By: Michael Haase
Middle school–a term most often bringing to mind unpleasant memories of adolescence. For many, it is the intermediate point in a person’s education; for all, it is a transitioning point, a time between childhood and maturity; a period of conflicting thoughts, feelings, and transformations; an age of hormonal fluctuation and indecision, where one’s feeling of control seems to be irremediably slipping away; an age when “attendance” didn’t just mean being present but also being intact.
It was just past midday and students were beginning to fill the classrooms. Teachers were fuddling with papers on their desks while the murmur of chattering students gradually swelled, chins flapping and mouths yapping inaudibly and unintelligibly, just for chattering’s sake; just to ease the latent tension hovering about the room.
The bell rang and roll call began. Students rose one-by one, calling eagerly to confirm their attendance, but while their voices seemed firm and confident, they concealed falsehood, for these students attended merely in a physical sense, while their minds drifted far away.
Komaru was not sitting in a steamy classroom in Southern California, but standing in a clearing surrounded by cherry-blossoms, a red pagoda, shining in the distance, with a snow-capped mountain far in the background, veiled by a cloud of cool vapor. Komaru was not alone, for directly opposite him stood his mortal enemy, a villain, poised and bedecked in steel armor. It was night and the light of the moon flickered between the clouds, shimmering upon the armor’s metal. Komaru’s rival met him with a ferocious glare. Yoshi!* Jōtō da! They unsheathed their swords and prepared to chase the hours away in battle. Their weapons sliced apart mundane reality and tore into the shell of physical existence.
The bell rang once more and the classroom transmuted into an outward flowing body of bobbing heads, but while Komaru was caught up in the surging flow, his imagination persisted and he was alone in his world.
It diverged, and no sooner was he outside than he was leaping across roofs, stealthily dashing across bamboo tiling, his Totoro backpack jostling quietly behind him. He was a ninja, the discreet assassin, navigating the shadowy corners of his creative mind. The time was favorable and the mission had Komaru too withdrawn in solemn thought to notice the derisive looks and gestures made towards him.
Kamaitachi! Kesshite hirumanai yo! Komaru stirred up a whirlwind of sand in his wake as he sprinted across the patio. A trail of sedimentary particles floated between him and the rest of the world. They glided in the wind, hovering languidly, minute and isolated, like heavenly bodies spinning together in a nebulous galaxy. They sparkled in the sunlight like twinkling stars. Komaru jumped with agility down a pair of steps, brushing past a palm tree turned torii, and passing through sliding doors, descending deeper into the labyrinth of his imagination. He certainly cut a strange figure in the eyes of others, dressed as he was in his Tokyo Ghoul hoodie, his backpack heavily adorned with pins depicting various creatures from Pokémon, and an authentic, metal Leaf Village headband wrapped about his forehead, his hair jutting out, flaxen and disheveled as a haystack, but whatever others may have thought, Komaru took little notice; he lived in a daydream worlds apart from them, though sheltered only by a barrier as thin as silk. I no naka no kaeru taikai wo shirazu.
Lunches Komaru habitually spent with his friend, Yuuto, from whom he received his sobriquet. “Doushite itsumo komarumitai?” he would say. “Why do you always look so troubled?” Although Komaru normally kept a distracted air about him, one could not deny there was also a sense of nervousness in his person – a slight, almost imperceptible jitter in his movements and a constant stutter in his voice.
Komaru had many questions for his friend, but Yuuto had neither the will nor potential to articulate a response. Yuuto assumed a modest and silent bearing, feigning ignorance, a solution reserved for those challenged by the intricacies of language. Over time, Komaru gave up his inquiries and settled into reluctant reticence. Thus, they sat in relative quiet, battling one another on their hand-held devices, apparently disconnected from each other but in fact engaged through an artificial apparatus. A passing spectator would not have called them intimate, would not have seen any form of contact between them, and may have said they seemed oceans apart, divided by a partition of mute restraint, neither speaking nor looking in the other’s direction, not even sitting close together, showing harmony in neither their expressions nor interjections. And yet, despite these circumstances, they were nevertheless linked by a channel of artificial images and sounds. They inhabited the bodies of fictional personae and interacted in a world with room for personal shortcomings.
The bell again sounded, and, distracted by their games, their bodies followed the movements they saw from the corners of their eyes while their minds fell behind, slowly sinking back into reality. Momentarily stunned by the brightness of natural light, they stumbled forward, following separate paths among the hordes of migrating bodies. Lunch was over, the game was put aside, and the challenge of killing time once again presented itself. How difficult it was to alter the rotation of the Earth with mere willpower! How hopeless it was to struggle against time itself, armed with thoughts alone! Like many before him, Komaru strove to penetrate the vast emptiness of existence, to overcome the toil of life. Gukou yama o utsusu.
