James walked out of a small duplex and into the bright afternoon sun as it shown down on the suburbs of Los Angles. He ran his hand though his red hair, squinting his hazel eyes, his freckled nose crinkling as they adjusted to the sun, grinning happily at the warm spring day. He placed his Yankees baseball cap on his head hopped on his bike, and headed out for a ride around the neighborhood. 

 It was one the countless new suburbs that had sprung up after the war. With the influx of GIs coming home, the new optimism after the defeat of the axis forces, and the economic boost provided by wartime manufacture the city was in a major boom. 

 His father had returned from being stationed in the pacific only a short time ago. He'd be called up when James was just a toddler, barely old enough to remember him leaving. He made it through the war mostly unscathed, which was more than many others could say.

 He peddled about, looking at the small houses under construction, whistling "Howdy Doody Time" as he rode along. He waved at some of the construction workers, some which knew him by name which wasn't odd considering that he pestered them on an almost daily basis.

 James rode about the neighborhood for awhile, then returned to the set of duplexes that he lived in with his parents. There were several other families living there, though none with children, and he got on well with most everyone. Well, except maybe Mr. Himura, but that was because his parents told him to leave the man alone. 

 He always seemed a little grumpy to James, and yet perhaps all the more interesting because of it. The old man maintained a small garden in the fenced yard behind his house and it seemed an exotic place, especially to the mind of an impressionable ten year old.

 Other residents included Mr Epstein, an older man who had moved in a few years ago and always seemed a little sad to James. His parents told him that it was because the war had cost him a great deal; James wasn't sure why Mr Epstein would have to pay for part of the war but he was always nice to the older man, which always seemed to amuse him in some way.

 Miss Thompson lived in the duplex next to their own with her little two year old son, William. Her husband died during the war and James parents did their best to make sure she was taken care of. James loved her and William like they were family.

 But, for all that, there was still the enigmatic Mr Himura. James would catch glimpses of him sitting in his garden through fence, drinking tea, sometimes drawing on an easel, and James could only imagine what wonders the man must conjure up there.

 He rode up just as his mother stepped out onto the porch. “James, come inside for dinner please. And wash your hands!”

 "Yes, mom!" James replied, parked his bike, and went inside to wash up and eat.

 Saturday!  A perfect day as far as James was concerned because it meant no school! No school meant that there was no scuffling and fussing at which team got which player for baseball or whatever game they were playing. James found himself at the center of those scuffles all to often. It was nice to be wanted, he supposed, but not so much to be quite nearly fought over! His father said his arm was good enough that if he continued to practice, he could maybe play in the big leagues.

 That was a very pleasant dream to James!

 He loved playing baseball, even if it was just tossing the ball around by himself, or tossing it in the air and hitting it with the old, cracked baseball bat that his dad had managed to salvage for him. He had been saving his allowance in hopes to buy a brand new one, maybe even one like Joe DiMaggio used!

 This Saturday was no different; James was tossing the ball in the air and catching it in one hand, carrying the bat in the other. He looked around and figured it probably wouldn't hurt to hit the ball around here a few times. He'd be careful and he'd never broken anything before and so, in his mind at least, it was more than likely a streak that would continue.

 He tossed the ball in the air, readied his bat, and swung. It hit the ball with a satisfying thunk, and flew through the air in a lovely arc.

 Right into Mr Himura’s back yard.

 That was not a good thing, James thought, with a sigh. What was he to do?

 He walked over carefully lifted himself up on the fence to peek in, seeing if Mr. Himura was outside and then just stopped to stare at the garden. He had caught peeks through the fence but this was the first time he had ever just stood and looked.

The garden was amazing! A small path of rocks set in grey sand wound its way though the garden and a small steam followed along beside it, ending in a pool with many koi fish swimming about looking like living jewels. Manicured trees and bushes lined it with a water fall at the end. Off to the side was a small well of some sort with an arch with a Japanese style roof over it.

