to the road, the rooster depositing a dropping in one of the boxes as he goes.
a€?Here you are,a€ says the old woman, reappearing in no time with a teacup on a tray made from a hol owed piece of wood. In the bottom of the cup, which is stained a blackish brown from years of tea, three plum blossoms have been casual y sketched with a few quick brushstrokes.
a€?Have a cake.a€ She fetches me a sesame twist and a ground-rice stick cake from one of the boxes the fowl trampled through. I look them over warily, wondering if Ia€™l find the rooster dropping, but evidently it remains somewhere in the box.
The old woman pul s her kimono sleeves back up her arms with a cord looped over her sleeveless work jacket, then crouches down in front of the hearth fire. I take out my sketchbook and draw her profile as we talk.
a€?Ita€™s lovely and quiet here, isna€™t it?a€?
a€?Yes, just a little mountain vil age, as you can see.a€?
a€?Do you get bush warblers singing?a€?2
a€?Yes indeed, you hear them every day. They sing in summer too around here.a€?
a€?Ia€™d love to hear one now. When none is singing, you real y long to hear one.a€?
a€?Unfortunately ita€™s not the day for it. Theya€™ve gone off somewhere to get out of the rain.a€?
The hearth has meanwhile begun to emit a crackling sound, and suddenly a scarlet flame shoots up a foot or more into the air, sending out a rush of heat.
a€?Here you are then, come and warm yourself,a€ she urges. a€?You must be cold.a€ A column of blue smoke rises to meet the edge of the eave, where it thins and dissipates, leaving faint wisps trailing in under the wooden roof.
a€?Ah, this feels good. Youa€™ve brought me back to life.a€?
a€?The raina€™s cleared off nicely now. Look, you can see Tengu Rock.a€?
The storm has resolutely swept across the section of mountain before us, in apparent impatience at the spring skya€™s timid clouds, and there, where the old woman points, a towering rock like a rough-hewn pil ar now soars against the bril iant blue left in the storma€™s relentless wake. This must be Tengu Rock.
I gaze first at the rock, then back at the old woman, then final y I hold them both in my line of sight, comparing. As an artist, my mind contains only two old woman imagesa€”the face of the old woman of the Noh play and that of the mountain crone of Rosetsua€™s painting.3 When I saw Rosetsua€™s painting, I understood the eerie power inherent in the ideal image of the old woman. This was a figure to set among autumn leaves, I thought, or beneath a cold moon. Seeing that Noh play at the Hosho theater, on the other hand, I was astonished at how gentle her expression can be. That Old Woman mask could only have been created by a master carver, though unfortunately I failed to learn the artista€™s name. This portrayal brought out a rich, tranquil warmth in the imagea€”something that would be not unfitting depicted on a gilt screen, say, or set against spring breezes and cherry blossoms. As this old woman stands here, bare-armed and drawn up to her ful height, one hand shading her eyes while the other points into the distance, her figure seems to match the scene of the mountain path in spring better than does the rugged form of Tengu Rock beyond. I take up my sketchbook again, in the hope that she wil hold the pose just a little longer, but at that moment she moves.
a€?You look in fine shape, I must say,a€? I remark, as I idly hold the sketchbook toward the fire to dry it.
a€?Yes, praise be, I keep in good health. I can stil use a sewing needle, and spin flax, and grind the dumpling flour.a€?
I have a sudden desire to watch her at work at the hand mil , but since I cana€™t very wel request this, I change the subject. a€?Nakoi is a bit over two miles on from here, is that right?a€?
a€?Yes, ita€™s close on two miles. Youa€™re heading for the hot spring, are you, sir?a€?
a€?I thought I might stay there for a bit, if ita€™s not crowded. Ia€™l see how I feel.a€?
a€?Oh no, it wona€™t be. Since the war began, the guests have dropped right off. Ita€™s as good as closed now.a€?4
a€?Thata€™s odd. Wel , perhaps they wona€™t put me up there, then.a€?
a€?No, theya€™re happy to put up anyone who asks.a€?
a€?Therea€™s only one place to stay, isna€™t there?a€?
a€?Yes, just ask for Shiodaa€™s, and youa€™l have no trouble finding it. Ita€™s hard to tel whether Mr. Shioda keeps it more as an inn or as his own country retreat.a€?
a€?So it wouldna€™t matter to him if there werena€™t any guests, then.a€?
a€?Is this your first visit, sir?a€?
a€?No, I came through once a long time ago.a€?
The conversation flags. I open up my sketchbook again and peaceful y set about sketching the chickens. Then, deep in the quietness, the soft clang of a distant horse bel begins to penetrate my ears. It sets up a rhythm inside my head that grows into a kind of tune. Ita€™s like the dreamy feeling of being half aware, as you doze, of the soft, insistent sound of a hand mil turning next door. I pause in my sketching to jot down on the side of the page
Spring winda€”
in Izena€™s ears the sound
of a horsea€™s bel .5
I have already come across five or six horses on my way up the mountain, al of them elaborately girthed in the old style, and bel ed. They seemed scarcely to belong to the present world.
Before long the tranquil strains of a packhorse drivera€™s song break through my poetic reveries of an unpeopled path winding on among empty mountains into the far depths of spring. There is something
