The Children of Nihon (BOOK TWO)

Chapter 6 - The Boy with the Magical Hands

The boy had come as an apprentice to the mask makers when he had been three years old. That had been ten years ago, he reckoned and shrugged. He cared little about time, about years, about the seasons, and even about the world outside of the brothers' dwellings.

What he cared about was the workshop, the tools, the craft. He cared about the masks, and when he was told that he had to leave, that he had to go with the suspiciously friendly woman who called herself Mother, and the dark and scary man who was called Master Zbgi, and two girls named Orì and Sofia, his first and only question had been if he was allowed to take the mask he was working on with him.

His wish was granted, and he walked over to his work station like an automaton. It was impossible to read his true feelings through the stiffness of his movements. Brother Nunne told him that he could take whatever he wanted, and he carefully packed up his tools and his color set in addition to the unfinished mask. Then he stood there, waiting until Mother told him to go with Orì and Sofia, since she and Master Zbgi still had business with the brothers.

He didn't question that he had to depart from the only home he could remember, didn't put up a fight. At first, Sofia had found this strange, even suspicious. Then she had to admit to herself that it was probably the smart choice.

Orì seemed excited. On the way back to the caravan, she plastered the boy with questions that he answered dutifully, but with as few words as possible.

His name was Ami, he said. The name had been given to him when he had first come to the brothers. He couldn't, or wouldn't, recall his previous name, and Orì didn't seem that intrigued by it. Again, Sofia felt like this was not an unusual occurrence in Nihon.

Give up your name, give up your face, give up your body. How soon until one gave up one's thoughts, one's feelings?

And where did they go? Was there somebody collecting the realness that people left behind? Or did it vanish as soon as the last of it was forgotten?

Sofia kept staring at Ami's hands. She had noticed that the hands of the other apprentices had shown traces of the work they did. Their nails had been lined with dirt, their skin had been covered with scratches and burns. They had looked rough, and usually older than the person they had belonged to. But not so Ami's hands. They were smooth and unblemished. His nails were clean and filed short. There were no scratches or sores anywhere.

"Are these really your hands?" she blurted out suddenly.

Orì giggled.

"Yes," Ami said simply.

Sofia eyed him suspiciously.

"Sofia doesn't trust anybody," Orì explained and rolled her eyes.

"With good reason," Sofia replied.

"My hands obey me," Ami said. "It has always been like that. And I would not do anything to hurt them. In a manner of speaking, they are my most valuable possession."

It was the longest he had spoken so far.

He had said goodbye to the brothers in a polite fashion, only a slight tremble in his lips betraying any emotion. Then he had gone with Orà and Sofia, and had remained quiet until Orì had started throwing her questions at him. Where did he come from, how old was he, how high did his control go. Understanding the new hierarchy, he had simply conformed to it.

"Why didn't you -," Sofia started. She didn't know how to phrase exactly what she meant and fell silent, but Ami seemed to intuit what she wanted to ask.

"I did not want to make trouble."

"But they took you from your home."

"It was not my home."