Unmei

The aging seamstress once told him: "It's so strange - I keep having this feeling, like we've met before."

"Of course, Kayo-san," he had replied, his lips quirking. "We have met on several occasions. Had you forgotten?"

Now she is a seamstress with lean and calloused hands; now she is the wife of a samurai, well-cared for and stifled; now she is a whore in Shimabara, coy and sophisticated; now she is the son of a potter, earnest and gentle. She dies of old age, of small pox, the victim of a murder, trampled by a horse in the street. Sometimes she is a man, but usually a woman; sometimes she is a noble, but usually a peasant. The same woman looks out of a myriad different eyes.

Occasionally they lie together, their hair tangling like the threads that bind them. Her flesh always tastes of sweet spice on his tongue.

This actress is a different woman; this actress is the same woman.

The actress tells him: "It's so strange - I keep having this feeling, like we've met before."

"Of course, Chiyo-san," he replies, his lips quirking. The film crew is gone; the set is empty and hollow; the mononoke has been destroyed. She may yet achieve her dream, but not in this place, not at this time. He can see by the tightness in her eyes that she blames him, just a little. "We met on a train, not half a year ago. Had you forgotten?"

"No," she says, shaking her head impatiently. "That's not what I mean. I mean - before that."

"Well," he murmurs, drawing the word out. "Perhaps we have met... sometime before."

Her lips purse and she stares at him intently, as if to see through to all the things he does not say. He bows low to her before turning to leave; he is done here.

"Until next time," he says.