Type: Novel Summary
Title: No.6: Beyond
Series: No.6
Author/Circle: Asano Atsuko
Rating: PG
Language: English

 

A Song from the Past

Our chapter opens with Nezumi asking Shion to repeat himself, which Shion does: “I said, I want to see it. I want to see one of your plays.”

“Why?”

“Well…no real reason, I guess. I want to see it because I want to see it.”

Nezumi is far from satisfied with the answer and hardly keen to be a source of amusement for Shion, but Shion continues that he’s not just looking for fun; he’s been working hard half of every week washing dogs, and he reads books to Karan and Rico as well, plus he’s doing some part-time work with Rikiga-san and–

“Wait, part-time work? With that old fart? Heh, don’t tell me you’re doing something as stylish as snapping nudie pics of girls, right?”

Hardly, it’s only grunt work really–he may not look it, but Rikiga is quite the businessman, something that comes as a surprise to both Nezumi and Shion, and Nezumi chuckles as he warns Shion to be careful, because you never know when a chick with a knife’s gonna come charging at him again. Despite Shion’s protests that Rikiga swears he’s done with women, Nezumi maintains that he’ll never be able to give up women–or booze, though if forced to choose between one or the other, he’d probably take the booze over women. Shion chides him here for speaking poorly of Rikiga, but Nezumi is unfazed–he can’t be unfailingly nice to everyone like Shion can.

“…Is there something wrong with being nice to everyone?”

Nezumi moves to leave, taking up his cloak. “What’s the point in nice words that never hurt anyone? Everything you say…is always so nice, so lukewarm. Little more meaningful than a bird’s chirping or an insect’s buzzing. They sound pretty, but leave no impact–not even on yourself. You’re not nice, you just don’t want to be hurt–so you remove all the thorns and prickles from your language.”

Shion can’t refute this–and can’t bring himself to protest the harsh delivery either. Nezumi’s language is full of thorns, draws blood, and compared to that, Shion’s is…

But he’ll never think it wrong to avoid hurting people, never believe that kindness is unnecessary. He understands that Nezumi isn’t criticizing him for being nice–for No.6 was steeped in such language.

Oh you poor thing, whatever shall we do…

That’s just terrible; my heart feels for you.

We’ll do our absolute, utmost best to help.

Everyone, let’s all play nicely together!

Hearing that sort of thing day in, day out, it became second-nature. He doesn’t need Nezumi pointing out how pointless it all is, because he understands–but…if he can pretend not to understand, he wants to do that. But Nezumi sees through all of that and is irritated by the vulgarity and hypocrisy he sees in Shion. But…

“Whenever I’m with you, though…I always speak my true feelings.”

Nezumi doesn’t catch it. “What was that?”

“…Nothing.” It probably just annoys Nezumi even more when he hesitates here, but he can’t help it–his tongue won’t move.

I’m facing you straight on, seriously.

Those words are heavy, and his mouth can’t form them.

Nezumi is late for work and darts off, wishing Shion luck at his job with Rikiga.

---

Nezumi is, once again, utterly at a loss for words with Shion–not because of anything Shion’s done, really, but because of himself. Cravat, who has huddled himself away inside Nezumi’s cloak, squeaks at him in admonition.

“Oh shut up; I don’t need to hear it from you–I know, I know. I was just blowing off some steam at Shion. Ugh…yeah yeah, I know.”

Sometimes–just sometimes–his feelings get all jumbled up and disparate when he’s with Shion. And he’s not trying to blame Shion for it, it’s just…he wavers when he’s with Shion, the part of him that hates everything about No.6.

That city is an evil monster, feeding off of everything around it, and he’s going to see to its destruction some day, but…someone like Shion used to live within it. Shion, who took in someone he knew to be a violent criminal, patched his wounds, gave him food and a bed, and who lost all his status for it. And despite all that, he still managed to say–

Even if I were allowed to go back to that night, I still would have done the same thing. I would have opened that window and waited for you, time and time again.

When Nezumi had heard those words, he hadn’t been able to move for a minute, just stared unblinking at Shion.

No, Shion doesn’t only use pretty words with no meaning–nor do those around him, like his mother. If he’d never met Shion, he would have lived his life blindly hating No.6 and everyone involved with it.

But now he knows things, and that is what makes him waver in his stance, makes him hesitate, confuses him.

