Page 107 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

They continued on to the place of ritual, where—right outside—the machine was set up, chugging away and stacking its stones. It worked all day to draw one single spirit; but as the scholars promised, it could work all the time. It might not beat a yoki-hijo, but a hundred of them would far,farsurpass what the women could create.

Still, Yumi folded her arms—rumpling her tobok—and glared at the machine. Painter stopped beside her and said softly, “It’s not badjustbecause it’s technology, Yumi.”

“Conversely,” she said, her eyes narrowed, “it’s notgoodjust because it’s technology. Disliking this machine doesn’t have to mean I’m against progress or the wonderful things of your world. I simply think thatthismachine inthissituation is wrong.”

He rested on the fence that encircled the place of ritual. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry I generalized.” He stepped into the place of ritual, Yumi trailing behind. “So, do I get to hear this grand idea now?”

“Pick a rock to begin a stack,” she said, pointing.

He shrugged and put on the kneepads and gloves, then settled down near a pile of stones of a variety of sizes. He did a good job picking his foundational stone, then set it on the ground in a shallow nook—one that was practically invisible, but able to add stability.

Hehadlearned. In fact, in the last thirty days he’d managed to learn a good portion of what it took to be a yoki-hijo. Unfortunately, perfecting that tookyears. Like the stone, all he had for now was a solid foundation.

He picked up a second rock at Yumi’s urging, but before he could place it she stopped him. Then she took the soul of the rock from his hands and weighed it, tested it,knewit. She set it down in place, then looked at him, smiling.

“Match that,” she said.

He paused, then smiled as well and set his real rock over the spirit one—moving it, twisting it—until they aligned perfectly. Again his training was invaluable. He didn’t know enough to be a master, but he now had the basic training necessary toimitateone.

Excited, Yumi placed a third stone, then a fourth—with him matching her exactly. Together they built high. Up. Out. Into a sculpture ofstone, carefully balanced, beyond anything Painter had managed on his own. At thirty stones, he looked to her with a grin on his face.

“You’re not ashamed,” she said, “to need help?”

“One of the first things you learn in art school,” he said, “is how to imitate the styles of the great masters. It’s only once you can keep up with them that you develop your own. I’m just glad I can keep up here.” He met her eyes. “This is going to work, Yumi. Let’s do it.”

They dove into the task, and sculptures grew around them—guided by Yumi, but she let him choose the stones. Let him place the first of each stack. He started placing stones on his own, then looking to her as she adjusted her version in roughly the same position—except better.

If only I could have been trained this way,she thought, feeling as if she could see his skill increasing moment to moment. Working together, their fingers occasionally brushing.

This washermeditation. This was somethingshehad missed. She realized that over the weeks, she’d lost this—this connection to the stones, the spirits, and even her own heart. She might have beenmadea yoki-hijo, but the art washers. Or together,theirs.

The scholars noticed, as did the townspeople. At one point she heard a gasp, and glanced to see Liyun outside the fence, hand to her lips andtearsin her eyes. Liyun had been looking more haggard lately, worn down, exhausted. It was encouraging to see her so happy today. It probably seemed like a miracle from the spirits to suddenly have her yoki-hijo back. Perhaps it was.

The scholars started arguing. Their machine then started stacking more quickly. They moved frantically, except for the lead one—who was holding the boxy device Yumi had seen last time. The one that let him detect a spirit.

He was staring directly at her.

He knows,she thought.Somehow. He knows.

Beside her, Painter had gone stiff. She first thought maybe one of their stacks—they’d done a dozen already—was about to fall. But now his eyes were on the ground, where a glowing red-and-blue teardrop was rising.

Immediately the spirit began to distort. The scholars shouted, and their machine moved even faster. The colors swirling in the spirit agitated, and it began to be stretched and pulled toward the machine.

“No,” Yumi said, bowing her head. “Please.Please.We have summoned you, spirit. I am your yoki-hijo. Tell me. What do you need? What must we do?”

It forcibly pulled back—like a glop of liquid metal, pooling the bulk of itself near her and Painter as one end was stretched out an impossible length toward the scholars.

“Please,” it whispered, the word vibrating through her. Painter’s eyes went wide. He could hear it too. “Please. Freedom.Please.”

“How?” Yumi begged. “How.”

“Stop,” it whispered, “themachine.”

Then it was pulled away, gathered in by the scholars’ device. They called for a supplicant to receive the boon, though the lead scholar remained where he was, hands clutching his nefarious box. He didn’t look pleased or self-satisfied for having stolen her spirit. Instead he looked concerned.

Behind him, the scholars made the spirit into a pair of repelling statues for lifting a home. They were smaller than the ones Yumi had made in the past.

The machine,she thought,keeps a piece of the spirit’s soul. That’s why the gifts the scholars create don’t work as well.It was collecting strength. To maintain its power. Or…for some other purpose?

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