Ink

“Hmm?”

“Could you tell me about the kami? ”

“There are so many.” He laughed. “Here at Itsukushima the principal kami are the three daughters of Susanou.”

“Susanou,” I said. The name sounded familiar.

Niichan nodded. “The god of storms,” he said. “Amaterasu’s brother.”

My blood froze, but I forced my feet on so Niichan wouldn’t notice. Amaterasu was the source of power, Tomohiro had said. All the Kami’s abilities came from her.

“Do you—do you think,” I stuttered, hoping I wouldn’t sound ridiculous. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Do you think the kami were real?”

Niichan’s footsteps stopped. I opened my eyes and saw his face creased in all sorts of worry lines. I’d gone too far now, I thought, but then he smiled. “All I know is that there is a lot of power in the shrines,” he said. “If you pray, you get your wish, you know? I’ve seen it happen many times.”

“But what about… I mean, what about the ink-wash drawings some of the priests do? Do you think there’s power in those?”

I’d overdone it; he was looking at me funny. We reached the other end of the boardwalk and turned toward the main shrine in the center.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that there are those who have great talents in this world. And surely these talents are given for a purpose.”

I wondered what purpose Tomohiro’s ability had, what this dark curse on him could be for.

“Listen, there’s something I think you’d be interested to see,” he said as we neared the main shrine. Past the slotted wooden box for tithes was an old wooden door, and Niichan stopped outside it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small ring of keys, then unlocked the door and slid it to the side, revealing a dark, dusty room. He flicked on the light switch as we stepped inside.

“These are some of the national treasures we keep here at the shrine,” he said. “Some of them are very old, so we rotate the collection and keep them in this fireproof room.”

The room smelled of antiques, ancient wood and lacquer, dust and straw tatami on the floor. In the middle of the ceiling hung a square lamp, which cast shadows on the statues and paintings covering the walls. Fierce dogs of stone, teeth bared; bronze statues of bald-headed, chubby priests or princes or who knew what. Colorful woodblock paintings and several ink-wash landscapes.

“They’re beautiful,” I said. It was strange to think of all the history silently locked away in this room, half- forgotten.

“I thought you’d be interested because of the paintings you mentioned.” He smiled. “Many of these pieces are hundreds of years old, saved from the various fires Itsukushima Shrine went through. Some are more recent, of course.”

I approached one of the woodblocks, a painting in three panels shadowed by the square lamp above. A man stretched backward in agony, women and what might be diplomats in bright kimonos in desperate prayer beside him. Around him swirled horrible green-skinned demons and red-faced monsters, hands reaching for him and flames spiraling into inky darkness. The chaos in it unnerved me.

“That’s one of the most priceless in our collection,” Niichan said behind me. “One of the last woodblocks by Yoshitoshi.”

“Who’s the man?” I said, pointing to the arch of his back as he recoiled from the apparitions. The room felt stuffy, too warm for my liking.

“Taira no Kiyomori,” Niichan said. “A powerful leader in older times. He funded the restoration of this shrine in the twelfth century, which is why we have so many pieces relating to him. He was vicious at times, merciful at others, but very ambitious. He controlled Japanese politics by force for many years, creating ranks of samurai in the government.

He even forced the emperor to abdicate so he could place his own son on the throne.”

“Is that why all the demons?” I said, staring at the painting. I felt ill just looking at it, and yet I couldn’t look away.

A bead of sweat rolled down my face.

“Ah.” Niichan nodded. “When Taira was older, he fell into a horrible fever. Vivid nightmares every night, demons approaching him, shadow monsters whispering horrible things.

His fever burned everyone who touched him, they say. Eventually it killed him.”

My heart pounded in my ears. A powerful man with ties to the imperial family, hunted by nightmares until they killed him. Could he be a Kami, too?

And suddenly I saw that the flames in the picture were moving, f lickering back and forth in the inky darkness. I jumped back.

“Daijoubu?” Niichan asked.

“I’m not okay,” I whispered. “I thought I saw… There!

Did you see it?”

“What?”

Of course he’d think I was crazy. But I knew I’d seen it.

“Never mind,” I said, backing away from the woodblock. “It must be the heat. Do you guys keep this room so warm to preserve the treasures or something?”

“Katie,” Niichan said, and I looked at him. Suddenly the room was freezing.

“What’s going on?” I said, and Niichan’s face twisted with confusion.

“You saw the flames move, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean? That’s impossible,” I lied. Niichan shook his head.

“You felt the fire. Taira was a Kami, Katie, and so was Yoshitoshi, who painted this piece. But if you saw it move—

I don’t understand.” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know how, Katie, but I think you’re a Kami.”

Reality shattered, everything around me slowing. “Me?”

“If you weren’t, the flames wouldn’t have danced for you.

Yoshitoshi’s Kami bloodline was faint. His ink only reacts to those whose Kami blood has been awakened.”

“I’m…I’m not…”

“You know what a Kami is,” Niichan said, and shocked by his words, I nodded. There was no sense denying it. “You’d have to know, to ask me the questions you did. Your drawings move, don’t they?”

“They don’t.” Except one time, but Tomohiro had been there. “And I couldn’t be a Kami.” I lifted a tangle of blond hair in my hand.

“That’s true,” Niichan said. “It shouldn’t be reacting to you, but it is. You must be tied to the Kami somehow. Why?”

I don’t know. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s why Tomohiro’s drawings are going haywire. “Niichan,” I said, nervous to spill the secret. “I know someone who—whose drawings move. But it’s worse when I’m around. The ink jumps off the page.”

Niichan’s eyebrows shot up. “You know such a powerful Kami? Be careful, Katie. Most aren’t capable of such things.

And if you’re influencing the ink, then it might be best if you don’t go near this Kami. Who knows what could happen?”

Like a dragon lifting into the sky? Too late.

“How do you know about Kami anyway?” I said. “You’re…

you’re not one, are you?”

He shook his head. “You just hear things when you work at a shrine, especially one with ancient connections like Itsukushima. Most people have forgotten about Kami. I shouldn’t even let on that I know, but you’re Yuki’s friend.

I was worried when you started asking about drawings having power.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s hard to find anything out about the Kami. I guess it’s a big secret to keep.”