Strange Light Afar by Rui Umezawa Read Free Book Online Page B

the rice is ready, Sakura places it in the mortar. Jirobe swings the mallet down from above his head to hit the cooked grains. Sakura quickly flips the hot white mass over as he pulls the mallet back and readies it for another swing.
    Pound, flip. Pound, flip. He says, “Hey!” as he strikes. She shouts, “Ho!” as she flips.
    Hey, ho! Hey, ho!
    The grains of rice flatten and burst, and before long are indistinguishable from one another.
    Flipping over and over, the rice turns into a single slab of mochi .
    Or at least, it should have turned into mochi .
    Something instead begins to gleam brightly yellow in the white mass. Jirobe and Sakura’s cadence slows and becomes a near whisper. But he keeps hitting the rice.
    Why wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t you keep swinging with all your old man’s failing strength, if the more you hit the mochi , the more it turned to gold pieces and gems?
    When Jirobe finally stops, he and Sakura are giggling hysterically. The mortar is overflowing with treasure. They don’t notice that I’m not laughing with them. They’ve clearly forgotten all about the dried fish I brought.
    They become quiet when I demand, more sternly than I intend, that they lend me the mortar and the mallet. They hesitate but, given the usual obligations among family, they have no choice. So Sakura washes the mortar and mallet. I take them home and immediately start to cook rice.
    Because my wife is gone, there is no one to flip the mochi as I pound it. I make do. I try to turn the rice over myself between swings of the mallet. This proves awkward, and as I tire I do it less and less. The hot grains stick to the sides of the mortar, and soon there’s a mess. The more I pound, the more the rice turns into roaches, worms, spiders, caterpillars and something that smells like urine. Frustration and the odor make my eyes water.
    I know that this is somehow my father’s idea of a sick joke. Somewhere, he is laughing at me. Maybe that cursed dog is laughing at me, too. Maybe Jirobe and Sakura and even my wife are in on the prank.
    I’m not laughing. The anger is back, all too familiar. The decision to burn the damned mallet and mortar seems perfectly reasonable.
    The insects scatter. The wood resists the hacksaw. Swinging the ax hurts my wrists. Night falls quietly, and by the time the mortar and mallet have been sawed and chopped into small pieces of kindling, the bloated moon sits in the inky sky beyond the window.
    I gather the wood, and soon there is a healthy fire in the hearth cut into the floor of the hut. The flames lick the air and beckon me to touch them. The smoke cannot completely hide the stench that still lingers in the air.
    I awake the next morning when my brother comes to collect his precious mortar. I no longer care what he thinks of me, and I tell him what I’ve done. He is no longer concerned with my opinion of him, either, so he sheds his pleasant façade and screams like I’ve always wished he would. He tells me I’m worthless and only half a man. He tells me our father thought so, too.
    I smile stupidly and call him sentimental and pathetic as he collects the ashes from the hearth. He mutters that this is all he has left of the dog and the tree. This is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, and I tell him so.
    I hear hushed voices over the hedge that evening. They are out in the yard, reminiscing about Shiro and how the dog loved to go for walks along the main road of town. I step outside but remain in the shadows as I draw closer. Sakura puts her loving arm around my brother’s shoulders. Perhaps, they muse, they should not have buried Shiro at all. Maybe he would have preferred to be cremated, and to have his ashes scattered along the road.
    They decide they could still do this with the ashes of the mortar. They laugh at how they both arrived at this idea at the same time.
    The air is cold, though we’re well into spring. The