The Quiet Life

Chapter 53: Scenes in the Snow

In which they winter over.

The first snow of winter would fall any day now. The morning frost, at first confined to delicate tracery at the edges of leaves and crystallized tendrils that crept out across puddles, now fought back against being walked on, crackling underfoot and crumbling in slippery, spiteful ways. The few leaves still clinging to black branches were no longer beautiful—brown, shriveled, hanging on stubbornly even in death—and their fallen comrades crunched under his feet whenever he walked out to the well. She could hear it even in the cabin.

The day was cold and the sky leaden, and she scrunched herself further down under the quilt after the little puff of cold air his rising let in, down into their warm cocoon. She heard him dressing to go out and fetch water for tea. She blessed him for his insensitivity to cold, and his ability to rise without the sun, and his willingness to do these ungodly early chores—she'd had her fill of that at the inn. She heard him step outside, and then she decided she couldn't bear for him to find her still in bed when he returned. By the time he returned, she had the fire going again, and the cabin was beginning to warm up.

During the day, the temperature dropped hourly, and she was grateful that they'd had the foresight to bring in plenty of firewood and water. Winters at home had never sunk to this bone-chilling cold. In the afternoon, it began to snow gently, and she braced herself for even more unbearable chill, but, to her surprise, as the snow accumulated outside, the temperature evened out, allowing them to sit out on the porch in the evening for a few minutes to watch the town's lights blink on. She'd not realized until this moment how accustomed she'd become to the noises of their mountainside—birds, insects, wind in the trees—all hushed now. Only the river could still be heard, faintly whispering though the trees. She wondered whether it, too, would eventually fall silent under a roof of ice.

In the evening, he approached her hesitantly. "Anō…" He sat calmly enough, but his posture was deferential.

She could not resist him when he was like this. "Yes, my husband?"

"Your diary— Do you have any pages that are blank? That you could spare? Or… that I could use? Have? I mean, that I could write on?" He still hadn't looked at her, and she wondered what he could be trying to get at. "And your brush. That is, could I borrow your brush?"

"Of course." She rose and went behind the screen, returning with a few pages and the ink set from her writing table. "Would you like me to mix the ink for you?" She was burning with curiosity, but knew better than to press him.

"Thank you, no. I can manage." He smiled up at her now, and took the tray from her. The only light suitable for writing by was a single candle in the rusty iron stand he'd found in the lean-to. He worked over his pages for many evenings, and when he wasn't working on them, he stacked them neatly under his sword. She took the hint. She mustn't look.

Days later, he showed her the haiku he'd written. She liked them, but when she praised them, he just said that he'd only tried to express the beauty he'd seen around them, that it was nothing to do with his skill. She could tell, however, that her good opinion was what he'd hoped for.


They were an odd pair. She was a classic beauty, if a little too tall. He was shorter, with hair and eyes of no normal color, and a face that carried an ugly scar. Some might even find him repellent. Certainly there were those who shrank from him. Both projected an air of distance. Her calm could be eerie, and he could seem almost to fade in and out if you didn't keep a steady eye on him.

But Shiori was not repelled by, much less did she shrink from, either of them. When they came to town, she noticed them, and they began to welcome her company. She told them all the gossip, and she told them which merchants were not trustworthy. She even invited them to her home. They came once, and the five of them—her mother and sister, herself, and the couple—spent a pleasant evening together. Shiori was especially fascinated by how Koko acted around their guests, and, even more, by how they responded. During their visit, the child ran in and out, bringing them presents—crushed flowers, her childish drawing of the family cat, something that once upon a time may have been a plum from their tree—and invited herself into their laps, first one, then the other, even asking to touch his red hair. Shiori watched as their reserve melted, saw their gentle way with her, noticed their eyes follow the little girl as she made a nuisance of herself. It was so remarkable that she forgot to apologize for her sister, and when she finally did remember, it was too late. It would seem as though she were criticizing their indulgence.

That was their only visit to the Iwata house, but afterwards the couple sought her out on market day, and usually ate with her while one or the other of them held Koko on a knee, or allowed her to drag them away on some childish expedition.


"What is this?"

