Nightfall came. A large scaffold was built where Oda and his commanders would sit to look down on the pallet where the play would be made. Torches are placed at the sides of the rectangular set, made white by a long piece of thick fabric. At the sides, people were agglomerating, soldiers, and townsfolk. At the very end a scenario with a large picture of fields, mountains, and a cherry tree where the scene unfolds, and where the musicians sit, wearing white kimonos so the sword maiden would be seen. Two actors, a man, and a woman, appeared from behind the scenario and slowly rested in the pallet laying there, inert.
Miko solemnly stepped on the stairs. She wore a simple grey kimono. Every eye was looking at her as she placed in the center slowly.
The Japanese violin started, and silence was imposed. She walked towards the bodies of her parents and kneeled beside them. Holding her father's face to her chest, she screamed. The tears were real, and so was the feeling that haunted her for many years ago, when she came back to an empty house and bodies scattered along the plowing field.
Now she was standing up, with black makeup running through her cheeks lending out a cry of hate, of defiance. With a movement, the gray kimono fell off, revealing a snow white one below, starting to dance, spinning with horizontal circles with her arms extended, making the long sleeves of the impeccable kimono seem like flying. Miko stopped in the middle of the runway reaching with her arm towards her with a fiery, broken face towards the dazzled face of Oda.
Miko launched herself back sliding on the floor, as if being defeated by the fiery practice of her own hate. No one realized how, because everyone was looking at the maiden, but there was a sword on the runway, which she took, making yet again the former exercise elegantly as if floating. At some point, she wept her tears and now she was looking confident with a sharp smile. The smile she learned in her ambition to become a geisha, even while scrubbing the floors of the okiya. The punishments for not keeping composure, from swearing, from gossiping. Painfully shaped her into a piece of art for everyone to behold as they are now.
A dragon appeared in the scenario. It spitted red sheets of fabric. Miko turned on her all-white form, but she was no longer that canvas anymore. With a movement, she became the poisonous flower in a black background kimono, and she went towards the monster, spinning furiously on her right feet ball while she parried the dragon fire with her sword. The Japanese guitar went stepping mad the notes as she danced every quick step, dodging the flames side to side until she stood still, and the music went silent.
As the play was coming to an end, the weight of her sacrifice was gripping her heart. She knew she had captured Oda’s attention and all of his army.
Miko was panting, her long black hair sliding on her face. The sword maiden knew there was no way to come near the monster without paying with her own life. All of town was filled with her warcry as she spun towards the creature until she dug her sword into its mouth while in turn being covered completely on a red silk sheet. With a grumble of agony, she fell on her back as the red fabric covered her except for her right arm, where she held the sword still.
As the silence became deafening, she let go. The metallic sound of the sword hitting the ground marks the death of the sword maiden. The beast laid on its side, inert.
Nobunaga was the first to come to his feet, clapping his hands. Everyone followed his example cheering Miko.
People dressed in black covered her body completely on the red sheet, taking her backstage. Mother was there, waiting, and as they gently dropped her on her feet, Miko embraced her letting out bitter tears of years of unresolved pain. Mother held her tight. She did what had to be done and lifted the spirits of hundreds of people still cheering. They just knew nothing cruel would happen that night to any child.
Images from pixabay
@marilour
