BLACK GIRL MAGIK
Whatever was going on with the monks, I decided to let it go. More often than not, those staff wielding pacifists were harmless. Besides, I had more pressing matters to attend to, like the incessant grumbling in my stomach. I scanned over the crowd for a place to eat, over the various heads of hair that were braided, loc’d, coiled, twisted, weaved, pressed, picked, curled, gelled, and blowed out.
Most restaurants had a line of people snaking out the doorway, but I wasn’t much a fan of crowds. A gaggle of accents congregated around signs that advertised discounted prices on well-done sushi and tempura fried chicken. But I didn’t have a taste for none of it.
The once-rural village of Chigakure was nowhere near a match for the chaotic glittering metropolis of Edolanta, but I didn’t think anything could ever rival the magnitude of that coercive capital. They say you could find anything among the floating world—from the bright neon of the red-light district, the seductive company of high-ranking oirans with nails the length of their hairpins, the hoots and hollers of bombastic kabuki performances, and the dance clubs with DJs that talked over the track and bass so loud it shook the walls.
But what I remembered most was the food.
You could taste the whole of Buredoshima in that one city—from yuzu jerk chicken to taiyaki waffles to upside-down matcha cake to miso butter cookies. But today, Edolanta was nothing but a graveyard, leaving me behind to perpetually mourn its culinary spirit.
So far, only one restaurant met my exacting standards.
I stepped off the main street, toward the warren of dirt roads where buildings rubbed each other’s shoulders for room. Every time I visited Chigakure, there was a new street or pathway that made the old village maps look as if someone had sneezed on them and shuffled everything haphazardly askew.
There used to be a street that led straight to my favorite restaurant, but someone had plopped a house in the middle of it and that street didn’t exist anymore. Instead, I took three right turns, passed underneath a roughshod bridge, navigated through a hybrid bakery-tailor-barbershop monstrosity mishmash to reach the plaza that had been five steps from where I started if I could walk through walls.
At the very least, there was no line spilling out the restaurant’s door since only determined locals ever visited it nowadays. The restaurant had been operating in this village for years, but all the new buildings that had sprung up around it made it difficult for newcomers to find.
The maze of hastily constructed buildings had also become a playground for pickpockets and wily scam artists, but that was the extent of the worst crime in Chigakure, and a simple glare served to stop most up-to-no-gooders in their tracks. For now, the most distinctive feature of the haphazard maze was the graffiti murals of infinity symbols that served as helpful markers to find your way.
Paper talismans dangled outside of the restaurant’s doorway, and I noted that the ink of them had almost faded. They would need to be replaced soon.
I entered through the divided curtains, and the wonderful smell of spice flooded my senses. The chef nodded once I came through the entranceway.
He said, with that childhood Edolanta accent he refused to let die, “Your table is ready, Sistah Samurai. I’ll prepare your usual. I gotchu.”
The restaurant was far from empty, but it wasn’t crowded either—filled with regulars that acknowledged me with a downward nod.
I sat at the empty table located underneath one of the circular windows. It was always conveniently empty at this time of day. Some might even say it had become my table. I unbelted Fuck-Around and Find-Out, my katana and wakizashi, and placed the blades along the bench beside me. I sat with my back to the door to block out distractions and sat forward toward the window, taking advantage of how the sun washed over the table’s wooden surface at this time of day. I liked the greater visibility and how the shifting light made it easier to mind the time. Too often, it was so easy for time to get away from me. I found that it could be a fast, wily creature, and I was getting too old to keep chasing it.
I pinned my shades back into my ‘fro. Then, I lined the table with my tools from the lacquered inro that sat against my thigh: a stack of fiber paper, a long slender calligraphy brush, and the stout ink vial I had received from the inksmith earlier.
First things first: I used my wakizashi to scratch a line into the vial—the line I should never cross.
Then, I swept back the sleeves of my kimono, closed my eyes, and took a concentrated breath. With a practiced careful motion, I dipped the brush into the ink.
As one of the Illustrious Sistah Samurai, I was taught the secret arts of shodou-jujutsu. The practice evolved from the ofuda tradition, but instead of invoking the blessings of a god, the tamashii ink invoked a person’s soul. Most of the hawkers on the road selling talismans to desperate travelers were butchers of the art, and every crude attempt made me wince.
As I danced ink across the paper, I could hear my old sensei criticizing every brush stroke. I could almost feel that old twinge of pain rap across my knuckles back when I wasted a drop of ink. A mournful smile stamped my face as I worked.
I used four strokes to write the kanji for FIRE (火) onto the paper. More complicated kanji required more ink. Any wobble in the strokes made the spell less effective. An egregious mistake could cause the spell to backfire. You could create talismans with any type of tamashii ink, but there was no ink more effective to use than the ink made from your own soul.
After I finished creating the talisman, I placed it aside and started on the next: EARTH (土), WATER (水), and TRAP (囲). I allowed myself a powerful one, just in case—LIGHTNING (雷).
I glanced at the ink vial. The level of ink had diminished quite a bit, nearing the line I had scratched onto the outside of it. I couldn’t risk going any lower, needing to reserve that ink for a later task.
I created only one more talisman—PROTECTION (保).
I slid the six talismans into the press of my obi, ordered by stroke count to easily grab the one I needed during a fight. Once I cleared the table, the chef’s son came over with my usual order. The kid was as thin and gangly as the locs bundled atop his head. He poured me a cup of water, with charcoal sticks thudding against each other in the pitcher. He set before me a large bowl of spicy miso ramen and side dishes of collard green miso and tempura okra. The ramen’s steaming vapors warmed my face and cleared my sinuses.
It was such a masterful piece of art: brilliant gold at the center of the halved boiled egg, chopped bright green onions and the dark green seaweed, beautiful brown braised pork belly, and golden bamboo shoots. All presented atop a rich marigold broth.
I looked forward to this moment every single day. It was the one opportunity where I could sit down, savor the time, and enjoy myself.
I picked up the provided chopsticks, gave thanks for the food, and took that exultant first bite. Spicy umami boldness painted my tongue. I slurped it loudly, joining the chorus of the other patrons in the room and drowning out the local shamisen player who plucked a slow jam on the instrument’s three strings in the corner.
This was some good shit. I didn’t even have to add hot sauce to it.
A set of unfamiliar footsteps plodded through the doorway. Frayed sandals slapped against rough, calloused heels. Not a regular.
“Hand over all of your ink,” the newcomer demanded. The chef dropped his knife with a clatter. The young server stuttered, knees a’knocking.
Immediately, I could feel the eyes of the restaurant’s patrons land on my back, itching at it as if I had forgotten to put on lotion. No. Nope.
I didn’t have the time to be involved. I wasn’t some wandering hero, and I was already confined to a tight schedule. This was the only time I had to myself, and I was going to enjoy my lunch, dammit.
So leave me alone.