A Mortal Song by Megan Crewe

dining table and the smells of rice and fried pork wafted over me, a stab of hunger cut through my belly. I hadn’t eaten since the plum that morning, but obviously now, away from the mountain, my body needed much more sustenance than I was used to. I had to take some of the burden off of Midori. My hands trembled as I waited for the others to assemble so we could start the meal.
    I’d eaten feasts at the palace, but no food had ever tasted as rich as that simple dinner. In spite of the screaming of my stomach, I forced myself to chew slowly, to reach my chopsticks toward each new bite gingerly, so as not to give myself away. Still it seemed the pork cutlets, rice, and miso soup disappeared far too fast. To my immense gratitude, Mrs. Ikeda was determined to prove how welcoming she could be. She brought out salad and fish cakes and pickled vegetables. Keiji returned, wearing a blue T-shirt and brown cargo pants in place of his school uniform and carrying a bulging messenger bag, in time to take part in the small dessert of strawberry ice cream. As I swallowed the last spoonful, my hunger finally retreated.
    After he’d helped clear the table, Mr. Ikeda turned to Takeo.
    “Can you spare us just a few minutes more with Chiyo?” he asked. Takeo nodded briefly, and the older man turned to his adoptive daughter. “Would you play for our guests, just a song or two?” he said. “It’d be nice to hear you one more time before you go.”
    Chiyo flopped down on the couch. “It’s probably my last night here. I’m not going to spend it showing how badly I can mangle the piano keys. That’d be painful for everyone.”
    His face fell, and an impulse to make it brighten, to do what she wouldn’t, lit inside me. A little music would raise our spirits before we began the evening’s work. I lifted my flute case.
    “I can play something, if you’d like to hear one of the songs from the mountain.”
    “Yeah, let’s hear what kami music sounds like!” Chiyo said. I opened the case, and when I raised my head, the instrument in my hands, everyone had crowded into the living room around Chiyo: the Ikedas, Keiji, Takeo. They were all watching me.
    I hesitated. Then Takeo smiled. He looked almost like a stranger in the buttoned shirt and linen slacks Chiyo’s father had lent him, but he’d kept his ceremonial belt around his waist and his bow and quiver at his shoulder, and I’d have known that smile anywhere. My fingers found the holes in the polished bamboo as if they belonged there. I brought the flute to my lips.
    I meant to play one of the joyful tunes we would have danced to during my birthday celebration. But as I inhaled deep into my lungs, my fingers changed my mind for me. They slipped into the low, gentle melody of the first song I’d learned as a child.
    It was the song Mother used to sing to me when I was young and too restless to fall asleep, and it had always soothed me then. Now, the notes floating out into the air sounded only sad. A soft lilting sorrow that swelled inside me and spilled on my breath into the flute. I thought of Mother sitting beside my bed. Of Father, beaming as he handed me this birthday present. And suddenly the sadness was welling up in my eyes, catching in my throat.
    I jerked the flute from my mouth, blinking. “I’m sorry,” I said, as evenly as I could manage. “I need to go outside for a minute.” And then I dashed, half-blind, for the front hall.
    Takeo started after me. He reached for me when I stopped to fumble with the door handle, but I pushed his hand away. “No,” I said. “I just need a moment alone. I’ll be all right. You—you find the best room for the training.”
    I ducked outside, hearing him through the door making some excuse to the others. Maybe telling them that I was missing the kami friends and family we’d left behind on Mt. Fuji, that I was afraid of what would become of them if we didn’t return soon. But as I brought my hand to my lips just in time to