Fox and Sparrow by Ginger Breo

Chapter 1

The Night of the Fox

Suzume was only four years old, but she remembered every detail about that December night. Grandfather had shown her a book once, years later, and the book had been filled with pictures that he called woodprints. He'd explained that someone had carved the pictures painstakingly in a block of wood with little tools, capturing all the curves and shadows and miniscule details before coating it in ink and stamping it onto a piece of paper. Suzume had not believed that part. No one would use paper for that; it was too valuable. But Grandfather had insisted, and she had realized then that the December night in her memory—the one that had unmade her as one thing and remade her into another—she had carved it into a wood block for herself. Her tools had been crude at the time but she had refined them over the years, and now each detail of that night stood out in sharp relief. But she did not need to roll ink over it. Fox-Night needed no ink in her mind. She made the print in blood.

They had been staying in the little ground-floor shop for nearly a week, and Father had covered the broken windows in front with a dirty blue tarp that kept out the snow and the wind. Suzume had found a wrapper ground into the floor the first night there and held it up to Mother, asking what it said; she could not read much yet, though Mother was trying to teach her. "It says 'Sweet Bean,' " Mother replied, smiling. Mother always smiled. Father would make faces to make them laugh and Suzume would giggle, but Mother always smiled. She put her arms around Suzume while Father tacked up the tarp to secure their new home. "I think I'll call you 'Sweet Bean,' " she said, and Suzume laughed.

"No! I like 'Sparrow'! I'm a little sparrow!" Mother tickled her and she laughed, and Father started singing a song about a rice farmer and his silly dog. Suzume sang along in her little voice and stuffed the wrapper in her pocket. It had been a sweet shop once, Mother said. A long time ago.

Suzume did not remember everything about that week. She remembered moments now, tiny fragments of moments, like illustrations cut out of one of Grandfather's books without the words to go along: Father tucking her into her sleeping sack, pulling her knitted cap down, down, over her eyes, sticking his tongue out when she pulled it back up; Mother braiding her hair while Father made soup over the little stove; their friend Hama bringing them tea and wishing them a bright Midwinter. Hama was one of the travelers, like them, and no matter where Suzume and Mother and Father went, she always seemed to find them, and she always brought something good. The tea was good: pale green and grainy, bitter and frothy and sharp and hot. Mother blew on it and Suzume wrapped her fingers around the bowl, warming them from the draft of Hama's arrival. She remembered the talk Hama had with Father perfectly, though her four-year-old brain did not understand much of it; it was one of the few things besides the Fox-Night that she did recall with clarity, even years later.

"Jiro, I think you ought to move on soon." Hama said it quietly; they didn't want her to hear, but Suzume had excellent ears for things she wasn't supposed to be listening to. Mother blew on the tea, and Suzume listened. "The oni hit Noppara. I was just there." Father looked upset and took her hands, and Mother stopped blowing on the tea to look over. She made a little sound in the back of her throat, a sad sound, like a dying bird.

"Everyone?" Mother asked.

Hama nodded. "Everyone. I'm moving on, over the river. I've been—Tana and I have been considering Kyoto."

Father shook his head. "With the slums and the crime? Hama."

"The White Hand protect! That's what I hear!"

"The White Hand are just as bad," Father said. "Maybe worse. I'll take a demon over stinking Yakuza any day."

"Jiro!" Mother said, her voice sharp and angry. It was as if Suzume had been the one to say it then, for they all seemed to remember her at the same time. She knew they would stop talking now, and she was right; Father embraced the old woman and sent her on her way, promising they would not stay much longer. The cold air whistled around him until he pushed the crate in front of the doorway again and came over to sit with Mother and Suzume. "Oni this close?" Mother said, low.