Fifthmus Fic: The Journey (For Tarigwaemir, From Ontogenesis)
Title: The Journey
Author: ontogenesis
Recipient: tarigwaemir ( requests)
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Summary: Touya Kouyou's quest brings him to a tiny, remote town in China.
Notes: Much thank to my beta, aiwritingfic for her insightful help!
Word Count: 2400
[1]
His opponent places a black stone on the goban with a confident clack, then looks up expectantly.
Touya Kouyou studies the invading stone calmly. Usually, such a move would not be a cause for concern - it is clever, but not brilliant - but Kouyou is playing with a three-stone handicap and no komi against an amateur of respectable skill. After careful consideration, Kouyou untucks his arms from his sleeves and plays a tesuji at 12-5.
His opponent shakes his head in good-natured resignation. They both know that the move has demolished any advantage from the handicaps, but his opponent smiles, the deep lines around his eyes crinkling in appreciation. Kouyou suspects he smiles quite frequently, and likes him better for it.
“With no handicap, now I cannot play the boy,” Kouyou's opponent admits as he searches the board for an opening Kouyou knows he will not find.
Because Kouyou is a teacher, he recognizes the sadness in the other man's voice. Kouyou still remembers the day his own teacher first bowed to him in resignation, his expression one of mingled pride and loss. Kouyou wonders when his turn will come to bow to his own son.
“It is good you are here,” the monk says in careful Japanese after they have cleared the goban.
“I am glad I could come.” Kouyou shifts his legs, allowing them to dangle over the edge of the rough, wooden porch. When he was younger, he could sit in seiza for hours with little discomfort, but his circulation is no longer quite so vigorous, and the air is thin.
The monk joins him, sighing as he stretches out his own legs. He smooths his crimson robes with deeply callused hands, and Kouyou recalls that the man had been chopping wood with a hand ax when Kouyou had arrived at the temple that morning.
In comfortable silence, they watch the colorful prayer flags snap and dance in the wind.
Then: “He has been waiting.”
Kouyou ponders the words like he would a stone on the goban, weighing them carefully. He thinks of the thousands of kilometers he has travelled since retiring, and the hundreds of opponents he has played. So many that sometimes he cannot recall distinct faces, only hands across the goban. (Somehow, he always remembers the hands.) He has played freely, choosing his opponents with little discrimination (some would say he has played foolishly, but Kouyou has never been accustomed to placing much importance on others' opinions). Hundreds of opponents, thus hundreds of styles: go is a game of the mind, and no person shares another's mind.
Kouyou has enjoyed meeting so many different minds.
And yet...
Hundreds more to meet. He has travelled to no place where he has not found willing and eager opponents.
But still...
Almost every game -- no matter how awkward or unskilled the opponent -- reveals a new aspect of go to him. It is like learning a beautiful, precious secret about an old friend.
Still...
Kouyou longs to meet him again. Thousands of miles, hundreds of minds, but the longing to do battle with his rival again has not faded.
“I have been waiting too,” Kouyou answers.
[2]
The truck bumps and shudders along the dirt road, and Kouyou closes his eyes whenever the road veers just a little too closely to the edge of the precipice. His interpreter does not notice; his chatter continuing at exactly the same stream regardless of whether or not Kouyou's eyes are shut, or whether or not the truck seems in imminent danger of plummeting off a cliff.
About two hours from Zhongdian, the elevation begins to increase rapidly. Kouyou realizes this before his interpreter points it out excitedly -- Sensei, we're about to reach an elevation of 4,500 meters!-- he has been feeling light-headed for several minutes already. Then his chest tightens in a familiar and all-too-unwelcome manner.
Guests who are pregnant or who have heart conditions should not ride, is the first thing that flashes across Kouyou's mind, although it's been years since Akira has asked to be taken to an amusement park. Kouyou focuses on that thought to center himself: is travelling up a steep mountain really equivalent to being strapped into a roller coaster and shot out like a rocket?
