"Paul's Dream"

We now return to the perspective of SAITO “FUUMI” FUMI aka the BUCHOU of the HISTORICAL RESEARCH CLUB who’s feeling quite DOWN IN THE DUMPS with only TWO DAYS UNTIL THE CULTURE FESTIVAL.

Michi and I sit on opposite sides of the little table in my bedroom. She holds flashcards in her hands and reads from them.

“When did the Third Partition of Poland take place?”

“1795.”

“When was the March on Rome?”

“Trick question. It can be either 1922 or 88 BC."

“This ruler, known as the Sun King, created a centralized, absolute French monarchy.”

“Louis XIV.”

It goes on like that for a while. When she gets to the last flashcard, Michi gasps. “Nee-san, you got all of them right. You’re amazing!”

I frown and slump on the floor. “I doubt that. I was just lucky tonight. I really suck at history.”

“But they say sucking at something is the first step of being kind of good at something.”

I give an empty chuckle into the hardwood below me, but then I sigh. I think of the Wrath’s speech declaring her intention to destroy me and my club. I think of the Wrath teasing me in front of the whole class. I think of Mizutami Sumiko saying she can’t find meaning in our club and rejecting our request to help us. It all feels so hopeless.

But then I think of Mizutami Kouji telling me it’s not worth crying over spilled spaghetti. I start giggling and let out some tee-hee’s and roll around on the floor, imagining it’s his bed.

We hear the front door open downstairs.

“Dad’s home,” Michi realizes.

I sit up straight. She nods at me. I nod at her. Michi said she’d support me, and I appreciate that, but I want to do this alone.

I hear Mom welcoming Dad home. It’s been a long day of work, he says. Well, Dad, I’m about to make it a lot longer. I wonder how he's gonna answer.

Dad and Mom are sitting in the kitchen when I arrive. He’s a tall, thin man (I inherited Mom’s shortness) with a well-kept beard. His eyes light up when he sees me. “Fuumi-buchou!”

I immediately smile, but I shut that down quick. I mean business tonight.

Concern grows on his face. “Is something wrong, Fuumi? You look upset.”

“I’m not upset,” I say. “I’m mad.”

Mom tee-hee’s. “Sorry, Fuumi. It’s just that you look really mad and serious, but you’re also wearing your little lamb pajamas.”

I look down and realize it’s true. I’m in my pink pajama bottoms with tiny white sheep prancing across them. The shirt isn’t helping my cause either - it’s a white t-shirt that says COOL GIRL across the front with the OO forming sunglasses.

I should’ve worn at least business casual to such an important meeting.

“I-I-Ignore that!” I cry out. I point a finger at my father. “Dad, I got confronted by a girl named Yasuda Junko today. He said you founded the HRC and made a mistake that led to her father failing in the national competition. She swore a bloody vengeance on me. I’m just a high schooler, I’m not equipped to handle someone seeking revenge!”

I take a step forward. “Why didn’t you tell me you founded the HRC, Dad? This girl is serious! She said she’d bend me over and make me her…you know, the b word…”

I pause. The life has gone out of my father. He slumps in his seat, eyes looking grave. Mom immediately hugs him from behind.

“It’s okay, dear…we knew this day would eventually come.”

Dad grimaces. “I thought if I didn’t say anything, we could ignore it…”

I frown. This isn’t helping. “What?!”

Dad suddenly stands. “We have something important to discuss, Fuumi. Come with me to the basement.”

My eyes widen. Dad never lets us into the basement. That’s where he does…something. His work, he calls it. I’ve never seen it.

While Dad unlocks the maximum security system on the door to the basement, Mom retrieves a lantern for us. She lights it with a severe look on her face. When the last lock comes undone, Dad takes the lantern and leads the way down. Before stepping into the darkness, I glance back at Mom. She can only bow her head in sorrow.

What?!

The basement stairs creak and groan as we descend. It smells damp and musty down here. Dad doesn’t say a word the whole time. The air turns chilly.

We arrive in a large chamber built from stone - stone walls, stone floor, stone ceiling. I can’t imagine constructing this was exactly legal or up to code.  There’s a spare table where Dad sets down the lantern, revealing the cobwebs covering several corners of the room. There’s a large chest on the opposite wall. And, in the center, there’s a huge table depicting a battlefield.

Dad lightly touches the battlefield. “Fuumi, this is my work.”

I gaze down at the table. It’s a big oval, reminding me of that medieval story called the Knights of the Round Table, except there’s only one wooden chair next to it. Thousands of little figurines dot a battlefield of rolling green hills. The soldiers are dressed in either blue or gray, all of them armed with rifles. Black cannons, brown horses, little drummer boys and bugle-men are arrayed around the table.

“I am an American Civil War enthusiast,” Dad explains, a proud smile on his face. “This is my diorama of the Battle of Gettysburg. This is the reason why you and Michi aren’t allowed in the basement. I’m afraid you might break it.”

I glance up at him. “What?!”

“It’s also not important right now,” Dad continues. “It’s just why you two still aren’t allowed in the basement. And, after this, you still won’t be allowed.”

“What?!”

Dad leads the way to the wooden chest. “This is why we’re here today, Fuumi.” He reaches into his pocket and produces his key chain, skipping past the car keys and house keys to one that resembles a skull. With one twist, the skeleton key opens the chest. And with trembling fingers, he produces a yellowed page containing a poem.

“Yasuda’s father,” he begins, holding the old paper with a light, almost fearful touch. “Mikhail and I were good friends. He was a golden child of Ichi-Machi, while I was just the son of a Ni-Machi business clerk, but class lines didn’t divide us. We were both proud of our historical knowledge. When the History Club refused to send us to the national competition, even though our skills surpassed the chosen representatives, I let my pride get the better of me.”

