Linda Gould is an author, podcaster, photographer, and death doula. She lived for 26 years in Japan and learns every day how living in that culture changed her personally and influenced her writing. The stories here are examples.

It's Your Turn
by Linda Gould

The Sparrow's Inn
​by Linda Gould

Listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.


    Timothy considered one last time the colored folders lined up neatly across his desk. Each held the equity valuation of a company under stress, and one of them would be the target of his next acquisition. He had narrowed it down to these four: a bicycle manufacturer that recently lost its family patriarch to cancer, a construction company in a town with a declining population, an independent film studio, and a metalworking company in Japan in a cash crunch due to a natural disaster. Any of these options would provide Timothy with a financial windfall once he downsized operations and divested the assets.
    The problem was, he had been so successful over the last twenty years that a whole generation of upstarts had studied his techniques and were now his competition, cutting into his profits. He wanted a project that would show he was still king.
    He stubbed out his cigarette. One by one, Timothy tossed three of the folders in the trash, reciting “Not your turn,” for each one. Let his competition fight among themselves for the scraps if they found them; it was time for Timothy to go international. 
    “Takahashi Metalworks,” he held up the yellow folder before placing it in his briefcase, “it’s your turn.”
​
                                                                                                ***
    Takahashi was late. 
    Rather than sit in the car and listen to his driver’s small talk, Timothy walked the perimeter of his soon-to-be acquisition, a concrete and metal monstrosity surrounded by a patchwork of rice paddies. Black grime streaked the building’s walls, and thick, green moss fully blanketed one side. Haven’t these people heard of power washers? Timothy wondered. 
    He waded through the humidity, seething that he had traveled halfway around the world for this meeting, but only he had arrived on time. To make matters worse, there were bonfires in the rice fields, and they spewed black smoke into the otherwise clear, blue sky. Now and then, a breeze thinned the smoke, and Timothy saw moving figures in the fields, but he couldn’t tell what they were doing.
    He took a deep drag on his third cigarette and wiped away beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, flicking it away when he realized he had nothing to dry his hand on. He made his way back to the air-conditioned car when smoke from the nearest bonfire spit out a black vehicle that sped along a road bisecting the rice paddies and pulled into the parking lot. A heavily wrinkled man with a full head of gray hair emerged and jogged towards Timothy with an energy that belied his age.
    “My deepest apologies,” the man said bowing so deeply Timothy couldn’t see his face. “You have been inconvenienced, and I am ashamed.”
    You damned well should be, Timothy thought, but he answered, “Don’t worry about it. I had a chance to enjoy the beauty of the rice fields. You are Mr. Takahashi, I presume.”
    “Yes. I am Takahashi Akira,” he bowed again. “Welcome to our humble town.”
    “Hah, yeah, it is humble. There’s not much around here, is there?”
    A proud smile spread across Takahashi’s face as he looked out over the rice. “These fields have attended to our needs for centuries.”
    “Ha ha! Attended to your needs? You make them sound alive.” Timothy coughed from a whiff of smoke that drifted over the two men from the fields. “If they’re so important, why are those people burning them?”
    “Today is Obon, the time of year when our ancestors’ spirits visit. The smoke from the fires guides them to the lands they nurtured. If you look closely, some of the fires are moving. Those families are escorting the spirits to their homes.”
    “But today is a Tuesday. Don’t those people have work?”
    “Oh! No one works during the three days of Obon. That’s why only the two of us are meeting today. I should be at home now, but since you insisted we meet today, I—”
     “Wait. Three days off?” 
    “Yes, three days to spend with family and our ancestors’ spirits.” 
    “Wow, three days to vacation with ghosts.” That’ll change when I take control, he vowed, then tossed his cigarette to the ground and reached into the car for his briefcase.
    Takahashi’s lip curled slightly. He watched a small trail of smoke drift from the discarded cigarette before stomping it out with the tip of his shoe.
    “Enough about the dead,” Takahashi said. “Come inside. It is the living I would like to discuss with you.” 