By the time he decides it's probably not (they aren't accelerating nearly rapidly enough, although his doctor wouldn't have approved this trip regardless), the tension has faded and Kouyou lets out a small exhalation of relief. He does not mention the episode to his interpreter; the other man could only turn the truck around, and Kouyou has never been one for back-tracking.
An hour later, they break through the persistent cloud cover that has been obscuring their visibility.
The snow-capped mountains are blinding in the sunlight. The lower-hanging clouds cover the spaces between mountains like a blanket, so there is nothing visible but mountain and cloud and sky and truck. The pain from earlier seems oddly distant, like a vague memory instead of a fresh wound.
Kouyou has spent most of his life indoors, in sparsely-furnished rooms with the inevitable goban. He does not regret that decision - he regrets very little he has ever chosen to do - but he does think that some of his decisions have been better than others.
The decision to retire has been one of his better ones.
[3]
Ask him what he's always carrying around inside his shirt, the man had said, his grin more suited to a fox than a monk.
So Kouyou says, “Show me,” in simple Mandarin as he points at the boy's pocket.
The boy shakes his head and gestures towards the cheap foldable goban that rests on top of a battered school desk. He replies too rapidly for Kouyou to follow, but his intention is easy enough to decipher.
“He says he'll show you... if you beat him,” the interpreter says, his reddening face suggesting that he was severely tempted to censor the translation. Kouyou takes a moment to admire the interpreter's ethics. “I'm sorry, Sensei, you know how kids are--”
“I shall try my best to win, then,” Kouyou interrupts solemnly, nodding once at the boy. He finds such directness refreshing after years of interminable interviews and pompous ceremonies.
The boy pulls another chair up to the front of the desk, but he stands beside it until Kouyou has accepted the other chair, the one on the side with the leg space. Kouyou hands the goke with black stones to the boy, then they exchange bows.
The opening hands proceed in an unremarkable manner. The boy plays him cautiously, with solid, well-considered moves, until Kouyou plays a kosumi at the 7-10 intersection to limit the boy's ability to expand. The boy responds immediately with a forceful atekomi, as if he had been anticipating that very move.
Kouyou realizes then that the boy has already played him many times in his mind, and he smiles in anticipation.
Pachi. Pachi.
As the game stretches into chuuban, their formations tangle like twisting spider webs as they clash repeatedly. Neither is willing to play conservatively, to settle for a smaller, more secure sphere of influence.
Still, Kouyou glances up in surprise when the boy attacks White's formation in the upper right quadrant. White is already thick there, and the boy is playing his superior, so it is in his favor to avoid such a risky attack, especially when he already has the advantage of reverse komi. If the boy's attack fails, it might very well destroy Black.
The boy is talented; Kouyou knows he must be aware of the risk. Under the surface of the boy's rough, unpolished play, Kouyou sees his strength shining like a raw sun. Then the boy looks up to meet his eyes, and Kouyou understands.
He did not expect to find his son's eyes in the face of a foreign child, burning with the same intensity and desire.
I am preoccupied with going after him, his son had said, gripped by a passion Kouyou had never seen in him before.
He did not expect to find his own eyes staring back at him.
I will play s a i again, Kouyou had sworn in his hospital bed.
Kouyou understands now, so he meets the boy's gaze steadily as he prepares his counterattack.
He will not hold back. He will show no mercy.
To do any less would be an insult to one who would be his rival.
[4]
The boy across from him is weeping quietly, so Kouyou considerately drops his eyes to the boy's hands. They are a man's hands - strong and tan, the deep grooves incongruously stained by ink.
His parents are farmers, and he is their only child, Yang Hai had said on the phone from Beijing. But they spare him whenever they can so he can attend school in the city.
The monk told him that the boy is bright, probably bright enough to qualify for a scholarship to a secondary school in Kunming. His parents have never been to Kunming, but they understand that it means a better life for their son. They do not understand why their son should spend his time playing go when he could be preparing for exams, for a secure future.
They know who you are. If you tell them the boy could succeed, they might relent.
