terrible news all those months ago.
For a moment, it seems that nothing was there, that was the night itself had struck her door for some unknowable reason. Then the darkness shifted amid itself, something moving amongst the blackness. There was the overwhelming stench of the sea, not just the sear air but the stuff of the sea itself: seaweed, soil, and the scent of fish just harvested. Two great eyes loomed in the darkness, and a shape like that of a serpent towered over her. Takhime looked up without fear. Was this death, then, come to claim her as it had claimed her family? She would not feel fear of that. She craved to be with them again. Strange mandibles opened and closed as if trying to speak, but no sound emerged. Finally two massive arms reached forward toward her. In the arms of the serpent man was a tiny child, not much more than an infant, perhaps only a year old at most , and on its elbow…
Takhime gasped and her hands flew to her mouth. She knew the mark. She saw it each time her eyes closed, every time she had closed for more than year. The little one’s bright eyes lit up and she cooed at Takhime reaching for her. The woman’s heart surged as if to escape her chest, pounding so hard that there was no other sound in the world. She reached forward, looking up to the creature. It nodded, and handed the girl to Takhime.
The little child squealed in delight and tugged at Takhime’s thin dirthy hair. She laughed, and Takhime began to weep. The thing in the doorway disappeared as it had appeared, its outline winding down the path toward the sea once more.
“Minori,” Takhime whispered, weeping. “My little Minori, you’ve come home to me…”
