Work Text:
This damned waiting. How many hours had it been now? Jin had lost count by the time the pale sun dawned that morning. Now he stood in the yard, sweating, hacking at the firewood so hard that he felt his teeth rattle with every strike of the axe head. He had hoped a menial task would keep his mind off his churning stomach. It was no use.
He could still hear Yuna’s cries from the birthing room. The beginning of her labor had been easy: Jin had known exactly what to do. First, he ran to fetch Keiko, the old healer woman, from the nearby village. Then he set off to find Matsuo the priest at the temple. An experienced healer himself, he often presided at births and deaths, either assisting souls into this life or easing their transition to the next one.
When they finally arrived, Jin helped Matsuo purify the house with incense against evil spirits and the hungry ghosts who prey on newborns. Keiko remained by Yuna’s side, coaching her through the pains. To Jin’s dismay, the hunched old woman would not allow him into the room with Yuna at first for fear that the ravenous spirits would slip inside the room with him. Yuna would not have it and sharply reprimanded her.
“If you make Jin leave, I’ll go and give birth in the garden.” After that, Keiko welcomed Jin warmly to the birthing room. She even praised his attentiveness and resourcefulness in caring for his wife through her labor.
That had been yesterday. After hours with no progress, the priest had advised Jin to go rest.
“You should eat something. Close your eyes for a few moments. You need your strength.”
“Fine,” Jin had said reluctantly as he swayed slightly on his feet. He couldn’t deny that he was exhausted. He lay in the next room for a while, but the sounds of Yuna’s distress on the other side of the wall panels were unbearable when there was nothing he could do to help. So here he was, chopping wood instead of resting.
As he wailed away at the firewood, Jin found himself facing that inexorable and invisible enemy: death. The same enemy that had taken so many. His mother. His father. Yuriko. Taka.
Death was long familiar to him, but he had never faced it like this. Never had to wait helplessly by when all he wanted to do was charge headlong into its maw to save the person he loved. All his strength, cunning, and skill in battle were useless against this creeping, hushed approach of death. All he could do was await its arrival or wait for it to temporarily pass him by. A reprieve from death was always temporary. And he was wielding a woodcutting axe instead of a katana.
It was killing him.
The axe fell from his hand and he dropped to his knees, palms in the dirt, his arms trembling from exertion. Tears burned in his eyes, and a sob caught in his chest. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t. Not after everything they had been through. As if in answer to his thoughts, a sharp cry from inside struck his ears. Yuna. Jin felt a shock of panic and jumped to his feet. A moment later, Matsuo appeared in the doorway. Jin wiped his hands on his hakama, passed a forearm hurriedly over his sweat- and tear-stained face.
“It’s time,” Matsuo said, his face infuriatingly impassive. What could he mean? Then Jin realized: time for the birth. The child was coming. Jin followed the priest inside, bile rising in his throat, sweat cold on his back.
Yuna did not notice Jin entering the room. She was somewhere else, beyond him. Yuriko had once told him that childbirth was a time when the veil between this world and the next became thinner than paper. She had helped his mother bring him into the world. Jin wondered if the moments preceding his birth had been like this: his mother strangely calm, her gaze focused inward, breaths deep and full of intention, like those before a plunge into deep water.
“I’m here, Yuna,” Jin said when he reached her side.
“Jin,” she said. “Take my hand.”
Jin took it. She squeezed hard, and it seemed to him that she was doing it more for his benefit than her own, though she barely looked at him.
“Now help me up.”
Keiko directed Jin behind Yuna. Grateful for finally having something to do, he obeyed without question. He knelt, cradling Yuna under her arms and against his body, holding up her weight as she squatted down. A wave crested over her, and she groaned from deep in her belly—an animal sound.
“Yes, that’s it,” Keiko said, peeking beneath her. “Bear down. Again.”
Three more waves in quick succession. Jin’s arms screamed for relief, but he remained steady. Compared to the waiting, physical discomfort was the easiest thing in the world—especially if it helped Yuna in this battle only she could fight.
Finally, Yuna went slack against him, her head falling back on his chest. Jin didn’t realize what had happened until he looked down and saw a red and purple thing squirming in Keiko’s hands. It had wet black hair and was covered with a strange white substance.
“A son,” the old woman exclaimed proudly. She rubbed the creature vigorously with a white linen cloth, and it began to emit high-pitched squeaking sounds. “Large and lusty.”
