The Mask Carver's Son by Alyson Richman Read Free Book Online

secured the combs with a few thin tortoiseshell pins. Mother’s long neck was exposed, white even before being powdered, as slender as a reed.
    Outside, the wind howled and the first snow of the season arrived. Snowflakes fell cold, pale, and ghostly, dusting the nearby mountain and the carved pigeons perched on the peaks of our house’s gables in a flurry of white. The braziers in the house swelled orange, and the shoji, if only for a moment, caught the beautiful flicker of the two women’s shadows stretched across parchment.
    “Etsuko,” Grandmother whispered, as she raised her hands over mother’s head and smoothed out the stray tendrils of hair, “Father has found a great man for you. He tells me that his carving is as fine as that of the great masters, that he has the promise to be the finest carver of this generation.”
    My mother sat squarely on a silk pillow, allowing her mother to prepare her as though she were a doll.
    “Do not be afraid of marriage. Learn now, and learn this early,” Grandmother continued, “you must not fight marriage or try to escape from it. Because in this life it is our destiny to be the wives of great men. Comfort yourself, as I did, that your future husband is in a position that commands respect. But Etsuko, never forget that a bond is shared among all women, regardless of class or fortune: our duty to our husbands is to give them a son. In this regard, I have failed your father. I have heard that once a woman gives birth to a son, she is finally free. The roles of the marriage reverse and she becomes the one with the power. Of this sort of emancipation, sadly I am ignorant. All I know is that for you, my beloved daughter, I pray you will deliver a healthy son and come to know the freedom I have been denied.”
    Then, with a long razor, Grandmother deftly defined the hair at the base of mother’s scalp, which, when completed, resembled a perfectly formed black triangle.
    *   *   *
    Later that day, at the
o-miai
, the ceremony of introduction, my mother sat across from my father with her legs tucked tightly underneath her. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap and her gaze directed at the floor. She sat, flanked by her parents: Grandmother silent and beautiful like mother; Grandfather enormous, mighty, and proud. His face red and his neck strong, he resembled the ferocious, bulldog-like thunder guard positioned at the entrances to our temples.
    Mother did not dare permit her eyes to meet those of the man who sat across from her. Rather, she allowed herself occasionally to glance at the low lacquer table that separated them. There, in the shine of the silky black tabletop, his face revealed itself. He appeared older than she had expected. His eyes, lowered like hers, already had creases at the corners; his face appeared windburned and cracked. She had pictured him stronger and hoped him to be handsomer. She had imagined that he would be tall, that he would have a full, round face and mischievous black eyes. She had wished, when her own eyes were shut tight and her mother was applying her makeup, that her husband-to-be would have the laughter of Yoshiro and the strength of her father.
    She saw the reflection of my grandfather, this mighty man, floating beside that of her intended. How odd they seemed in comparison. She could see behind my grandfather’s eyes that he was already planning the festivities of their marriage and orchestrating the mask carver’s adoption into their family. And believing there was no way she could have refused this man before her, Mother allowed her heart to soften for him. She wanted to warm to him, to love something about him, but she struggled to find it. She strained to catch a glimpse of his hands, which he tucked underneath the table, so that she might see the tools that bore him such fame.
    But to her, he exuded no magic. His pallor appeared dusty and devoid of light. When he spoke, it was in a serious tone, devoid of any humor, punctuated