“RITUAL BATH?” PAINTER said, thoughtful. That sounded nice.
This place was much hotter than back home. A little refreshment would be welcome. “I suppose I could use a bath. It won’t be too hot, will it?”
“The ritual bath is in the town’s cool spring,” Yumi explained. “Each day I work in a new town, so I do not know the layout—but the spring should be upon high ground. While you are here, it will be reserved exclusively for you, hero.”
That did sound nice, particularly following what he’d been through.
How could a simple meal be so taxing?
Unfortunately, his conscience was working on him. Painter had gotten himself into some trouble with issues like this—expectations from others, warranted or not—in the past. While thinking of those days brought pain, he’d sworn he would never get into that kind of trouble again.
Nonetheless, here he was. As the two attendants were out of the room, he found himself standing and staring at the strange ghostly girl with long hair. And words came out.
“You asked if I’m a great warrior,” he said. “Are you needing me to fight something, then?”
“I don’t think it will require that,” she said. “I don’t know, honestly.
The spirits will need to be formed, and then asked. They said they’re trapped somehow; perhaps you can rescue them?”
“By forming them?” he said, relaxing a little. “Does this require painting?”
“Painting?” she said, cocking her head. “We call them. Through
art.”
Through art.
Right. Okay. That he could do. Maybe even something other than bamboo. Was it true—had he been summoned to an entirely different world simply to…to paint? He should probably make sure, he thought.
He looked to the girl to explain more, but… She was just so hopeful. Emotions flowed inside him like blood from wounds, warm and sharp. How long had it been since he’d felt needed, wanted? He didn’t mean to lie. He wasn’t really lying, was he? Her spirits had chosen him, brought him here, perhaps to paint them.
In that moment, he wanted so badly to be the hero someone needed. To have a chance to make up for the mistakes of his past. To become something. It wasn’t arrogance, as some of you might assume. It was more desperation.
Deep down, Painter saw himself as a ruined canvas—the painting spoiled by spilled ink, then tossed into the trash. This was his chance to spread himself out and start a new drawing on the back. He seized that opportunity like a ravenous man at his first bowl of rice in days.
“Lead on,” he said, dropping his mysterious loner affectations and speaking with a heartfelt passion. “I’ll do it. Whatever it is you need, I promise, I’ll do it.”
Yumi gestured to the doors. The attendants and that awful woman —Liyun, Yumi had called her—had gone that way. He leaned out of the doorway and looked around, hoping he’d be able to walk this part rather than being carried or something. Curiously the building— indeed a wagon as Yumi had said—appeared to be floating. That
was…odd. But not much more than— He stepped on the ground.
Barefoot.
Painter yelped and leaped back onto the wooden steps, shaking the wagon-room. The ground was hot. Extremely hot; like as hot as a stove.
For the first time, he looked specifically at the clogs everyone was wearing. Liyun and the attendants, in turn, stared at him with horrified expressions. It was the same sort of expression you might have given a person who sat down to dinner, then started eating the plate.
“What is wrong, hero?” Yumi asked. “I recognize you are mighty and strong, but there is no reason you need to walk without shoes.”
She frowned, glancing down at his bare feet.
“This place is…” He trailed off, not wanting to spoil the illusion for Liyun and the attendants. Finally, he took a deep breath and slipped on the pair of clogs by the door. It seemed he hadn’t burned himself too badly, as the pain was fading, but he was still timid as he stepped onto the ground.
The procession started off. Painter felt proud of how well he walked in the thick clogs; they looked more awkward than they actually were.
He merely had to be deliberate with each step. He looked to Yumi, but she lowered her gaze and seemed reticent. Even more than earlier. What had he done this time?
There were plenty of other oddities to occupy his attention. For example, the attendants held out big fans to hide him from the eyes of the gathering townspeople. That left gaps through which he could be seen though, and apparently the entire town had lined up to catch a glimpse of him.
Why the pageantry? Couldn’t they have pulled him in the wagon to this new location? This halfway measure with the fans felt deliberate —like pretending not to care if anyone noticed your new haircut, but running your hands through it every time anyone glanced your way.