He hands me the yellowed page. I recognize the poem on it right away. “Uh, Dad, this is just-”

“Before we left Shikishima for the competition in Tokyo,” he continues. “We visited the scholar at the University known as the Great Sage.” His eyes grow soft. “He said that, if we continued our path, we would doom the next generation to the Prophecy.”

“...what?!”

“I was too proud, Fuumi!” Dad shakes his head. “Far too proud. We continued on to Tokyo, where my innocent folly led to Mikhail’s elimination from the competition. If only I had paid attention at our study session…ah, but your mother was so beautiful back then, as she still is now…”

“What prophecy?” I cut in. I tap a finger on the page. “You can’t mean this, right?”

Dad turns to face me. He places a firm hand on my shoulder. “The Prophecy of the Dai-Hashira. Read the poem, Fuumi.”

I sigh. “Alright, alright…”

When the end of history arrives and wars with its next generation,

The Dai-Hashira shall delve into the realm of madness.

When the world turns against us and red banners unfurl across the land,

The Dai-Hashira shall wield the great sword Shimrod.

When crooked leaders sell the land to the merchants of death,

The Dai-Hashira shall make new leaders.

When the green eagle perches atop a pale horse,

The Dai-Hashira shall drive back the invaders.

When the Dai-Hashira dreams the dream of the Jade Magatama,

The Great Pillar will hold aloft the one roof which unites the eight corners of the world.

The orange glow of the lantern swirls across Dad’s face.

“It has begun.”

I look at the poem. I look at Dad. I look at the poem.

“WHAT?!”

“Fuumi, this-”

“This is the stupid poem we use to learn Japanese in second grade!” I interrupt. “Everybody on the island knows this poem. Elder Nakashima’s father wrote it a hundred years ago in 1920. So what? It’s just a poem. There’s no prophecy, no Dai-Hashira, no Jade Magatama.”

Dad looks at me solemnly. “There hasn’t been a Dai-Hashira yet. The time has come.”

I balk. “Is this what your ‘Great Sage’ said?”

“He did.” He looks at me sadly. “He predicted this. That Mikhail and I would turn against each other, much to the sorrow of our children. The end of history...the History Club and the Historical Research Club…this trivia contest will ensure the end for one of the historical clubs. And this war with the next generation…the Historical Research Club is the newer club. It is the next generation. The trivia competition is the prophetic war.”

“What?! We're just school clubs!"

“Fuumi, I don’t know how else to put it.” He sighs, then stands resolute. “You are the Dai-Hashira, and I will do everything in my power to support you.”

I don’t even know how to respond to this.

Dad pulls more items from the chest. “There’s several items of apocrypha for the Poem of the Great Pillar. There’s a line that mentions you must seek out the Great Sage. He predicted this as well. He’s still there at the University. You must do so tomorrow, before it’s too late.”

“Too late? Too late for what?!”

“Fuumi, listen to me!” He leans in close. “If you are not the Dai-Hashira, then Yasuda Junko must be! There can only be one! We can’t allow her to unite the eight corners of the world under one roof and achieve hakko ichiu. Her family works for the Nakashima conglomerate. If they achieve world domination, there’ll be no hope for humanity. All of the world will be ruled by the iron fist of Shikishima. We can’t allow this!”

“What?!” I stomp my foot and slap my chest. “Are you saying I should achieve world domination instead?”

“Someone must fulfill the prophecy,” Dad concludes. “And the world will be fine in your hands. You’re Fuumi-buchou. The world might even be better off for it.”

“...what?!”

Water drips down from somewhere in the stone chamber. It takes me a second, but I realize my father is crying.

“I’m sorry, Fuumi! I put you down this path. My pride got the best of me. And now you must carry on with the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

I take a step back. I don’t get any of this. Maybe I should go smash his battlefield to get him to stop talking nonsense.

The stairs creak as my mother arrives in the chamber.

“Mom!” I cry out. I collapse into her arms and stifle a sudden sob. “Dad’s acting crazy. He says that I’m some sort of prophecy conqueror, has he been drinking-”

Mom looks at me softly. She gently brushes hair off my forehead. “It’s true, Fuumi. All of it.”

“...what?!”

I push myself away. “You people are insane! I’m just a girl with a stupid nickname. I’m not anybody important or special. I’m just me.”

“And that is why you must fulfill the prophecy,” Mom says. “If it makes you feel better, I packed you sandwiches for your pilgrimage tomorrow.”

“Pilgrimage?!”

“To the University,” she answers. “To see the Great Sage-”

“Enough!” I leave my Dad and push past my Mom to the stairs. “Enough of this. Crazy talk, all of it! I’m not the Dai-Hashira, I’m not a prophecy conqueror, I’m just a sixteen year old cool girl with little lamb pajamas. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare for a historical trivia contest that’s all your fault, Dad!”

I march up the stairs. When I get to the top, I stop and think. I march back down. “Mom…did you cut the crusts off the sandwiches?”

“I did, I know you like them that way.”

“...thanks,” I mumble. Then I march all the way back to my room.

Michi, fresh out of the shower, sits at the table and studies more flashcards with a focused look on her face. I don’t want to interrupt, but my marching draws her attention.

“Nee-san! Are you okay? I heard yelling.”

I flop down my bed face-first and speak into my pillow. “Michi…apparently, I’m the Chosen One.”

I hear Michi clap.

“Ah, that’s great, Nee-san! I don’t know what that means, but they couldn’t have made a better choice!”