Shiroitachi

“Haruna!” came a voice from outside the bedroom.

When Haruna opened her mouth to answer, nothing came. She tried hoisting her legs to the floor, but they didn’t move. She felt a pulse in her scrawny arms that felt like movement, yet they held firm at her sides. A harsh knock at her door, then her mother’s voice.

“Haru!” she sighed, continuing in accented English. “I have asked many times to keep your door unlocked. It’s noon! Okinasai yo!”

To the outside world, Haruna was awake, staring ahead, breathing softly. But in her mind she was tensing and thrashing and grasping for something, anything, completely beyond her reach. “Mama, help me,” she wanted to say—but nothing came. At Haruna’s silence, her mother sighed again and went downstairs.

Haruna stared at the vague impression of her room, mind racing and body immobile. Her eyes darted to the floor where golden sun cast strips of black through the blinds, punctuated by hazy lines of tan hardwood. She jolted her head up—or tried to—but instead her eyes drifted toward the tabletop easel on her desk across the room.

The painting that sat unfinished on the ledge featured a fantasy landscape, detailed brown-blue trees framing the scene of a glistening pink lake. The image looked as it did in real life, but in the middle was a golden orb that she didn’t recall putting there. It floated above the water and glowed like something angelic. Haruna looked upon the orb and saw that it began to change—it was unfurling, nearing her, expanding into a brilliant silhouette, blooming into a shape she recognized.

It was Kitsune, her childhood ferret.

“Hisashiburi ne, Haruna-chan.”

Haruna felt her eyes widen. How was she dreaming again?

“Doushita no?” asked the ferret. “You haven’t forgotten about me, have you?”

“How…” was all Haruna could muster, and even then the word didn’t come.

“Daijoubu desu. You don’t have to speak to talk to me. Kikoeru ka?”

In her mind, Haruna said that yes, she could hear him.

“Yatta!” Kitsune beamed. “My prayer worked!” The little ferret jumped with joy, dancing in the strips of sunlight.

Kitsune was beige all over save for one brown spot of fur around his left eye. When he went on all fours, his clawed front paws poked beneath a large mane, making his face look comically minuscule compared to his long body.

Haruna stared in awe. He looked just as he did in her memory—the only difference was the faint golden halo around his whole body.

“How are you… here?” Haruna asked voicelessly.

“I’m always here,” Kitsune replied. “You just can’t see me, except for right now.”

“But how can I see you?” Haruna thought.

“Because I asked kamisama. In tengoku—or heaven, I think it’s also called—we animals are your guides, leading you on the path that kamisama has chosen for you. But we can only show up once in a while, when He allows us.”

“I’m… dreaming,” Haruna thought. “This is a dream, isn’t it?”

“No, Haru-chan, yume ja nai. But you’re not really awake either,” Kitsune said, pouting. “You’re not happy to see me?”

Haruna felt a jolt in her heart and looked upon him fondly. “No, I am happy! I just… can’t understand this.”

“Look at the beautiful artwork I came from. You made that with your heart. But it’s been there unfinished for so long now, I’ve stopped being able to feel your heart.”

Haruna did not speak for a moment. She looked past Kitsune toward the artwork, but this time she noted the framed portrait beside her easel. It depicted a smiling bearded man in hazy detail. That, she knew, was really there.

“I’m very busy, Kitsune. You must know I’m in university now, and I have two jobs. Mom wants me to work hard and study. I can’t do art like when you and dad were around.”

“But that’s not what you really want. I know you better than almost anyone, Haru-chan. Your papa wants you to realize your dreams, too, you know!” Kitsune smiled a mousy smile.

“You’re just saying that,” Haruna mumbled in her head, still looking at the portrait.

Kitsune rose sharply on his hind legs. “But I do know! He and I talk all the time! Humans and animals live together in tengoku, you know. He teaches me so much English.”

At the thought of her father’s voice, Haruna’s soul wept. Kitsune felt it like a torrent in his own soul.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Haruna stared intently at the small animal. “I really miss him. And you, too. But mom is so hard on me now that he’s gone.”

“But papa is still rooting for you and guiding you, just like I am!”

Kitsune approached Haruna, jumped on the bed, and curled into a neat ball on her chest. He weighed nothing.

“Don’t worry,” Kitsune continued as Haruna’s spirit sobbed. “Now that you know we’re here, you can finish your art, right?”

Haruna felt another jolt in her heart, still crying. Kitsune closed his eyes and said, “When you’re feeling lost, just think about us…”

Haruna lurched awake, and Kitsune was gone.

She felt at her sheets, grabbed them, and looked around her. Her blinds were somehow open now, and a brilliant light came forth, illuminating the landscape on her easel.

Haruna breathed deeply, eyes wide open, her heart beating like a galloping horse. She unlatched the sheets to look at her hands— for the first time in months, she felt they were the hands of an artist.

Haruna rose with new vigor in her limbs. She sat before her easel and looked around at the soft pastel hues of her furniture, the handmade art on her walls, and the smiling portrait on her desk.

She laid out her acrylics, and in gold she began painting a brilliant creature rolled into an orb above the water. Teary-eyed, she finally knew what she’d call the painting.

“Shiroitachi”—ferret.