There were also those floating plants—but at least he’d seen those from the wagon. So he didn’t gawk. Much. But then there was a very odd contraption at the center of the town—a big shiny metal thing made of wide sets of plates, as big across as a building. What was that all about?
At least the people looked human. He would have expected aliens from another planet to have…he didn’t know. Some extra
appendages? Seven eyes? Instead they were just people. Mostly eager-eyed, in bright clothing of a completely different fashion and design than he was used to. It reminded him of formal dresses and wraps worn at weddings among his people—at least the colors were similar. But these outfits were far bulkier, particularly on the women, whose dresses were bell-shaped instead of sleek and tight as was common in Kilahito. The men wore clothing that was loose and baggy —often pastel, with a watercolor softness—tied closed at the ankles.
They accented these with the occasional black hat, and many wore neat short beards, which you rarely saw among Painter’s people.
The townspeople stayed behind as Painter was led to some nearby hills. Close to the top, his attendants and he entered a secluded alcove where a pool of water filled a natural basin perhaps fifteen feet across. It looked to be only about waist-deep, and no steam rose from it. That was a good sign. Painter was already sweating. How did these people live here with that giant ball of fire in the sky constantly glaring at them?
His attendants drew to a halt outside as he stepped up to the edge of the pool. Yes, this part should be nice. He looked to Yumi, who had followed him past rocks that provided privacy. She was blushing furiously. Why… Ah. Suddenly it made sense. She couldn’t get more than ten feet or so from him, but he had to take a bath.
“It’s all right,” he whispered to her. “Just go behind those rocks over there and sit down.”
“Hero?” she said. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Then she began to disrobe, undoing the bow on her dress. She was some type of ghost, but it seemed her clothing was part of whatever she was, because she was able to remove the overdress and set it down, leaving her in an underdress akin to a thin nightgown.
“Wait,” he said. “That wouldn’t be appropriate? But this is?”
“I may be in spirit form,” Yumi explained, “but I am still the yoki-hijo, and must follow the directions of the spirits. I must do my ritual cleansing. If we’re going to figure out what it is they have sent you to do, then I must be pure before their eyes.”
Painter tried to forcibly stifle his blush. He figured that heroes didn’t blush. Unless they…what, had just slain their fourth dragon and had too much to drink?
“Well then,” he said, “we could simply bathe in clothing.”
“You can’t be ritually cleansed that way,” she said. “Besides, Chaeyung and Hwanji would think that very strange.”
She nodded to the side, where his two attendants were walking up to join him. He’d assumed they were staying behind to give him privacy, but in fact they’d stopped to gather some soaps. And evidently to disrobe.
Because neither was wearing a scrap of clothing.
For a moment, Painter was rooted in place. Naturally it wasn’t out of embarrassment, as he was a mighty hero or some such rubbish. It was probably something far more heroic. Like indigestion.
“At least they see you as me,” Yumi said, “so you will not
embarrass them.”
Embarrass them.
Right.
That was what he was worried about.
The two set aside their soaps and began to undress him, because of course they did. Now, if you should ever find yourself in a similar position, this would be the place to call a stop to it. It doesn’t matter if you’re in a story, or if the fate of the world is at risk, or if it’s merely the result of a few stupid decisions. You never need to let someone undress you if you’re against the idea.
Painter, however, was determined to help. To not mess up this chance like he’d messed up his real life. So he tried to play it off as nothing. He did so poorly, mind you, but one might admire his gumption. You could have assumed his blush to be due to the heat, and he almost managed to look stoic. Until he glanced at Yumi, who had pulled off her underdress but clutched it awkwardly to her chest.
Her long, shimmering black hair falling over her shoulders and around her arms.
“You…must have done this hundreds of times,” Yumi said to him, her eyes lowered. “Been…in situations like this. With women. A hero like you would be revered and lauded.”
“Uh…” Painter said. The attendants glanced at him. “I’m talking to a spirit,” he said to them. “Please, um, ignore me.”
They frowned at this, but pulled off his own undergarment.
“It’s…something very new to me,” Yumi said. “Do you suppose maybe you could…avert your gaze?”
Oh. Right. That was an option, wasn’t it?
