Inoue

The Kingdom of Ninejin lies in the Ocean of Dawn like a handful of rough emeralds strewn on a silver platter. From the sea it seems taller than it is wide, more vertical than horizontal; it seems a wonder that all its arable land did not slide into the sea aeons ago. Yet its thousand mountains are green to the peaks; the entire kingdom is green, from the racks of seaweed drying on the beaches, to the acid green of the rice fields, to the rich green of the orchards, to the almost-black green of the pines on the heights. Only on those heights can bare rock be seen, misted here and there by some hardy growth, stark black rock still sharp and new, some of it fractured like glass, some in smooth poured veils like wax from a spilled candle, like silken draperies pooling on a carpet.

Around its ninety-one harbors flock the ships of the world, ants around a drop of honey. Tiny fishing vessels no larger than a bed scuttle aside to make way for many-legged galleys; bright caravels with sails like gardens dance complicated measures with grim battleships whose gunports stare like dead men's eyes. On the piers the crews shout in all the world's languages, hoisting cargo, coiling ropes, arguing with merchants and harbormasters, so many languages that if one closed one's eyes one might imagine it the squalling of gulls overlaying a distant, murmuring angelic choir. The sailors sweat and sing in the spring sun, the colors of their skins like a mosaic of inlaid wood, from bleached pine to oiled ebony. It is said in Ninejin that should one wish to see the world one only need work in the harbor, and everything worth seeing will eventually pass through one's hands.

The goods of the world are taken from the ships to the markets, and there laid out for sale, in low doorless wooden shops or in pavilions in the open air. Fruits of every color and shape send their scent aloft to mingle with a confusion of incenses, while nearer the ground the stenches of livestock war with that of the butcher's wares. Ladies veiled in pale silk move like fountains among silent jeweled slaves, touching fire-colored carpets with soft fat golden hands, while beggars cry blessings in strong ululating voices.

Built around the harbor-market of the largest port, on the third-largest island, is the city of Medeja, where the summer palace is. The name of the palace is Ginehan, which is the word for the grain of sand around which the pearl forms; a pretty lie, for Medeja was there long before there was a summer palace, or even a King. Then again, it could be that Ginehan deserves its name in a way, because before it was built Medeja was low and long and stretched along the coast like seawrack after a storm, but since Ginehan's coming a new district has sprung up inland, where the fashionable houses of courtiers are built of white plaster and lacquered wood.

At the joining of the two parts of Medeja, between the fashionable and the functional, an ancient orchard climbs a gentle south-facing slope, and at the top of the hill a long white house gleams. Its roofs are of blue tile and green copper, its wooden eaves lacquered yellow and black. It sprawls across the ridge like a cat before a fire; a minor poet once wrote an ode to its lazy tranquility. There bees drone the same whether the King is in Medeja or not. The name of that house is Kunaret, which is the word for the silence of saints. In Kunaret lives an old Lady of ancient name and modest fortune, and her grandniece Inoue. The old Lady is tall and broad, wears iron pins in her pewter hair, and moves slowly and deliberately; she moves at all times as if approaching an unfamiliar horse. Inoue is a torrent of hair, a storm of hands and feet, a flash across the orchard, a chime of bracelets, a disappearing hem of green silk like a ghost fleeing a skeptic in the evening.

Several years ago, perhaps three or seven but not nine, there rode through the morning a courtier out of favor with the king. He was only a little out of favor, but to his way of thinking that was like being only a little pregnant, and he feared a long season of reproach unless he could divine what he had done to offend his lord. He rode alone (that is, with only one slave to attend him) in the countryside (that is, out from between buildings) to meditate on this.

It could not be his face that gave offense, he reasoned, as he had grown neither more handsome nor less. He did not mind admitting that he was pleasing to the eye, but not more beautiful than the King, and therefore neither revulsion nor jealousy could have caused his downfall. His manner of dress was tasteful and rich, his cerulean robes embroidered with the peony crest of his house were cut in the very latest style, his hair perfumed and braided exactly as the most fashionable young nobles wore it. His style of poetry was just as up-to-date, his verses neither fawning on the King nor ignoring the light of his splendor. His house was not in conflict with the crown, nor stirring up trouble with any other house, and his family's fortune was on the rise. The courtier, whose name was Hanren, sighed with frustration; the trouble could only be that the King had grown bored with him. And what could he do to amend that except at the risk of appearing ridiculous?

