Kanataki, the tallest of the samurai, brushed past Sasaki, instantly making her feel tiny against his height, and guided her down the tight hall, stopping at the very end and turning swiftly to the left. Sasaki gingerly stepped closer and peered under Kanataki’s arm as he thrust open the fusuma, or doors. It gave in to his great strength and slid to the sides with a great clack! Sasaki held her breath and let it out in awe as the room was revealed.
Just as she had read about in mangas and dreamed about at night, her residence was set up in the same washitsu, or Japanese-style, as the rest of the house, but hers was different. The tatami, or straw mats, that made up the floor were rectangular, long, and lavender. The wood upon the walls had been stained the same shade to match. No longer being able to hold back her excitement, Sasaki slipped into the pastel paradise, her mouth frozen into a gleeful, open smile. Her bare toes touched the tatami and, to her surprise, the mats weren’t as itchy as she had imagined straw to be. It had a foreign texture, much stranger than any carpet or wood she had experienced, but it was subtle enough to be easily disregarded.
The heels of her feet thumped against the floor as she spun around, taking in every bit of the chilly room. On her right was a sliding door, or shoji, and on either side of that was floor lamps nearly as tall as herself, covered with the same washi, or rice paper, that made up the doors. Sasaki let a laugh of surprise escape when she saw the white, boxy television she had stood next to not a minute ago. It sat proudly atop a purple dresser, a few feet from a lazy violet beanbag, only big enough for someone of her size. Kanataki shrugged and smiled as she glanced at him for confirmation that all this was real.
Sasaki found her bed across the room, an unrolled futon with a white dresser, identical to the purple one across the room, at its head. She giggled at the purple-maned, white-coated stuffed unicorn that sat upon it, a charming aspect to the already impressive set-up. Kanataki explained that her wardrobe, such as her obi, kimonos, and, if weather permitted, yukatas, were to be folded and stored in the drawers as Sasaki marveled at the army of kokeshi dolls on a purple case at the foot of her futon. She moved up the case shelf by shelf, examining first a row of exquisitely antique vases, next a space with a single bowl, and finally the top shelf, filled to the brink with various books and journals. She picked out a particularly old book that smelt of bitter tea and sweet, cooling mint leaves and, after involuntarily brushing off non-existent dust (the room, in whole, lacked a great deal of dust), opened it.
Kanataki stood over her shoulder, seeming amused as she flipped through the rough papers, each one filled with strange characters she deemed to be intricate kanji. She brushed her fingers over a collection of them, the ink smooth and silky, the page rough and unforgiving. Kanataki explained it was a few excerpts from the bushido, or the rules for samurai. The book had been passed down from Sensei to Usami, who fretted over it, jotting down notes wherever he could, and it had subsequently been passed to Sasaki.
“The scent of tea comes from Usami. He stayed up late trying to study this. As for the mint,” he winked, “that would be Sensei. He likes his incense almost as much as he likes his rice.”
Sasaki agreed that she had noticed a predominant scent she could only, with her limited horticulture knowledge, describe as “sweet flowers, perhaps after a fresh morning dew”. At this, Kanataki’s smile grew wider.
Shutting the book with a forceful clap! and inhaling a strong intake of minty tea, Sasaki placed the worn-out book back on her purple shelf and moved to the last part of the unexplored room, the plush, purple sofa-chair with flowing pink and purple sheets cascading over it in a canopy, reminding her of a serene waterfall. A table sat in front of the chair with a modern, pink, circular lamp occupying its top. She was just feeling the warmth radiate from the pastel hanging candle holders on either side of the canopy when Kanataki opened the set of shoji behind her. She was immediately greeted by an unwelcomed nip of cold mountain air and the sound of skylarks and wagtails warbling. Although the peacefulness of birds calling and no other noise interrupting them was fascinating and calming all at the same time, Sasaki opened her mouth to scorn the samurai for letting in harsh cold air, but Kanataki held up his hand.
“Before we go further,” Kanataki began, then bowed at a perfect forty-five degree angle, as stiff and straight as a katana. Sasaki quickly dove into a bow, ransacking her mind to find the words to communicate “nice to meet you”:
“D-Doo-zu your-oh-shka!” she stammered. They straightened and Kanataki corrected her politely.
“Douzo yoroshiku onegaishimasu.” he said, his voice rich and smooth. He brushed copper strands of hair away from his deeply-tanned face. Sasaki self-consciously removed red hairs from her own freckled cheeks as Kanataki extended a single, long arm.
“Shall we explore the exterior?”