Now, you might be a little upset at Painter for not realizing this earlier, as it was the obvious gentlemanly thing to do. Please do remember, this had all come upon him rather unexpectedly. It’s hard to be gentlemanly when the world isn’t being particularly gentle with you.
But if you can’t be a gentleman, you can at least not be a creep.
Painter closed his eyes.
The attendants led him into the water, which he found warm. This was the cold spring? They began bathing him with the ritual soaps, and didn’t exclaim or run screaming at the discovery of certain unexpected bits, so Painter assumed that the illusion—or whatever it was—worked absolutely, even to those touching him.
He did his best to relax. They didn’t see him as him, so there was nothing to be embarrassed about. He figured that Tojin, back home, probably would have been thrilled to be in a situation like this. It would give him all kinds of opportunities to flex his muscles for everyone. Or who knew; maybe Tojin bathed with women all the time.
He did always have Akane hanging off him.
Yes, Tojin would probably relish the experience. Painter wondered if he shouldn’t try to do so as well. Wasn’t that what a great hero would do? He could put his back to Yumi and enjoy looking at the other two.
But that idea disgusted him. The attendants didn’t know who he was. It wasn’t right.
You’re a coward, a part of him thought. This might even be a dream. Enjoy it.
But…well, he just couldn’t. Yumi was one thing. She’d chosen to come bathe here, knowing what he was. The attendants were another thing entirely. So he kept his eyes closed as he was washed.
Unfortunately, he lost his footing while standing up, and started to slip. Through no fault of his own, his eyes popped open.
He found Yumi standing in the water nearby, looking at his waist— well, below it—her head cocked. As soon as she saw his eyes open, she squeaked and squeezed hers closed.
“Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry!” she said. “I didn’t mean to do that. I—”
“It’s fine.” He closed his eyes again. “It’s a…difficult situation.” He meant that. After all, he’d basically done the same thing.
As the attendants finished his current rinse and he leaned back into the water, his hand drifted to the side and accidentally touched Yumi’s. Again the powerful sense of warmth thrummed through him.
Overwhelming, even exhausting.
But with it, this time, came emotions. Her emotions. He could feel her fear, her embarrassment, her shame. Her deeper terror that something was very, very wrong—and that she didn’t know how to fix it. (She, in turn, felt much of the same from him—though when she sensed the shield he put up to protect his natural shyness, she interpreted it as confidence. She felt his own embarrassment, and the shame buried so far beneath his surface emotions it might as well have been magma churning beneath the crust of the planet.) Then, as they broke the touch, both felt better. The situation was horribly awkward, but in that moment they realized it was a shared experience of horrible awkwardness that they had to get through together. Trauma doesn’t decrease with company, but it does grow easier to work through when you know someone else understands.
The attendants dunked him, and he—at Yumi’s instruction—did his best to stay underwater for the ritual amount of time. After that, the attendants withdrew from the pool to dry off, then stepped outside to dress and prepare the yoki-hijo’s tobok, which would take a few minutes. Alone with Yumi, Painter tipped his head back and relaxed into the warm water, his eyes closed. He let his hand drift out, kind of hoping it would touch Yumi’s again.
“I truly am sorry,” she whispered, somewhere nearby. She hadn’t gotten out, then. “I…don’t have much experience…with men, you
see. It’s not part of my training.”
“Is it part of anyone’s?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Did you…lead a normal life when you were young? Before you became a hero?”
“Depends on what you call normal. I’d say it was…unremarkable in most ways. But not you? You’ve lived with this all your life?”
“This has been my duty since I was chosen by the spirits as a baby.” She paused. “You may think it confining, but it’s an enormous honor. I provide such an important service to the people. Our society could not exist without the yoki-hijo. Thousands would starve.”
He wanted to be encouraging, but words eluded him. He’d pretended to be a hero for so long that now that he had to live up to that ideal, even deciding what to say was difficult. Still, as he drifted there, somewhere near her, he found himself increasingly thrilled to be stolen from his other life and brought to this strange place.
This, you might note, is somewhat different from many stories.
Painter wasn’t reluctant. He wasn’t eager to get back to his life. What was there for him at home? Instead he was excited to find a way to actually help Yumi. To change the world.
