Hitachi province is not the end of the world—that would be Mutsu province”—the women laughed—“but we can certainly see it from here, on a clear day anyway.”
“I am nothing and no one,” the tortoiseshell woman said. “I have no ground.”
The noblewoman looked at her from the corner of her eyes. “Ah. The Buddha says that this is the way to wisdom, to understand that family and property are nothing. How enlightened of you.”
“This Buddha is wrong, if it says that,” the tortoiseshell woman said, her voice hot, anguished. “Family and tale are everything .”
The noblewoman smiled, but her eyes were suddenly sad. “And you have lost both, I surmise. I am so sorry. Such loss I can understand.”
Somehow, though she never later understood how, when the tortoiseshell woman climbed out of the ox-carriage and returned to her sorrel, it was understood that she would travel with them. And that was how she met Osa Hitachi no Nakara.
5. The Kihada -Dyed Notebook
I had friends when I was a small girl, before I came to my half-brother’s court. Most were boys, and were inevitably of lower rank, but I loved them dearly. Their toys were so much more interesting than my own—mulberry bows and mugwort arrows, stilts, riding whips made of vine, hoops, and mock swords—and they could do so much more. They played between the horses in the stable and chased mayflies across the garden. They ran the streets around my home in the eastern quarter of town, all equally ragged and breathless, and told me stories of their achievements, when I could sneak away to see them.
I could not join them, but I had my own interests. I used to watch vermin, green caterpillars eating lacework holes into leaves; ants running about or walking in formal trains, bearing gifts to shrines hidden deep underground. When my attendants restricted this (“Squatting like a peasant? My lady!”), I bribed the household boys with rice candy to bring me things—moths’ wings and beetle shells and birds’ eggs—whatever my interest of the moment was.
I eventually discovered mice, when a boy caught one in the gardens and brought it to me, a tiny black-eyed brown thing crouching in a tall lacquered box. Its whiskers were finer than silk thread drawn taut. Carrying it in my hands, I asked a gardener who knew of such things to tell me of mice. As I watched and listened, tiny pellets appeared from the creature’s hindquarters, black with a small earthy smell. The gardener told me such creatures slept in cracks and crevices and ate seeds and grasses. “A small life, and a short one,” he said. “Everything eats them—dogs, hawks, owls, foxes.”
I frowned and shifted the mouse to my other hand, shaking the soiled one clean. “Then what’s the point of being a mouse? They’re not going to learn anything, so they’ll just have to come back as a mouse again next time. What’s the good of that?”
The gardener laughed a little. “Maybe that is the point of being a mouse, little one—being eaten. Maybe the lesson they learn is grace in the face of unavoidable tragedy.”
This made sense to me: monogatari tales are full of women (and sometimes men) dying gracefully. But—” What’s graceful about mice? They don’t write little poems before they die, or throw themselves into Uji river because their lover forgets to visit”—for my nurse had been reading to me from Genji’s tale.
He laughed louder. “You think most people face tragedy with poems? No—we are a lot like mice. Some of us squirm under the cat’s paw. Some fight, some freeze. I suppose a few have dignity.”
“ I will behave with dignity,” I said. “With grace. But no poems.” I wrinkled my nose and peered down at the mouse, a tiny quivering hot spot in my hand.
The gardener leaned closer to me, or perhaps the mouse. “Little one, the truest grace comes after the squirming and the fighting and the panic. To accept tragedy without despair. Can you do that?”
“I am nothing and no one,” the tortoiseshell woman said. “I have no ground.”
The noblewoman looked at her from the corner of her eyes. “Ah. The Buddha says that this is the way to wisdom, to understand that family and property are nothing. How enlightened of you.”
“This Buddha is wrong, if it says that,” the tortoiseshell woman said, her voice hot, anguished. “Family and tale are everything .”
The noblewoman smiled, but her eyes were suddenly sad. “And you have lost both, I surmise. I am so sorry. Such loss I can understand.”
Somehow, though she never later understood how, when the tortoiseshell woman climbed out of the ox-carriage and returned to her sorrel, it was understood that she would travel with them. And that was how she met Osa Hitachi no Nakara.
5. The Kihada -Dyed Notebook
I had friends when I was a small girl, before I came to my half-brother’s court. Most were boys, and were inevitably of lower rank, but I loved them dearly. Their toys were so much more interesting than my own—mulberry bows and mugwort arrows, stilts, riding whips made of vine, hoops, and mock swords—and they could do so much more. They played between the horses in the stable and chased mayflies across the garden. They ran the streets around my home in the eastern quarter of town, all equally ragged and breathless, and told me stories of their achievements, when I could sneak away to see them.
I could not join them, but I had my own interests. I used to watch vermin, green caterpillars eating lacework holes into leaves; ants running about or walking in formal trains, bearing gifts to shrines hidden deep underground. When my attendants restricted this (“Squatting like a peasant? My lady!”), I bribed the household boys with rice candy to bring me things—moths’ wings and beetle shells and birds’ eggs—whatever my interest of the moment was.
I eventually discovered mice, when a boy caught one in the gardens and brought it to me, a tiny black-eyed brown thing crouching in a tall lacquered box. Its whiskers were finer than silk thread drawn taut. Carrying it in my hands, I asked a gardener who knew of such things to tell me of mice. As I watched and listened, tiny pellets appeared from the creature’s hindquarters, black with a small earthy smell. The gardener told me such creatures slept in cracks and crevices and ate seeds and grasses. “A small life, and a short one,” he said. “Everything eats them—dogs, hawks, owls, foxes.”
I frowned and shifted the mouse to my other hand, shaking the soiled one clean. “Then what’s the point of being a mouse? They’re not going to learn anything, so they’ll just have to come back as a mouse again next time. What’s the good of that?”
The gardener laughed a little. “Maybe that is the point of being a mouse, little one—being eaten. Maybe the lesson they learn is grace in the face of unavoidable tragedy.”
This made sense to me: monogatari tales are full of women (and sometimes men) dying gracefully. But—” What’s graceful about mice? They don’t write little poems before they die, or throw themselves into Uji river because their lover forgets to visit”—for my nurse had been reading to me from Genji’s tale.
He laughed louder. “You think most people face tragedy with poems? No—we are a lot like mice. Some of us squirm under the cat’s paw. Some fight, some freeze. I suppose a few have dignity.”
“ I will behave with dignity,” I said. “With grace. But no poems.” I wrinkled my nose and peered down at the mouse, a tiny quivering hot spot in my hand.
The gardener leaned closer to me, or perhaps the mouse. “Little one, the truest grace comes after the squirming and the fighting and the panic. To accept tragedy without despair. Can you do that?”
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