He turns back to glance at the walls of No.6, backlit by the setting sun. The red failing light seems almost like a blazing flame.

It’s the same color that was burned into his eyes long ago. Not crimson, not rouge, not red–some combination of all of that, a hue he’ll never be able to forget.

He remembers everything burning–his house, the trees, his mother holding his newborn sister.

“RUN!”

His mother had screamed at him thus, even as she burned–her beautiful hair, her skin, her body. His father had thrown himself at his mother, trying to put out the flames, and that was when the soldiers had turned their flamethrowers on them.

He could still hear his father screaming at him to flee, even as he was engulfed in flames–“RUN! Even if only you can escape…!!”

He doesn’t remember much after that–just the roaring of flames, like some wild beast, and the old woman’s back as she carried him away. He only survived because of her.

Nezumi had grown up buried in books, listening to the old woman’s tales, never feeling that he lacked anything–but the scars on his backs ached whenever the old woman told her stories about the Mao Massacre. It brought back the voice of his mother, the screams of his father.

RUN!

RUN! Even if only you can escape…!!

For a while, he’d feared fire, and the memories it brought back–until he eventually realized it wasn’t the fire he feared, but people. And then one evening, the old woman had told him he could sleep all he wanted, until the sky was bright in the east, that he didn’t need to wake up to take turns watching their little fire with the old woman, and just before he slipped off to sleep, the old woman had given him a rare smile. The sound the fire had made when she’d tossed a few twigs onto it hadn’t been a howling roar, but a rustling chirp.

When he awoke, the sky had still been pitch black in the east, but he could hear someone crying softly. He found the old woman by the fire and hesitantly asked what was wrong, for it had been the first time he’d ever seen her cry.

She weeps as she relates how painful it is to be so close to her forest home, so close to the home of Nezumi’s father and mother, where Nezumi was born and raised…and to know that they’ll never be able to return to that forest again, that an evil city now stands in its place. 

Nezumi softly wipes away her tears and begs her not to cry, and she looks up into Nezumi’s eyes…and offers to teach him a song.

“A song?”

“Indeed. Your mother was the greatest ‘Singer’ of the Mao people–just as I was long, long ago. I’m the one who taught her to sing.”

“And…you’re going to teach me now?”

“I am. You’re a suitable Singer. Your mother often went out into the forest to Sing. Do you remember?”

Nezumi’s memories had been vague and muddled ever since he lost everything to the flames. “…I do remember…her voice.”

“Her voice?”

“I remember her voice. Her voice, saying…’I’ll sing you a song to help you live’.”

Come hither, and I’ll sing you a song. A song to help you live.

The old womans eyes had widened. “And you’re…certain it was your mother’s voice?”

Nezumi had been silent for a moment–because he couldn’t remember his mother’s voice. Everything was drowned out by her cries of RUN, blurring over memories of her singing voice, her laughing voice. But–he didn’t need to remember for this point: “…No, it was…it wasn’t a human voice.”

The old woman sighs–realizing that Nezumi already knows. Nezumi is confused, for the voice had seemed like nothing more than a dream to him, but the old woman assures him it wasn’t a dream. “You’re a Singer. The God of the Forest has chosen you.” She goes on to explain about this god, that they’re always around, watching over the Forest Folk, caring for them…but sometimes having to destroy them and punish them.

Nezumi remembers the flames at this–but the old woman clarifies that that was not the God of the Forest’s doing, that was the work of man.

“…Did the God of the Forest die in the flames?”

“The God of the Forest doesn’t die; they can’t be killed by human hands. Those from the demon city don’t know of our god, don’t know how frighteningly powerful they are. They don’t even try to understand.”

“No.6.”

“What?”

“That city–it’s called No.6. Or so I heard.”

“From whom?”

“A traveler. He said he was a musician.” Nezumi had been out gathering sticks, when he’d met a group of people dressed all in white. They had told him about the six city-states around the world, and how No.6 was the most beautiful, most refined, but the most insular of them all.

“You’ve a beautiful voice,” one man riding a horse had complimented. “A very beautiful one indeed. With some training, you could become a first-rate singer, I’m sure. How about it, son? Want to come with us?”

Nezumi would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t been tempted–to travel the world as a musician, not hating or being tormented by memories, just singing, performing, dancing.