He couldn't see the elderly man and so he reasoned that he could get over the fence, grab the ball, and be out quicker than you could say Jack Robinson with no one the wiser for it.

 He put one hand on the fence and easily climbed over it, then scurried quickly to where the ball lay. He picked it up and turned to leave when he caught a glimpse of one of the most wondrous things he had ever seen.

 They were paintings made of simple strokes of a brush, simple lines, and yet with those lines conveyed such a wealth of color, told such a story, that James just stood there, stunned, staring.

 He had never seen the likes of them, ever. He liked to draw from time to time, just doodles really, and one of his teachers told him he had some talent. The teacher was an accomplished artist, but those just seemed to pale compared to the simplicity and beauty of those paintings.

 He was shaken out of his reverie by a grunt, and the sound of a cane tapping on concrete. Startled, he looked up at the white haired, dark eyed face of Mr Himura who was glaring at him. 

 "Uh, I'm sorry Mr Himura! My ball fell in your yard and I just needed to get it. I'll just be going now, sir, if you don't mind, sir. He started to back towards the gate and Mr Himura just watched him, black eyes glittering, frowning and saying nothing

 James made it to the gate, opened it without turning away from the elderly Japanese man, and fled back to his house. 

 Mr Himura watched him flee and with an irritated grunt turned and went back inside his home.

 James found himself thinking of those paintings countless times over the next few days. He found himself scheming to go get glimpses of them without Mr Himura catching him but feared what would happen if he did and worse, fearing his parents reactions if they found out that he had been bothering the old man. 

 He walked out of his home into the warm night air just to get some fresh air, brooding about the paintings. They stuck with him more than some catchy little song you would hear on the radio that simply wouldn't let you alone; he couldn't get them out of his minds eye

 He looked over at Mr. Himura's back yard and before he knew it, found his feet had taken him over there. With a nervous swallow, he peered over the fence, trying to catch a glimpse of those paintings. 

 The angle was all wrong; there was no way he could see inside. Frustrated, he walked over to the gate. Surely the old man would be asleep by now and he'd be just fine taking another look, right? So resolved, he entered the garden and crept up to the house. 

 He made it up to the window and cautiously peered in. Mr. Himura was sitting at his table with a piece of parchment of some sort in front of him. Inks were spread about in little pots here and there, and he dipped an oddly shaped brush in one and started to paint in one continuous line. 

 What started out as a simple line suddenly became a roosters tail before James eyes. A few more dabs, a splash of color, and the rooster looked, to James, as if it could leap off the page. He made an unconscious sound of awe and the old man's head snapped up, looking at the window, eyes once again glittering.

 James yelped and ran off, heading for his room as fast as he legs could carry him, hoping the old man was not in pursuit or going to call his parents.

 Several days later, doom not descending upon him from his evening misadventures, James found himself again staring at the old man's home, wondering at what wonders must lay within.

 The idea was maddening, frustrating in a way that James had never experienced before. Why couldn't Mr. Himura be more friendly? Why couldn't he just go chat with him? James had never understood it. The old man had never yelled at him or even said anything to him, so how did his parents know he should stay away?

 He turned and went inside his house. "Mom?" he called

 "Yes, James?"

 "Can I ask you a question?"

 "Of course! What's on your mind, son?"

 "Why don't you and Dad want me bothering Mr. Himura?"

 She sighed. "He's an old man and doesn't need a young boy pestering him."

 "My grandparents are old and they don't mind," James objected

 She hesitated. "James, you know about the war of course. We were fighting with the Japanese."

 James frowned. "So Mr. Himura hates us for it? Or maybe dad doesn't like him because he was a sailor in the war?"

 "No, James, nothing like that. We've spoken with him several times and we have remained cordial with him he's just hurting over all that was taken from him."

 "I don't understand."

 "During the war, the war department decided that it would be safer for everyone if Japanese Americans living here were placed in internment camps for the duration of the war. I'm not sure it was a good idea at all, personally. When the war ended a lot of the Japanese that were placed in those camps found that a large portion of their belongings, money, and other things were simply gone.