Kouyou has been playing go almost his entire life, and not once has he believed that he could tell another if go is the correct path for him -- not even his own son. The path to the Hand of God is lonely and uncertain, and the players with talent are not always the ones who succeed.
What Kouyou does know is himself. He holds stones between his fingers and he creates the universe with his mind. He plays go because he exists, and he exists because he plays go.
He wants to ask the boy if he also hears the beats of his heart in the echo of the stones. But Kouyou doesn't think that will translate so well. “It was a good game,” he says instead when the boy has stopped crying.
The boy shakes his head, then carefully pulls out a sheet of folded paper from his pocket. He extends it over the goban reverentially.
Kouyou unfolds it gently, his eyes widening as he recognizes what he is holding. Now he understands why the monk had asked Yang Hai for him specifically upon learning that Kouyou was visiting the Kunming Go Institute.
“I printed it out at the internet cafe three years ago,” the boy says quietly as the interpreter translates. “I started playing go because it was fun, and to develop my concentration skills for tests. But then I saw that match, and I knew I had to play you someday.”
The kifu is covered with hundreds of tiny Chinese characters and move numbers. Kouyou wonders how many hours the boy has spent poring over the match, analyzing every move and intention.
The boy looks at the goban, biting at his lip in frustration. “I wanted to give you a better game than this. I wanted to be the one playing you in that internet game. I wanted-I want to be your rival!”
Kouyou considers his response. He has already found his rival, although he does not know if that rival is even alive any longer. But the boy's passion deserves a better response. “I am an old man,” he tells the boy, wondering if the boy will understand.
The boy's eyes brighten. “That doesn't matter! I'm almost fourteen; I will be an adult soon. Please wait. I will get better every day, and then I will be your rival.”
Yes. In ten or fifteen years, the boy will indeed be a worthy opponent, if he maintains his passion and dedication to the game. Kouyou wonders what the boy's go will mature into. “If you keep working hard, then there will be many people who will want to be your rival. Perhaps you will find someone else to be your rival,” Kouyou says evenly.
The boy shakes his head. “No, I only want to be your rival. I will grow up and then we can play go every single day.” He rubs at his damp face with his sleeve. “And I won't need any handicap either.”
“Then, I sincerely wish that we will have a chance to play again,” Kouyou says, and the interpreter's eyes soften as he translates.
The boy beams, and Kouyou knows he doesn't understand. He is too young to understand an old man's fears and greed for time. Kouyou wants time to watch his son grow up into a man. He wants time to enjoy retirement with his wife. He wants time to find s a i. He wants time to find the Hand of God.
Kouyou wants time to watch this boy grow up, to see raw talent age into beautiful, sensitive play. He feels a sudden stab of jealousy that he might not be around to see it.
I want eternal--
Swiftly, Kouyou cuts off that foolish thought, anchored by the paper still between his fingers. He must be grateful for the precious gift he has already been given. If it were not for that game, then he would have remained stagnant, blinded by his own pride. He is thankful for the time that revelation has granted him.
Kouyou folds the paper along the creases and returns it to the boy. They clear the board and replace the goke on top the board. Kouyou still doesn't know if the boy can succeed at go or not, but the boy has already chosen his own path.
Kouyou doesn't mind giving a fellow player a helping hand along the path.
“I would like to meet your parents.”
[end]
Author's Notes:
I was very pleased to get tarigwaemir as my recipient since she wrote that lovely Torajirou piece for me last round. Basically, this was an opportunity to... er, attempt payback, and an opportunity to delve a little into Touya Kouyou's psyche, something I've been wanting to do.
At Ai's suggestion, I used Yunnan Province since Yang Hai and Le Ping are from that province, and I also wanted to pick an area that isn't easily accessible by plane or train (and there are a few cities that fit the bill because of the mountains). The city is Deqin, which is the last stop before Tibet. Hence the monks... Ok, I just really wanted Touya Kouyou to play a monk.
Just in case you want to know a little more: as soon as this story is posted, I'm going to make a post in my LJ about the online photos and guides and journals I researched for the story. Also, I made a (complete?) master list of the manga chapters in which Touya Kouyou makes an appearance.