Eventually, day progressed and the sun descended. Soon, Komaru found himself on the bus heading home. Along the way, as the amber hues of sunlight cascaded along the horizon, apparitions would begin to arise in every nook and cranny. Migoto! Outside, he could see nine-tailed foxes gamboling in the bushes that travelled past and long-nosed, purple tengus flying through the air. Fantastic battles arose; gallant soldiers pitted against ferocious beast in dire combat. Arrows whizzed across the sky and steel blades gleamed in the sun. Meiyo to seigi no tame no tatakai! Cars driving by transformed into metal ogres with hooved feet and the faces of ancestral spirits could be marked out in the clouds above. The bus was like a transdimensional portal that carried Komaru to a mythical world where he could look towards the window and watch his reflection in the glass fade as his phantasmal imagination superimposed itself. Stepping off the bus, he would look out into the landscape and be overcome with a wistful feeling. How sweet it was for Komaru to see the setting sun, just beyond the hill, with the flavor of the supernatural still on the tip of his tongue! In times to come, much of this period in his life would become nothing more than a vague memory.
As Komaru approached his house he passed underneath the gate archway and walked across the front porch. He spent some time fumbling with the keys before finally opening the front door and stepping inside. He could hear the voices of his parents echoing from the kitchen and began to feel a sudden apprehension.
Komaru stepped meekly into the kitchen.
“Hi, Luuk. How was school?” his father asked.
Komaru was hesitant, drilling the lacquered floor with his gaze. He shrugged. “Alright.”
“Alright…” there was a momentary silence, as his father considered how to continue. His mother looked at him with concern.
“Could we talk to you briefly about something?” she asked. The question was rhetorical; Komaru knew he would have to agree.
“Okay.” Hai.
His father held a paper in his hand.
“We’ve just gotten your grade report in the mail, and to be honest, we’re not very pleased with it.”
Otto! Idaina tōsō wa chikadzuite imasu!
“C in Biology, C in Algebra, and—An F in English! Are you not doing the assigned readings?”
Komaru inhaled deeply and shifted his gaze around the room. He began to remark on details he never took notice of before.
His father’s voice abruptly took on a softer tone. “How could you let your grades drop like this?”
Another silence. Evidently, his parents were waiting for him to answer. His mother gave him a look of supplication. Despite their show of compassion, Komaru boiled with indignation. The fact of the matter was simply that his classes held no interest for him; therefore, he refused to participate. The factors of his life, such as the lessons of his education and his daily attendance at school, were thrown upon him. How could he be blamed if he took no interest in a life he never asked for?
A sharp response lingered in his throat but Komaru managed to swallow it down. He understood it was pointless to argue. They would go on lecturing, as a matter of course, and he would have to bear it all.
In times like these, he had a recourse to fall back on. He shifted his mind into auto-pilot, obscuring the sound of his parent’s voices into a muffled droning, like some sort of unintelligible language, and departed in spirit towards his imaginary world.
In no time at all he was back in his bedroom, already having forgotten the scene that just elapsed moments ago. His parents and his grade report were out of his mind entirely. Now he was engaged, body and soul, in a 30-minute Japanese cartoon. Colors projected from his laptop screen and danced upon the surface of his glasses. He laid in bed, snuggled underneath his Dragon Ball Z blanket, a Hatsune Miku body pillow folded under one arm. Pictures of pink and blue-haired schoolgirls gazed down at him from book bindings and posters on the wall. Smiling figurines looked in his direction, giving him their silent approval.
Oblivious to the world around him, Komaru dived into the digital sea of shapes and colors, immersing himself in a fictional universe. He found solace from the anxiety and confusion of his life in these short Japanese animations. He knew the characters and could comprehend their language, though he hardly knew any Japanese at all. He understood the story, for it was his own. Here was where he belonged, protected by family-values and child-friendly censorship ratings, free from the jeering and teasing he constantly avoided because his abundant weight and pimply complexion. Here he could be the one to watch, instead of being watched. Beyond this fantasy world, Komaru was only an outsider, a refugee. Here, in the offshoot of a country thousands of miles removed and only hazily conceptualized in his mind, yet more firmly and intimately bound to him, was he at home. The hearts of a countless people, the inhabitants of a nation invisible and intangible to him, showed him understanding when his compatriots did not. What tenderness has America ever shown him? What did heritage mean to an outcast? For Komaru, identity melted away in Japan’s open arms.
…
It was night and the light of the moon flickered between the clouds. Komaru’s parents went about the house turning on lights. From outside, the house bore a resemblance to the traditional Japanese tōrō. Beyond these lighted chambers, Komaru rode down a long and narrow path above a bottomless chasm. He strode atop a robust stallion, outfitted in traditional samurai armor. Sunlight shone magnificently off the polished scales of his suit and his helmet bore a fanciful golden, K-shaped crest. His pauldrons bore the heads of dragons and his beard hung down like a serpent. In his right hand, he wielded a steel Naginata and a wooden bow was slung around his shoulder.
An eerie misgiving assailed Komaru as he waded through the mist that encompassed him. The gravel footpath spread beyond the horizon and whiteness surrounded him entirely. All was silent except for the sound of his horse’s trot and his own breathing.
