The Light of Spring
A Guardian of the Spirit Short Story
Author: Uehashi Nahoko
Translator: Ainikki the Archivist
Spring sunlight spilled through a crack in the door of the hut, sending mottled speckles over the dirt floor. Reaching a hand out from her shilya bedding, Balsa felt the warmth of the sun seeping into the ground, banishing the cold she was so used to feeling.
It was finally spring.
Balsa sat up, opening her eyes. Tanda was still asleep next to her. She was careful not to wake him up. Balsa scratched lazily at her stomach, looking at Tanda. His eyes were still closed; he was sleeping peacefully.
Suddenly, Balsa flicked Tanda on the forehead. He woke immediately, frowning at her. Then he laughed.
Balsa got out of bed while listening to Tanda's laughter. He was so mature in some ways, and so child-like in others. It was hard to resist teasing him. He was so cute, like a little kid, when he teased her back.
Balsa's clothes were folded above her pillow. She put them on, then slipped on her straw sandals, which were in their customary spot at the entrance to the hut. She opened the door, letting in the bright spring sunlight. A soft breeze fluttered her hair and carried morning mist into the hut, where it drifted over the dirt floor. The mountain rising above them was green with new shoots and budding flowers. The mountains in the distance were entirely swallowed up by white mist. The sunlight danced in the mist like a playful child.
There was a dog sleeping near the fire inside the hut, on top of some spare bedding. The day before, children from the village at the foot of the mountain had brought the dog to them. He was an old animal, and sick. One of the village boys had carried the dog most of the way up the mountain. Tanda had accepted the dog from him, one-armed, and settled the dog on spare blankets near the fire. The dog had come here slathered in mud with a bloody wound gaping on his right paw.
"He's ten years old; he'll never make it!" The boy had cried and cried, inconsolable, while he'd explained how the dog had come to be injured. The dog had fallen into a trap set for a wild boar, and had injured his paw in freeing himself.
The boy and the other children held out no hope for the dog's recovery, but Tanda had told them not to worry, and that he was certain the dog would get better. Balsa had helped Tanda treat the dog by holding the poor animal still while her one-armed husband cleaned the paw and wrapped it. Something in Balsa's chest hurt remembering that. The dog appeared old to her, old and close to giving up. Even if Tanda managed to heal the dog's paw, it was likely that the dog would soon die of old age.
The boy who'd carried the dog up the mountain had told Tanda and Balsa that the dog had been born the same month that he had, and that they were as inseparable as brothers. They'd spent their lives together: eating, playing, and even sleeping in the same room. Tanda had listened to the boy's explanation with patience and calm. "I understand that this dog is your brother. I promise to take good care of him, so please return to the village for today. Your mom must be worried about you."
Balsa, overhearing this exchange, remembered having a dog in the house when she'd been very young--more than thirty years before. Though it had been that long, Balsa still remembered the feel of the dog's fur under her hands clearly. The dog's name had been Hami. She thought that Hami had been her mother's dog, though it was hard to be sure. Her mother had rescued Hami and brought him home; Balsa remembered her parents talking about that.
Hami lacked the intensity of a hunting dog and the diligence of a sheepdog, but he was a gentle animal. When her father worked long nights in the palace, Hami's presence next to her was always comforting.
Hami had been older than Balsa--he'd been part of the family before she was born. So it was a devastating shock when she'd awakened one morning with Hami beside her, unmoving, his body gone cold.
This was Balsa's first experience with death, and she'd been slow to understand it. Her mother had died the previous year--she was still grieving her mother when Hami died. But the feeling of her mother being gone had hit differently. She'd cried because she couldn't see her mother anymore and didn't know where she'd gone. The memory of her mother was never cold and still like this. Perhaps she'd been too young to fully feel and comprehend what had happened to her mother. For whatever reason, Hami's death was more sharply remembered, and came with greater pain in recollection. What she'd felt when Hami died was mostly grief, underlit with fear. She'd stayed still next to Hami, her mouth open in shock, unsure of what to do or if anything could be done.