It was at this time that he came beside the fence that encircled the orchard of Kunaret. He forgot his troubles looking into the orchard; it filled every sense, spread contentment around it like the sound of running water. All the fruit trees were in bloom, some budding as others were fading, from the ice-white of the apples to the deep candy-pink of the plums. Around the pleasingly rough and twisted roots little flowers shone against the grass, yellow and purple, and slender green stalks promised poppies and iris to come. Fresh, subtle perfumes drifted to him as a breeze shook the branches; petals fell like snow in dreams.

The courtier turned to his slave, saying, "I will rest here. Go obtain permission from the owner of this orchard."

The slave went, finding a gate only a little way along the fence. But the courtier soon grew tired of waiting, for he was not accustomed to it, and, tying the reins of his priceless horse to the fence, climbed inside. He wandered between the clouds of blossom, ducking under low branches, and felt his situation diminishing in importance as he went.

He thought at first that the sound he heard was the humming of insects or a stream muttering to itself as it moved over rocks, but after a time he discerned that it was a child's voice; a child singing quietly somewhere in the orchard. He aimed his steps toward the sound, moving as silently as he could, for he hoped to watch unobserved some cheerful peasant at work, which he imagined would complete this picture of pastoral peace. But instead he found a thing he thought more wondrous than pleasant, in fact a little alarming in its strange beauty.

Beneath a white apple tree a young girl danced with the falling petals. She sang to herself, her slim brown arms flowing like mist, her slim boyish body bending like grass under water. She was dressed in scarlet silk, silver bracelets on her ankles, strings of silver coins braided into her shining black hair; she was, he thought, like finding a ruby in a bowl of rice. She was little more than a child, and her face had a child's prettiness. She would've been nothing more if she were not dancing. But she danced like a twisting flame, danced, he realized, between the petals, and though they fell in fluttering clouds not one touched her.

Here is a wonder, he thought; and like a true subject he thought first of how it would please his King.

So he stepped out of his cover, with the intention of inviting the girl -- and her parents, of course -- to Ginehan; when she saw him she started becomingly. He got no farther than, "Girl--" when she bared her teeth and hissed like a cat, as if to drive him away.

Then she very sensibly turned and ran.

He returned to his horse, and was not even angry when his slave told him that the Lady Shudoro respectfully invited him to notify her a day in advance should he wish to make use of her property.

That evening he presented himself in court as usual, and bided his time while the usual flatterers wore out their welcome. The young King looked terribly bored this evening, and there was talk of removing to the Winter Palace for a change of scenery. The King lounged on a couch of green-and-gold damask made to look like grass starred with flowers, his beautiful face drawn with ennui, his fine long hands picking impatiently at the embroidery of his robes. His concubines played gentle music on ivory flutes and inlaid guitars, each so lovely and witty and learned and sweet of disposition that she would be a fit consort for a god, and yet he gave them not even a glance. Finally the King was so moved by inertia that he visibly stifled a yawn, and a worried hush spread among the bright butterflies of the court. Hanren chose that moment to step forward.

He found himself quite the center of attention as he knelt and reverently kissed the hem of his lord's dragonfly-patterned robe. "My beloved Lord," he began, and was pleased to see the King's face soften a little at his sincerity. For he truly loved his King, for all he worried about his own station, and he was known to be no good at false flattery. "I have seen that you have not been happy here, and this saddened me. Yesterday I rode out in search of something that might amuse you. The gods smiled on my endeavor, and I had gone no farther than the orchard of Lady Shudoro when I discovered a pleasant wonder."

"It cheers me, my Hanren," said the King, "that you thought to do so, even should you have found nothing." At this there was a rustling of silks in the room, and Hanren imagined he felt jealousy beat at the back of his head. "And what is this pleasant marvel?"

"My gentle master, it is only an innocent child dressed in red silk who dances between the petals as they fall. To see her dance gladdened my heart. When I spoke she fled from me, but I know she would dance for you."

"Then send for her, that her grace and purity may brighten this dissipated company, and teach us beauty. Send for her, Hanren. I wish this child to dance for me tomorrow after I have dined."

"It will be as you command."

"And what is her name, this child?"

Hanren had made discreet inquiries into the population of Lady Shudoro's household, and was able to answer. "Inoue, my Lord. Her name is Inoue."

The next day Lady Shudoro and her ward arrived as invited, for the King's request is a command, but the old Lady was apprehensive. She had dressed Inoue in yellow and orange, because warm colors flattered the girl's complexion but also for the subtle resemblance to a nun's robes. She had given enough advice to fill a book, then realized she'd given too much to remember, and repeated most of it trying to drum in the important bits. But as they waited in a richly decorated side chamber, Inoue would not hold still, but leapt up and ran from one ornament to another, touching statues, trying drawers, climbing on furniture. "She is wild," Lady Shudoro sighed. Then the steward came and motioned that they were to go in.