She knelt to set down the two steaming bowls, one in front of each of them, and replied, "Mushroom and onion stew. This is how my mother made it."

The rich aroma made his empty stomach cramp with anticipation, and had to exert his greatest self-control to wait for her to sit and pick up her chopsticks before he simply lifted the bowl to his mouth and sucked in a large mouthful. His whole body cried out in response to the earthy, salty broth as it washed over his tongue and down his throat. He closed his eyes and almost moaned with pleasure. Then he suddenly remembered he was not alone, and opened them, the bowl still at his lips. He cut his eyes over to his wife, who also held her bowl up close to her mouth, but she was eating like a civilized person instead of a half-starved street urchin. She was staring at him, with a mushroom in her chopsticks midway between her bowl and mouth.

He chewed and swallowed the mushrooms and onions he had taken in, and put his bowl down, embarrassed. "Please forgive me. It was so delicious. I forgot my manners."

"I'm glad you like it." She watched him pick up his chopsticks and the bowl, this time properly. She smiled her secret smile. "It's one of my favorites, too."

"Why have you not made this before?" He felt he could live on just this soup at every meal. "Will you make it again? Soon?"

"I've just found a mushroom patch near the river." He had his bowl tilted up, draining the last dregs. "Yes, I will make it as long as I can get the mushrooms."

He took the bowl down, and looked at her. She recognized that look of driven passion, and felt it wise to satisfy it at once.

"There's more."


As she emerged from her dressing area this morning, he glanced up at her quizzically, but said nothing, and quickly looked away when she returned his stare. Throughout the day she could feel his surreptitious gaze on her, only to have it flicker away when she looked over at him. Finally, that evening, when he poured her tea, and, startlingly, slopped a drop over the rim because he was watching her rather than her tea bowl, she'd had enough. "What? What is troubling you today?"

He ducked his head in apology, and mumbled something she couldn't make out.

"I… what? What did you say?"

"You— Anō… you're different, today." He finally stuttered.

" 'Different'? How am I different? What are you talking about?" Even still, he could be the most exasperating conversationalist.

"I mean— Please forgive me." He gulped and tried again. "You smell different."

"I smell different? What can you—?" She stopped abruptly, and then laughed right in his face.

He reddened in obvious embarrassment, and from his expression she could tell he thought she was mocking him. "I'm sorry, Tomoe-san,"—the formality made her want to laugh even harder, but she couldn't bear to increase his discomfort—"I didn't mean to insult you. I only meant… I mean… Your perfume…"

By now she couldn't help it, and she fell on him, her arms around his neck, almost weeping with laughter. He pulled away stiffly, but she took his face between her hands, and kissed him tenderly on his pressed-together lips. Then she drew back a little and rested her forehead on his. "No, my husband, I've decided it doesn't fit with my life here. What you smell now is me. Only me."

She could feel him melt against her, and he returned her embrace, whispering in her ear, "I like it."


Winter agrees with them. Mornings are soft and silvery, and the sun glows more than shines through the heavy fog that blankets the mountainside. The snow muffles what few sounds there are, and sometimes they can hear the water in the well squeak and crack as it re-shapes itself.

The harvest had been abundant, and they eat sumptuously from it. Her face, no longer assaulted by the sun, regains its porcelain gleam, even as her body grows robust: rounder, firmer breasts, a little curve in the hips and belly, and softer arms. He is entranced with how she glows, the ripeness of her body under his hands. Neither of them has worked outside for many weeks now. His callouses have lost their edges; his skin is smoother all over. She, apparently, feels her good health, too. Their love takes on an especially sensual quality, freer and more intimate. They are familiar with each other.

Their days require little from them in the way of chores, and they amuse each other with stories and games, haiku and song. There are days when they barely leave their futon except for more tea and leftover rice. As the nights grow colder, they lay both of their kimono on top of the quilt.

They are hibernating.


Sometimes, if he drinks more than his usual two cups of tea at dinner, he wakes in the night and leaves the warmth of their shared nest to relieve himself, his hot stream making a little steaming pool in the snow just beyond the edge of the porch. He lingers outside, delighting in the freezing air against his skin, watching his breath float in a cloud before his face. On clear nights, the sky is alive with stars, the black background the sheerest net holding its catch. Some nights, the moon hides itself behind a sheet of icy clouds. Once, clouds obscured the stars and the moon was new, so he was shrouded in crisp, utter blackness, and he had to find the edge of the porch with his toes. He may still be a creature of the night, indeed, may always be one, but now he is a happy one.

