Mieko and the Fifth Treasure by Eleanor Coerr Page A

wave of homesickness. Tears stung her eyes and she could hardly swallow.
    Grandma put her arms around Mieko and rocked her back and forth. “Hush, hush!” she crooned. “You are just tired from that long train ride yesterday. ”
    â€œYou will feel better tomorrow,” said Grandpa.
    Mieko hung her head, knowing that they did not understand. How could tomorrow be better? She would never paint word-pictures again, and she would never feel the joy of having the fifth treasure. She would hear the bomb over and over again, and know that things at home would never be the same.
    After supper they all had baths in the backyard tub and put on cotton kimonos. Then they sat outside to enjoy the evening breeze. Twilight fell and crickets began to sing. Mieko thought they sounded sad.
    Grandpa pointed to a large rock in the tiny garden behind the house.
    â€œSee that?” he said proudly. “Last year I hauled it down the mountain in the cart. Mieko, can you read the words carved into my rock?”
    Mieko studied the strokes that formed the word-pictures, but they were difficult to make out. She shook her head.
    â€œ ‘Spilled water never returns to the glass,’ ” Grandpa explained. “It means that one should not worry about things that cannot be changed.”
    He paused to puff on his cigarette. Then he went on, “Like Japan losing the war. Like all that has been lost or hurt by the bomb.” And glancing quickly at Mieko, “Like your hand being injured, and your parents sending you to us.”
    Grandma smiled, patting Mieko’s shoulder. “I know it’s not easy for a ten-year-old to understand, but you must try.”
    Mieko blinked back the tears. She did not want to understand. The only thing she wanted was to be back home, with everything like it was before.
    At bedtime Grandma laid out a futon and hung a mosquito net over it for Mieko.
    When she saw the four treasures on top of the chest, Grandma nodded approvingly. “I see that you did not forget your calligraphy supplies. Good. You will soon be practicing again.”
    â€œNo, I won’t!” Mieko burst out. She shoved the four treasures into a drawer. “The bomb spoiled everything, Grandma. I’ll never, never paint again.”
    â€œDon’t talk like that,” Grandma said, flustered. “Your hand will get better ...”
    â€œBut my fingers will always be stiff and awkward like dried-up shrimp,” Mieko said in a small voice. “And my brushstrokes will look like sticks.”
    She threw herself onto the futon and pulled the sheet up over her head.
    Grandma sighed.
    â€œI’ll write to your parents and tell them that you arrived safely,” she said, turning out the light. “Good-night.”
    It was the first time Mieko had ever been away from home alone. She longed for her own bedroom, where her teacher’s painting hung on the wall and Mother’s peach tree rustled its leaves outside her window.
    What if something happened to Mother and Father? What if they got sick and died? What if she never saw them again? Finally, exhausted, Mieko stuffed a pillow against her mouth and cried herself to sleep.
    That night she had a nightmare. A plane was droning overhead and then a big bomb exploded in her face. Mieko woke up screaming.
    Grandpa knelt by the futon.
    â€œThe war is over now,” he said, putting his arms around her. “There are no more bombs.”
    But Mieko could not stop the sobs shaking her whole body.
    â€œShh—shh! You must stop crying,” Grandpa whispered. “Your tears will not help those who were killed by the atom bomb. Their souls must swim across the River of Death to heaven. Every tear you shed drops into the river and makes it deeper.”
    Mieko shuddered, imagining what it would be like to struggle in that icy cold water. Gradually, she became quiet.
    Grandpa straightened the bedclothes.
    â€œEnough of dreary