Author: ontogenesis
Recipient: tarigwaemir ( requests)
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Summary: Touya Kouyou's quest brings him to a tiny, remote town in China.
Notes: Much thank to my beta, aiwritingfic for her insightful help!
Word Count: 2400
[1]
His opponent places a black stone on the goban with a confident clack, then looks up expectantly.
Touya Kouyou studies the invading stone calmly. Usually, such a move would not be a cause for concern - it is clever, but not brilliant - but Kouyou is playing with a three-stone handicap and no komi against an amateur of respectable skill. After careful consideration, Kouyou untucks his arms from his sleeves and plays a tesuji at 12-5.
His opponent shakes his head in good-natured resignation. They both know that the move has demolished any advantage from the handicaps, but his opponent smiles, the deep lines around his eyes crinkling in appreciation. Kouyou suspects he smiles quite frequently, and likes him better for it.
“With no handicap, now I cannot play the boy,” Kouyou's opponent admits as he searches the board for an opening Kouyou knows he will not find.
Because Kouyou is a teacher, he recognizes the sadness in the other man's voice. Kouyou still remembers the day his own teacher first bowed to him in resignation, his expression one of mingled pride and loss. Kouyou wonders when his turn will come to bow to his own son.
“It is good you are here,” the monk says in careful Japanese after they have cleared the goban.
“I am glad I could come.” Kouyou shifts his legs, allowing them to dangle over the edge of the rough, wooden porch. When he was younger, he could sit in seiza for hours with little discomfort, but his circulation is no longer quite so vigorous, and the air is thin.
The monk joins him, sighing as he stretches out his own legs. He smooths his crimson robes with deeply callused hands, and Kouyou recalls that the man had been chopping wood with a hand ax when Kouyou had arrived at the temple that morning.
In comfortable silence, they watch the colorful prayer flags snap and dance in the wind.
Then: “He has been waiting.”
Kouyou ponders the words like he would a stone on the goban, weighing them carefully. He thinks of the thousands of kilometers he has travelled since retiring, and the hundreds of opponents he has played. So many that sometimes he cannot recall distinct faces, only hands across the goban. (Somehow, he always remembers the hands.) He has played freely, choosing his opponents with little discrimination (some would say he has played foolishly, but Kouyou has never been accustomed to placing much importance on others' opinions). Hundreds of opponents, thus hundreds of styles: go is a game of the mind, and no person shares another's mind.
Kouyou has enjoyed meeting so many different minds.
And yet...
Hundreds more to meet. He has travelled to no place where he has not found willing and eager opponents.
But still...
Almost every game -- no matter how awkward or unskilled the opponent -- reveals a new aspect of go to him. It is like learning a beautiful, precious secret about an old friend.
Still...
Kouyou longs to meet him again. Thousands of miles, hundreds of minds, but the longing to do battle with his rival again has not faded.
“I have been waiting too,” Kouyou answers.
[2]
The truck bumps and shudders along the dirt road, and Kouyou closes his eyes whenever the road veers just a little too closely to the edge of the precipice. His interpreter does not notice; his chatter continuing at exactly the same stream regardless of whether or not Kouyou's eyes are shut, or whether or not the truck seems in imminent danger of plummeting off a cliff.
About two hours from Zhongdian, the elevation begins to increase rapidly. Kouyou realizes this before his interpreter points it out excitedly -- Sensei, we're about to reach an elevation of 4,500 meters!-- he has been feeling light-headed for several minutes already. Then his chest tightens in a familiar and all-too-unwelcome manner.
Guests who are pregnant or who have heart conditions should not ride, is the first thing that flashes across Kouyou's mind, although it's been years since Akira has asked to be taken to an amusement park. Kouyou focuses on that thought to center himself: is travelling up a steep mountain really equivalent to being strapped into a roller coaster and shot out like a rocket?