What Balsa remembered after that was running to her father's room, waving her arms and begging him for help. She remembered crying and not being able to stop. Her father was the primary physician to the King of Kanbal. Young Balsa had believed--along with many others--that he was capable of working miracles. If anyone could save Hami, it was him.
Balsa's father had sighed, looking down at his little daughter with pity in his eyes and a tightness around his mouth. "If it were an illness or a wound, I would definitely save Hami. But I can do nothing to stop an old dog from aging. Some things are beyond any doctor's power to heal."
Those words had made Balsa go cold through. So much helplessness, despair, agony--the idea that there were things in this world that her father could not cure terrified her down to her soul. Her father had seemed to realize that he'd frightened her. He'd picked her up, holding her in a gentle hug.
"I know it's sad that Hami will never come back to us," Balsa's father had said. "I'm very sad, too. But don't be scared, Balsa. Everyone on this earth is born, lives for a while, then returns to the earth to be reborn again. That's what happened to Hami. It will happen to all of us, one day."
His words had reassured Balsa. She recalled the softness of his voice and the protective ring of his arms.
Death was a return to a different place, and eventually, a return to life. That was what her father had believed. Her parents had gone where Hami went, leaving her behind, so Balsa didn't know. Maybe when she died, she'd get to see her parents again. Maybe Hami would be there with them. Everything was a cycle. Souls couldn't truly die and disappear. Thinking that way steadied Balsa. It made her less afraid.
The feeling of peace and security that her father had given her in the moments after Hami died had been shattered by his murder and her flight from Kanbal, but the memory of him as he'd been--comforting her, holding her--had never faded.
There was snuffling, woofing sort of sound. The old dog turned his face up to sniff at the food that Tanda held in his hand.
"Look at you! You've got a wet nose. That means you're a strong and healthy beast, aren't you?" Tanda was crouched down next to the dog. The dog ate from his hand, and Tanda praised him by petting him on the head. Balsa watched all of this for awhile, then said, "You should get dressed. That boy said he'd be back first thing in the morning."
Balsa started folding up her shilya bedding. Tanda got dressed, then tidied up his bedding as well. Since he only had one hand, Balsa helped him fold his blankets.
Her memories of Hami prompted her to speak. "About that boy," she said.
"Hm?" Tanda asked.
"When the dog dies, that kid is gonna come back here. Just you watch."
Tanda offered her a smile tinged with sadness. "You're probably right."
"What will you do then?"
Tanda placed his folded bedding in a wall closet, then turned to face Balsa with a thoughtful expression. "I'm a magic weaver and an herbalist, but there's nothing I can do about old age. No one can, unfortunately." He pulled down a clean rag from a rack and threw it over his shoulder, then sat down on the floor. He looked outside at the mountain in spring and took a deep, cleansing breath. "Ah. It's finally spring. I love that smell."
The sun was in Balsa's eyes. She squinted, smiling without really understanding why. The boy would come to pick up his dog soon. Balsa was sure he'd cry and cry, like yesterday. And Tanda would comfort him, like her father had done for her. She understood then that the long and winding path she'd taken to adulthood was peppered with moments like her memory of Hami: moments she missed, moments that had taught her about the meaning of life and death. Moments that had taught her not to be afraid of dying. She wondered if she would be afraid when she died, or if it would be like her father said, and it would be like passing through a great gate to another part of existence--to rebirth.
Winter would return to this mountain, but it was spring now, and warm. Spring was precious. Frightened children should be held in the warmth of an embrace of loving arms. That warmth was the warmth of spring, and it would comfort those children when they grew up, despite pain and grief and despair.
Balsa saw a shadow moving on the narrow mountain path. Tanda saw the boy the same moment Balsa did. The smile on his face was the smile of a father.
THE END
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