The very thought drew him–but despite the pleasure drenching him, he had taken a step back and shaken his head. He couldn’t leave the old woman behind.

The man was disappointed, but understood. “I’m sure we’ll meet again some day. You’re like us–you can’t stay in one place, you’re a wanderer. Heh–believe me, I know ’em when I see ’em.”

But the old woman had warned him that names didn’t matter–the God of the Forest would never forgive them and would wreak their revenge on the city some day.

“Then–why do we have to get revenge ourselves?” The old woman warns him that they must never forget, never toss aside their hatred. She might not make it in time, being as old as she is, but she’ll get in one good strike before she goes.

She’d made good on her threat, pulling a knife on the mayor when he’d been visiting the Correctional Facility–but she hadn’t even been able to slice through his clothes, much less get a good strike in, and she’d been gunned down with the knife still in her hand.

It was a miracle Nezumi himself had survived that day, after he’d run up only to have her die in his arms. Thrown into the Correctional Facility, it was there that he had met Rou, who somehow knew and accepted everything about Nezumi.

“I’ll tell you everything I know,” he’d promised. It sounded startlingly similar to the god’s voice.

That had been just two years before he’d met Shion.

Nezumi draws to a stop and glances up at the sky. Days are short and nights creep up fast in West Block.

He brushes the scars on his back softly–they still sting sometimes, even to this day, as if reminded him to never forget.

Don’t forget Don’t forget Don’t forget Don’t forget Don’t forget Don’t forget

As if he could forget. He hates No.6; it killed his father and mother and the old woman. It burned the forest and massacred the people living there. He hates it so much, it almost hurts to breathe.

But…

Shion used to live there.

He hates not only those in power, but the citizens who are so ignorant, who live lazily, peacefully, making no efforts to learn anything.

Hates them? Does he, really? Then–can he bring himself to hate Shion, too?

I hate them so much, it pains me so much, but…when it comes to Shion, I…

He draws to a stop again–he can hear a tune. Straining to catch it, he finds a small outdoor theater, within which sits a tall man strumming some eggplant-shaped instrument. The sound both pains and soothes.

Is it that man from long ago? The musician who invited him to travel the world?

Before he can stop himself, Nezumi has started humming along with the music, and it feels amazing. His body feels lighter, and a breeze whips up. He rides the breeze up into the heavens, high and low, dancing and fluttering, touring up and up and up.

The man stops strumming, and Nezumi falls silent.

“Don’t stop.” It’s a woman’s voice.

“Please–continue!” A man, this time.

Without their realizing it, a throng has formed around them, and for a moment, cold chill of dread shudders down Nezumi’s spine at how careless he’s been. He’s usually on his guard at the mere sound of a stone crunching–if he weren’t, he wouldn’t still be alive.

Shion’s the only exception to this rule; Shion’s the only one who sometimes gets in under his guard. He doesn’t know why it is, but he can’t get a grasp on the guy.

The crowd goes on to cry for them to continue, to sing and play more, and the man glances up at Nezumi, smirking.

“What’ll it be, young sir? Shall we give them another refrain or two?”

But unfortunately, Nezumi’s time is up–for his manager has just appeared with complaints on his lips. In short order, though, he goes on to wheedle the man into taking a job at the playhouse–with his skills on the instrument and ‘Eve’ singing, they could make a pretty penny.

The man silently stands, though, and leans in close to whisper in Nezumi’s ear, “So you’re the wind as well?” Wind? “A wind blowing over the land as it pleases, stopping nowhere, setting down roots no place. Just like us.”

Nezumi stares into the man’s eyes–but they’re not the same as before.

“You sing, and we play. That’s who we are. And yet–why are you stalled here? Why won’t you be free like the wind? What’s got you caught in its web and left you unable to move?”

The man walks away and strums on his instrument once more before slipping it into the bag over his shoulder.

“You’d best get yourself free quickly, young sir.”

Nezumi can only watch the man leave.

What’s got you caught in its web and left you unable to move?

‘When will I be able to cut away these chains? Will I ever be able to cut away these chains of hatred, the chain of Shion, and be free…?’

The day he’ll make the choice to live that way…will surely come.

‘This is goodbye, Shion. And No.6.’

As he walks away with his manager’s babbling in his ear, the wind whips up around him and breezes through his hair.

END PART 2

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