They were shown to cushions at the King's feet, and though Inoue forgot to curtsy it seemed that Lady Shudoro bent her creaking knee deeply enough for both, for the King smiled and kissed the old Lady's hand as if they were old friends.

"Please forgive the inconvenient urgency of my summons, madam," he said cordially, "but when I heard of this girl's remarkable grace I was quite impatient to see her."

"It is our honor, your radiance," said the old Lady with a smile, but still she worried.

To Inoue, the King said, "I would like you to dance now." And the girl, still forgetting what few manners she had, simply nodded and sprang up.

A place had been cleared for her, a square of gleaming sunlight-colored marble fringed with glittering courtiers. Ladies tittered behind their fans, gentlemen frankly appraised her, but she seemed oblivious. "How old is she?" murmured the King.

"Thirteen, your radiance,"said Lady Shudoro, her heart quailing inside her.

The concubines began their gentle discordant music, and Inoue began to dance...and faltered, and began again, and stopped. The King started up, perplexed. "Do you refuse me? Me, your King?"

Inoue looked up and met his eyes, solemn and direct. "The music is wrong," she said, and only that.

"Is that all," said the King, reclining again, as if he had not noticed her insolence.

"It isn't like what I hear in my head," Inoue explained. "And I haven't anything to dance with."

The King clapped his hands, and the steward appeared at his elbow. He whispered a command, and the steward went away. "Tell the musicians what you want," he told her, and the concubines frowned to hear themselves referred to as mere musicians. But Inoue spoke to them as directly as she had to the King.

"It has drums in it," she explained, "exactly as if you had three and a half hearts and had been running fast. And you must play as if you mean it, you must make it up as you go along. The music in my head sounds like falling downhill, and like evening, and like the bells on the goats being driven in from pasture, and like the ships creaking in the harbor. Like that."

The least jealous and most forgiving of the concubines said, "I understand, child," and called for a drum, the shallow drum with the double-headed rod to beat it. She beat a fast, wild, uncouth rhythm.

"Yes," said Inoue.

Then the other concubines let go their pride and played, played as if they meant it, like falling downhill, like the ships creaking in the harbor, like longing and like having; for they were excellent musicians, and once they saw it was to their benefit to play something other than the fashionable usual, they fell to with a will.

At that moment slaves appeared with silver bowls of petals, and they took handfuls of these petals and tossed them in the air over Inoue's head.

Then Inoue danced. She danced like floating mist, like a flickering flame, like a flock of golden birds. Those whose hearts were not yet entirely hard smelled sun-warmed grass, and thought of their childhoods. Those whose hearts were stone, or wormwood, or a nest of serpents, saw it and hardened their faces to keep from weeping. Inoue danced like the wind in the branches, and Lady Shudoro heard the King sigh.

When the slaves had run out of petals to throw, Inoue wound to a halt like a top spinning down. Her bare brown feet were deep in petals, but not one had come to rest in her bright black hair.

The King sighed again, and Lady Shudoro went rigid with horror at his next words. "Inoue," he said, "you are truly a pleasant marvel. I would have you dance for me always. I will marry you, Inoue. I will make you a queen."

And Inoue drew a breath, and said, "No."

"What?" said the King. Not in anger, but as if he must have misheard.

"No, King, I will not marry you."

"What foolishness is this?" said the King. "It is the greatest honor you will ever be offered! You will be adored, you will have everything you like, your respected aunt may come with you if you wish, I am not uncomely, what else can you want?"

Inoue smiled boldly, as if telling a secret to an equal. "I'm not insensible to the honor. I think it would be nice to be Queen, and of course you're very beautiful. But it wouldn't be good for you to get me too easily." The gasp of horror that ran through the court couldn't drown her words. "I'm giving you the only thing you can't have for asking, King. I'm teaching you to want." She scooped up a double handful of the petals from the floor and threw them up in the air with a little laugh, then ran from the room.

Incensed twittering arose from every corner, then died as the courtiers looked at their King. He lay on his couch, chin in hand, petals in his hair, and he was smiling.

In the Kingdom of Ninejin, on the outskirts of Medeja, there is a long white house named Kunaret, which means blessed tranquility. Up the hill a messenger in lapis-colored livery is delivering a gift from the King; perhaps another poem, perhaps another fine porcelain or an orchid in a jade bowl. The King has not left the summer palace; he says he has grown fond of snow. In the orchards, between the falling petals, between raindrops, between the falling leaves, between snowflakes, Inoue dances. Maybe someday she'll be a queen. And maybe she won't.