Two Today the clouds were like a bowl of dirty steel wool. Behind them lay another bolt of soiled grey fabric; the grey on grey was unrelenting. Behind the present storm was another ready to step in when its predecessor was exhausted. At a midway point into the gorge, Hideaki stopped to survey the scene. To his right was an open quarry where porcelain stone was mined for the area potteries. To the left a series terraced rice fields carved well-manicured steps into the mountainside. Old women in white bonnets tended young rice seedlings. Further off, a half dozen boys ran along the elevated dirt mounds between the submerged fields. Even from a distance the tenor of their shouts betrayed a less than playful intent to the chase. In the mist, under the dirty grey bowl, Hideaki watched the chase and thought back to when he was on the wrong end of playful schoolboy games. * * * His panting subsided. The sound of water, the background of your life when you grew up in these hills, was obscured underneath the sound of his heart and the taste of his fear. Chased home again. He had become adept at gaining a head start, cultivating the stealth of the weakest of the pack. Today, the teacher, astute enough to notice his eagerness, but not the reason behind it, called him to his desk as the bell sounded. Just to prove something, Hideaki thought, swallowing the tinge of bitterness in his mouth. The other boys clung to him like damp clothing from the school to the gate, taunting him with words and small jabs that progressed to tripping and pushing beyond the schoolyard's fragile perimeter. So he ran. But he could never run fast enough to rid his mind of the ridicule which dogged him like a supernatural protagonist. They were behind him in body and voice, but their hearts weren't in catching him. Nor were they most days. They chased him just enough to see him run. They liked to see him run in fear. He knew it, and they knew he knew, which made them enjoy it more. They picked up the pace if he didn't run fast enough, pelting him with dirtbombs and hama, the clay discs used in kiln work. They made excellent flying saucers. Today he ran ahead of them and decided to change the game. He wanted to be by himself before he went home, so he cut sharply into the approach to the mountains. Surprised, they gave chase into the rugged preface, enjoying the feral rush of a real chase. But these were his mountains. Past the tall stands of cedars, across a brook and into a bamboo thicket interlaced with prickly vines, he ran, picking up speed over the quickly inclining slope. He jumped over a small hillock, appearing to head for the next ridge, but hit the damp floor of the woods and backed into a cave he knew was under the ledge. He brushed his pants off, watching the other boys run past, laughing. They were mocking him even though they didn't know he could hear them, which somehow hurt even worse. He heard them getting tangled in the vines and cut by the small thorns. Small satisfaction. As his breathing slowed, and the sound of his tormentors echoed fainter, he heard the continuous drip in the back of the cave. He liked the sound of the streams, the constant watering of Japan from ten thousand sources. The water came from under a boulder jutting overhead, dripping down the rockface over rusted burgundy moss. The water fell into a well-worn basin, formed by each relentless drop over thousands of years, each shaping the bowl as it swirled for a moment in the shallow bowl, then fell again over the smoothed edges, into a pool, running out of the cave to join other streams rushing down the mountain. His eyes adjusted to the darkness at the back of the small cave, revealing a small statue perched on a natural ledge. He didn't care for the anonymous deities that littered these hills. They were part of the old Japan, the Japan of his grandparents. Even his parents didn't keep the old ways, only doing what they had to keep Grandma from raising a stink. Next to the little character was a bamboo scoop and a pair of rough, black stoneware cups. He walked to the back of the cave. More out of spite than anything else, he approached the statue and prayed – or what he thought praying was supposed to be like. He silently asked for help, almost mocking the stone man to do something, to prove that he wasn't just a corroding superstition. He couldn't keep at it for more than a few seconds. His anguish was real, his belief in divine intervention was not. He returned to the mouth of the cave, watching the sun streak streak the blue and white bowl of the sky with calligraphic touches of burnt umber. "You're supposed to fill the cups." Hideaki blinked, then froze. The recording of the world had jumped its track. He listened again for the sound. Hoping it was a strong surge of water mimicking a whisper. "Then you're supposed to bow and give thanks." The skip happened again. Hideaki remained frozen. The waterfall persisted. "You're supposed to fill the cups with water using the ladle, then you're supposed to bow and give thanks." There was movement behind him. Something else was in the cave, and was not frozen in place. "Come. Watch." The voice was calm. If it weren't for its soothing quality, the fact of the voice would have sent him running for the company of the bullies. He turned to verify with his eyes exactly how far the normal order of the Universe had been subverted. The statue was gone. A man, extremely small of stature, but very real, and very old, was calmly bending at the waist in front of the basin. He had the bamboo ladle clasped lightly between the thumb and forefinger. Before the ladle touched the water, the man smiled with his eyes, taking in the scene as if the world had just come into being. The old man kept his eyes on the boy as he ended the separation of bamboo and liquid. Hideaki watched as the ladle and water joined in a phenomenon that seemed as natural as the filling of the basin. The old man allowed the water to fill the cup. Just as gracefully, he separated the two again. He didn't disturb the natural swirl of the basin or spill a drop. He swiveled toward the two cups on the stone ledge. The old man transferred water from bamboo to stoneware as if he has merely redirected the flow of the spring into the cups. Before Hideaki noticed the ladle was back in its resting place, the old man was facing him with both cups in his hands and compassion on his face. Hideaki was incapable of speech; the old man deferred. Hideaki then had a cup in his hand. The old man bowed with subtle discretion, like a sapling on the breeze. He lifted his own cup to Hideaki in the gesture of a toast between lifelong friends. "Drink of the mountain, work with the mountain, return to the mountain." * * * Hideaki was once again watching the boys running in the rice field. The thick ice on the surface of his memory was beginning to thaw. He hoped the boy running in front of the others would get home safe, today and always. Read Chapter 3 |