Strange Light Afar by Rui Umezawa Page A

Urashima’s boy ran away forty years ago. His name was Taro.”
    Clearly she is right. There is some mistake, and she, being a stranger to our village, is misinformed. I leave her holding her empty basket and run to other huts. Strangers  — women and children, because the men are still out on their boats  — look at me. They do not recognize me, and I do not recognize any of them. There is no one I can ask about my mother.
    I go back to our hut and ponder what to do next. The most likely explanation is that my mother has gone looking for me. I ignore the fact that the village is now full of strangers. One mystery at a time.
    I spend the next while rummaging through the kitchen. There is nothing to be found. Most disappointing is that there is no sake.
    Then I remember Oto’s parting gift. The lacquer box is still spotless, its sheen unworn from the journey home.
    When I untie the knot and remove the lid, a bright light is followed by a dense wall of smoke. There is no sound, and I am able to breathe comfortably, though I cannot see anything.
    Something shifts beneath the skin on my face. My legs turn weak and I need to sit.
    I look at the polished lid in my hand. As the smoke clears, I gradually make out my reflection and see that my hair has turned white. Folds of skin hang over my eyes. I notice that my hands are gnarled and stiff, a constellation of liver spots on their backs. When I cry out in horror, a few teeth spill from my mouth.
    The woman who was hanging her laundry hears my cries and comes running. Perplexed, she stands over me. There is not even a trace of recognition in her eyes. She calls me “old man” and asks where I am from.
    Here, I want to tell her. I want to tell her I am from here, but the words cannot struggle free.
    She reaches down and strokes my hand sympathetically as I sob uncontrollably. There, there. She tells me everything will be fine. Just fine. She is gentle and kind despite her confusion. I squeeze her hand before pulling it toward my face. She leans in closer. I lose myself in her reassuring whispers. I cannot resist the comfort they offer.
    Who could blame me for that, given all that I’ve been through?

◊
    EIGHT
    BETRAYAL
    â—Š

H ere is Oiwa, combing her fingers through her long shimmering hair. To her horror, strands like silk fall with each stroke. She cries out, but nothing much passes through her throat. She chokes, instead.
    She tries to stand, but her knees fail. Clawing at the door, she tears into the rice paper, and a panel crashes down as she falls. She manages to spill into the hallway on her hands and knees. Blood cascades from her lips as she crawls toward the kitchen.
    She can hardly see the lamp her husband is holding over her.
    â€œWater!” she hisses. “Please!”
    Tamiya fidgets. This is turning out much uglier than he’d intended.
    â€œWater!”
    Her eyelids swell hideously. Tamiya hates ugly things.
    â€¢
    They met on the brightest day of spring. No clouds. No shadows. No doubt.
    She was at her favorite spot in the world, an escarpment just beyond the edge of town. She had been watching the sunlight break into fragments on the ocean waves.
    She had just decided to go home when a strap on her sandal snapped. He happened to be nearby to help.
    He fell in love with her as soon as he saw her. Tamiya’s clearly defined features and his kindness immediately attracted her as well. But Oiwa’s family did not approve. He was without a retainer and had squandered most of his savings by living beyond his means. His weakness was that he loved beautiful things. And she was truly beautiful.
    When they walked together down the street, passersby could not help but admire their appearance. When they stood next to a cherry tree, Tamiya saw that they enhanced the blossoms’ loveliness. Oiwa’s beauty complemented his own wonderfully.
    Her parents finally relented and provided the very handsome dowry they