A son? Whose son? Could that really be their baby? Yuna panted as she caught her breath, then gave a shaky laugh. “No wonder he took so long coming out. Look at him, Jin.”
Jin blinked at the squawking bundle in Keiko’s arms. The umbilical cord was still connected to its belly; he could almost see it pulsing. He took in the baby’s wrinkled fingers and toes and puffy pink face with blood smeared on one cheek, a tiny pink tongue inside a contorted mouth. This poor creature was utterly helpless. It made Jin want to look away. From his own child…Self-disgust rankled like bile in his throat.
“Well done, Yuna,” Jin said at last, mastering himself, glad at least that Yuna could not see his face. He pressed his lips to her temple. The familiar smell of her skin, her hair provided a moment’s reassurance: Yuna was still here. She would not be leaving him yet. Death had passed them by once again.
Keiko cut the cord with a special knife she had brought for the occasion and continued fussing over the child. In the meantime, Jin busied himself with Yuna despite her protestations that she was “fine” and “didn’t need any coddling.”
“You cared for me many times,” Jin said as he wet a clean linen cloth and held it to her forehead. “Let me care for you.”
“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” she said, before wincing and holding her stomach.
“What’s wrong?”
“Another pain.”
“Ah, the afterbirth,” Keiko said. “Master Jin, please hold the child while I help the mistress.”
“Of course,” Jin replied, hoping that his voice did not betray the inexplicable trepidation that had come upon him so suddenly. He received the grizzling bundle dutifully. Now that it was cleaned off, it looked more like a baby and less like angry red meat. Its unsteady head wiggled back and forth, no doubt looking for a breast to suckle on. The nails on each finger were perfectly formed tiny ovals. The large eyes, which had been swollen shut, now opened slightly. Jin gently touched his thumb to the child’s right cheek. His skin was delicate and warm, covered with light down. The fine black hair on his head had begun to dry and seemed to stick straight up.
“He looks like you,” Yuna said, watching him with liquid eyes while Keiko poked and prodded her.
“Really?” Jin could make out no resemblance to his or anyone’s features in the little red face before him. He wondered if he had looked like this when he was born. What had Kazumasa Sakai thought, looking at his newborn heir? Had his father even been at home when he was born? Likely, he had been away at Castle Kaneda or even on the mainland. He may not have even seen Jin until he was several months old. A strange pity overwhelmed him then, looking down at his little son. Was it for the baby he held, or for himself?
Yuna delivered the afterbirth in short order and began to nurse the child. Jin stayed close by, unwilling to leave them yet unsure how to occupy himself. He sat next to Yuna and watched as she fed their son. A tiny hand curled into a fist against her breast.
Jin had not often seen women nurse their own children. According to the fashion of the mainland, most of the samurai children he knew growing up had been nursed by menoto rather than their birth mothers. Jin was one of the few exceptions. His mother had insisted on nursing him herself, Yuriko had told him.
“My lady didn’t care about the fashion,” Yuriko had said fondly of her late mistress. “She said she simply wanted to feed her sweet little son.”
Jin wondered what his father had thought of that. He had his suspicions.
“What does that feel like?” Jin asked, nodding toward the baby.
“It feels like someone is sucking on my tit,” Yuna said with a weary grin. Jin huffed a laugh through his nose.
At length, Jin’s exhaustion finally began to catch up with him. No longer able to resist its call, he stretched out on a mat and fell asleep immediately. In his dream, he was a boy again at the Sakai estate. The house was empty. Jin was utterly alone. He ran from room to room on little legs, calling out. Where were his mother’s sweet voice and soft hands? Where were Yuriko’s teasing words and kind face? The identical halls and rooms twisted and turned into an endless labyrinth. He scrambled for a way out and found none. Tall shadows began to rise on all sides. Demons. Hungry ghosts preparing to devour him. Spikes grew from either side of their heads, and they rattled menacingly as they stalked the halls, like bamboo stalks in a storm. Jin stood frozen, too frightened to scream. Somewhere far off, a door to a lush green garden opened, and a woman’s voice called gently to him….
Jin started up from the mat with a jerk.
“Jin,” Yuna called to him from where she sat holding the baby, her voice more tender than usual. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” he said, embarrassed. Had he been crying out in his sleep? With a frown, he rose from the mat and settled himself next to Yuna. He touched her cheek lightly with the calloused pad of his thumb. “I should be asking you that. I’m sorry.”
