The Slumbering Sun

The second morning is easier to wake up in this place. Lying in the same bed, the same room, Kaze’s final conscious moments had drawn to a close with unease. His mind yields to a dreamless slumber that passes like an instant. He rises within the hour of the sun lighting the horizon the following day. Not that he can much tell, cloistered away in this remote chamber where its rays do not reach. He owes this solely to his well-honed instincts from the years spent in Ketsu.

As he passes again through the rows of ornate screens, past the smoldering irori of the anteroom, through the threshold of this central chamber, the consummate reminder bores even deeper into his being—just how barren this place is. Though there is enough light to make these dark halls visible to his eyes now, everything remains cast beneath a pale shroud. Even the sounds seem unable to permeate through this strange emptiness here, as though the void itself stands as an impenetrable wall between him and the outer world. Nothing of the woodlands or wild beyond even remotely wafts through this still air, swathed completely by the low hums and distant howls of the surrounding, sailing winds. Leave it to these unsparing spirits to remind him of just how small a being he truly was.

Though he feels adequately rested, his stomach begins to churn indignantly not two steps beyond the doors of his borrowed quarters, and he clutches at it as though the effort would silence its aching in the slightest. Kaze had spent the entirety of the previous day confined within the study, obsessing over its archives. To both his astonishment and relief, he had been left alone ever since becoming a genin that previous day. Whether it had been due to the wicked words he’d spat or his host’s own temperance, he did not know or care much, but he’d been begrudgingly grateful for his granted solitude, nonetheless. 

Before his father showed his face from wherever corner he was lurking, Kaze wastes no time in searching for the kitchens. Now where had he said they’d been again? He recalls the mention of a shared hall—the bathing room. Right.

He finds it easier to navigate this time, now that there is enough light to give form to her surroundings. With every step, he commits the passageways and the doors that line them to memory. He rounds two corners before passing the familiar bathing room and continues on down that corridor until he finds a set of doors left partially open to what appears to be quite a modest, unembellished room within. Yes—exactly what he is looking for.

The wintry morning air is quite potent in this removed corner of the pavilion, so he quickly scans around for a hearth of some kind to light. There is a row of kamado stoves against the exterior wall but finds no remaining fuel of any sort in their stone-hewn pits. A brief survey of this space yields a smaller door to a storeroom on the adjacent wall, where he finds charcoal briquettes, among other miscellaneous essentials. He wastes no time in loading one of the stoves and lighting it with the use of kindling and matches she’s also found among the supply stock.

And now, the matter of food.

There is a vat of rice, so he fills a pot with a scoopful and some water from the cistern. To his dismay, she spots fragments of ice crystals beginning to form at its surface, so he knows it will be some time before it will come to a simmer. Along the shelves and counters, he finds many nondescript tins and ceramic jars—teas, dried goods, fermented preserves. Perfect. A simple bowl of ochazuke might do, then. A preferred item of his, as he’s never been bothered to spend so much time preparing meals for himself. Ochazuke was quick and convenient, making good use of leftover ingredients lying around from any prior meals. Kaze lights a second stove before filling a kettle to set over its flames to boil.

In one bowl, he spoons in some miso paste from a sealed jar, along with some strips of nori. In another, he soaks a handful of dried shiitake caps he’s found in basketfuls. There are a variety of tea leaves stocked in this kitchen as well, he finds as she sniffs through each individual tin. There are some she can’t quite place, but he settles on a simple green tea with bits of jasmine mixed in, sprinkling them in a beautifully glazed celadon pot he finds among the wares. Ah, right. Mustn’t forget—another handful more for the ochazuke as well.

While he waits for the rice to cook, Kaze curiously sifts through the rest of the stock items here. This kitchen is mostly empty as one would expect, and the only ingredients remaining are what seem able to last indefinitely on these shelves and pantries. Other than the lone master of these grounds, she surmises that few, if any, ever venture out so far here. All too aware that he certainly has no use for such items, he can only imagine how long these goods and wares have been lying here untouched. For all he knows, he might be the first in decades.

Among the various containers and jars, he finds one particular one tucked away deep inside the pantry behind the rest. His hand blindly traces what feels like a misshapen hemp sack, and he pulls it out from the depths. It feels hard and lumpy to the touch, yet light in its weight. His curiosity urges him to then undo its twine and peer within. Burying his hand into its contents, he pulls out something that feels small and completely gnarled. Just what on earth…? And it hits him Right. Renkon. Lotus root.

