Flowers for a Lonely Warrior
The Edo period. Francisca grew up on a pirate ship and was used to living between the sea and foreign lands. In Japan she spent more than a year, hiding under another name and watching the people she would one day have to betray. When she is discovered, the escape begins. She is saved by a lonely warrior whose life is almost at its end. His house becomes her refuge, and her conversations with him her salvation. Only later does Francisca realize that the man who saved her lives in a world of power to which she never belonged.
She ran for a long time, so long that her body began to move automatically. Her throat burned from the cold air, her heart seemed about to burst from her chest. The footsteps behind her faded and returned, or perhaps it was the blood pounding in her ears, replacing the sounds. She no longer tried to understand. She wanted to believe that they had fallen behind, or maybe simply dissolved into the darkness of winter.
A light snowfall with terrifying speed turned into a full blizzard. Snow struck her face, her eyes, tangled in her porous hair, melted and immediately froze again. Her fingers disappeared. She could no longer feel her hands or her feet, only the sharp and aching pain above, where sensation still remained.
The poor girl did not know that bones could hurt from the cold.
Who knew that winter could do such a thing?
The main thing she had learned in her short life was not to stop.
Never and before nothing.
The forest beneath her feet was endless. The trees stood too close and too identical. The trail had been here, it certainly had been, she remembered that, but not now. Everything had turned white. Direction was lost, and nothing remained in her head except counting steps.
«Damn it. They didn’t even let me throw on someone’s hide.»
The frost crept under the dress, touching the skin, without shame or any restraint. The wind seemed to deliberately search for vulnerable places and found them instantly.
At some point the girl couldn’t take it anymore and leaned against the sticky, ribbed bark and the touch made it even worse. She pressed her forehead to the trunk, trying to pull herself together, and then noticed the silhouette.
A tall shadow. A black stain among equally black trees.
The cold at that moment no longer frightened her. Because if it was one of them, she had no strength left to run.
It seemed the shadow spoke. The voice was lost in the blizzard, in the boiling blood in her ears. She did not catch a single word.
He came closer. Too close. She didn’t even manage to step back, the stupid, weak body would not obey. She struck first.
That is how a small animal strikes when it has already been cornered, and it is its sad, dying reflex.
A hand caught her. A man’s hand.
That grip is hard to mistake. The fingers closed in a familiar way, a warrior. Definitely a warrior. The man tried to grab her from behind, press her, hold her. She jerked, rasping from pain.
With the last of her strength, through the numbness, the fugitive sank her teeth into his hand. Metal struck her mouth, and something unpleasantly old. But she clenched her jaws with all her strength.
She forced open her swollen eyes. Bright white light, so unpleasant, so cutting. Then, through the blur of eyes burned by the cold, a low ceiling could be seen. The girl raised herself on her elbow, uncertainly, there was not much strength.
The room was empty, almost completely, and the tatami under the woman’s body were hard, dry, smelling of grass. Somewhere nearby there was clearly a source of heat. A hearth, or a brazier. In Japanese houses this is how they warm themselves: coals, warmth close to the floor. Stupid, inconvenient and very dangerous.
She looked at her toes, then even moved them. Amazing! Nothing was frostbitten. The pain still crackled in the muscles, but quite tolerable. Tingling, a pulling feeling, as if the blood was returning too insistently.
All of this was almost a miracle.
She knew how it could have ended.
She did not like Japanese houses. Too small, poor and most importantly absolutely impractical. Everything seemed temporary. Paper, wood, straw under the feet. She slowly stood up, and with a sharp flash the memory returned: forest, cold, silhouette, hand. She stopped there and realized that if it had been them, she would hardly be lying in warmth now. That calmed her a little, but only a little.
She looked at the dress, the hem torn to shreds.
The fabric had split, dirty, crumpled. The last thing she had left from her native ship. From a normal life.
«Damn, this “hero” didn’t even loosen the corset.»
Swaying, the girl moved toward the sliding door.
These doors seemed unreliable, they could be smashed with a shoulder, caught and shattered. Behind the door was a narrow corridor. She stepped forward, trying to walk softly without making unnecessary noise. But the floor decided otherwise, creaking absolutely shamelessly .
The corridor led to the exit and the garden.
It was still cold, though it could not compare to the previous night. Before her opened a view: small snow-covered trees, a bridge, a pond.
A calm, even beautiful place.
And then a male voice sounded behind her.
She did not understand at once, the words reached her with delay. Her Japanese was far from perfect, especially in such exhaustion.
Something unpleasant pulled in her stomach.
Alarm, the kind that appears before thought, an absolutely primitive feeling. That unsettled her. Not so much the fear itself, but rather the sensation, it was new.
She had never been afraid like this before. Not once. A storm, when the ship cracks and water is already in the boots, or a blade at the throat… and even yesterday’s chase.
None of that knocked the ground from under her feet. There was always the same thing left - clarity.
Take a step, and then the next.
And now, no. Her body no longer belonged to her.
When it is frightening, it is important to make the first movement. Not a big one, any. Then panic does not have time to catch up.
— Who are you and what do you want?
The voice came out hoarse and firm. She looked straight into turquoise eyes.
And only now did she truly see him.
An old man? Yes. A man? Also, yes.
And she had never seen such eyes.
Especially in old men, especially in Japanese.
A scatter of small scars across his face, the skin grayish, stretched. One could give him fifty, or ninety. In her head it did not add up, and that made it even stranger.
— I helped you, — he said with some mockery. — You could be grateful. Your own people are looking for you.
— They’re not mine. Want to hand me over?
He looked at her a little longer, clearly evaluating.
— You resisted to the end, pleasant of course. Rest, and дальше дело твое.
She swayed. She grabbed the edge of the door so as not to fall.
— And if they come? What then?
He was already walking past, and the answer sounded after a second’s pause.
And that was enough to make her uneasy.
He went toward the garden. Just before leaving he said without turning back:
— Eat. They’ll bring it to you.
The girl was alone again, and the fear returned, covering her with a new wave. Because now she was sure, he had not promised protection, he simply did not see a problem.
She turned to look after him.
The man was clearly not poor, that was obvious immediately. But also not one of those show-off idiots, polished, perfect. The clothes were simple, and the house expensive. Everything in place, but without the usual Japanese tastelessness.
A warrior? Retired? A ronin?
There were such men, but rarely. Life was rather hard for them, but he did not quite resemble them.
Thoughts flashed through her head.
She swayed again and returned to the room. Her legs were like cotton, like after a long binge. The floor creaked, and how irritating it was. She sat down on the dry tatami. She sat like that for a while, until her head stopped swimming.
Then the women came. Two of them, middle-aged. Dark yellowish skin, and those dull kimonos, without any decoration. Every movement of the women made them smaller. What a disgusting thing… to serve. They placed a low table. On it was that unpleasant food.
Rice, miso, fish. Some small things more, pickles.
The women muttered something without turning their backs to her. She did not understand a single word. The women muttered through fear, surely basic politeness spoken by people used to trembling.
As soon as the servants left the small room, the guest leaned toward the food.
What nonsense it was, eating on the floor like an animal.
Wounded hands took the chopsticks, it did not work immediately to lift a handful of rice, well, whatever. She began to eat, and the food had no warm, familiar taste.
One must eat to live, not live to eat, right?
The dishes did not seem poisoned, but it made no difference.
This man is not salvation. And that usually ends badly.
After finishing the meal, the girl lay down without undressing, only loosening the corset.
The body quickly relaxed and sleep took her into its embrace.