“I’m just tired. Need to rest,” Yuna said. She looked down at the little bundle in her arms. Jin followed her gaze and felt the echoes of those first unmooring shocks all over again. Could that tiny stranger really be his son? Could he really be a father?
“Will you take him while I nap? Keiko says I’ll need to feed him again in another hour or two.”
Jin took their son gingerly into his arms. He was wide awake now: his large, slate-colored eyes seemed to stare at everything and nothing. His little grunts and sniffles tugged at something in Jin’s chest.
“What should I do if he starts crying?”
Yuna gave him a look of fond exasperation. Jin often saw this expression of hers when she thought he was being too fastidious about something—his clothes, his katana. It was often accompanied by Yuna playfully calling him “Lord Sakai” and giving him a mock bow. This time, she restrained herself.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
When Jin blinked at her, she sighed. “Just hold him close. All he needs is to be close to you.”
Jin wanted nothing more than for Yuna to rest, but he couldn’t help but feel at a loss. He carried the baby around the house aimlessly for a while, growing accustomed to the warm weight of his child in his arms. Just hold him close. Jin took his son’s tiny hand gently between his thumb and index finger. The baby’s pink fingers grasped his thumb with more strength than Jin would have expected.
“You have a good grip,” Jin said. The boy pursed his lips and rolled his eyes, his little forehead wrinkling in a way that resembled the mischievous monkeys that prowl the shores of Iki.
Night must have fallen while Jin slept. The crickets had struck up their song in the forest. He slid open the shoji and glanced out into the garden. It was warmer than he thought it would be. Spring had come early. Off in the distance, a cuckoo sang its wistful evening song.
“Shall we take a walk, little monkey?” Jin asked, and stepped out into the evening. A cool breeze rustled a stand of bamboo nearby, and the steady chirp of frogs from a distant pond was its musical accompaniment. The little boy squirmed in Jin’s arms, his face scrunched.
“Are you cold?” All he needs is to be close to you. Jin opened the top of his kimono and tucked the baby inside against his skin, holding him steady with his right hand cupping his head. “There. That’s better, isn’t it? Just don’t piss on me, please.”
They walked out to the edge of the forest, where the chirping was loudest. A tinkling stream added itself to the nighttime chorus of sounds. Jin stood there and listened for a long time, feeling a tiny heartbeat next to his. He wondered if the baby was sleeping but didn’t dare disturb him by checking. Instead, he brought his lips to the velvety black fuzz on the baby’s head and inhaled his scent.
“What will we name you? I never thought I would be naming a child…my child. My son.” As he spoke, Jin wondered if the vibration of his voice against the whole of this little being reminded him of the womb, when Yuna’s voice surrounded him. Was Jin’s own voice mingled in there, too, all those months? Was it familiar?
“My mother named me. She and father disagreed, but she got her way, in the end. Perhaps Yuna—your mother, I mean—should do the honors. We’ll make it a family tradition.”
Tradition. The word made Jin want to laugh. What was traditional about his life now? He had married a thief and had a child with her. What would Lord Shimura say about that?
Jin could just see his uncle’s disappointed, reprimanding gaze. Your behavior is unfitting for a man I would have called my son. Your station in life tarnishes the names of Shimura and Sakai. In Jin’s mind, his uncle firmly grasped his shoulder, his eyes full of censure and concern in equal measure.
What kind of life will you have to offer your son?
Jin started at a sudden rustle of leaves and branches from the forest edge. He held the baby to his chest in a defensive posture, already thinking how he could throttle whoever had burst in on them and cursing himself for not bringing his katana. To his relief, rather than a shogun’s assassin, a hind and her fawn stepped out into the moonlight a short distance away. The white spots on their backs mimicked the play of the pale light against the young leaves.
“Look,” Jin whispered as relief washed over him, “we have visitors.” At the sound of his voice, the hind lifted her head and stood stock still. She gave a warning snort, but did not run. The two parents stared at each other, their respective offspring unconcerned.
“It’s alright. We’re friends.” The hind blinked at him, then resumed her foraging. Her little one gamboled about in the brush.
“My mother and I used to sit with the deer,” Jin reminisced into the fresh night air. “Sometimes they would eat persimmons out of our hands. A pity I don’t have any fruit with me.”
Jin suddenly felt deeply and unaccountably sad that he had nothing to offer the deer. A strange tightness started in his throat.
