The Sadness of Things
The Sadness of Things — a philosophy story. 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Philosophy.
Page 1
The string came loose with one tug, and Baba Ume lifted the folded manuscript free of its wrapping, proud as a new baby. For a breath it lay there, safe in her broad hands, hundreds of pages thick. Then the wind off Ise Bay came charging up over the ramparts, and the top twenty sheets leapt straight off the pile, spinning and flapping like a flock startled from grass. Kiku was already moving before anyone shouted, clogs clattering down the grassy slope of the old castle wall, skidding on her heels, both arms out wide to herd the escaping paper. She flung herself flat on one sheet, then scrambled up to chase the next, slapping stones down on top of each page the instant she caught it, while cherry petals came sifting down thick as snow to cover her tracks. Norinaga stood gripping his brass bell to keep it from clanging, calling directions, and Baba Ume hauled the rest of the bundle hard against her chest to stop any more pages escaping.
Page 2
By lamplight they counted the rescued sheets, laying them on the low desk that reached only to Kiku's chest. Ninety-nine. 'One is missing,' said the old man, pushing his round spectacles up his nose. Kiku dropped to her knees and scrambled under the desk, where the calico cat lay curled asleep on the very sheet, her bobtail twitching over the characters. The moment Kiku's fingers brushed the paper, the cat leapt up with a yowl, hind paw catching the brass inkstone and sending it skidding off the desk's edge. Black ink poured out in a river across the floorboards, racing toward the stacked book chests. Kiku and the old man both lunged, grabbing towels from the washstand and slamming them down to dam the flood before it reached the lowest shelf. Baba Ume, quick for her roundness, scooped the whole bundle of pages up over her head, holding it high and safe while ink crept around her wooden geta. The brass bell at the window jingled in the commotion, as if scolding everyone at once.
Page 3
The flat-bottomed ferry boat, long as three men lying head to toe, rocked away from the muddy slipway as the lanky barefoot boy drove his bamboo pole hard against the riverbed, hauling them across the Kushida River. The manuscript bundle rode high and dry atop a straw bale wedged in the bow. But as the boat lurched over a wake, Baba Ume's hip-basket tipped sideways, and forty orange persimmons tumbled splashing into the brown water, bobbing away downstream like little lanterns. "My persimmons!" she cried, grabbing for the basket's edge too late. The boy swung his net-pole out low over the water, scooping fruit after fruit in quick sweeping strokes, flicking each dripping persimmon back toward the boat. The small girl knelt at the gunwale, catching them in her sleeve and counting aloud — "thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty!" — as she dropped them back into the basket. The calico cat crouched on the straw bale, pawing playfully at the spreading ripples, while the tall old scholar steadied the manuscript with both hands so it would not join the fruit in the current.
Page 4
A packhorse lumbered round the corner of the inn street and slammed one great hoof into a puddle, flinging muddy water clean across the bundle's corner. 'Ah — no, no!' cried Norinaga, snatching the pages back too late. Baba Ume peeled off the soaked top sheets, tutting, while Tsubame was already dragging a long ladder from beside the temple gate and propping it against the eaves of the nearest inn roof. He scrambled up, bare feet gripping the rungs, and knelt flat on the warm tiles under the Jizo-in gate's shadow. 'Hand them up, Kiku!' he called down. Kiku stood on tiptoe on the ladder's bottom rung, passing damp sheets one by one into his reaching hands, then pebbles from a dish Baba Ume held out, so he could pin each corner against the breeze. Momiji trotted along the ridge-tiles between the drying pages, tail stump twitching, stepping delicately over every weighted sheet as though inspecting the work herself.
Page 5
The wind came out of nowhere, slamming down the pass like a hand. It caught the oiled-paper wrapper at its weak seam and split it clean open, and suddenly the whole bundle was alive, pages cartwheeling up between the pine trunks like startled white birds. Kiku screamed and grabbed at empty air. Tsubame didn't scream — he ran, bare feet slapping the stone steps, swinging his long bamboo net in wide arcs, snatching sheets out of the sky one after another. Momiji bounded after two that skidded low across the moss, pinning them flat against the foot of the old stone Jizo with both front paws, tail puffed huge. Baba Ume dropped her basket, wrenched at her own obi sash until it came loose in one long orange ribbon, and knelt to gather the rescued pages into a tight stack, winding the sash round and round until the bundle sat fat and safe in her lap, her jacket hanging open and flapping in the gust.
