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His hand slowly turned the peg as gently as he could, while the other strung the shamisen's strings. He could feel the string stretch as the wood rolled in his hand. Finally, he got the correct tone for his string.
When he let go of the peg, however, the string loosened once again. Kubo lets out a grunt, slightly tilting his head to the side with the flick of his tongue. He knelt to the ground and breathed heavily, wanting to try again.
“Have your strings loosen before?” A soft voice calls from beside him.
Kubo looks up to them and smiles. “Not exactly,” he tells her as he attempts to tune the shamisen's string once again.
Mari sits down beside him and watches as he turns the peg once more, flinching as the string stretched loose once again.
“That doesn't look good,” the little girl says with a frown, looking at the older boy with concern.
“The peg is old now,” Kubo sighed. “Must've been from all the years I've played it.”
“How long did you have your shamisen?” She asks him innocently. “You said its old.”
Kubo stares at the instrument for a moment, resting like a small child in his hands. “I've had it since I was a small boy,” he says as he turns his head to the little girl.
Mari's eyes grew with excitement, knowing very well that Kubo would tell her a long story.
•
“Their eyes entered a battle of their own as the two sisters stared each other down.”
“Mother! Mother!” Kubo cheers while clapping his little hands in delight.
“We must stay quiet when mother is telling her story, Kubo.” Kameyo chuckles in a low voice, bringing a finger in front of his lips to hush his giggles.
The old woman moves the small boy up on his feet, holding his hips as she help him stand on her lap.
“Washi grips her sword, nothing but hatred clouding over her mind.”
Kubo's eye glimmered with wonder as he watched his mother's words turn into floating origami, controlled through her magic and guided by every musical strum she strikes on the shamisen.
”And with the swift flick of a second, Karasu advances towards Washi! Her feet pushed against the dirt with every step, adrenaline rushing through both of their veins.”
The flying origami swooshed swiftly through the air, making the crowd gasp and cheer in excitement.
Kubo couldn't help but laugh in adoration for his mother's talent.
As the paper origami swirled and folded through the air, Sariatu takes the chance to look over her son, who's watching the show with Kameyo from the side.
Sariatu gives him a bright smile, and Kubo lets out a small giggle. Her heart filled with warmth as she sees the innocent, child-like love her son has for her.
•
“Your mother's a storyteller? Just like you?” Mari asks in a giddy voice. Kubo nods his head. “Yes! Yes she was!” he says with an eager nod.
“She owns this shamisen way before the day I was born,” Kubo's gaze lands on the instrument on his hands.
“I remember listening to her stories about how I loved its music since I was little,” he says with a warm smile. “My mother taught me how to play it when I was a young boy.”
“You got the idea of telling stories while playing the shamisen from your mother, didn't you?” Mari asks with a sly smirk.
“I did,” Kubo says. “My mother has been my biggest inspiration whenever I tell stories to the crowd.”
The sound of the busy village brewed over their conversation for a while, getting drowned in their own thoughts.
“Your mother used to tell stories to the village,” Mari says out loud. “When did she stop?”
Kubo's gaze locked onto the instrument. The memories of that daunting time replayed within his eye. He remembers it as clear as the day amongst them.
•
Kubo woke up to the blinding light of the sun creeping through the cave. He smiles, for another day has came to him. Another day to watch his mother tell epic tales.
The young boy stretches his joints and limbs, and sits up on his sleeping mat. He looks over his mother's spot, and his smile falters.
“Mother?” Kubo calls out. His mother layed flat on her sleeping mat. She didn't move at all, she didn't even move an inch.
The young boy sits up and crawls towards his mother, his body shaking in panic. Was there something wrong?
“Mother??” Kubo calls out once more. He sighed in relief when he saw his mother's eyes wide open. He thought she was gone for good.
What bothers him is how his mother layed perfectly still, and how her eyes didn't even blink as she stared blankly at the ceiling.
Kubo looks up, hoping that what she's looking at has stunned her somehow. But his one eye saw nothing; just the usual rocky texture of the cave they live in.
“Mother, it's time to go.” When he got no response, Kubo reached for his mother's shoulder and shook it lightly.
“Mother, it's time to go,” he says again, gulping down the uneasy knot forming in his throat.
“Mother,” he says again, but his voice forms his words into a dry sob. “Please wake up,” he pleads as a tear ran down his cheek, his lips quivering as he tries his best not to cry.
Kubo's gaze lands on the shamisen on the corner of the cave. The young boy quickly wipes his tear away and shakily stands up.
