Page 55 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

“It…makes plants grow.”

“It does?” he said. “I guess that’s how you survive without hion lines. Our outer cities have enormous farms where little lines of hion crisscross the fields and sustain the plants.”

She tried to imagine that. There were places here other than Kilahito? How did one reach them? It seemed like everything out there was pure darkness.

Yumi put aside her questions as Painter began coaching her through painting bamboo. She still didn’t understand whypaintinghad anything to do withnightmares. They were…scared of art?

Well, she would get those explanations when Painter decided to disclose them. For now she tried to be a good student, to give him an example of how he should be. She did as he asked, kneeling beside the pad of paper to draw straight lines with the brush, and did not interrupt or ask questions.

(It’s infuriating how many cultures think this is the best way to teach. They make it as convenient to the instructor as possible. As if learning were somehow a performance for their benefit alone.)

“You start,” he explained, “by getting a feel for how the ink flows. Notice how it’s dark at the top, then grows lighter the longer you draw the line, finally running out at the bottom. When you paint, you’re not just creating something from your mind. You’re seeing what the inkwantsto become. You…”

He trailed off, and she glanced toward him.

“Never mind that,” he said. “Here’s how you make bamboo.” He snatched his fingers a few times at one of the brushes and managed at last to pull out a copy of it. With some work, he procured the souls of some paper and ink as well, then knelt beside her and showed her a specific method for painting bamboo. It was actually quite clever how he used the natural way the ink filled the brush to create a darker top for the bamboo, the lighter middle, then another blotch at the bottom where he paused briefly. There was something organic about the painting style, as if he weregrowingthe bamboo.

He did it again, exactly the same way.

Then again.

And again.

“Bamboo,” he said, “is easy. It’s great because you can simply memorize the pattern—then create something that looks good with minimal effort.”

“All right,” she said, nodding. “I like how structured that feels. But…”

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Yumi lowered her eyes. “I should not question.”

“How do I know you’re learning if you don’t ask questions?”

It wasn’t the proper way…but itwashis world. His rules. “You said in the place of ritual,” she explained, “that art is about emotion. I disagreed, and I like this way of making bamboo you showed me. I merely find it odd to hear you speak of memorizing a pattern, then creating without effort. I guess…I expected something different.”

Painter stared at the soul of the paper in front of him. And then it vanished into smoke, drawn back to the body of the paper nearby. It appeared he couldn’t keep something that way very long. Fortunately, his clothing remained in place… She covered a blush.

“Never mind that,” he said to her, standing up. “Just practice what I’ve shown you. Draw a thousand of them until you can do it by rote.”

She nodded and began, though her fledgling efforts were pathetically out of proportion. How had he made it seem so easy?

Well, she could absolutely do this a thousand times. That sounded like the perfect way to learn. She took the role of a dutiful student, proud of her example. She kept going, not saying a word, until her wrist ached and her knees hurt from kneeling. She didn’t speak, didn’t ask for a break. She would wait for him to offer one.

He didn’t. He sat on his altar, expression distant, the entire time. He…did know he was supposed to be supervising her, right?

Finally she was interrupted by another knock on the door. Painter shook out of his trance, then looked toward her, finding that she was surrounded by dozens of papers.

“Yumi,” he said (lowly), “are you still going?”

“You said to do a thousand,” she said. “I am at three hundred and sixty-three.”

He put a hand to his head as if befuddled. The knock came again, and he gestured toward her. She took that as permission to pause her work, so she rose to go to the door. She only cracked it open so whoever was there wouldn’t see what she’d been doing, just in case.

“Hey!” Akane said. “Dinner?”

“Oh,” Yumi said. Her stomach growled. But she would survive on rice cakes and dry noodles today. Painter had shown her where he kept more. “No thank you.”

“Yumi,” Akane said, folding her arms and leaning forward. “Have you spent all day in here?”

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