He stares at the little shriveled, deformed thing plucked from the sack. Piles of them in dried slices. Goodness, he’s forgotten how strange and unappetizing these things have always looked to him in their dehydrated state. He’s forgotten, too, when was the last time he’d sampled them. Hm. Sure. Why not then, he thinks. He adds some to the soaking bowl along with the mushroom caps. He doesn’t quite know what to do with them with the limited ingredients he has on hand, but it’s been quite a while. Something about the sudden nostalgia begs his appetite for them.

In all the time it takes for the rice to finish cooking, Kaze basks in the warmth of the ovens’ flames. He drains the reconstituted shiitake and renkon before adding a scoopful of rice to it, leaving the remaining in its pot, covered. With the water over the second stove at a simmer, he fills the celadon teapot to brew and pours the rest into the smaller bowl of miso paste.

While diligently pouring the scalding water from the kettle, his eyes can’t help but notice the third set of doors to be found in these kitchens. Surely, it must lead out into some other room or hall, considering the proximity, and he hasn’t explored any of the chambers here in the pavilion other than a few he’s been shown. Damn that pesky, meddling curiosity of his. Why must it perturb his peace so now, of all times? When the welcoming warmth of the ovens right there before him ought to be more than persuasive enough for him to stay and take his meal here? Fine. He might kick himself later for this. An acceptable price for those prying, tiresome instincts of his, apparently. As if they hadn’t already gotten him into enough of a predicament so far.
After another quick rummaging, he finds some utensils and a tray to load all his dishes and wares onto. With his ever deft, coordinated prowess, he navigates himself rather effortlessly past these sliding doors, leaving the entire load in his hands undisturbed in the least. Once he shuts the doors behind him and turns around, he is given pause by the marvel of the space before him.

The hall is not unlike the rest of these grounds in its emptiness. Yet there is something more to its atmosphere. He isn’t certain of what it is, but he feels it against his skin, feels it boring deep into his bones. There is something that evokes its resonance in the soundless echoes. That lingers in this air like ghostly particulates in the smallest modicums of matter.

It strikes as a most peculiar sense. Like some inkling, some intuition. He can see that the space here before him is empty. But its memories are not. Something of it remains. The movements, the music, the voices of its bygone days. It draws him softest steps forward into its boundaries. Beckons him to join, to be among its spectral visions and projections.

As though spellbound by its silent thrall, Kaze forgets to slip off the borrowed sandals from his feet as he treads across the tatami mats spread in perfect tessellation across the floor of this hall. The gridwork of their lines gradually emerge from the dimness with each progressive pace he takes. His eyes turn across every corner and wall with each tentative step, even though there is really nothing to be seen. The room is devoid of any traces of inhabitants, just like the rest of the compound. He finds his steps gravitate towards the outermost wall, where the muted daylight manages to filter through. His wandering brings him to trace this perimeter until he comes about halfway down its length. He stops, staring where the light seems strongest. There is some comfort to be had, even beneath but the merest ethereal veil at its boundaries.

Kaze sets down the tray at his feet before stepping towards the wide panels before him. The irony strikes him—how the chill thickens the closer he comes toward the very life-giving element itself. He dares to further test this boundary and gently pushes open the two central panels here—one set of three doorways that divide the length of the hall. The light coalesces only by degrees more across the narrow corridor between this hall and the exterior wall. But the arctic touch of the world beyond seems to pervade these physical bounds far more so. Kaze is grateful for the surcoat he has been given to don. The only certain thing that protects him from its reach is where he stands.

Turning back to the hall, his eyes peer across the empty expanse once more. Though faint, the added light reveals a long, wooden table set at the center of the hall’s shorter far end, opposite of where he’s entered. It is the single lone piece of any furnishing to be seen here at all. But there is a certain something that catches his sight even more so—a gentle gleam that’s caught the dull haze of the light cast. He follows it across the remaining distance of the hall to find an antiquated, wide rimmed bowl set over a carved, ornamental base.

It’s difficult to tell, but with a cursory tapping of the finger, he figures it’s made of solid bronze or some like base metal. He picks up the object, its base able to fit even in her modest little palm. With the lack of visibility, he isn’t sure if its plain surface is simply undecorated or if its embossed details have worn away with time. There is a wooden instrument that sits inside of it, rolling along its rim. A…mallet of some kind, perhaps?