By the time he decides it's probably not (they aren't accelerating nearly rapidly enough, although his doctor wouldn't have approved this trip regardless), the tension has faded and Kouyou lets out a small exhalation of relief. He does not mention the episode to his interpreter; the other man could only turn the truck around, and Kouyou has never been one for back-tracking.
An hour later, they break through the persistent cloud cover that has been obscuring their visibility.
The snow-capped mountains are blinding in the sunlight. The lower-hanging clouds cover the spaces between mountains like a blanket, so there is nothing visible but mountain and cloud and sky and truck. The pain from earlier seems oddly distant, like a vague memory instead of a fresh wound.
Kouyou has spent most of his life indoors, in sparsely-furnished rooms with the inevitable goban. He does not regret that decision - he regrets very little he has ever chosen to do - but he does think that some of his decisions have been better than others.
The decision to retire has been one of his better ones.
[3]
Ask him what he's always carrying around inside his shirt, the man had said, his grin more suited to a fox than a monk.
So Kouyou says, “Show me,” in simple Mandarin as he points at the boy's pocket.
The boy shakes his head and gestures towards the cheap foldable goban that rests on top of a battered school desk. He replies too rapidly for Kouyou to follow, but his intention is easy enough to decipher.
“He says he'll show you... if you beat him,” the interpreter says, his reddening face suggesting that he was severely tempted to censor the translation. Kouyou takes a moment to admire the interpreter's ethics. “I'm sorry, Sensei, you know how kids are--”
“I shall try my best to win, then,” Kouyou interrupts solemnly, nodding once at the boy. He finds such directness refreshing after years of interminable interviews and pompous ceremonies.
The boy pulls another chair up to the front of the desk, but he stands beside it until Kouyou has accepted the other chair, the one on the side with the leg space. Kouyou hands the goke with black stones to the boy, then they exchange bows.
The opening hands proceed in an unremarkable manner. The boy plays him cautiously, with solid, well-considered moves, until Kouyou plays a kosumi at the 7-10 intersection to limit the boy's ability to expand. The boy responds immediately with a forceful atekomi, as if he had been anticipating that very move.
Kouyou realizes then that the boy has already played him many times in his mind, and he smiles in anticipation.
Pachi. Pachi.
As the game stretches into chuuban, their formations tangle like twisting spider webs as they clash repeatedly. Neither is willing to play conservatively, to settle for a smaller, more secure sphere of influence.
Still, Kouyou glances up in surprise when the boy attacks White's formation in the upper right quadrant. White is already thick there, and the boy is playing his superior, so it is in his favor to avoid such a risky attack, especially when he already has the advantage of reverse komi. If the boy's attack fails, it might very well destroy Black.
The boy is talented; Kouyou knows he must be aware of the risk. Under the surface of the boy's rough, unpolished play, Kouyou sees his strength shining like a raw sun. Then the boy looks up to meet his eyes, and Kouyou understands.
He did not expect to find his son's eyes in the face of a foreign child, burning with the same intensity and desire.
I am preoccupied with going after him, his son had said, gripped by a passion Kouyou had never seen in him before.
He did not expect to find his own eyes staring back at him.
I will play s a i again, Kouyou had sworn in his hospital bed.
Kouyou understands now, so he meets the boy's gaze steadily as he prepares his counterattack.
He will not hold back. He will show no mercy.
To do any less would be an insult to one who would be his rival.
[4]
The boy across from him is weeping quietly, so Kouyou considerately drops his eyes to the boy's hands. They are a man's hands - strong and tan, the deep grooves incongruously stained by ink.
His parents are farmers, and he is their only child, Yang Hai had said on the phone from Beijing. But they spare him whenever they can so he can attend school in the city.
The monk told him that the boy is bright, probably bright enough to qualify for a scholarship to a secondary school in Kunming. His parents have never been to Kunming, but they understand that it means a better life for their son. They do not understand why their son should spend his time playing go when he could be preparing for exams, for a secure future.
They know who you are. If you tell them the boy could succeed, they might relent.
Kouyou has been playing go almost his entire life, and not once has he believed that he could tell another if go is the correct path for him -- not even his own son. The path to the Hand of God is lonely and uncertain, and the players with talent are not always the ones who succeed.
