Yumi and the Nightmare Painter(99)

Here she was the yoki-hijo. There she was Yumi.

And because of who she was, she felt guilty at that realization. It was exactly what she’d feared would happen. She had grown accustomed to the delights of his world. She did not regret—could not regret—letting herself indulge. But she would pay for that indulgence once this was all done and she lost not only Painter, but her home, her friends, and even her newly discovered sense of self.

You cannot let yourself be happy, a part of her warned. Because happiness is far, far too dangerous.

Perhaps that was why she felt such an urgency to finish this before the break became too painful to endure.

As they rounded the steamwell, the air wet and misty from a recent eruption, Yumi was distracted by a farmer fiddling with his flyer—which, like a giant insect with wings outstretched to the sides, buzzed and hovered in front of him, then dropped. The farmer grabbed it before it hit the ground. Then he finally got it moving, soaring up toward the crops above.

Painter walked on past, but she hesitated, bothered. “Painter,” she said, “would you ask Hwanji and Chaeyung if something is wrong with that man’s flyer?”

The two women appeared embarrassed at the question. “It’s nothing, Chosen,” Chaeyung said.

“Chaeyung,” Yumi said through Painter, “you’ve known me for years. You can talk to me. It’s all right.”

They shared a look, then Chaeyung leaned in and spoke softly. “It’s the creations of those scholars,” she hissed. “They don’t work as well, Chosen One.”

Hwanji nodded. “Far be it from us to speak poorly of such honored guests of the town. But something’s wrong with their creations. That’s fact, Chosen.”

The way they talked—there was an eagerness. Not only because of the topic. They seemed excited by the idea of talking to her, now that she’d given them leave. And…why not? They’d been companions for years, yet they didn’t chat. She’d never considered whether that would be painful for them, serving a woman they never truly got to know.

They continued on to the place of ritual, where—right outside—the machine was set up, chugging away and stacking its stones. It worked all day to draw one single spirit; but as the scholars promised, it could work all the time. It might not beat a yoki-hijo, but a hundred of them would far, far surpass what the women could create.

Still, Yumi folded her arms—rumpling her tobok—and glared at the machine. Painter stopped beside her and said softly, “It’s not bad just because it’s technology, Yumi.”

“Conversely,” she said, her eyes narrowed, “it’s not good just because it’s technology. Disliking this machine doesn’t have to mean I’m against progress or the wonderful things of your world. I simply think that this machine in this situation is wrong.”

He rested on the fence that encircled the place of ritual. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry I generalized.” He stepped into the place of ritual, Yumi trailing behind. “So, do I get to hear this grand idea now?”

“Pick a rock to begin a stack,” she said, pointing.

He shrugged and put on the kneepads and gloves, then settled down near a pile of stones of a variety of sizes. He did a good job picking his foundational stone, then set it on the ground in a shallow nook—one that was practically invisible, but able to add stability.

He had learned. In fact, in the last thirty days he’d managed to learn a good portion of what it took to be a yoki-hijo. Unfortunately, perfecting that took years. Like the stone, all he had for now was a solid foundation.

He picked up a second rock at Yumi’s urging, but before he could place it she stopped him. Then she took the soul of the rock from his hands and weighed it, tested it, knew it. She set it down in place, then looked at him, smiling.

“Match that,” she said.

He paused, then smiled as well and set his real rock over the spirit one—moving it, twisting it—until they aligned perfectly. Again his training was invaluable. He didn’t know enough to be a master, but he now had the basic training necessary to imitate one.

Excited, Yumi placed a third stone, then a fourth—with him matching her exactly. Together they built high. Up. Out. Into a sculpture of stone, carefully balanced, beyond anything Painter had managed on his own. At thirty stones, he looked to her with a grin on his face.

“You’re not ashamed,” she said, “to need help?”

“One of the first things you learn in art school,” he said, “is how to imitate the styles of the great masters. It’s only once you can keep up with them that you develop your own. I’m just glad I can keep up here.” He met her eyes. “This is going to work, Yumi. Let’s do it.”

They dove into the task, and sculptures grew around them—guided by Yumi, but she let him choose the stones. Let him place the first of each stack. He started placing stones on his own, then looking to her as she adjusted her version in roughly the same position—except better.

If only I could have been trained this way, she thought, feeling as if she could see his skill increasing moment to moment. Working together, their fingers occasionally brushing.

This was her meditation. This was something she had missed. She realized that over the weeks, she’d lost this—this connection to the stones, the spirits, and even her own heart. She might have been made a yoki-hijo, but the art was hers. Or together, theirs.