 "The government gave them some money to start over, but it wasn't nearly enough."

 James frowned as he digested this. "And he's mad at us?"

 "No James, not at us, just in general. He knows your father was a sailor and he seems fine with it; We just don't want you over there bothering him and maybe bringing up old memories. Just let him alone, James, there are plenty of other people you can talk to."

 "Ok, Mom."

 A few weeks later, James found himself once again staring at Mr. Himura's house. He sighed and kicked at a rock, hands thrust into his pockets, his freckled face scrunched up in thought. Why did something like that have to happen to someone who created such wonderful things, like Mr. Himura? It didn't make any sense to James at all. The whole war didn't really make a lot of sense, really. To James, Germany, Hitler, Italy, Il' Duce, Nagasaki, Hirohito, were all just names or places on the map.

 He walked over and peered over the fence, looking into the garden. Mr Himura was sitting outside today, sipping some tea in the afternoon sun and working on another painting. He quietly walked over the fence to watch him paint and watched as the old man worked, following every movement of his brush and hands with rapt attention. 

 He moved to get a better view and his foot scraped against the boards to the fence. Mr. Himura looked up, frowning, and James just stood there. The two stared at each other for a moment and James thought about running, but for some reason didn't.

 "M-Mr. Himura, your paintings are very beautiful," he said and a quivering voice.

 The old man just stared at him with his glittering, dark eyes, saying nothing. James swallowed again. "I- I saw some of them when I got my ball, and again when I snuck over to peek. I'm s-sorry I came into your yard but I wanted to see them again."

 Mr Himura grunted. "Why?" he said in a guttural voice. 

 James jumped back a little; it was the first words he had ever heard spoken by the man. "W-well they're so beautiful. I like the way they look!"

 The man grunted again. "Yes, but why? You have your art, your paintings. American paintings. These are just silly, simple paintings yes? Just little blobs of ink compared to your American art."

 "Oh no! Not at all Mr. Himura! Your paintings are wonderful! They convey so much with so few lines, it's just amazing! Like that one with the rocks, the ocean, and the rain; I could almost hear and feel the rain coming down just looking at it!"

 The man stared at him for awhile, then grunted again. He turned to go inside and waved a hand for James to follow. James stared after him for a moment, not quite believing that he was being invited into the mans home.

 He quickly made his way to the back door and followed Mr Himura in. The old mans house had an odd scent to it, something exotic that James couldn't name. It was a little cluttered with furniture of a simple, elegant, design, but all of that is not what caught James attention. Hung about were all sorts of paintings in many styles, covering a myriad of subjects

 The old man turned. "Well?"

 "Oh, they're wonderful! I could look for hours!"

 "Then look," the old man said, stepping back, just watching as James eyes roved over the paintings

 He couldn't believe the skill and art that Mr Himura had used to create them. His eyes continued to roam over them, staring at this one and that one, drinking down every last detail. He turned and another painting caught his eye.

 This one was of a wood scene, a large Japanese styled house sitting in a clearing, but what truly caught James eye was the dragon that was in the sky above it.

 The detail in the dragon exceeded anything James could imagine. It almost seemed to live, the scales practically rippling, whiskers almost moving in the wind. The dragons eyes were the most interesting part, however. They seemed to stare back at him, seemed to be alive

 "That...that is..." he shook his head, unable to come up with the words.

 The old man grunted again. "Time to go, James."

 "Y-you know my name?"

 He just grunted and ushered him out the door. Right before the old man could shut the door, James whirled around. "Teach me to paint like that!"

 Mr Himura stopped and stared. "You want to learn?"

 "Oh, yes, please!"

 The old man shook his head. "No."

 James felt disappointment hit him like a blow. "But...but why?"

 "This painting is not for you. You have your games, your bike, your friends. This painting takes your life, all of it. This art requires dedication and your people seem to lack it. No. No time to waste teaching someone who is not to take it seriously."