What Kouyou does know is himself. He holds stones between his fingers and he creates the universe with his mind. He plays go because he exists, and he exists because he plays go.
He wants to ask the boy if he also hears the beats of his heart in the echo of the stones. But Kouyou doesn't think that will translate so well. “It was a good game,” he says instead when the boy has stopped crying.
The boy shakes his head, then carefully pulls out a sheet of folded paper from his pocket. He extends it over the goban reverentially.
Kouyou unfolds it gently, his eyes widening as he recognizes what he is holding. Now he understands why the monk had asked Yang Hai for him specifically upon learning that Kouyou was visiting the Kunming Go Institute.
“I printed it out at the internet cafe three years ago,” the boy says quietly as the interpreter translates. “I started playing go because it was fun, and to develop my concentration skills for tests. But then I saw that match, and I knew I had to play you someday.”
The kifu is covered with hundreds of tiny Chinese characters and move numbers. Kouyou wonders how many hours the boy has spent poring over the match, analyzing every move and intention.
The boy looks at the goban, biting at his lip in frustration. “I wanted to give you a better game than this. I wanted to be the one playing you in that internet game. I wanted-I want to be your rival!”
Kouyou considers his response. He has already found his rival, although he does not know if that rival is even alive any longer. But the boy's passion deserves a better response. “I am an old man,” he tells the boy, wondering if the boy will understand.
The boy's eyes brighten. “That doesn't matter! I'm almost fourteen; I will be an adult soon. Please wait. I will get better every day, and then I will be your rival.”
Yes. In ten or fifteen years, the boy will indeed be a worthy opponent, if he maintains his passion and dedication to the game. Kouyou wonders what the boy's go will mature into. “If you keep working hard, then there will be many people who will want to be your rival. Perhaps you will find someone else to be your rival,” Kouyou says evenly.
The boy shakes his head. “No, I only want to be your rival. I will grow up and then we can play go every single day.” He rubs at his damp face with his sleeve. “And I won't need any handicap either.”
“Then, I sincerely wish that we will have a chance to play again,” Kouyou says, and the interpreter's eyes soften as he translates.
The boy beams, and Kouyou knows he doesn't understand. He is too young to understand an old man's fears and greed for time. Kouyou wants time to watch his son grow up into a man. He wants time to enjoy retirement with his wife. He wants time to find s a i. He wants time to find the Hand of God.
Kouyou wants time to watch this boy grow up, to see raw talent age into beautiful, sensitive play. He feels a sudden stab of jealousy that he might not be around to see it.
I want eternal--
Swiftly, Kouyou cuts off that foolish thought, anchored by the paper still between his fingers. He must be grateful for the precious gift he has already been given. If it were not for that game, then he would have remained stagnant, blinded by his own pride. He is thankful for the time that revelation has granted him.
Kouyou folds the paper along the creases and returns it to the boy. They clear the board and replace the goke on top the board. Kouyou still doesn't know if the boy can succeed at go or not, but the boy has already chosen his own path.
Kouyou doesn't mind giving a fellow player a helping hand along the path.
“I would like to meet your parents.”
[end]
Author's Notes:
I was very pleased to get tarigwaemir as my recipient since she wrote that lovely Torajirou piece for me last round. Basically, this was an opportunity to... er, attempt payback, and an opportunity to delve a little into Touya Kouyou's psyche, something I've been wanting to do.
At Ai's suggestion, I used Yunnan Province since Yang Hai and Le Ping are from that province, and I also wanted to pick an area that isn't easily accessible by plane or train (and there are a few cities that fit the bill because of the mountains). The city is Deqin, which is the last stop before Tibet. Hence the monks... Ok, I just really wanted Touya Kouyou to play a monk.
Just in case you want to know a little more: as soon as this story is posted, I'm going to make a post in my LJ about the online photos and guides and journals I researched for the story. Also, I made a (complete?) master list of the manga chapters in which Touya Kouyou makes an appearance.