Now I knew I lost her --

Not that she was gone --

But Remoteness traveled

On her Face and Tongue.

Alien, though adjoining

As a Foreign Race --

Traversed she though pausing

Latitudeless Place.

Elements Unaltered --

Universe the same

But Love's transmigration --

Somehow this had come --

Emily Dickinson, c. 1872



Psyche

Prologue

There was a quaint little bookstall in London that he liked to frequent. It was a small, ancient building tucked away in an isolated alley, a narrow, crooked street suggestive of mystery and intrigue. He often visited the shop on rainy days; the damp pavement, the smoking vents, the gray light of an overcast sky, seemed more appropriate to the street and heightened the dark charm of the building.

But it was bright that afternoon, the street overflowing with autumn sunshine, as he strode past the familiar storefronts. The sharp October breeze tugged at the ends of his woolen scarf and reddened his pale cheeks. He hunched deeper into his coat and hurried on, ignoring the inviting fragrance of coffee that wafted from the cafés lining the street.

At last he stopped before a squat square structure of gray stone. It was vaguely bucolic and disquietingly antiquated, even for antediluvian London. But this, he reflected as he turned the door handle, was precisely why it was so appealing.

The slight tinkle of a bell announced his arrival.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hiiragizawa," a clerk greeted cheerfully, looking up from his ledgers as the young man stepped across the threshold.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Blake," he returned. "How have you been? Business brisk today?"

"Tolerably well, sir. It's been rather slow lately, but we expect business to pick up soon. And how are you, sir?"

"Quite well, thanks," he answered, pulling off his gloves and looking 'round. "Anything new, today, Mr. Blake?"

"We've just received a shipment of books from Asia, sir," the clerk replied. "A fine collection of works on Korean ceramic art arrived early this morning. And a number of books on Japanese woodblock printing came as well. They've just been shelved."

"No books on the Buddhist sculptures of the T'ang dynasty?" he inquired hopefully.

"I'm afraid not, sir," the clerk answered, shaking his head regretfully. "That's not due for another month."

"Well, no hurry. I'll just take a look at what you've got today," he said easily as he sauntered away.

Once he gained the shelter of the bookshelves, he unwound the scarf from his neck and unbuttoned his coat, sniffing the air delightedly. The pleasant scent of old leather and worn linen filled his nostrils. The perfume of distilled imagination, he thought whimsically. He pulled out a book, holding it close to his nose. The rare vintage of wisdom, mellowed with age and use. He slipped the book back into its space on the shelf.

He strolled up and down the dusky aisles, pausing every now and then to take up a volume that struck his fancy. In no time at all, he amassed a large number of works, enough to occupy one long shelf in the library at home. He walked on, his arms full of books, his eyes avidly sweeping the shelves for more.

As he turned the corner, he glimpsed a pale blue glow among the sober tomes heaped carelessly on a small table at the end of the aisle. Curious, he deposited his burden upon a bare shelf and extracted the slender volume from the heap, examining it.

It's really a beautiful thing, he reflected, turning the book over in his hand. The silver gilt leaves shone in the light. He opened the book, scanning its pages. Delicate, feminine scrawl littered the thick, creamy sheets.

// October 25, 1999

When I walked in the garden today, I thought the morning was pretty. The air was cool and sharp. And the trees were colored, red, gold, orange, and brown. The sun shone through the tree leaves. The light came down, red and gold. And my heart felt glad, very glad, to see such pretty things. The sun, the trees, the blue sky-all these things made me happy.

This afternoon I saw something beautiful. It was more beautiful than the sky. It was brighter than the sun. It was warmer than the color of the trees. But when I saw it, my heart felt strange. I didn't really feel glad. I was happy, but scared. And my heart ached, a funny pain that hasn't gone away. But how can beauty hurt you? How can a smile make you both happy and sad? //

It's a diary, he said to himself. But there's no name, he thought, as he collected his books. Puzzled, he continued to leaf through the pages as he walked to the front counter. He absently tipped the stack of books onto the countertop, oblivious to the mad scramble of the clerk who strove to prevent the books from toppling to the floor. He was deaf to the repeated chime of the antique cash register as the clerk rung up his purchases. He failed to notice the pointed coughs of the clerk and the impatient glares of the customers queuing behind him. It was not until he felt a polite, embarrassed pull at the top of his book that he glanced up.

"Er, Mr. Hiiragizawa?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to purchase that book as well, sir?" the clerk inquired.

Eriol blinked. "Excuse me?" he said.

