-"The old tales, as Gertrude Mueller Nelson has succinctly expressed it (in her Jungian study, Here All Dwell Free) are about 'anguish and darkness.' They plunge heroines and heroes into the dark wood, into danger and despair and enchantment and deception, and only then offer them the tools to save themselves — tools that must be used wisely and well."
Terry Windling, Cinderella: Ashes, Blood and the Slipper of Glass
[0]
[0]
"Three and a half hours west from here is a mountain by the sea. Take a train to the foot of this mountain."
It was beautiful. Mamori had been cooped up in the city for so long, she'd forgotten how breathtaking the countryside was, especially here. Colors seemed brighter. Candy-colored flowers jumped out from among foliage that was so green, Mamori could feel the freshness of the leaves. Sounds were louder, too. Mamori supposed it was because of the quiet. Every bird twitter and crack and crunch of the leaves and twigs underneath seemed to travel far. And the sunlight that streamed through the tall trees had lightened Mamori's step; walking through sunbeams made her feel like a child at play.
When you get off the train, transfer to a bus and that will take you halfway up, where there is an inn and an onsen. Once you're there, find one of the janitors; they should know a guide willing to take you up further."
But it had been, no doubt, a long day. Mamori shook her head. She could only blame herself. She could have stayed at the inn for the night and relaxed in the hot springs. But knowing that her answers were perhaps just only two hours more away, she had asked for the guide already.
"Listen to your guide. Even if there are tourists and an inn up there, the mountain is still a wild place."
Mamori glanced back at her guide, a man who could have looked 20 or 40, so sun-darkened was he. He smiled widely at her. She shivered.
"We're almost there." The man called out cheerfully.
She nodded, her lips turning up slightly. "That's good to hear." In more ways than one, thought Mamori. At the next rise, Mamori could see the land flattening out a little.
The temple when she did see it, took her by surprise. It seemed like it was almost carved into the mountain. No dainty square-shaped buildings and turned-up rooftop corners. It was an enormous rough half dome, the walls veined and the windows, mere slits that could have passed for natural cracks. There was no yard, the trees grew almost right up to the walls. The only thing that marked it as man-made were the steps in the front, leading up to a heavy wooden door. By the door, there stood a gong, held up by two posts.
Mamori and her guide paused in front of it. She looked at her guide, but the man stood there, still grinning from ear to ear. It unnerved Mamori, enough to propel her feet up the steps. She took hold of the striker tied to one of the posts and raised it.
"No need for that, young lady."
Mamori jerked and the striker clattered by the gong. Nearby, a flock of birds took flight from a single tree, their shrill cries piercing the stillness. Underneath the same tree, nestled among the roots of the tree was an old, wizened man. He grinned at them, the wrinkles in his face swallowing up his bright, black eyes, so that they were mere glints in his brown, homely face. "Good day, good day!" he said, animated. "Young man, could you do me a favor?"
Mamori looked at her guide whose smile now had faltered. He did not say anything.
"There's a well on the other side of the temple; be kind to me and draw me three buckets of water. These gnarly hands aren't up to the job, anymore."
For a moment, the guide stood not saying anything, and Mamori, for some reason, started feeling anxious. But the guide finally swiveled, his wide smile back in place. He walked off to the other side of the small clearing. Mamori watched him.
"My dear."
Mamori turned back to the old man. He was patting the tree root beside him. "Won't you come and sit by me?"
She nodded and walked to the tree. She settled herself gingerly on the tree root.
"What's your name, my dear?"
"Anezaki Mamori, ojii-san."
"My name is Hayashida."
"Please take care of me, Hayashida-san."
The old man nodded. "Well, we'll see if we can do that. What brings you all the way up here?"
Mamori hesitated. But Hayashida sat there patiently, wrinkles cheerfully swallowing up his eyes and he looked as if he could have waited a hundred years.
"I'm pregnant," she said. And she exhaled. Well, there it was. It was said now.
The old man's eyebrows rose. "Oh, congratulations. Do you need me to bless the child?"
"No, " Mamori shook her head. "Hayashida-san, you don't understand. I don't have a husband-"
"Well, nowadays, people are more open about that."
"No, see I was about to say, I don't have a husband, and my boyfriend's been missing for two years now."
"Well, Mamori-san, I'm not going to judge you and say you're a loose woman."
"Hayashida-san, I haven't had sex for two years!" And Mamori's voice was left to echo in the clearing. She promptly turned scarlet.
"Well," said Hayashida-san, so somberly, Mamori just knew he was trying to keep from laughing.
Mamori dropped her face into her hands. "I missed him so much. You don't know how much." She began to laugh. "It's so ridiculous, too. On the first day that I saw him, I already didn't like him. I thought to myself that I would stop outrageous students like him. Then he got my childhood friend into his crazy American football team and I had to sign up as the manager to keep him from killing my kohai. I mean, he carried guns, he threatened people, he blackmailed people, he teased me mercilessly, I don't even know why I love him so much." And Mamori felt the warm hand on her shoulder and when she looked up, the old man was looking at her kindly.
"It's all right, my dear."
And Mamori realized that she was crying. She wiped off the tears, laughing. "Well, anyway, it began with the mornings. I would wake up from a dream and feel his hand or his breath. But of course he wasn't there. Then, one night, I had a really vivid dream that he…" she started blushing fiercely, "and well, something happened in the dream. Then, two months later, I was pregnant. I really think I'm starting to lose touch with reality."
