Your face still buried in her breast, your tears still burning through her clothes, Fuki opens a book: Uji Shūi Monogatari. Fuki turns its pages, their oral folk tales. Not looking, not reading, Fuki says, ‘Mukashi, mukashi, three sisters lived in the Old Capital in their family home. Strangely, against all custom, against all tradition, the middle sister married first, the youngest next, but the eldest of the sisters never married. Why, we do not know, she would not say. But people whispered, as people do, of honour lost, of secret shame, a drunken uncle, a forced encounter. A child, was there a child? Given away, and lost to her? We do not know, she would not say, would never say. But with no husband of her own, the eldest sister lived on in the family home, tending to her father and her mother, her elder brother, too, her younger sisters marrying, her younger sisters departing, leaving her alone, alone in her room. And so in time, her father then her mother died, and her brother took a wife and brought her to the house. But still, still the elder sister lived on in the family house, alone in her room, in her room, alone in her room, until, in time, she too fell ill and died.
‘Her body was left in her room until her younger sisters returned, and with the rest of the household they then took her to the burning ground. But when they reached that place of smoke and ash, when they were about to unload the coffin from the carriage, in preparation for the usual funeral rites, then they noticed the coffin was strangely light, its lid ajar. Yes, the body was gone! All were shocked, for the body could not possibly have fallen out on the way to the burning ground. Yet still they retraced their steps to make certain. Of course, all the way back to the house, they found not a thing, not a trace. But on reaching the house, on entering her room, there she was, lying there alone in her room, lying there as though she had never moved.
‘Throughout the night, the family and the mourners discussed what best to do. At dawn, they put the body back inside the coffin and carefully sealed the lid, waiting then until dusk and another chance to proceed with the cremation. But when night finally began to fall, again they found the coffin lid open and the body lying on the floor in its former room. Now the family and the mourners were terrified, and still further frightened when they tried to move the body; they could not move her body. The body simply would not move. No matter how many tried, no matter how hard they tried. The body would not move. For her arms were roots, for her legs were roots. The bones in her ribs, the bones in her back. Planted in the floor, rooted in the ground. Her hair now twine, her hair now vine.
‘So there she was, where she meant to stay. You like it here, asked one of her younger sisters. All right then, fine; if that is what you want, then this is where we’ll leave you. But we are going to have to get you out of sight, at least! And so they took up the floor, and they made a hole, and yes, she was as light as air when they lowered her through the hole and into the ground.
‘And so here they buried her, under the floor, building a good-sized mound over her. But then the family and the servants all moved away, since no one wanted to stay on in a house with a corpse. And so, over the years, the house fell to ruin and eventually disappeared. Only the mound remained. But not even the common people seemed to be able to live near the mound. For people began to claim awful things happened there. And so soon, soon, the mound stood all alone. But in time, in time, a shrine was built upon it, and they say the shrine still stands there, over her rooted corpse.’
In her room, always in her room, behind her screens, always behind her screens, your face still buried in her breast, your tears now drying on her clothes, her arms still wrapped around your back, her hands now smoothing down your hair, Fuki is whispering, she is whispering, ‘These are the stories you should know, Ryūnosuke, these are the tales I will tell you. To teach you of the world of men, to warn you of their world of lies. For all men are demons, Ryūnosuke, this world their hell. But don’t cry, Ryūnosuke, don’t cry, for I will protect you, I will save you. Protect you from these demons, save you from their hell. For I will never leave you, Ryūnosuke, never leave you, never, never let you go …’
You love your Aunt Fuki. You love her more than anyone. She will never marry, she will live with you for the rest of your life. You will argue with her, you will quarrel with her. But you will never stop loving her –
‘I will never, never let you go, I promise, I promise …’
Never stop loving her for the rest of your life –
‘And so do you promise me, Ryūnosuke? Promise you will never leave me, never leave me for the rest of my life …’
In her room, always in her room, behind her screens, always behind her screens, in her arms, always in her reach, you nod and you say, ‘I do.’
5. The House of Books
In her room, behind her screens. You are a weak and sickly, cosseted child. Often constipated, often feverish. You are subject to convulsions, you are plagued by headaches. To constant convulsions,