“I wish mother were here. I wish she could meet you, little one. She could tell me what to do. She would help me to be a good father.”
The breeze picked up then, and the chorus of frogs and crickets rose to a gradual crescendo. Gingerly, the hind picked her way toward them on spindly legs, her fawn close behind. Jin stretched out his left hand and cradled his son’s head in his right. The doe cautiously sniffed his fingers, her cold, wet nose barely grazing his fingertips. Jin held his breath. She then pressed her furry head lightly against Jin’s palm.
Jin felt that familiar sense of grounding that animals had always given him. He released his breath shakily and rubbed the deer’s head.
"Deer are messengers of the kami,” Jin whispered against his son’s downy head. “Perhaps they are telling us something.”
A moment from Jin’s dream flashed in his memory: a door opened into a luxuriant green garden. A woman’s voice called to him. His mother’s…
I will always be with you, Jin.
*
While Jin meditated the next morning, the usual silence of his routine was punctuated by intermittent little cacophonies: the baby’s reedy cries, Yuna’s gentle shushing, Keiko’s creaking advice and admonitions. Though distracting at first, they eventually became a pleasant background to the practiced emptying of his mind, not unlike the trickling of a stream or bird song. He became so used to the noise that a rare stretch of silence caused him to open his eyes. Yuna stood in the doorway, the child now quiet in her arms. Dark circles stood out under her eyes, but her gaze held that same keen warmth that he loved. She stepped over to him and settled herself beside him.
“You know, Jin, I used to think I’d never seen you truly frightened. Until yesterday.”
Jin didn’t need to ask what she meant. Guilt clenched in his gut. He had hoped she had not noticed.
“When you first held him I worried you were going to run for the hills.”
“I’m ashamed to admit it, but…I was terrified,” Jin said.
“Of what? That he would die? There’s no reason to be ashamed—”
“No,” Jin grimaced. “It wasn’t that. I think—I think he reminded me of myself. As a child.”
“Oh.” Yuna looked down at the boy, then back up at Jin. A question glinted in her eyes, but she knew him well enough to wait for him to speak.
“I was…weak. Or at least that’s what my father thought. Soft. I heard him say so, once, though he thought I could not hear. I tried so hard to be the son he wanted. And then Lord Shimura….,” Jin swallowed, shook his head. “I don’t want our son to go through what I went through.”
Jin glanced at the boy. He was fast asleep, his little head resting on Yuna’s chest.
“Last night, I thought about what you said. Just hold him close.” Jin frowned in thought. “One of my fathers was never close to me. The other loved me and tried his best, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. I was convinced that I failed them. But…”
“But they failed you,” Yuna said, completing his thought.
Jin tucked his chin in a nod. Then, he held out his hands in an unmistakable gesture: Give me my son. Yuna placed the boy gingerly in his arms. As Jin looked down at him, he realized that there was a small resemblance between the two of them after all: something in the shape of the eyes, the lips. The boy had already changed so much in just a few hours. Who could tell what he would be like in the weeks, the months, the years to come?
“I won’t be like either of them. I will do things another way. My way.”
The words had the ring of truth and the solemnity of a vow.
“I know you will,” Yuna said.
Jin cradled the boy to his chest and breathed in his sweet scent.
“Have you given any thought to his name?” he asked.
“I thought we could name him after Kenji.”
Jin blinked at her.
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all,” Yuna replied in a grave tone. “He’s a loyal friend who has seen us through terrible times.”
Jin stared, mouth opening and closing, trying to figure out how to say you will not name my child that under any circumstances, until Yuna had mercy on him and burst into laughter, holding her sore belly.
“Your face! You look like a koi.”
“That’s not funny,” Jin said, even as the trace of a relieved smile graced his lips.
Yuna’s laughter subsided, and she peeked over Jin’s shoulder at the little one. Her expression grew thoughtful.
“Even over all these months, I haven’t seriously thought about a name. Having a child…a family…I never thought I would end up here. And now, after everything we’ve been through, we have baby names to think of. It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Very strange.” Jin took his son’s little hand in his. As before, his fingers reflexively grasped Jin’s thumb. Here I am, he seemed to say. I’m alive. Because of you. Please don’t fail me now.
“I will always be with you,” Jin whispered. Yuna smiled and left them to prepare tea. Outside, a spring breeze stirred the buds and young leaves: a new world waiting to burst into flower.