trees and vanished at exactly the same point between the hills.
“They’re like robot geese,” Reuben said in a baffled voice. “Same number of wing beats, same number of cries. I don’t get it.”
“Me neither,” I sighed. “But I think we’d better get going.”
A wicker carriage rattled past, drawn by two sweating horses. A lady was peeping shyly out of the window, half hiding her face with her fan.
At first, Reubs and I were genuinely charmed by the sights we saw on the road. Then we discovered that all these charming scenes and characters invariably popped up again further down the road, which rather took the shine off. After a few hours, we were like, oh right, another shrine, and yet more atmospheric temple bells. Oh, and another coy lady riding by in a quaint wicker carriage, and yet another travelling musician carrying some sort of Japanese stringed instrument on his back. Super.
We continually consulted the map as we walked to see if we were any closer to Tsubomi. But the blue butterfly seemed as far away as ever.
Reuben had been unusually quiet. I assumed he was still puzzling over the Riddle of the Birds, when he suddenly blurted out, “So is this like some old-time version of Japan or what?”
“It’s definitely old-time Japanese-ish,” I agreed.
We trudged along in silence for a few minutes.
“If you had to sum up the feeling in this world, in one word,” my buddy asked in an earnest voice. “What would it be?”
“Reuben, it’s a world . Worlds are full of zillions of different feelings.”
He shook his head. “Think about the people we saw earlier. Singing peasant girls, carriage ladies, harp players. Seriously, what vibe did you
get?”
“You mean, like ‘beautiful but basically weird’?”
“Beautiful and weird, for sure. But aren’t you getting any flashes of something underneath beautiful and weird?”
I frowned. “I’m not sure. Probably I’m not as sensitive as you, Sweetpea.”
We were passing a shrine to some local god. It was the spitting image of all the other shrines we’d passed, but for the first time I found myself taking a closer look. People had left offerings to the god; flowers and bowls of rice. A few had left toys and baby clothes. Local people had written prayers on scraps of paper, and tied them to tree branches. They fluttered in the breeze like tiny flags. I don’t know what it was, but something about that little prayer tree suddenly made me want to cry.
I thought about the beautiful carriage ladies, with their white, mask-like make-up. I remembered how each one had turned at the last minute, to gaze at us pleadingly over her fan.
And that last harp player, sitting down in the middle of nowhere, plucking those haunting, desolate chords…
“Sad,” I realised. “This place feels unbearably sad.”
Reuben nodded. “Have you ever been anywhere before where there’s just one overwhelming vibe?”
I shook my head. “Never.”
“Me neither.”
After that last musician, we didn’t see a soul for over an hour. So it was quite an event when we passed the hermit sitting by his fire.
The old man had been living out in the wilds so long, he’d become a bit wild and woolly himself. His robes were dirty and torn, and his hair had grown so long it was practically down to his waist. He patiently fed pieces of broken bamboo into the flames, to keep the fire going under an old cooking pot. He peered out through his straggly hair, calling a friendly greeting.
Remembering Jessica’s warnings, we weren’t sure if we should talk to him.
“It’d be good if he could tell us where we are,” I whispered.
The spirit map was fabulous on rivers and mountains and aerial views but it didn’t seem nearly so fussed about fiddly details like names!
“He’s probably OK,” Reuben decided.
So we said hi, and then we all did a lot of polite Japanese bowing.
The hermit invited us to drink tea with him but Jessica had warned us of the dangers of
“They’re like robot geese,” Reuben said in a baffled voice. “Same number of wing beats, same number of cries. I don’t get it.”
“Me neither,” I sighed. “But I think we’d better get going.”
A wicker carriage rattled past, drawn by two sweating horses. A lady was peeping shyly out of the window, half hiding her face with her fan.
At first, Reubs and I were genuinely charmed by the sights we saw on the road. Then we discovered that all these charming scenes and characters invariably popped up again further down the road, which rather took the shine off. After a few hours, we were like, oh right, another shrine, and yet more atmospheric temple bells. Oh, and another coy lady riding by in a quaint wicker carriage, and yet another travelling musician carrying some sort of Japanese stringed instrument on his back. Super.
We continually consulted the map as we walked to see if we were any closer to Tsubomi. But the blue butterfly seemed as far away as ever.
Reuben had been unusually quiet. I assumed he was still puzzling over the Riddle of the Birds, when he suddenly blurted out, “So is this like some old-time version of Japan or what?”
“It’s definitely old-time Japanese-ish,” I agreed.
We trudged along in silence for a few minutes.
“If you had to sum up the feeling in this world, in one word,” my buddy asked in an earnest voice. “What would it be?”
“Reuben, it’s a world . Worlds are full of zillions of different feelings.”
He shook his head. “Think about the people we saw earlier. Singing peasant girls, carriage ladies, harp players. Seriously, what vibe did you
get?”
“You mean, like ‘beautiful but basically weird’?”
“Beautiful and weird, for sure. But aren’t you getting any flashes of something underneath beautiful and weird?”
I frowned. “I’m not sure. Probably I’m not as sensitive as you, Sweetpea.”
We were passing a shrine to some local god. It was the spitting image of all the other shrines we’d passed, but for the first time I found myself taking a closer look. People had left offerings to the god; flowers and bowls of rice. A few had left toys and baby clothes. Local people had written prayers on scraps of paper, and tied them to tree branches. They fluttered in the breeze like tiny flags. I don’t know what it was, but something about that little prayer tree suddenly made me want to cry.
I thought about the beautiful carriage ladies, with their white, mask-like make-up. I remembered how each one had turned at the last minute, to gaze at us pleadingly over her fan.
And that last harp player, sitting down in the middle of nowhere, plucking those haunting, desolate chords…
“Sad,” I realised. “This place feels unbearably sad.”
Reuben nodded. “Have you ever been anywhere before where there’s just one overwhelming vibe?”
I shook my head. “Never.”
“Me neither.”
After that last musician, we didn’t see a soul for over an hour. So it was quite an event when we passed the hermit sitting by his fire.
The old man had been living out in the wilds so long, he’d become a bit wild and woolly himself. His robes were dirty and torn, and his hair had grown so long it was practically down to his waist. He patiently fed pieces of broken bamboo into the flames, to keep the fire going under an old cooking pot. He peered out through his straggly hair, calling a friendly greeting.
Remembering Jessica’s warnings, we weren’t sure if we should talk to him.
“It’d be good if he could tell us where we are,” I whispered.
The spirit map was fabulous on rivers and mountains and aerial views but it didn’t seem nearly so fussed about fiddly details like names!
“He’s probably OK,” Reuben decided.
So we said hi, and then we all did a lot of polite Japanese bowing.
The hermit invited us to drink tea with him but Jessica had warned us of the dangers of
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