"That book you have in your hand, sir. Would you like to purchase that as well?"

"Ah, yes." Eriol hastily handed the book over to the clerk. "Thank you."

"£30, please."

Eriol fumbled through his coat pocket. His fingers brushed against his keys, a few stray coins, a ticket stub. He searched his other pocket. He reached into the pocket inside his coat, all the while smiling apologetically to the clerk and the customers standing behind him.

"Sorry about this," he mumbled as he began to rummage around in his trouser pockets.

"It's quite all right, sir. Take your time," the clerk replied amiably.

At last, he fished out his pocketbook and, withdrawing three crisp notes, offered the money to the clerk.

"Would you like me to place this with your other books, Mr. Hiiragizawa?" the clerk questioned, lifting up the small blue tome.

"No, thank you." He hurriedly took the proffered journal and stowed it into his coat pocket before taking the bag. "Have a good afternoon, Mr. Blake."

"Thank you. And a good afternoon to you, too, sir," the clerk responded as Eriol opened the door.

He nodded and walked out into the street.

***

Eriol made his way through the crowded thoroughfares, the canvas bag swinging freely from his hand, the diary hidden in his capacious coat pocket. He hurried on for several blocks before finally stopping at his favorite café. The day had grown warmer, so he seated himself at a small table in a secluded corner of the sunlit patio, the book in the crook of his arm and a cup of cappuccino in his hand.

He opened the book, eagerly. The first entry, he thought. The writing, though neat, seemed childish at first. But as he flipped through the pages, he noted that the script grew more confident, more graceful as the years progressed.

She's been writing in this diary for nearly fifteen years, he marveled, his eyes sweeping across the numbers that marched in perfect form atop the sheets. Almost a quarter of a lifetime if one stops to think about it. His mouth suddenly dimpled with a wry grin. Ah, but I'd forgotten, he thought, to some, fifteen years is but a second. But for her . . .. And he touched the closely written sheets with an almost reverent hand.

He returned to the first entry and began to read.

// August 15, 1995

Today is Obon -- the Feast of Lanterns. Mother and I visited Great- Grandfather in the afternoon before we went to the temple. Before we left, Great-Grandfather gave us two lanterns that we were to light for him. We take two lanterns to the temple, every year, for Great-Grandfather because Great-Grandfather is too sick to leave the house. I knew one lantern was for Great-Grandmother, but Great-Grandfather wouldn't say whom the other lantern was for. I once asked Mother about it, but she said that it was grown-up's business. She looked sad when she said it. I don't know why.

The temple is two kilometers away but Mother said we should walk to get exercise. We didn't talk much; Mother seemed sad still. She just held my hand and looked at the lanterns. But I wasn't lonely. I listened to the singing crickets. I watched the fireflies. I looked into the sky and saw the Milky Way.

When we got to the temple, Mother prayed for a long time. She seemed sad while she was praying. I thought that her prayers were very long for one person, but when I asked Mother about it, she told me that her prayers were for two very special people. She said that she was praying for Great-Grandfather, too.

When Mother finished, we went to the river. There were a lot of people there. And even though it was nighttime, the whole river was as bright as day. Everyone was talking and laughing while they waited to put their lanterns in the river. Mother let me put Great-Grandmother's lantern in the water. But she said that she wanted to put the other lantern in the river by herself.

Mother and I watched the lanterns for a long time. The river looked beautiful with all the lanterns floating on it. Hundreds and hundreds of lanterns were on the river. It was like pieces of the moon had broken off and fell into the water.

It was strange to see Mother so sad when the river was so beautiful. I can never be sad when there is so much beauty to see. But Mother said that even the most beautiful things could hurt us. And that one day, I would understand her words. //

The page was fading from view. He looked up, startled to see that the afternoon had spun itself from the distaff of the day and sunset was winding out across the horizon. He rose, stuffing the diary back into his pocket. He slipped a banknote beneath the saucer of his untouched cup of coffee, now stone cold, and hefted the bag onto his shoulder.

She's probably waiting at home, worried, he thought as he hastened across the street. I hope she isn't too upset.

***

"Where were you?" she asked him as he came hurrying up the walk. "I called your cell-phone, but you didn't pick up."

"I was at the bookstore," he explained, kissing her on the cheek.

"Oh." She tucked her arm into his as they entered the house. "So did you find anything interesting?"

"Oh, yes, some really fascinating books on Korean ceramic ware of the Koryo Dynasty." He pulled up a faded gray tome from his bag.