 James stared and in that very second made a choice that would change his life forever. “I would quit all of that to learn!”

 Mr Himura stared at him for a long, long while. "Very well. Come to me after school tomorrow, and we will start."

 James learned much in the upcoming weeks. He spent every waking moment with Mr Himura that he wasn't required to do something else. Mr. Himura told him over and over again. “Only lines, James. Only lines. All else follows.” 

His parents noticed that he was no longer staying after school to play ball and that his bat and glove hadn't moved from their spot. James had missed his favorite radio programs and even the few TV shows that were on from the TV his father had gotten from work.

 "James, are you feeling alright?" his dad asked one evening.

 “Swell, dad! Never felt better!"

 "You're not playing ball or any of your regular activities though."

 James hesitated. "Mr Himura is teaching me to paint."

 His dad looked shocked. "Mr Himura? He's teaching you?"

 "Yes! I had to convince him that I would be dedicated, that I'd devote my life to the art, and I will! Mom, dad, there is nothing like this in all the world! I can't wait to get over there and paint some more, to learn more, to lean how to breath life into things with simple lines and ink!"

 His mother and father looked at each other. "Well, if that's what you want to do, James, then do the best you can at it."

 James grinned at them and jumped up from the table, the legs of his chair skidding across the vinyl floor. "I need to go. He's going to start teaching me to make woodcuts!”

 After he had run out the door his parents looked at each other. His mother grinned and shrugged. "Well, he's interested. Let’s see how long it lasts though."

 His dad laughed. "Agreed. Bet you his practicing baseball within the week."

 His dad was totally wrong: James continued to study, to paint, and work hard at it, harder than anything he had ever worked at in his life. Within a few years, Mr Himura judged that his paintings were worth showing his parents. 

 That day was nerve wracking. He had no idea how his parents would react to what he had spent the last several years straining for, trying to achieve. 

 They were breathless.

 "James...you did these?" She said gesturing to a scene with a flowering bush.

 "Yes!" James said proudly. "Mr Himura said I was finally ready to show my art. He's hard on me but he's very fair. I'm lucky to have him as my teacher."

 They had to agree.

 Years went on and James learned more and more, soon approaching the skill of the old man. He really didn't miss his old life, as he thought of it, being utterly consumed by this one. He saw things differently now, with the eyes of an artist. He carried a sketch book with him everywhere now to sketch out little scenes now and again of things he saw.

 Mr Himura grumbled at this. "Using pencils and paper, James? Not traditional!"

 "Yes, sir, but it allows me to bring more ideas and inspiration back," he said with a grin 

 The old man just grunted but James saw the mirth behind his eyes that so few people saw.

 One morning, James got up to find his parents sitting at the table, staring at an envelope, brooding. James heart lurched. "Mom, dad, what's wrong?"

 The looked up sadly. "Nothing, James"

 "Then why are you looking like someone died? Mr Himura! He's okay?"

 "He's fine, James. In fact, he's going to be very proud of you."

 “I don’t understand.”

 They handed him the envelope. Inside were documents for a full ride art scholarship to one of the finest art institutions in all of Japan. James felt tears rolling down his cheeks. "How?"

 "Mr Himura spoke on your behalf. We've been speaking with the government about sending you overseas and there are no restrictions any longer. If you accept, you are welcome to go,” his mother said

 "Accept....but, but I'd be in Japan!"

 "With some of the greatest teachers of all."

 "No one is greater than Mr Himura!"

  "Perhaps not. But I'm sure there are those who know things that he doesn't"

 James mulled it over. "You're right. I- I need to go talk to him."

 James went over to the old mans house to find him sitting in one of his chairs. The years had taken their toll on him, that was certain. His hair had thinned, he had more wrinkles, and walked with a shuffling stoop these days, his hands spotted with liver spots, face showing deep wrinkles. His hearing was also not quite what it was, but his eyes had remained sharp.

