Kari sighed as she dipped her brush into the ink beside her and poised her tiny hand over the paper once more. She had little patience for repetition. She tired quickly of doing the same motions over and over.
Yet, her father asked that she learn to read, write, and speak Ancient Hingan. Something something tradition, something something remember where you came from and all that.
Her brush followed the same pattern of five strokes and three dots it had moments ago, assembling the kanji for Doma. Her father would tell her the most wonderful stories of this land she had never seen. As her mind wandered, so did her hand. She began to paint what she imagined the underwater city of Sui-no-Sato would look like: first a large dome, rising out of the sea floor, followed by buildings with swooping roofs. Here and there she drew stick figures — some with fin-like protrusions on their heads, others with thin horn-like shapes, no two Au Ra the same. Next, she added the waves around the dome and a ray gently playing in the current. Satisfied with her painting, she sat it aside to dry.
“I see someone’s head was in the clouds today,” her father would say later when he saw the painting. A smile would appear on his lips, but something in his eyes betrayed a sadness Kari didn’t understand.
— -
A few years later, Kari found herself once again running out of patience. Her father had finally agreed to teach her the art of the shinobi, but the repetitive motions of the mudra lulled her into boredom quite quickly. She wanted to dance with blades, not stand in one spot as she fumbled her way through the mudra for “Ten” her father had shown her earlier that day.
“Feel the movements, don’t just push through them,” he had said, guiding her small hands in the correct shapes. “Understand their purpose and how they help bring balance to your battle.”
“But father, I don’t want to! I want to learn to use daggers like you do!” she said, throwing her hands down to her sides and stomping one small foot.
“You still have much to learn before you can use blades, my swallow,” her father said, suppressing laughter at the eager little girl before him. “You dream too far ahead of yourself. You must learn patience and control before you can take flight.”
She pouted a bit at his response, but dutifully went back to forming the complex shapes with her fingers.
When I’m older, she thought to herself, I’m not gonna have to worry about any of this. Practice is boring.