"I didn't know you were interested in Korean pottery," she said, taking the volume from him.

"Oh, very. Korean ceramics are famous. Their work was prized throughout Asia. So much so that during the Hideyoshi invasions of the 1590s, the Japanese abducted Korean potters and brought them back to Japan. The contributions of the Korean potters to the development of Japanese ceramic ware --"

She cut off his impromptu lecture by hastily inquiring, "Did you buy anything else?"

"What?" He blinked. "Oh, yes, yes I did. I bought a few books on Japanese woodblock printing too," he replied, setting his bag upon a small mahogany commode. "And this," he added as an afterthought. He held up the small blue book.

She stared at the plain cover for a moment before opening the book. "A diary?" Her brow arched in surprise as she flirted through the pages.

"Er, yes," he faltered, clumsily hanging up his coat.

"It's in Japanese," she remarked. "And the handwriting seems to be that of a girl."

"Yes," he responded, a little awkwardly.

"Why did you buy it?" she questioned, returning the book to him. She was clearly indifferent to the little volume.

"It seemed interesting," he answered sheepishly.

"Interesting?" Her brow lifted higher. Suddenly she grinned, her amber eyes glinting mischievously. "Ah, but I forgot that this is Hiiragizawa. He finds amusement in phone books."

"Not at all!" he exclaimed in mock indignation. "There is nothing amusing in phone books. Phone books are very serious and scholarly works."

She laughed, sidling up to him. She kissed him, her lips brushing teasingly against his mouth. He tried to embrace her but she drew away, smiling, and walked up the stairs. He needed no other invitation. He placed the book on a table and followed her into the dark bedroom beyond.

***

When he woke the next morning, the sun hung high in the window. He glanced over at the wrinkled space beside him, touching her pillow as if he could somehow impress upon his hand the warmth of her body that seemed to linger there, though she had departed hours earlier. He lay there for a moment, smiling, before he finally rose and slipped on his glasses.

He ambled out of the bedroom, through the still hall and down the stairs. As he passed the foyer, he noticed a flash of pale blue at the corner of his eye. He paused and saw the small diary lying on the table, where he had placed it the night before.

"Oh, the diary," he murmured as he picked up the little book. "I can't believe I forgot about this." He walked into the kitchen, the book under his arm. He filled the teakettle and set it on the stove to boil. He then settled himself at the kitchen table and opened the diary to the second entry.

// September 5, 1995

Father came home today. He was on a business trip to Hong Kong. Father travels a lot, so I don't see him often. He goes all around the world so he is gone for a long time. And when he does come home, he can only stay for a short time. But when I do see him, even if it's only for a day, I'm very happy.

Mother was very happy too. She smiled and laughed all day. She made a lot of good things to eat-all of Father's favorite foods. And at dinner, Father told us everything that happened to him on his trip to Hong Kong. Father tells such interesting and exciting stories. I think that I want to travel around the world just like Father does and see all the things that he's seen.

Father said he would be staying with us for three days before he has to go to England. I'm a little sad that he's going so soon, but Father says I must stay with Mother and keep her company.

I don't mind staying with Mother. I'm always happy with Mother. Mother is kind and sweet and beautiful. But I'm even happier when Father is home because then we are all together. //

The teakettle whistled shrilly. Eriol looked up, startled. With the book still in his hand, he dashed over to the stove, turned it off, and removed the kettle from the burner.

This book . . . He stared down at the slender volume in his hand, the teakettle forgotten.  I can't believe how amazing this book is, he marveled. It's only a diary -- a girl's diary, actually -- but somehow, I could've read on all day . . .

He thoughtfully turned the pages, his brow wrinkled in thought. But there aren't many entries, he mused. And I want this diary to last. If I leave it out in the open, I'll read it through in one sitting. And, he silently added, I'm sure Kaho and Nakuru will tease me mercilessly for being so absorbed in a girl's diary. They'll think me mad. Eriol bit his lip, his frown deepening. Suddenly, he whirled about, strode out of the kitchen and hurried to the library.

The apartment was cool and dim. He paused at the threshold, blinking as his eyes adjusted themselves to the gloom. In a moment, he crossed the room to a certain desk in a dark corner.

Yes, better to savor each entry slowly, he cautioned himself again, his hands scrabbling across the cluttered desktop. Eriol rummaged through the shelves of the small oak secretary until he found a small brass key. Bending down, he inserted the key into the lock and opened the drawer.

It'll be safe here, he thought.

He carefully laid the book in the drawer and turned the key.