Suddenly, without warning, a knife jabbed out of the mist at his horse’s legs. The horse was so surprised he whinnied and lifted his forefeet into the air, narrowly dodging the attack. Kakugo! Denkousekka! Komaru was quick enough to wield his bow and fire a shot into the haze. Kaze no gotoku.
With satisfaction, he heard a cry of anguish coming from ahead. There was little time for self-admiration however, as another assailant slashed at him from behind. The strap of his backpack came apart. Komaru swung it around, hitting the attacker in his face. His body turned over and landed on the gravel. A single thrust of the spear had him lanced and tumbling down an abyss. But that was not the end. Everywhere he looked, Komary could see ghostly figures crawling up the sides of the cliff. He hastened his horse and sped down the path.
Much time passed before he reached his destination, a Shinto temple as red as wine and taller than the great Japanese Cryptomeria, Jōmon Sugi. The architecture was strange . Pipes and domed pavilions gave it the appearance of a living organ. The sliding doors opened with ease. The atmosphere here was serene and tranquil.
He stepped into the center of the room and kowtowed before a wizened man in a white garb. He sat motionless beside an altar adorned with calligraphic writing and burning incense. On top, rested a sheathed ōdachi blade in a jade-encrusted scabbard. His eyes were closed and his features gave him an aura of deep meditation.
Komaru quietly spoke.
“Sensei,” he said, “I came here as soon as I received your letter. What terrible matter was it that you mentioned in your letter? What is the meaning of this evil presence surrounding the land?”
The greying man simply replied with a “hmm”, and began to stroke his beard pensively.
Komaru bided patiently.
“A great trial is approaching.” a startling expression of anguish appeared on the man’s face. He turned and gazed determinately into Komaru’s eyes. He seemed to be searching for something there, and continued to stare for so long that Komaru began to worry. Some seconds passed this way before finally the man said to Komaru, “A darkness is sweeping through the country. It travels through the air unseen. Man and woman, elder and adolescent are changing from who they once were, becoming strange and unrecognizable. Deru kui wa utareru. Now they wander as pariahs, never again welcome to hearth of home. They long for distant places they’ve never known, for a gesture of charity which is never offered them. Their faces are painted with the sign of resignation. There is no longer hope for them.”
The old man’s face darkened. His features became exaggerated. His voice grew louder. “Tanjyou ka shi ga nai da. There is neither birth, nor death; only journeys. To perish is to depart for a new world. One must never mourn the past, for time will bring with it new happiness and memories. Ku areba raku ari. Time is as unceasing as the flow of rivers and the currents of the wind.”
Komaru observed his master with reverence, but uncertainty.
From the altar, the old man lifted the sword from its resting place and held it upright towards Komaru. This sword, Gedatsu, has been passed down in my family from generation after generation before finally coming into my possession. Now I’m entrusting it to you.
Komaru was taken aback. “I’m not worthy of such an honor, Sensei.”
“I have the faith that you are, my pupil.”
The old man placed his palm atop Komaru’s shoulder. Their eyes met, exchanging looks of confidence which dispelled any doubts. The old man’s eyes gave off a queer sheen.“The time has come for me to depart as well, my student. You have followed my teachings well and I am proud of you. I am certain you understand what lies ahead of you now.”
Komaru nodded in understanding.
Gedatsu passed between their hands. Komaru turned the scabbard over, admiring the artistry of its decoration. He positioned his footing, stood erect, and gave a deep bow. Unsheathing the blade, Komaru slid his fingers along the metal to feel its smoothness and turned it over to read the inscription on it. He was filled to the depths of his being with an intense sadness. His lips trembled and a tear glided along the edge of the blade.
Then, with an abrupt movement, the sword vanished from sight. His sensei folded over with a faint gasp and the two of remained inanimate, like permanent fixtures. At length, Komaru withdrew his sword and rested his master upon the ground. Another tear dropped, but no words were spoken. Not another sound was made.
His job wasn’t finished yet.
Gedatsu fell from Komaru’s hands and, slowly, he slipped into the paralyzing embrace of unconsciousness. Everything around him dissolved into a swirling entanglement of aery obscurity. As if gripped by a thousand spectral hands, Komaru was pulled into the unpredictable gravitation of dreams.. Komaru forgot himself, forgot everything around him, and sank into the comfort of ignorance.
Then, as abrupt as a light being switched off, he was swung into the morning sun, impaled by its penetrating rays. He felt a sharp sting in his eye, and as he rubbed it, he hastily tried to recall the visions of his dream, now faint like a long-forgotten memory.
Sitting upright in bed, Komaru could foresee the impending day as crisp as a newly developed photograph, and recoiled anxiously from it. He looked out his window and the world emerged before him in all its intimidating uncertainty, and meanwhile, so too arose a pitiful yearning for peaceful slumber. The obligations and tribulations of the day shrieked within Komaru’s mind.
Komaru’s Dragon Ball Z blanket laid wrinkled like a crumpled sheet of paper, and his Hatsune Miku pillow sat crushed beneath Komaru’s weight.
