"Leaves" Chapter 7
Paul took the bundle out of his backpack. Darkness had fallen outside. He was in the tent, the cold wind of the mountain ridge blowing against it, the inside lit only with the warm beam of his old flashlight. The bundle was a folded blue canvas bag that Shizuka had given him on a whim when she'd stayed overnight once. He'd found out later that the logo on it was from a ladies' clothing shop and he wondered if that was the reason she'd given it to him, so that whenever he used it, other women would know he had a girl in his life.
The bag was folded over many times. He unfolded it and took out a notebook. It was a journal to keep him company on his trip. He felt around inside the pack for the pen. Then he started writing in the low light:
Continued...
He drank his whiskey listening to the wind in the trees high up the mountain. When he wrote "signed the book...", he was referring to a logbook that he'd found in a wooden box fastened to a post on the summit of the mountain. The box had a clear, hard-plastic cover and inside were a notebook and an inkpen, both tethered to the box with worn cotton strings so that they wouldn't "escape". The logbook had dates and names of people who'd made the climb. He dutifully, and with a little pride, wrote his name and the date and in the space over on the right side for comments, he wrote, "I'm tired!"
But he was happy. He and Shizuka had made up and he'd promised her they'd celebrate his birthday just a few days later when he got back from his trip. He didn't think of it as "if he got back".
He was on a small part of the long trail, this country's answer to the "Appalachian Trail" of his home. In the morning, he'd taken the bus over to the next valley where he could join the trail coming from the southeast. He planned to walk for four days with three nights of camping. It was Friday night, and while other people were probably at home watching TV or out drinking and laughing, Paul was up on a mountain ridge, alone in his tent drinking whiskey and listening to the wind blowing outside.
Down on the other side of this mountain, the trail followed the old river upstream and passed quite near the old village he'd moved away from. He would be walking into it again. But that was fine with him. He'd sort of wanted to see the hills to the east and stay in them a while, back when he lived there. But he'd never gotten around to it. The next day he would follow the trail down into the valley and start up along the old river.
And while Paul was walking down into the valley, there would be someone else climbing the mountain behind him and writing a name in the logbook just below his name. If he could see that new entry, that new name, he would recognize it, and it would surprise him. And what would be written off to the side as a comment would make him... uneasy.
Not only would a new entry appear in the logbook, but the little statue nearby would also be visited. And his follower would understand it for what it was -- not just a Jizo statue, but a gravestone. And unlike Paul, his "follower" would understand what was written on the gravestone, both the original name and what had been added later, maliciously: "filth get out".
---
She'd lived there alone in the mountains for over a decade, ever since the life she thought she would have became impossible. Impossible for a reason beyond her control.
She bought the old house with a little money her father had left her. The previous owner was a widow who passed away without any heirs, and the branch of the district court in the nearest town had taken over the house and put it up for auction. She bought it for an impossibly low price. Nobody else wanted an old thatch house on a hill in the middle of nowhere. A house like that was too vivid a memory of the land's not so distant past. Everybody wanted to be in the city. It was "modern" to be in the city, and in their feverish striving to prove themselves modern, and not just simple people a mere hundred years removed from feudal life -- to prove they weren't peasants -- they desperately strained to get into the city. She had wanted that, too, at one time. But feudal ways hadn't died completely, it seemed. They were being preserved by some of the very same people who were striving to be "modern". Life isn't fair and it often does not make sense. But "life" is outdone in this by the particular cruelties of individual people.
She couldn't marry the man she loved and who loved her in return because the man's father forbade it. She was twenty then. And although she knew her father and mother, her grandparents, her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, had all descended from the old "untouchable" class, and that she herself was one of them, she'd allowed herself the naiveté of thinking it wouldn't matter in a world striving to be modern.
She'd been wrong. There was no marriage. She gave up. He married someone else and she moved to this old ramshackle house, restored it as best she could, as lovingly as she knew how, and she lived simply and quietly, almost like a nun, trying not to be bitter. It's easy to decide not to be bitter. But fulfilling that goal is not so easy.
For a little income, she practiced a craft her grandfather had taught her when she was a little girl, a craft his people had done lovingly for generations in his old home far away on the cold western coast by the sea. It was old lacquerware. Beautiful, slow, peaceful lacquer. It was a strange old craft, she thought. The natural resins of the lacquer tree don't dry like a modern synthetic urethane. It requires moisture to cure and harden. It requires damp, cool air. Sometimes she found inspiration in this fact. She imagined that she, too, was hardening, curing up slowly over the time. Only in her case, it was in an atmosphere of tears.
The beauty is what most of us see in lacquerware. But behind the beauty, there is something fickle and spiteful. The raw resins cause horrid allergic reactions when they touch skin, almost as if the tree is seeking revenge for being robbed of its lifeblood. Occasionally, it even causes death.
