Page 18 of Prima
The hull of the ship is a startling blue, the only pop of color in a volume of pencil drawings. She caresses the edge of the page and reads the caption aloud, “The Wandering Sailor still has not found his wife’s resting place or the treasure that was stolen from him. But now he has a precious seed from the World Tree, which might someday grow to an entire planet, a place for him to call home again.”
He feels as if he’s barely holding his balance on a swaying high wire. He does not work on his story all the time, only when he must. Only when his solitude grows too vast.
She looks up. “They are beautiful, your illustrations.”
“They’re…scribbles.”
He’s not being overly modest—his skills are barely adequate for the demands of an illustrated story. But he does unclench slightly. The high wire sways a little less.
“I’ve seen more technically accomplished drawings, but you have a knack for conveying deep emotions via simple imagery.” She closes the sketchbook. “Now where’s volume six? Aha, here it is. I have become very invested in your manga, prince.”
But is her interest merely to probe further into his mental fitness, or does she actually feel the deep emotions she alluded to?
She opens volume six—and glances up two pages in. “What’s this? The Wandering Sailor’s wife might not be dead after all?”
The high wire lurches. “Sometimes the creator needs a plot twist to keep himself involved.”
She laughs. He is once again staring at her dimples. In his dream she looked young, wan, and desperately frail underwater. But in person she is strong and undeniably vibrant.
She reads, her expression intent. But glares at him when the story stops abruptly. She flips through the blank pages in the rest of the sketchbook, then turns back to the last illustrated page. It features a tiny raft among the stars; the figure of a woman stands upon it, her skirt streaming, her shoulder-length hair flying.
“In every volume I come across this image, every time he thinks of her or dreams of her.”
The high wire warps and buckles. He is falling from a great height. “Sorry about the monotony.”
He is much better at drawing ships than he is at human figures, and faces present an even greater challenge. His characters are distinguished by their outlines rather than facial features.
“No, I don’t mind the repetition. It moves me.”
He is suspended in midair, unable to speak.
“The whole of your story…” she murmurs. “We never see his face, yet the sorrow the Wandering Sailor carries is dwarfed only by the scale of the setting, the cosmic backdrop itself. In every image I feel his loss.”
She looks up from volume six. “It stirs me that his creator has not lost all hope. There is nothing scrappier or tougher than the hope of those who have endured the most. And I’m glad about the seed from the World Tree, that someday there might be a new home for him among the stars.”
Her eyes are brilliant, ever so brilliant, with unshed tears. He is on the ground again, uneven, possibly dangerous terrain, but solid ground all the same.
She places the volumes in their correct order and slides them along the bench cushion toward him. The motion causes her to lean forward. A pendant slips out from the V-neck of her dress.
The pendant is round, inscribed with a single character from Old Sinoscript, which he had to relearn from scratch, starting with this very character. Moreover, it is written in an exact style—identical brush strokes, identical proportions—that he recognizes.
Sirens blare; bombs explode; his head is a war zone of chaos and confusion.
He grips the stack of sketchbooks she has returned to him. She picks up the glass of guava juice he poured for her earlier and takes a sip.
“This is excellent,” she says.
He stares at her. The two teardrops she shed when she first saw him, her deep and persistent interest in him, her comment ofI can tell you something about iton the subject of his Coast Guard service. Could it be possible? It isn’t shocking that he might not remember having met a member of New Ryukyu’s Secretariat—he has obviously forgotten all kinds of experiences and skills. But how did that happen without anyone else knowing?
“Who are you?” he asks. And more importantly, “How do we know each other?”
ChapterSix
Ten years ago
Are you the next Sea Witch?
Now it’s the girl’s turn to stare at the boy in astonishment. “And you say that because?”