But wait, he thought. There was a stable nightmare. I never reported it. He could only vaguely remember trailing back to his apartment, struck by what now seemed a supernatural exhaustion, his mind a fuzz.
He had to find a way home, or that nightmare could do serious damage. Kill and rampage. It was a sudden, cruel irony that the one time in his life where his otherwise monotonous job was urgent…was the same time he’d found himself in a mystical adventure.
He had to help Yumi quickly, so he could get to Kilahito and report that nightmare. Unless he could find a way to send a message. For now, he focused on Yumi. How could he fix her problem? She needed a painting?
Then his mind drifted a bit. Back to when he’d opened his eyes briefly and seen her standing there in the pool…her hair and skin
glistening in the light… Wait.
“Wait!” he said, splashing and righting himself, opening his eyes by instinct to double-check. “Yumi, your hair is wet!”
She opened her own eyes, then stood and touched her long black hair. Which was wet.
“Why?” he asked. “You can’t touch anything else, but you can touch the water?”
She frowned. “I…didn’t feel like I was getting wet when I stepped into the pool. I felt nothing, like when I tried to touch the blanket or the wall. Now though, I do feel it. I’m floating. I feel the water’s coolness like every other time I’ve entered a pool like this.” She cocked her head. “It means something. You’re right.”
They met one another’s eyes. Then, at basically the same moment, they realized where they were and what they weren’t wearing. Both
blushed and squeezed their eyes closed.
Yes, I know.
But you were once young and nervous too. We all were. There’s nothing wrong with being a tad awkward. It is a sign of a new experience—and new experiences are among the cosmere’s best forms of emotional leavening. We shouldn’t be so afraid of showing inexperience. Cynicism isn’t interesting; it is often no more than a mask we place over tedium.
“Your attendants have dressed and are returning to dry you, hero,”
Yumi said softly. “They will wait until you’re ready—it is traditional to allow you time here. I will get dressed, then turn and let you know you may approach.”
The water sloshed a bit as she left the pool. True to her word, she called out a short time later. He opened his eyes and found her dressed in her nightgown again, with her back toward him.
Reminding himself that he wasn’t actually exposing himself to the attendants, Painter climbed out of the pool and let the women dry him. One had prepared new clothing, even more ornate than what he’d been wearing before. An undergarment followed by one of the bell-shaped skirts, with a separate top that came down over it in a matching—but darker—color. Bow across the front, though that was less to hold it together and more to ornament the ensemble.
The clothing was made of a stiff, starchy silk that practically crinkled when handled. It was all so loose that it fit him, though he was several inches taller than Yumi and far from her measurements.
He did notice that her own phantom clothing, now replaced, was darkened with the water seeping through from her skin. She hadn’t had a towel to dry herself. How had the water gotten her wet, then gotten her ghostly clothing wet?
He tried to think of an explanation, but once more began to feel strangely tired. As the women tied Painter’s bow, the odd sensation increased, accompanied by nausea. That heat from the sky…the heat from below…the layers of clothing… It all came together in an otherworldly moment his body was not prepared to handle. Heroic or not, Painter swayed, felt his vision go dark, then fainted.
HE BLINKED AWAKE to the sound of pounding on a door.
Painter groaned and found himself on his futon. He shook his head, looking around his apartment. Strewn with clothing, a half-eaten box of cereal on the table, hion lights—teal and magenta—shining from the line outside his window, painting the place familiar modern colors.
It had been a dream after all?
The door continued to thump angrily. “Coming!” he shouted as the beating persisted. “I said I’m coming!” He shifted, sitting up, and put his hand to his head.
Yumi sat up from the floor beside his futon, dressed in a pair of his pajamas—the oversized shirt exposing her shoulder, the sleeves long enough that her hands barely stuck out the ends. Her hair was a frizzy mess, and she looked baffled.
He gaped, then reached for her. His arm passed through the edge of his short dining table.
Painter froze, then waved his hand through the table. He couldn’t touch it. Or the sock that was sitting on it for some reason. Or the pillow, or… Yumi stumbled to her feet, knocking against the table, causing an old noodle bowl to rattle and one of the maipon sticks to fall off it and clatter to the wood. She glanced at it, then at her hands, then met his
eyes with her own panicked ones.
Oh no.