The bag was folded over many times. He unfolded it and took out a notebook. It was a journal to keep him company on his trip. He felt around inside the pack for the pen. Then he started writing in the low light:
Day 1: very tired. Hiked from Shinshiro up to the "Old Man" mountain. Scary as hell getting up. Rickety wooden stairs along the sheer cliffs, then rusty old chains to pull yourself up with, all with this goddamned heavy pack on my back making me top-heavy and screwing with my balance. But I made it. Signed the book saying I'd made it. Took in the view, sat a little while with the little stone Jizo statue near the edge of the clearing. Good hard day. Knees ache. I'll drink some much-earned whiskey now & sleep. Good weather up here. Peaceful in the tent. After I put it up, I went back up to the top to watch the sun set. Kinda creepy coming back down with the flashlight. Oh, by the way, today I'm suddenly a year older.
Continued...
He drank his whiskey listening to the wind in the trees high up the mountain. When he wrote "signed the book...", he was referring to a logbook that he'd found in a wooden box fastened to a post on the summit of the mountain. The box had a clear, hard-plastic cover and inside were a notebook and an inkpen, both tethered to the box with worn cotton strings so that they wouldn't "escape". The logbook had dates and names of people who'd made the climb. He dutifully, and with a little pride, wrote his name and the date and in the space over on the right side for comments, he wrote, "I'm tired!"
But he was happy. He and Shizuka had made up and he'd promised her they'd celebrate his birthday just a few days later when he got back from his trip. He didn't think of it as "if he got back".
He was on a small part of the long trail, this country's answer to the "Appalachian Trail" of his home. In the morning, he'd taken the bus over to the next valley where he could join the trail coming from the southeast. He planned to walk for four days with three nights of camping. It was Friday night, and while other people were probably at home watching TV or out drinking and laughing, Paul was up on a mountain ridge, alone in his tent drinking whiskey and listening to the wind blowing outside.
Down on the other side of this mountain, the trail followed the old river upstream and passed quite near the old village he'd moved away from. He would be walking into it again. But that was fine with him. He'd sort of wanted to see the hills to the east and stay in them a while, back when he lived there. But he'd never gotten around to it. The next day he would follow the trail down into the valley and start up along the old river.
And while Paul was walking down into the valley, there would be someone else climbing the mountain behind him and writing a name in the logbook just below his name. If he could see that new entry, that new name, he would recognize it, and it would surprise him. And what would be written off to the side as a comment would make him... uneasy.
Not only would a new entry appear in the logbook, but the little statue nearby would also be visited. And his follower would understand it for what it was -- not just a Jizo statue, but a gravestone. And unlike Paul, his "follower" would understand what was written on the gravestone, both the original name and what had been added later, maliciously: "filth get out".
---
She'd lived there alone in the mountains for over a decade, ever since the life she thought she would have became impossible. Impossible for a reason beyond her control.
She bought the old house with a little money her father had left her. The previous owner was a widow who passed away without any heirs, and the branch of the district court in the nearest town had taken over the house and put it up for auction. She bought it for an impossibly low price. Nobody else wanted an old thatch house on a hill in the middle of nowhere. A house like that was too vivid a memory of the land's not so distant past. Everybody wanted to be in the city. It was "modern" to be in the city, and in their feverish striving to prove themselves modern, and not just simple people a mere hundred years removed from feudal life -- to prove they weren't peasants -- they desperately strained to get into the city. She had wanted that, too, at one time. But feudal ways hadn't died completely, it seemed. They were being preserved by some of the very same people who were striving to be "modern". Life isn't fair and it often does not make sense. But "life" is outdone in this by the particular cruelties of individual people.
She couldn't marry the man she loved and who loved her in return because the man's father forbade it. She was twenty then. And although she knew her father and mother, her grandparents, her great-grandfather and great-grandmother, had all descended from the old "untouchable" class, and that she herself was one of them, she'd allowed herself the naiveté of thinking it wouldn't matter in a world striving to be modern.
She'd been wrong. There was no marriage. She gave up. He married someone else and she moved to this old ramshackle house, restored it as best she could, as lovingly as she knew how, and she lived simply and quietly, almost like a nun, trying not to be bitter. It's easy to decide not to be bitter. But fulfilling that goal is not so easy.
For a little income, she practiced a craft her grandfather had taught her when she was a little girl, a craft his people had done lovingly for generations in his old home far away on the cold western coast by the sea. It was old lacquerware. Beautiful, slow, peaceful lacquer. It was a strange old craft, she thought. The natural resins of the lacquer tree don't dry like a modern synthetic urethane. It requires moisture to cure and harden. It requires damp, cool air. Sometimes she found inspiration in this fact. She imagined that she, too, was hardening, curing up slowly over the time. Only in her case, it was in an atmosphere of tears.
The beauty is what most of us see in lacquerware. But behind the beauty, there is something fickle and spiteful. The raw resins cause horrid allergic reactions when they touch skin, almost as if the tree is seeking revenge for being robbed of its lifeblood. Occasionally, it even causes death.
© 2006 by PA Casey (ryecatcher)
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