Hayashida-san snorted. "Lose touch with reality? Let me tell you something, Mamori-san, a friend of mine once said that reality is nothing more than a perspective, a point of view, if you will. Now, what you're scared of isn't losing touch with reality, but of something becoming real."
Mamori looked at him, "Is it real, then?" She asked, her voice steady. "Am I really carrying his child?"
The old man sighed. "Is that what you really want to ask?"
Mamori looked away.
"My dear, the real question you want to ask is: Is he coming back? More than being afraid of the uncanny, you fear that all that will be left of him are these half-dreams, shadows, reflections and this child."
"What does this mean, Hayashida-san?" She whispered. "Was it his ghost? Is he dead? What does it mean?"
Hayashida-san shook his head. "This could be his ghost, but it seems less and more than that. As if he were memory and love and spirit and sorrow." And Hayashida was frowning at a point in front of them. He shook his head again. "I have never seen anything like it."
And Mamori felt the black hopelessness rise. "What do I do? How do I bring him back?"
"Do you read manga, Mamori-san?"
Mamori frowned. The question had taken her totally by surprise. "What?"
"I do. If only I could attend the conventions," the old man sighed. "I love manga. The stories, the drama, the action, the love!" His eyes were shining.
"Oh."
Hayashida-san grinned at her. "I especially like this manga called Full-Metal Alchemist. It's very well-made. And xxxHolic. Too cute, too cute." He paused as he saw Mamori's puzzlement. He coughed. "Ah, but what I wanted to say is that in both of those stories, there is a very important concept called equivalent trade. You cannot make something out of nothing. Nor can you get something without paying, one way or another, a fair and equal price."
Mamori frowned. "But what about love? What about sacrifice? Both give and receive nothing."
"Pah! When have you ever seen love survive where only one person gives and only one person takes? That is nothing more than parasitism. And sacrifice? My dear, if somebody shoots at your childhood friend and you get in the way to save him, do you think there is no payment?"
Mamori said nothing.
"You don't think your friend will feel guilty? You don't think he will pay with sadness? Forever burdened? Even sacrifice has a price." The old man continued.
Mamori stood up, shaking with anger. "Are you saying this baby was the universe compensating me for losing Hiruma? That's it?"
Hayashida smiled. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. That guide should be done about now, here let me give you something." He reached into his robe, and took out a spool of red thread.
Mamori looked at him, her anger tempered by puzzlement once more, "What's this?"
In the distance, the guide was coming back with two buckets. He set them down by the door of the temple and waved at them, grinning. Then, he went back into the trees.
Hayashida smiled up at her, "It's a symbol. Symbols are important, Mamori-san. Please keep it with you. And remember, equivalent trade." He lost his smile for a moment. "You're a very nice girl; I would never wish you the unhappiness of choosing. I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry? What do you mean, choosing?"
Hayashida never answered her. He pointed at the sky. "It's about to get dark soon, you had better go."
[0]
[0]
The sky was red.
Reminded, Mamori touched the spool of thread in her pocket, wondering what it was for. Was it part of Hayashida-san's answer to her? What did he mean equivalent trade? Mamori thought that perhaps she should read whatever manga Hayashida-san had mentioned. She wondered, if Hayashida-san really believed in that equivalent trade, what was his price for answering her question, then? Or for the spool of thread? She should send him something. At least as a thank you.
Distracted with her thoughts, she only had half an eye on where she was stepping on the trail. So Mamori was unprepared when her foot slid under loose rock, and she yelped, her hands flinging out to catch hold of something.
Something caught her. Mamori felt the jerk in her arm, and the pain shot up her shoulder, as her feet scrabbled for purchase. When she'd regained her balance, she looked up at her guide, and the thank you that had been forming died on her lips.
The grin on the man's face, the smile that had been too wide, too unnerving, had now become a ghastly sight of joy. Mamori realized what had unnerved her had been the man's eyes. His eyes had never changed, and had remained blank even when he'd been smiling.
Now, they looked alive.
And Mamori felt greater fear. She tried to pull her arm back, but the man's grip was tight. Without warning, her knee shot up to his groin.
While the man yowled, bending over in pain, Mamori ran. She skittered down the mountain trail, almost tumbling down at times, hands scraping painfully against the rocks and the trees.
When Mamori looked back, to her horror, the man was running after her, laughing. She broke away from the trail and plunged into the undergrowth.
She ran faster and faster, but she could hear him steadily coming, gaining on her. She slapped away branches, panic lapping at her chest. But she ran. Even as she felt his breathing, his strange hiccupping laughter growing louder, her legs and her lungs pumped. The red light of the sunset made the shadows of the forest strange, as if the shadows on the ground were writhing.
When she felt the hand on her shoulder, Mamori twisted away, slapping at him, and lost her footing. The last sight she saw before she fell was her guide's too-wide grin.
Then Mamori rolled down, hitting rocks, and tree roots, and the gritty soil. With a thud, she stopped at a ledge, and lay unmoving.
Above her, the guide began to whistle, as he started his way down.
[0]
[0]
The End of Chapter 3: Equivalent Trade