Page 22 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“It’s amazing,” I whisper. I’m seeing firsthand the magic Otōsan always speaks about. I’m holding it. I’ve always felt the deer’s warmth, but never have I witnessed it glow or move. The deer and fox remain intertwined, half across my palm, half across Ren’s. They fit together perfectly. I raise my gaze to Ren. He watches with the same fascination. “Has yours ever done this before?”

“No,” he says. “It only nudges me. All I know is that it’s supposed to give me luck.”

“Are you keeping it for your father? The deer belongs to my father, so it isn’t mine, not yet. He was…” I haven’t directly told anyone what happened to Otōsan aside from faceless, uncaring officials at the FBI office. “He was arrested.”

“I’m sorry.” Ren’s voice is soft. “Mrs. Wozumi, the lady with the kids who shares our barrack—her husband was arrested, too. But I’ve heard some have been released to camps and reunited with their families. I’m sure your father will be soon.”

“I hope so. I need to get a letter mailed to him, at the very least. Mr. Boser, the officer you helped me get away from, took the letter I had. He hasn’t mailed it.”

“That guy’s a prick,” Ren says, and a dark, murderous expression crosses his eyes, as though he’d like to help Mr. Boser drop dead. I’m surprised he cares so much, and it touches me, deeply.

“He is.” My hand lowers slightly. The deer and fox detach. Both spring back and then lie silently in our palms. Slowly, I return my deer to my pocket. Ren’s hand lowers but he keeps holding his fox, his hand turning into a fist around it. “Was your father arrested? And was your sister’s husband taken away, too?”

A long moment of silence passes. I think Ren might not answer at all and shame comes over me. For all I know, his father has passed away. I’m about to apologize when he says in a quick breath, “No.” I’m not sure what he’s saying no to, but then he goes on. “My sister…isn’t married.” He speaks haltingly, as though he might stop at any moment. “And our dad…well, he left. He’s somewhere in Japan.”

I’m shocked, but I struggle not to show it. Ren’s face seems to have more hollows for shadows to collect than planes to reflect the light. An ache opens in me. “Maybe he will come back.”

Ren jerks as though he’s brushed against an open flame. He sucks in his breath, and I wish I could take it back. I’ve said something very wrong. I take a breath to apologize but he speaks before I can.

“That’s the thing. I keep thinking he will, no matter how hard I try. It’s so…stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” I slip my hand into my pocket and run my fingers over my deer. “When Otōsan was arrested, I kept waking up thinking he was still there with us. Every time our shop door opened, my heart would jump, certain he was home. I wanted it so badly that my mind tried to make it so. Every person coming in was him, at least for a moment.” My voice catches and I swallow. I think about my letter sitting in Mr. Boser’s desk drawer. “I never expected things to go the way they did.” My old life—the one with school, friends, homework, college applications, our shop, customers, sketching, the warmth of the print shop and our home—was mine only a month or so ago. I don’t understand where it went or why. “Do you think things will return back to the way they were soon?”

“I don’t know.” Ren sounds grim. “I’m not sure they can. Things like this…they change everything, you know? Show you what’s hiding in the corners. What’s in the walls.”

I want to protest. Everything had been perfect; it was just politics and the war that messed it all up. But I can’t believe it. Not anymore.

“The world is so…” I search for the right word. It comes easily. “Terrifying.”

“Yeah.” Ren agrees readily. “Yeah, it is. Doesn’t always seem to make sense, does it? Everyone seems broken, in one way or another.” His words flood out in a torrent, but his voice is clipped, short. I catch my breath. “We can’t hold all this pain, we just leak it all over everything, like blood, and no matter what you do—” He cuts himself off abruptly. “Sorry.” His voice alchemizes from clipped and short to regretful. “My sister has been having a hard pregnancy, and it makes me angry.”

I don’t know what to say, so impulsively I lean into him, tucking my head against his good shoulder. The stiffness in his voice is in his body, too. He’s so rigid that I can feel his muscles rising against his skin. I think he might pull away. But he doesn’t. Bit by bit, ever so slowly, his body relaxes against mine.

“So.” His voice is uneven. He takes a breath, starts again. “You mentioned not falling behind in school earlier. You still gonna try to graduate on time and all that?”

He’s directing the conversation away from himself. I wish, with everything in me, that I could reassure him. I wish I could somehow let him know it’s safe to share. Or at least, it’s safe to share with me. But I have a feeling he wouldn’t believe me, at least not right now.

“I had a course catalog and the application paperwork for UCLA before the evacuation happened. Mama wanted me to go to college to be a teacher, but that’s all on hold now…” I trail off. He waits patiently. “If I’m very honest, I wish I could go to art school.”

“You like to paint?”

“Sketch, actually. Mostly with pencils or charcoal, sometimes pastels.” Now I wonder what he’ll think. Maybe he’ll find it frivolous.

“Yeah? What do you like to draw?”

Heat rushes over my face. Drawing has always been my private art, shown only to Otōsan. It’s not practical, so our community doesn’t have much of a place for such a pursuit. Also, I can’t imagine what Ren would think of my subjects—yōkai monsters emerging from the ocean, vengeful, ethereal, powerful. But then, I think I trust Ren.

“Supernatural paraphernalia.” My face grows warmer. Supernatural paraphernalia? Good Lord. That makes it sound like I draw the goofy UFOs and Martians that you see in the Sunday comics, not epic lore drawn from my imagination. “I mean—Japanese mythological creatures. Gods, spirits, monsters…stuff like that.”

“So, you’re a monster keeper,” Ren says. Monster keeper. I like the title very much. “That’s pretty neat.”

“I draw them in the ocean.” I venture to tell him more.

“Why’s that?”

I’ve never tried to articulate this aspect of my art. It always flowed from my pencil without thought, crashing waves and slashing claws, hair trailing like kelp, translucent forms made from water, foam, and the ghostly gelatin of jellyfish. But Ren is listening so closely that I want to explain.

“I grew up going there. I think I’m drawn to its mystery. It’s an unsettled frontier—like space. I’ve always sensed there’s something inside it, hidden deep down. Something monstrous, wise, and old. Yōkai are mysteries, too. They are magical and otherworldly and not in a fanciful, fairy tale way. In a real way, like they are the core of the earth or the core of us or…I don’t know.”