Yumi and the Nightmare Painter(31)

She led the way out, and Yumi glared at Painter until he wordlessly followed. As they trekked through the town, obscured by the fans, he was again left wondering how these people lived in this sweltering heat. Even with the clogs lifting his feet from the ground, he felt it radiating, making his bell-shaped skirt ripple with thermals. Perhaps that was why they used such thick cloth—to prevent accidents.

He kept his composure despite the heat, until they reached the base of the rise leading to the cold spring. Then a sudden noise like an explosion from near the center of the town made Painter spin, gaping as a jet of superheated water erupted and sprayed some thirty or forty feet into the air. The entire procession stopped to let him watch.

It was like the ground was so inhospitable that the very laws of nature were corrupted. Instead of falling from the sky, water came up from below. It dispersed, part becoming steam, releasing a rumble and even a faint whine—as if tortured.

“What (lowly) is wrong with this place?” he whispered.

Yumi stepped between him and the sight. “Continue,” she said firmly.

“But—”

“A yoki-hijo does not break composure,” she said. “A yoki-hijo remains controlled, calm, and deliberate. If something startles you, look down or away. Do not stare. Do not gawk. You are not here to indulge. You are here to serve.”

“I,” he hissed, “am not a yoki-hijo.”

“No,” she said in the lowest form of speech, reserved for speaking of things like the slime between your toes. “You are a liar.”

She held his gaze until he turned away and continued the procession. Painter found himself simmering, a little like the superheated water. Yes, he’d…overstated some things. But he didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. He’d offered to help. Were those the actions of a liar? Of someone who deserved the lowest form of speech?

They reached the cold spring. He stood and thrust his hands to the sides until his attendants removed his clothing. Then he shut his eyes—without even glancing at Yumi—and strode into the bath. There he suffered the ministrations of the attendants while stewing in the broth of the not-so-cool spring.

Was it too much to want acknowledgment of how tough this was for him? Some thankfulness for his willingness to help? Though he might not have recognized it at the time, these were familiar thoughts. Characteristic, even. They weren’t wrong—though a thought can be correct but still unhealthy.

The several scrub-downs with various soaps and scents, anointing and preparing him, took longer than he remembered. Followed by that long dunk according to Yumi’s order. Finally the attendants withdrew. He lingered—half floating, half standing. Enjoying the water, trying to let it wash away his bad attitude.

And eventually…well, he ended up peeking.

He found Yumi standing right in front of him, eye to eye, so close that if she’d been corporeal he would have felt her breath. He jumped despite himself, splashing away.

Had…had she been doing that the entire time? Staring at him? Glaring? Just waiting to see if he peeked?

(The answer is yes. Yumi was, as you might have noticed, a special kind of stubborn.)

Painter’s first inclination was to take in the sights. She stood there completely unashamed, in direct—or shall we say stark—contrast to how she’d been acting while wearing his pajamas. Despite not striking the most intimidating of postures—standing waist-deep in a pool of water, her wet hair plastered to her skin—there was confidence in her eyes.

So, deliberately not ogling, Painter met her gaze. He stepped toward her, leaning forward until he feared touching noses and experiencing that surreal warmth again.



She could glare, yes. Even loom with aplomb, despite being shorter than him. But Painter was an artist, and one thing artists learned to do was look. There’s something unnerving about the stare of someone trained in shadows, shapes, and anatomy. An artist has a gaze like a knife, separating the layers of skin, fat, and muscle. His were the eyes of a person who could rip out your soul and recreate it on the page in ink or graphite.

After a minute of this, Yumi’s eyes narrowed and her lips cocked slightly to the side. While there are many ways to interpret that kind of expression, Painter picked the right one. This time it was a mark of surprise that he’d held the stare—accompanied by the very faintest measure of respect.

“So,” he said, “is this what we’re going to do all day?”

“The spirits picked you,” she said. “And then they sent you to me. I have to believe that they were correct to do so. To accept otherwise is to accept that I was chosen for no purpose—and that is lunacy.”

“All right,” he said. “But that doesn’t tell us what we’re supposed to do.”

“We have to commune with them,” she said. “Which means you have to summon them. I can’t—not without being able to touch the things around me. We bring them to us, and maybe that will be enough to prove ourselves. Perhaps that alone will end this…association the two of us have been forced into.”

“And if it isn’t enough?”

“Then the first step is still to summon them,” she said. “So we can get some answers. Spirits who have been formed and dedicated to a service can no longer speak—or perhaps they choose not to. But newly summoned ones can; they respond when I make requests of them. Our best hope is to learn from them what they want of us.”