The Girl from the Well

“I know. Mom probably said the same thing.” There is no longer any anger or fear in his voice when Tarquin refers to his dead mother.

But the National Cherry Blossom Festival viewing takes a backseat to what they call the National Cherry Blossom Festival Parade. Dancers (sixty) litter the streets, holding various symbols and representations of sakura blossoms (sixty) over their heads as they prance down the street. Floats of differing sizes and shapes sail past the onlookers, thirty-nine in all, and giant helium balloons (twenty-eight) soar overhead, blocking out snippets of sky as they pass. Marching bands (fifteen) wail out an accompaniment, one of the many sources of entertainment to the crowds that pack the roads, nearly three thousand on this street alone.

Callie and the Halloways spend several minutes watching the parade before deciding to slip away. Though the parade is pleasing to the eyes, none of them are comfortable in the thick of crowds, and they retreat to lesser populated areas where vendors (twenty) hawk Japanese delicacies to mark the occasion.

There are signs here that say “12th Street” and “Pennsylvania Avenue,” and between them lies the Sakura Matsuri, the Japanese Street Festival. The three pay the required fee to enter and wander among the small stalls. Most of the people are watching seven martial arts experts practice their respective disciplines. There are three stages in the six blocks allocated for the festival, which will soon host a vast number of performances by musicians and singers. Tarquin’s father purchases takoyaki balls for them, and for several minutes they stand, watching and chatting and taking in the scenes set before them.

“We should do stuff like this more often,” Tarquin muses, several hours later. His father had wandered off to haggle with a nearby vendor for a small replica of a samurai sword. Dusk is beginning to settle, but the crowds are as thick as ever, awaiting the fireworks set to begin in another hour’s time.

“College has been tough,” Callie admits, “but I should be free for the summer.”

Tarquin makes a face. “Isn’t summer when you college students go to beaches and drink beer and post your little duckface photos on Facebook?”

Callie knew she should disapprove but laughs instead. “I think someone’s going to need to talk with your father about the kind of things you’ve been watching.”

Tarquin is about to make another retort but then falls silent as they pass a small stall that sells different varieties of Japanese dolls, from ichimatsu to musha ningyo warrior dolls to small Noh figures. Callie follows his gaze and understands, her fingers idly drifting back to her scar, as still is her habit.

“Did you ever hear news from Kagura-chan?” Tarquin asks suddenly.

“She and her aunt moved to Honshu, and they’re running a small inn there. She and Saya go to the Chinsei shrine every now and then to put things in order and clean up. I guess there are too many painful memories there for them to stay long. Has she contacted you?”

“Once,” Tarquin says. “Dad and I took another trip to Japan a couple of months ago. Even stayed at their bed-and-breakfast for a few weeks.”

“Really? What—”

A roar fills the air. Two combatants fight each other with large kendo sticks, their faces encased in odd steel masks. The speed and ferocity in the way they attack, and the agility with which they dodge blows by their opponent, draw hearty applause from nearby onlookers.

“The dolls will need a lot of tending,” Tarquin says suddenly, after the audience has quieted. “That’s what Kagura says. They say they can’t have any more spirits breaking out.”