How enraptured the antiquated capital of Wutai finds herself on the eve of its most beloved summer festival; her far-east architecture of sloped tile roofs and curvy lips a-twinkle in the rosy pink glow of innumerable paper lanterns decking a matrix of overhung strings; the below permeates a soft ambience and is made abustle by the lively kimono-clad denizens filling her cobblestone arteries with chatter amidst street vendors of every sentimental trinket, hot item as well as culinary rarities and hometown hallmarks alike.
Soon the streets will empty as they altogether gather in the square to pay tribute before a monolithic, majestic avatar of their reverence: the fabled water serpent, Leviathan; to honor them for supposed protection and peace lest their wrath bestow a calamity.
Feeling no push to rush, however, is a woman still at home adorning glinty kimono of her own; knelt atop a soft cot before the corner wall's lustrous, rectangular, waist-high oak chest of drawers in the dim, gently gamely candle flicker of their bedroom. Atop it: twin glass cylinders set astride holding tiny dancing flames permeate pungent vanilla perfume. Above: an ovaline mirror circumferenced in shiny gold which embraces the beholden in its black backdrop.
Therein: a fetching face framed by right-swept bangs and longer locks; slim eyes agleam like opals; tiny ears, a cute button nose and thin lips smile in contentment; a slender jaw and roundly pointed chin; her thin neck wrapped by the doubly folded collar of glow-kissed scarlet sewn with varyingly cut white hibiscus outlines. This is the standard of ancient Asian beauty known to many only by movies, anime, media and parody; tonight's gathering a magical spectacle likewise experienced by few overseas.
She is a striking canvas upon which to apply the finishing touches to achieve a doll's beauty and must admit: most women of Wutai are of natural appeal and this one is no exception. A pity they, Tomoyo Handa, never gave it thought; the cosmetics are merely keepsakes to remember their late mother; not unlike the kimono she now wears for the first time.
But on this night Tomoyo has found relief from pain and melancholy after too many months. Her stare sinks to look at the black-wood box containing more memorial things; both hands used to remove the lid and then retrieve its treasures with a pallid grip. She manifests a box smaller than her palm: a golden hexagon of swirly character bejeweled by rubies whose flat lid displays the kanji of their family name in black; lucky, for tonight’s rebirth and ceremonial transformation are simply incomplete without some form of music. Opened, it commences a slow, chimey and somewhat haunting jingle which compliments her every action like she's no more than a lonely marionette made to move.
This she sets down and takes several artistic items in dainty hand--blush, mascara and eye-shadow-- with which she powders and swirls her cheeks and every facet of her face to rid of glaring and miss-able imperfections alike until the skin is radiant, smooth and flawless like listful plastic; then, a series of methodical rolling brush plucks make her lashes more black, more pronounced, more attractive; then she darkens the edges of her stare in noticeable outlines for maximum allure and attention because all of these things are what compose beauty to them.
Alas, seductive charms are incomplete without drawing lust per glossy, kissable lips and so her slender digits retrieve the applicator and lift it into focus; twisting it to reveal light pink character admired for moments before its smooth glide across her soft mouth in wet-like glitter that's pursed and puckered into fullness before the lipstick is set aside with rest.
What's next is yet another maternal trinket: a shiny golden hairpin with tiny hanging black beads of dull gleam. This she slides into her bangs to become less ordinary than before; one appealing accoutrement to compliment her hanging, slenderly arching hair.
Finally, a live, clip-on lily of powder blue-white to be placed at the back of her crown, off-center: one of many precious and elusive treasures found only upon Wutai's Da-Chao mountains; this is so they'll keep staring after she's passed by and perchance even chase in pursuit of superficial carnal pleasures.
Now ravishing, she rests her palms upon her lap in bubbly admiration; canting and turning her face to behold every curve and shadowy shade. Satisfied, she re-centers and grins porcelain; tilts her face with a risen, turning clap of hands and gleeful giggle as the doll theme hushes.
All left is perfume to make salacious hearts wild and, if nothing else, leave no complaint for redolence.