Ah. Now he recognizes what this is. He’s seen such objects in the hands of monks and ascetics before. Picking up the mallet, he curiously studies its weight and feel in his grasp before giving the bowl a light-handed strike where its girth is widest. Kaze stills as the most pristine sound resonates through the hall. Like a rush of matter into the void, the pure note is carried into the reaches of every hollow corner, every unfilled crack in the path of its waves. It follows where the silence leads, even out through the open doors and the passages beyond.

So permeating is its resonance, that he swears it even crosses into the very spaces unseen. It is as though the sound gives form to this unwonted, ethereal presence he can’t help but feel an intruder to. Like a voice for the ghostly, atmospheric bells and chimes that remain deadened to her perceptions. Some collective, whose only sustaining trace lies in this strange harmony amidst the quietness. Even the remote cold of the void becomes inviting by their seeming inhabitants of this space. As though the specters of bygone days continue to wander and walk about him, filling every volume that his mortal, earthbound senses cannot discern. It’s unnerving in its enigma. A sensation that offers only an impression of its essence.

As he ponders this, he recalls to mind, too, the otherworldliness of these entire grounds. The expansive woodland realm beyond its walls. It is hard not to feel unsettled, but it strikes him as well, how unbound he finds himself for perhaps the first time in far too long. The nonattachment to his grief, his anger, and all other burdens. Even if for but a moment he knows far too well is as impermanent as the last.

Kaze is made to wonder, then, of the past inhabitants of this place—is this what they’d sought when they came here? Is this what they’d found when they stayed? He has unearthed many lives chronicled within the archives here. What outsiders had deemed little more than a frivolous cult, this faction had born many facets he would never have expected to uncover. Glimpses and insights into the lifetimes that have passed here. The nature of their practices and precepts. This place is not as haunted as it seems. Simply forgotten. A brief, somber note within the full span of the world’s interminable continuance.

The note lingers on, playing like a ripple across the pristine water. He is reminded of its mirror surface—the very bounds of her conscience. A mere, singular, imaginary film between him being and the world that bears down upon it. How easily one forgets its existence. Its resilience. Its ability to change form, change shape. There are times when it feels like brittle ice. At others, like the diaphanous, shapeless vapors of air. But it is upon the touch of this pure sound where it reverts to its most natural state. Where he finds himself able to see it, to discern its silhouette. Where it may morph and adapt, as well as enshroud and protect. Where he is able to don it, inhabit it like his very own skin. Let it become him in form and being.

Kaze carries the singing bowl with him as he makes his way back to his tray lain by the open doors. He sits with it in his hands, leaving it undisturbed as its solitary toll continues in its sustained swell before waning back into stillness. The quiet returns.

“I was beginning to wonder when you’d finally show up.” For the first time in this cursed place, he recalls the stillness within himself. With it, his senses are honed once again. No more noise. No more disturbances. He need not turn to see the man lingering at the opposite doors of this hall behind him.

Kosuke is taken by the sound of Kaze’s voice. He is speaking to him. He takes this minor engagement as a permissive sign and approaches him from across the room, bearing an old iron lantern swaying in his grasp. As he nears him, the natural light’s reach gives him pause. He looks ahead where he is seated, only the distance of some tatami mats away, peering intently at the backlit paneled exterior walls before him.

“I…dug this out of storage somewhere,” he tentatively says. “Thought it might come in handy for you. Since you've been spending all your time in the study looking at the archives."

Kaze’s back remains still to him as he doesn’t appear to stir in the least. Kosuke reaches with his hand forward and feels no perceivable discomfort. The panels filter enough of the light to cause him no harm, so he inches closer. He notes his tactful posture, seated with his legs mindfully folded beneath him. Though he appears unmoving, he seems quite a bit more relaxed than he’s ever seen of Kaze. His spine is straight, likely out of his own disciplined habits and manners, but his softened shoulders are rolled back and his head tilted with his distant gaze. Even his breaths appear rather languid and gently paced, when he’d been comparatively wrought with anxiousness and apprehension in the days prior.

Kosuke quietly seats himself to Kaze’s left, opting to casually cross his legs in front of him in the familiar mode he prefers. Setting the lantern down between them, he turns to him with a thoughtful gaze. “I'm sure it must get a bit hard for you to read even during the daylight hours.”

[EXIT]
TWC: 2860
Claiming:
+28 to Speed
2750/2750 to Ray of Brilliance
90/1750 to Subete no Jōka

Kaze Hatake wrote:

[EXIT]
TWC: 2860
Claiming:
+28 to Speed
2750/2750 to Ray of Brilliance
90/1750 to Subete no Jōka

Approved