“Maybe playing the song you taught me would wake you up,” Kubo says out loud, still hoping for a reply to come out of his mother.
His small hands grabbed the instrument and hurried to his mother.
Kubo kneeled beside her and placed the shamisen on his lap, gripping the bachi with one hand, and placing the other on top of the strings.
He breathes in, and starts playing the song she taught him a few days ago.
Once the first few notes echoed in the air, the paper flew out of his mother's bag and formed into crumpled pieces.
He ignored how shaky his hands was. He didn't care if he was playing it out of tune. He just wanted his mother to come back to him.
The crumpled pieces of paper started to circle them as Kubo repeated the song again, and again, and again, hoping his mother would wake up from her catatonic state. The more he played, the more he played the song properly.
But his mother remained perfectly still, staring blankly at the ceiling, as if she hears nothing.
Kubo stops playing. A tear ran down his cheek as he stared at his mother's unmoving figure.
Then another tear followed. And then another. And then another. Kubo's face fell on his mother's shoulder and cries heavily.
The papers that once flew had fallen to the ground, scattering around the cave.
His small arms wrapped around his mother's figure, begging for her to snap out of it. To wake up. To come back to him and tell stories to the town again.
He'll do anything. Anything at all. But she still didn't move a muscle.
A tear landed on one of the shamisen's strings. The sound caught Kubo's attention. The young boy sniffed against his Kimono as he pulled himself away from his mother.
Kubo laughs lightly. “Sorry for crushing you,” he says as he lifts the shamisen from the ground.
And at that moment, a thought dawned upon his face.
Kubo throws a glance to his mother, setting the shamisen to the side. He reaches for his mother's hands and pulls her up on her feet.
To his surprise, she slowly stood from her sleeping mat. He carefully guided her up on her feet, to which his mother followed in silence.
Once his mother was standing tall, Kubo pulled her hand as gently as he could, trying to get her to walk.
She took a step forward, and the young boy lets out a gasp. He pulls her again, and she takes another step, until they were outside the cave.
His mother always loved to dawn upon the sunrise before going to the village.
Kubo guided his mother to sit on the ground. Her yellow Kimono and her long hair fell gracefully as she sat down. She still stared blankly to the horizon.
The young boy sighed, as he walked back in the cave. He put out the fire from the pit and got the shamisen. He grabbed the bag full of her mother's papers and swung it over his shoulder.
He walks back outside, seeing his mother sat peacefully.
‘At least you get to see the waves of the ocean while I'm gone, mother,’ Kubo thinks to himself.
Kubo throws a worried look to his mother, placing his small hand on her shoulder. A morning breeze passed by them, wisps of their hair flying with the winds.
The young boy reaches for his mother's hair, and neatly tucks them back behind her ear. Kubo smiles bitterly.
He looks over the horizon for a moment, before rushing towards the village below the mountain.
•
“Mother was up and well by the time I returned, telling me she awoke to the sight of the ocean waves beneath her,” Kubo says.
“She even told me she was sorry for not getting to see the first time I told my first story to the town,” he smiles. “It was a horrible story. I told the legend of a fire breathing chicken who poops eggs to throw it to foes.”
Mari chortles adorably, and Kubo couldn't stop himself from laughing along with her.
“Though the crowd asked why I was the one telling the story that day, and I said it was a gimmick my mother wanted to try as an excuse,” Kubo sighs heavily.
“But as the time passed by, mother's state grew worse, to where she only awoke at night.” Kubo closes his eye and lets his head hung low.
Mari looks at him with an innocent smile. “I'm sure she's very proud of you,” she says.
Kubo turns his head to her. “Do you think she'll be proud of me if I repaired her shamisen?” he asks.
Mari crosses her arms. “It wouldn't make sense if she gets mad at you for fixing her shamisen.”
Kubo gives her a look. “You think so?” he asks her again.
“She is your mother, after all,” she says with a casual shrug. “Let's face it,” Mari shakes her head, like a little madame. “The shamisen is already broken.”
“Huh,” Kubo huffs. “I haven't thought of it that way.”
“Then you better start doing so!” The young girl shouts at him. “Or else you'll never get to finish any of your stories!”
“Alright, I'll get it fixed,” Kubo laugh. He grabs the shamisen by the neck and stands up from the ground.
“If mother scolds me, I'll point her to you, young lady,” he says as he ruffles Mari's hair, ignoring her grunts of protest.