This is procured also from the box: a tiny wooden vial and finger-tipped for application on her thin wrists and neck. She breathes the lovely floral fragrance of freesia mixed with vanilla; swaying in a brief, closed-eyed trance and made adrift in mysterious mental musing. Hence the ensemble is complete just as the rhythmic, muffled boom of drums somewhere outside open eyes with flutters. It's time to go; time to abandon the life of a grief-stricken shut-in and embrace societal expectation; time to discard the old dress of gloom for the newness, growth and discoveries of moving on.
She wonders: won't they be surprised--her father especially--to see the reclusive Tomoyo outdoors at long last; and how beautiful no one knew she was! All she required was abandonment of loss's shackles, fine silk and just over a half hour of makeup! Now, after a few more reveling mirror moments of flitting hair and coveting a beautician award she'll never receive, she slaps her skirted knees and elevates without poise; she turns her face to behold the dark, shadowy door at her dexter with jubilation. Then she skips in frolic with arms asway and a clap of sandals on white tatami.
When she arrives at the egress she halts, inching the door open to a chiry cricket welcome and clearer but still distant sound and a gong’s loud crash; her eye peeks around the rose-tinted periphery like a sneaky child breaking curfew with darting glances left and right and left-right again.
The coasts are clear and the door is slid ajar with a woody whisper so she may step into the stickily humid night; shut from behind before she takes a second, sweeping look at herself with arms up perpendicular to watch its red shimmer swirl across flower imprints.
A happy, hopping and pirouette as sleeves sail carries her into the center of the stony street; alone now that everyone who's anyone resides in the town square for the ceremony; she stills only to be spellbound at the above: a host of glowy lanterns dangling from criss-crossed ropes whose spaces are a celestial navy; normally gemmy stars now faint, overpowered by the ambient, prismy web.
A hot, almost chapping wind blows jingly chimes; her face recoils in discomfort but the air isn't without all the tantalizing, beckoning scents of celebration which bewitch afresh. Oh, to inhale deeply the robust, mouth-watering aromas of roasted meats and fish compel eyes closed; tangy orange chicken with stir-fried rice and steamed, saucy vegetables among Tomoyo's favorites.
How strong her hunger pangs even after a makeshift dinner… a craving for something different from the familiarly flavorful flesh, however; salivation is for a delicacy never to be sold here despite the diversity of its bountiful buffet.
That's not to say it can't be found if one knows how and who to hunt for it…
Ah, now slow strings join boomy drums in an almost romantic duet of hard plucking and soft lullaby...
The urge to move tickles her feet to tap, turn and scuff to the pulse before trickling up her skirt in warm electricity which makes legs to bend; makes hips jerk and waist sway to that deep, rhythmic heartbeat. She shifts from one side, then another while the tingle sweeps upward, slowly pulling her limber arms overhead as billowy sleeves fall to the gong’s crash, revealing the glow of pale skin . She moves in short, sexy sequences; nudged to steady drum, pronounced koto and grim violin her gait widens and becomes serpentine: moving here and moving there within the glow; so seductively she could sell per minute to men hungrier than her for merely a teasing taste of what's beneath those folds.
Despite minute time to spare before annual formalities she spends it here in solitaire dance; a step-by-step in-rhythm venture toward the city square’s festivity with no intent to accelerate or normalize herself unless noticed. After all, it's been months since Tomoyo has seen the sun let alone cut a rug; only some unseen interruption will break this spell.
As if on cue it comes but not so rudely as expected: girly laughter is what entices her ears and eyes toward a prancing, ponytailed pair of little ones in white; no older than seven years chasing one another in zigzags: a giggly game of Tag which leads them toward her and shifts the stance into neutral.
Round and round they circle their impromptu obstacle in similarly musical laughs and she becomes the pillar in playful Hide and Peek; indeed an all-but-noticed but beamingly compliant accessory who lets out her own chuckle with shifting stares upon them. They run, stop, shift and weave as their oppositely sideways tails whip in the wind; one outstretched hand so close to touch their sibling only to be smoothly evaded. But they are persistent in pursuit and endure what must be more than a minute devoid of accomplishment.