When he does finally come back inside, his skin is like ice. As he slides under the quilt, he takes care that his chilled body does not touch hers until he's warmed up, but sometimes she wakes anyway. Soon they are both warm again, if no longer asleep.


He wakes out of a sound sleep, wide awake. Maybe it was the moon. It is full and bright, and seems to hang just off the roof's edge. He looks over at her, but she is dead to the world. They left the fire going when they went to bed, and it's too hot in the cabin. It makes him restless. He lies next to her in the dark and tries to go back to sleep. He closes his eyes, and waits, but sleep evades him, so he turns onto his side and props himself on his elbow. Watches her sleep. Listens to her slow breathing. She was different when she was asleep. Her polished elegance fell away, and it seemed he could see the child she had been in the unguarded face, the parted lips, the warm breath that slipped in and out of her with no thought, no care or fear. He thought about what she'd told him of her history, and he tried to imagine what it would be like to have a warm, close family. And then to have that family crumble in your very hands. He shook his head. It was like a foreign country to him, but he was no stranger to pain, and all he could think was how badly he wished he could rewrite her history.

He smoothed her hair back from her cheek, and she stirred. Even before she woke, she smiled. Her eyes opened, and her smile spread into her sleepy gaze. She reached up a warm arm around his neck, pulled him down next to her, kissed his mouth, snuggled into his neck and sank back into her night.

Now he will sleep.


A gray winter's day. The sun is a pale yellow ball in a soft sky. That's it—just gray sky, yellow sun, white snow, black tree trunks. The snow had fallen all the still, windless night, and had reached the level of the porch, so that it seemed they could walk straight out onto it.

They spent the morning inside the cabin with insignificant little chores. When the time came for their midday meal, he laid out their meal trays while she started their tea and dragged their quilts out onto the porch. Now they sat with their quilts around their shoulders and sipped from their tea mugs and picked at their rice and fish and pickled gobo. She recited a haiku she had composed for him, and he told her of the time his single friend at headquarters exchanged his uniform kimono for that of one of the women, and he'd had to wear the flowered thing for an hour until he found his hidden under the big table in the kitchen. Many people had laughed; in the end, even he couldn't be angry.

As they ate, they watched the rabbits nosing into the snow to ferret out bits of garden leftovers, and speculated about just how many deer there were in the group they could hear stripping a tree just out of site. A pleasant silence settled over them. A thin layer of cloud moved over the sun, and the air cooled.

She pulled her quilt closer around her neck. "Shall we go back inside? The sun is behind the hill, and it will soon get cold."

But he was silent, and seemed lost in thought. She waited for him. She had learned how not to rush him. The rabbits had left for their dens, and even the deer had gone before he spoke. He was looking down at his hands, not at her.

"I have decided something that you should know."

"What is it, my husband?"

"I have sheathed my sword."

She looked him full in the face, her eyes wide.

"I cannot tell what that will come to. In the future, I mean. I have not yet solved the riddle of my life." He raised his eyes to meet her. "But I have done this."


She wakes weeping.

"Shh, shh. It was just a dream," he breathes into her ear. In the delicious warmth under their quilt, he holds her body, soft and lush in these deep winter days, close to his. She is asleep again, but he is not, and he shifts up to his elbow, traces a finger along her face and tucks her cool hair behind her perfect ear. He will ask her.

"Anata."

She takes a deep, slow breath, but is otherwise unresponsive.

He runs a hand down her arm. "Anata."

She stirs sleepily. "Yes?" She doesn't even open her eyes.

"Are you well?"

"Am I… what?" she mumbles.

"Lately, when you… I mean, you are not ill in any way?"

She is already fading. "No, dear. I am quite well." She yawns and settles her head a little higher on his shoulder. She whispers, "Go back to sleep."

She won't remember this exchange in the morning. He remains awake, wondering. He's not smelled blood from her since before the snow.