 "Mr Himura? I...I got the scholarship," he said hesitantly

 The old man simply nodded his head.

 "You- you've done so much for me, how can I ever repay you?" James said, voice thickening as tears rolled down his face

 The old man looked at him. "Release me."

 "I...I don't understand?"

 Mr. Himura slowly stood and then shuffled over to the painting of the dragon. "You have ever been fascinated by this painting. It is my greatest work."

 "Yes, sir. I swear, sometimes that dragon is watching me!" he laughed. "Sometimes I even think it moves."

 "She does," Mr Himura said in a low voice

 "She?" James frowned. "What do you mean? It's a painting! Even if you've called it female, it couldn't move."

 Mr Himura shook his head. "No. She moves. She lives," he said. He turned to James and for the first time James could remember, tears shown in his eyes. James took a step back in shock. 

 "Mr Himura!"

 The old man sighed. "She lives, James, and she is my mate," he said quietly. "When we learned that we were to be placed in the internment camp, we knew her health would never allow her to survive and so I painted her as she truly was, truly is. In that painting, she has her life, herself, all that she could need....except for her mate."

 He looked James in the eyes. "There has been no other artist that I trust to complete the process, James. Until a few years ago, I felt doomed to die here and be forever apart from her. You can change this. Release me."

 "Sir... Sir, I can't do that, I don't paint that well! And you'd die! What would I do without you, master?" James cried

 "You'll be fine, boy. You have the skills, you will have new teachers. You will be greater than I and seeing this has fulfilled my life purpose in a way far greater than I ever could have imagined. Please, James, release me."

 "Sir, I can't kill you!"

 The old man shook his head. "Not killing; Setting me free."

 "But I can't loose you!"

 The old man walked over and put a warm hand on James shoulder. "You won't. You will always have the painting and I will always be watching you."

 James couldn't speak, just stared at the ground for a long, long while. "Ok," he finally said in a raspy whisper.

 He took the old man into a warm embrace, trying to put every ounce of love and affection that he had built up for the old man in it. Mr Himura returned it, a few muffled sobs coming from him as well

 "How do I do this?" James asked, stepping away, rubbing his eyes.

 "Use those paints," Mr Himura said, gesturing. "And see through the eye, not with the eye. See through, as things are, not as the illusions we create."

 “I think I understand,” James said quietly.

 He took the paints, set up the easel and stared at Mr Himura for a long, long while, until he finally saw past the mask of the old mans glittering black eyes, to the dragon who had been underneath, unnoticed all these years.

 He painted as he had never painted before, his mind fully locked on his work, his eyes never wavering, his hands moving in perfect synchronicity with what his eyes took in, his real eyes. 

 At 4 am that morning, he finished.

 He closed his eyes, exhausted, and took a step back to look at the canvas. There. There he was. Mr Himura was there with his mate, but his eyes seemed dead yet.

 James looked up to see the old man standing there, smiling. "I...I thought you'd be gone," James said in a whisper

 "Not without saying goodbye, James," he said in a voice stronger, more radiant, more musical and wonderful than anything James had heard in his life.

 Mr. Himura's form was covered in a pale mist for a moment, and when it faded, there stood the dragon that James had painted, looking on at him, sitting on his hind legs, his green scaled body coiled up. The dragon smiled, white teeth slightly exposed and opened his arms and James fell into them, sobbing out his grief at not only what felt like loosing his beloved master, but this fantastic creature that he had just met and was now going to loose

 After a long while the dragon let him go. "It is time, James."

 "I...I know."

 "I will always, always be watching over you James. Always."

 "I...I know sir. And I will always look to you for inspiration and...and as the one who gave me my life."

 "Then I am pleased," the dragon said simply.

 The mist rose again and when it faded, the two dragons were on the canvas together, now facing each other, their eyes live with the emotion of a love long lost now regained.

 James put his hand over them for a moment, and then dropped it, turning away. There were simply no words. Only lines.