However she, assumed only a spectator, isn’t idle for long; compelled to interject and aid the underdog in their victory; she studies the fleeing one, lithe and graceful as their hair floats behind, predicting their velocity before her eyes narrow and she smirks in a competitive ‘Gotcha!’ expression. Then a sudden swoop at them, savoring their wide, green-eyed gasp before she catches the preteen damsel at the waist from the fore; they giggle and twirl together as she lifts her in both hands as high as able, cherishing the beautiful features of their face: those rare peepers colored like lush, vibrant grass and finely curving tresses; perfect symmetry of ears and nose and oh my, what a white, heartwarming grin! How can she not return so beaming a favor in kind and does broadly while pining for their name: Akane; identical twin of the observing Ayane if not for their opposing ponytails.
The twirling concludes as she cradles the girl in her right arm as they wrap their arms around her neck. The sister becomes the new object of her stare and she speaks in high, youthful lilt, as playfully as possible, confirming an assist to their win. “It looks like you win, Ayane,” she says with a wink while she watches the child bubble with energy; jogging in place before holding out her arms in a triumphant V with a gleeful shout.
“No fair!” Akane objects so joyfully she seizes attention. “You cheated!”
She pokes that tiny nose. “Guilty as charged!”
Ayane finally notices all the hard work she’s put into her getup and marvels. “You’re so pretty!”
She looks at them with a grin full of affectionate appreciation “Why, thank you…” They beam in return, compelling the sinistral hand to move and be extended, beckoning the girl with a single curling digit, saying, “Let’s go back… we don’t want to miss this!”
“The fireworks!” Akane loudly declares into her wincy ear.
A flat response. “That’s right...”
So with child in tow and that hand warmly clasped the trio trek toward the music and festival lights united; on to join the others in communion to magnify a monolithic, pretentious watersnake statue of a god that won't save them and listen to a variant of the same sententious speech drone on year after year.
The cure to so droll an anniversary may be administered once she slips away and slithers unperturbed; that she and all of them together may transform this perfectly solemn yet inevitably forgettable night into one Wutai and hers; mayhap even Gaia herself can never forget...
Soon the streets will empty as they altogether gather in the square to pay tribute before a monolithic, majestic avatar of their reverence: the fabled water serpent, Leviathan; to honor them for supposed protection and peace lest their wrath bestow a calamity.
Feeling no push to rush, however, is a woman still at home adorning glinty kimono of her own; knelt atop a soft cot before the corner wall's lustrous, rectangular, waist-high oak chest of drawers in the dim, gently gamely candle flicker of their bedroom. Atop it: twin glass cylinders set astride holding tiny dancing flames permeate pungent vanilla perfume. Above: an ovaline mirror circumferenced in shiny gold which embraces the beholden in its black backdrop.
Therein: a fetching face framed by right-swept bangs and longer locks; slim eyes agleam like opals; tiny ears, a cute button nose and thin lips smile in contentment; a slender jaw and roundly pointed chin; her thin neck wrapped by the doubly folded collar of glow-kissed scarlet sewn with varyingly cut white hibiscus outlines. This is the standard of ancient Asian beauty known to many only by movies, anime, media and parody; tonight's gathering a magical spectacle likewise experienced by few overseas.
She is a striking canvas upon which to apply the finishing touches to achieve a doll's beauty and must admit: most women of Wutai are of natural appeal and this one is no exception. A pity they, Tomoyo Handa, never gave it thought; the cosmetics are merely keepsakes to remember their late mother; not unlike the kimono she now wears for the first time.
But on this night Tomoyo has found relief from pain and melancholy after too many months. Her stare sinks to look at the black-wood box containing more memorial things; both hands used to remove the lid and then retrieve its treasures with a pallid grip. She manifests a box smaller than her palm: a golden hexagon of swirly character bejeweled by rubies whose flat lid displays the kanji of their family name in black; lucky, for tonight’s rebirth and ceremonial transformation are simply incomplete without some form of music. Opened, it commences a slow, chimey and somewhat haunting jingle which compliments her every action like she's no more than a lonely marionette made to move.
