Frog in a Well by India Millar

Author:India Millar [Millar, India]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Red Empress Publishing

Some birds delight in

Flocking together. Some are

Alone. Which find joy?

After much serious thought, I decided I would wait until Tengen came back before mentioning the matter of a new robe for him to Father. My caution was two-fold. I worried if I asked Father before mentioning it to Tengen that the monk would be annoyed by my forwardness. But also, I hesitated in case Father might be angry with me for my clumsiness in spilling the ink.

As things turned out, it was just as well I did not speak to Father.

Tengen did not come back for my next lesson. Nor the next.

I was on fire with anxiety. Was it possible that his kannushi had forbidden him to return? I doubted that. Tengen had said that Father was a major benefactor of his monastery. The kannushi would not want to lose Father’s contributions over such a relatively minor incident. Then was it Tengen himself who had decided he no longer wanted to teach me? I shook my head; I could not—would not—believe that.

Finally, I decided that Tengen was trying to punish me in the same fashion as he no doubt punished his much younger pupils in the monastery, by simply ignoring me.

Once the thought occurred to me, I settled down at once. He would be back. I only had to wait. And I would surprise him when he did come back.

I borrowed ink from Father’s apartment and copied out my kanji. All of them. I only stopped when I was certain I could no longer improve on them. Then I put my brush and paper aside and delved into my chest.

On the last occasion I had seen Gen, he had given me a book of haiku written by Yosa Buson. I had never so much as looked at it since. There was no point. I couldn’t read any of it. Now, I pulled it out and turned the pages carefully.

I realized the book was very old indeed. The cover was of leather, so aged that it was beautifully soft and almost warm to the touch. The pages inside were bound in a way that I had never seen before. Each page was folded double with printing on both sides. The only bound books I had seen before were Father’s ledgers, and they were nothing like this. His, I supposed, were very up to date, perhaps even gaijin in style. They were also practical, containing nothing but rows of kanji, with the same symbols repeated often.

This book was simply beautiful.

It contained not only kanji, but illustrations. As I turned each page reverently, I rejoiced in its beauty. Why, I wondered, had I never looked at it before now? Was it because I had thought it would be no use to me until I could read, or was it because I did not want to admit that I was defeated by it? I shrugged the thought aside. No matter, I was looking at it now.

I gazed at the wood-block illustrations with pleasure and dawning excitement.

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