Mr Tanakashi taught her the Art of origami. In the first year he gave her the gift of its history. The simple forms realised by the followers of Shiniri some fifteen centuries before had given rise in turn to the more complex forms of the Gonadira School (those who shaped the form) and the Kesonora School (those who shaped the nature). Further divisions, and occasional schisms, had led to the emergence of finer and finer branches, each dedicated to a particular concept of representation of form and nature. There were even those who combined the two schools, though they kept their work secret. After that first year, Mr Tanakashi taught of the True Art of Origami, that which combined both form and nature as one.
Across the next five years, Mr Tanakashi taught her of the nine Prime Folds that could be used to resolve a form. He explained how the quality of paper used would affect the nature of the Form brought forth. He taught of the inks that could be used to further refine the essence of the Form and the secret language that could be used to affect sublime change in the Form itself. He taught her from which wings the feathers that would make her quills should come and the blessings they should carry. As a final act, Mr Tanakashi spent their final year teaching her the characters of the Divine Alphabet.
In order to purchase the finest paper, she sacrificed six years of her life working in the Emperor’s copper mines. A well of ink sanctified by the holy lady of the North-East Valley cost her the children she would have had. A quill from the wings of the Umber Phoenix cost her the memory of her father’s voice.
She took a house near the river and on the morning of the longest day, made her way to the riverside. She sat with the inkwell nestled carefully in the grass beside her. Then she straightened the sheet of paper before her and took up the quill. She began to write.
She inscribed every moment of their time together. From the first moments in the city, the accident, the apologies, the awkward silence. The details of the first days and weeks on fire in the freedom of time alone with each other in the City, before the return to their lives. She recorded every line of the letters she had written and received over the months there were apart. Then she wrote the words that she had never written, words of anger, words of desire, want, need, reproach and forgiveness. She set down every act, every moment, every lie that bound them together and every truth that kept them apart. She set down the final act that broke them. And when she finished, the paper was black with ink and she set it to dry in the afternoon sun.
Later she began the act of shaping the paper. She folded carefully, precisely. Each fold breaking the dark plane of her confessional, building up form and dimension. She was not sure of what would emerge, initially simply allowing her mind to sense how best the potential of the paper could be resolved. After a while she could see what she had to do, and her learned precision sculpted a perfect form from the paper.
Eventually she stopped, the shape was done. Complete. It sat in the palm of her hand, a swan, its plumage black with her story. As she watched, it bowed its head, scratching its beak against her skin. She walked to the edge of the riverbank and knelt, lowering her had to the water. The swan fluttered down and settled on the surface of the river, where the slow current immediately started to carry it away. She left it to its fate and started to walk back to the house. Behind her, the water began to soak the swan, rising through the fibres, teasing them apart. The ink caught there began to wash into the river and quickly dispersed. The body of the swan slowly unmade itself, the colour disappearing into the water and then the paper itself breaking apart until nothing remained.
There was a house ahead of her. She did not recognise it or the surrounding country. Then she realised that she could not remember coming to this place or why she was here. For some reason, she was not concerned.