This she sets down and takes several artistic items in dainty hand--blush, mascara and eye-shadow-- with which she powders and swirls her cheeks and every facet of her face to rid of glaring and miss-able imperfections alike until the skin is radiant, smooth and flawless like listful plastic; then, a series of methodical rolling brush plucks make her lashes more black, more pronounced, more attractive; then she darkens the edges of her stare in noticeable outlines for maximum allure and attention because all of these things are what compose beauty to them.
Alas, seductive charms are incomplete without drawing lust per glossy, kissable lips and so her slender digits retrieve the applicator and lift it into focus; twisting it to reveal light pink character admired for moments before its smooth glide across her soft mouth in wet-like glitter that's pursed and puckered into fullness before the lipstick is set aside with rest.
What's next is yet another maternal trinket: a shiny golden hairpin with tiny hanging black beads of dull gleam. This she slides into her bangs to become less ordinary than before; one appealing accoutrement to compliment her hanging, slenderly arching hair.
Finally, a live, clip-on lily of powder blue-white to be placed at the back of her crown, off-center: one of many precious and elusive treasures found only upon Wutai's Da-Chao mountains; this is so they'll keep staring after she's passed by and perchance even chase in pursuit of superficial carnal pleasures.
Now ravishing, she rests her palms upon her lap in bubbly admiration; canting and turning her face to behold every curve and shadowy shade. Satisfied, she re-centers and grins porcelain; tilts her face with a risen, turning clap of hands and gleeful giggle as the doll theme hushes.
All left is perfume to make salacious hearts wild and, if nothing else, leave no complaint for redolence.
This is procured also from the box: a tiny wooden vial and finger-tipped for application on her thin wrists and neck. She breathes the lovely floral fragrance of freesia mixed with vanilla; swaying in a brief, closed-eyed trance and made adrift in mysterious mental musing. Hence the ensemble is complete just as the rhythmic, muffled boom of drums somewhere outside open eyes with flutters. It's time to go; time to abandon the life of a grief-stricken shut-in and embrace societal expectation; time to discard the old dress of gloom for the newness, growth and discoveries of moving on.
She wonders: won't they be surprised--her father especially--to see the reclusive Tomoyo outdoors at long last; and how beautiful no one knew she was! All she required was abandonment of loss's shackles, fine silk and just over a half hour of makeup! Now, after a few more reveling mirror moments of flitting hair and coveting a beautician award she'll never receive, she slaps her skirted knees and elevates without poise; she turns her face to behold the dark, shadowy door at her dexter with jubilation. Then she skips in frolic with arms asway and a clap of sandals on white tatami.
When she arrives at the egress she halts, inching the door open to a chiry cricket welcome and clearer but still distant sound and a gong’s loud crash; her eye peeks around the rose-tinted periphery like a sneaky child breaking curfew with darting glances left and right and left-right again.
The coasts are clear and the door is slid ajar with a woody whisper so she may step into the stickily humid night; shut from behind before she takes a second, sweeping look at herself with arms up perpendicular to watch its red shimmer swirl across flower imprints.
A happy, hopping and pirouette as sleeves sail carries her into the center of the stony street; alone now that everyone who's anyone resides in the town square for the ceremony; she stills only to be spellbound at the above: a host of glowy lanterns dangling from criss-crossed ropes whose spaces are a celestial navy; normally gemmy stars now faint, overpowered by the ambient, prismy web.
A hot, almost chapping wind blows jingly chimes; her face recoils in discomfort but the air isn't without all the tantalizing, beckoning scents of celebration which bewitch afresh. Oh, to inhale deeply the robust, mouth-watering aromas of roasted meats and fish compel eyes closed; tangy orange chicken with stir-fried rice and steamed, saucy vegetables among Tomoyo's favorites.