Page 6
Smoke curled up through the thatch as they leaned the bamboo rack over the hearth, each damp page clipped along its rungs like washing. Norinaga crouched with his long knees folded, turning the sheets end for end so the steam licked every corner dry. Momiji's ears pricked at a pale moth fluttering near the kettle-hook, and she sprang, batting it with both white-mittened paws — the hook swung, the iron kettle tipped, and a slosh of hot water went skating across the boards straight for the rack's feet. Kiku lunged, both hands catching the rack's frame, and swept the whole thing sideways in one clean whisking arc, clear of the spreading puddle. Tsubame grabbed the kettle before it could fully topple, hauling it upright by its hot bail with the hem of his sleeve. Baba Ume, laughing, pressed her oiled umbrella into Tsubame's free hand and looped her plum-blossom lantern over Kiku's wrist. "Go on, I'll mind the fire and this troublesome cat," she said, scooping Momiji up against her round orange front.
Page 7
At the water's edge, under the great leaning pine wide as a house across, a boatman reached up to take the bundle down into the waiting lake boat. The cord, salt-stiffened from the ferry crossing, gave way with a snap. Two hundred pages burst loose and scattered across the shallows, spreading flat on the grey water like petals torn from a thousand trees. Tsubame dropped his pole and waded straight in, net held low, scooping sheets before they could sink. Kiku grabbed the hem of her kimono and hauled it into a scoop, splashing knee-deep to catch what drifted past her. The boatmen leaned out and raked the water with their long oars, dragging sodden pages to the shingle one after another. Norinaga stood at the waterline, directing hands with his cane, while Momiji paced the shingle, pawing at any page that washed close enough to touch. Slowly the shore filled with wet, blurred sheets, laid dripping on the stones — every single one recovered, though none would ever be the same clean white again.
Page 8
A hundred stone steps, each one higher than Kiku's knee, and she hauls herself up them two at a time, lacquer box bouncing on her back. At the top the veranda opens wide as a whole room, its wooden rail waist-high and long as a bridge. Tsubame strings cord from rail to bell-tower post and pegs the damp pages along it, one after another, flapping like pale flags. Momiji trots the rail's edge, sniffing each sheet, careful not to knock the pegs loose. Norinaga kneels stiffly, smoothing a curling corner flat with his ink-stained fingers. Kiku drops to her knees before the worst-blurred page, flips open her chipped box, wets her brush, and begins redrawing a washed-out character stroke by careful stroke. Above them the great bronze bell, taller than a man, booms once as the evening ritual begins, and the whole veranda seems to hum through the soles of their feet. Kiku doesn't flinch — her brush keeps moving, steady as the sound rolling out over the darkening lake below.
Page 9
The handcart had carried them bravely down from the barrier stone, but on the steepest pitch of the road its left wheel gave a sudden crack and sprang clean off the axle. The cart lurched, bucked, and the wheel went bowling away downhill on its own, rolling faster than a boy could run. Momiji shot after it on four flashing paws, bell jingling wildly, chasing the wheel as if it were the world's largest coin. Tsubame dropped his net-pole and sprinted, bare feet slapping the stones, and threw himself bodily at the wheel, tackling it into the roadside ditch before it could vanish into the dusk. He wedged it back onto the axle with a scrap of bamboo, hammering it tight with the flat of a stone while Kiku held the cart steady and Norinaga crouched to brace the frame with both long arms. When the wheel would not hold a second time, they gave up on it entirely — unroped the manuscript bundle, slid a carrying pole through its cords, and hefted it onto their shoulders, Tsubame and Norinaga front and back, Kiku trotting alongside with the lantern, walking the last mile as the lamps of the barrier town flickered on behind them.
Page 10
The blockcutter's steps were steep and worn, each one barely wide enough for a clog, but Kiku hauled the bundle up two at a time, hugging it against her chest so it would not slip. At the top she dropped to her knees and spread the pages flat across the open shutter-table, a broad wooden panel at adult hip-height, until every sheet lay whole in the morning light. For a moment nobody breathed. Then a breeze off the river curled under one corner and a single page lifted, spinning lazily up over the railing and out above the water. Tsubame lunged, swinging his net-pole with both arms, but Norinaga caught his wrist before the net could close, laughing so hard his spectacles slid down his nose. The sheet drifted down, down, and settled among the floating cherry petals, turning slowly on the current. Momiji perched on the railing, tail twitching, watching it go. Kiku gasped and reached, but it was already far out of reach, sailing toward the bridge.
About this story
- Audience: kids (ages 6–12)
- Format: 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Philosophy
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