How strong her hunger pangs even after a makeshift dinner… a craving for something different from the familiarly flavorful flesh, however; salivation is for a delicacy never to be sold here despite the diversity of its bountiful buffet.
That's not to say it can't be found if one knows how and who to hunt for it…
Ah, now slow strings join boomy drums in an almost romantic duet of hard plucking and soft lullaby...
The urge to move tickles her feet to tap, turn and scuff to the pulse before trickling up her skirt in warm electricity which makes legs to bend; makes hips jerk and waist sway to that deep, rhythmic heartbeat. She shifts from one side, then another while the tingle sweeps upward, slowly pulling her limber arms overhead as billowy sleeves fall to the gong’s crash, revealing the glow of pale skin . She moves in short, sexy sequences; nudged to steady drum, pronounced koto and grim violin her gait widens and becomes serpentine: moving here and moving there within the glow; so seductively she could sell per minute to men hungrier than her for merely a teasing taste of what's beneath those folds.
Despite minute time to spare before annual formalities she spends it here in solitaire dance; a step-by-step in-rhythm venture toward the city square’s festivity with no intent to accelerate or normalize herself unless noticed. After all, it's been months since Tomoyo has seen the sun let alone cut a rug; only some unseen interruption will break this spell.
As if on cue it comes but not so rudely as expected: girly laughter is what entices her ears and eyes toward a prancing, ponytailed pair of little ones in white; no older than seven years chasing one another in zigzags: a giggly game of Tag which leads them toward her and shifts the stance into neutral.
Round and round they circle their impromptu obstacle in similarly musical laughs and she becomes the pillar in playful Hide and Peek; indeed an all-but-noticed but beamingly compliant accessory who lets out her own chuckle with shifting stares upon them. They run, stop, shift and weave as their oppositely sideways tails whip in the wind; one outstretched hand so close to touch their sibling only to be smoothly evaded. But they are persistent in pursuit and endure what must be more than a minute devoid of accomplishment.
However she, assumed only a spectator, isn’t idle for long; compelled to interject and aid the underdog in their victory; she studies the fleeing one, lithe and graceful as their hair floats behind, predicting their velocity before her eyes narrow and she smirks in a competitive ‘Gotcha!’ expression. Then a sudden swoop at them, savoring their wide, green-eyed gasp before she catches the preteen damsel at the waist from the fore; they giggle and twirl together as she lifts her in both hands as high as able, cherishing the beautiful features of their face: those rare peepers colored like lush, vibrant grass and finely curving tresses; perfect symmetry of ears and nose and oh my, what a white, heartwarming grin! How can she not return so beaming a favor in kind and does broadly while pining for their name: Akane; identical twin of the observing Ayane if not for their opposing ponytails.
The twirling concludes as she cradles the girl in her right arm as they wrap their arms around her neck. The sister becomes the new object of her stare and she speaks in high, youthful lilt, as playfully as possible, confirming an assist to their win. “It looks like you win, Ayane,” she says with a wink while she watches the child bubble with energy; jogging in place before holding out her arms in a triumphant V with a gleeful shout.
“No fair!” Akane objects so joyfully she seizes attention. “You cheated!”
She pokes that tiny nose. “Guilty as charged!”
Ayane finally notices all the hard work she’s put into her getup and marvels. “You’re so pretty!”
She looks at them with a grin full of affectionate appreciation “Why, thank you…” They beam in return, compelling the sinistral hand to move and be extended, beckoning the girl with a single curling digit, saying, “Let’s go back… we don’t want to miss this!”
“The fireworks!” Akane loudly declares into her wincy ear.
A flat response. “That’s right...”
So with child in tow and that hand warmly clasped the trio trek toward the music and festival lights united; on to join the others in communion to magnify a monolithic, pretentious watersnake statue of a god that won't save them and listen to a variant of the same sententious speech drone on year after year.
The cure to so droll an anniversary may be administered once she slips away and slithers unperturbed; that she and all of them together may transform this perfectly solemn yet inevitably forgettable night into one Wutai and hers; mayhap even Gaia herself can never forget...