    There isn’t much to discuss, Timothy thought. He had secretly bought 40 percent of Takahashi Metalwork shares over the last few months, making him the largest stockholder. Now, he was offering a cash infusion as long as he got controlling interest of the company. Most of the Board members had already quit in protest of these terms, but he didn’t care. It would just make his job easier. 
    As they walked through the factory, Takahashi explained that his great-grandfather had started the business, and subsequent generations had grown it into a company renowned for its metal art. Timothy was practiced at pretending to care when company owners talked about their business, but Takahashi spoke as if he’d drunk ten cups of coffee before their meeting. Between his run-on sentences and the strange names that peppered his story—Masashi, Manashi, Masahiro—Timothy stayed uncharacteristically quiet, focusing instead on the art Takahashi was so proud of. Pretty unimpressive, if you ask me, he thought. Until they entered Takahashi’s office. 
    Vases, teapots, and sculptures filled the shelves. Timothy could practically smell the metal flowers and hear the delicately wrought insects that rested on their stalks and petals. He bent down to look at a sculpture so delicate, he held his breath for fear his exhale would crack it.
    “This is exquisite!” he said and turned to find Takahashi bowing to an ornately carved lacquered cabinet, its doors open wide to reveal a small Buddha sitting among wooden tablets displaying bold strokes of kanji. Cracked and yellowed photos of men in period clothes looked out at the room from the cabinet’s interior.
    Takahashi made a final bow, then turned to Timothy. 
    “Thank you. That’s one of my favorite pieces.” He indicated a chair next to the cabinet for Timothy. “And thank you for allowing an old man to ramble on about his family history. I am a little sentimental today.”
    “Well, that’s understandable,” Timothy lowered himself into the chair and lit a cigarette. “You’re giving up your family’s company today. Do you have an ashtray?”
    Takahashi dug around in a nearby cupboard, then set an irregular-shaped metal bowl on the table. Etched grasses decorated its exterior, but inside was a world of metal snails and flowers among which metal koi swam. When tapped into the bowl, ash from the cigarette resembled mud at the bottom of a still pond.
    “My God! This is almost magical” Timothy said to Takahashi, who had returned to the open cabinet. Timothy realized his guide had lit incense when smoke tendrils, rich with the sweet scent of cedar, drifted across the table.
    “What’s all that?” Timothy waved his cigarette at the cabinet.
    “It’s a butsudan. It holds part of my ancestors’ spirits. For Obon, I’m lighting incense in their honor.”
    Oh god! Spirits again? Timothy raised his chin and released a stream of smoke, watching it entwine with the thin line of incense smoke before wafting skyward, like a tether between worlds.
    “I’m sorry you don’t get to meet the men and women who work here now,” Takahashi said as he poured a cup of green tea for Timothy, then himself. “They are like family to me and have worked so hard to make this company successful.”
    Successful? Ha! Then why am I here bailing you out? Timothy thought. Outwardly he smiled and nodded.
    “It isn’t their fault that the company is in a cash crunch,” Takahashi said, as if reading Timothy’s mind. “We hadn’t fully recovered from some earthquake damage when the world economy collapsed. But, as you have seen from our records, our company is strong and recovering.”
    “It is.”
    “I am very happy you will partner with us during this difficult time. We would have gotten through this crisis, but with your investment and international perspective, your fresh ideas, I believe the company will grow stronger. After all, the investor class loves art during economic downturns.”
    Timothy remained silent, unsure what the old man was getting at. He glanced down at the contract that lay on the table between them. 
    Takahashi continued, “Recently, however, someone told me that you lay off the employees of companies you take over.”
    “You want an international perspective? There it is.”
    “But as a man of business, you surely understand that companies are most successful when the people who work in them are successful.”
    What’s your point, old man? Timothy’s growing frustration leaked through fingers that drummed against his leg under the table. “I don’t think I understand you,” he said.
    “It would be good for everyone if you and I can negotiate a payout for employees who are let go. Like what you foreigners call a golden parachute, but without so much gold, just a parachute.” Takahashi smiled, and what Timothy could only describe as a girlish giggle escaped the elderly man.
    “Why didn’t you bring this up with the lawyers? I didn’t come here to continue negotiations.” 
    The incense smoke had intensified. It wafted about Timothy’s head. What he had found aromatic a few minutes ago was now cloying. He blew it away with a cloud of cigarette smoke.
    “Of course, I brought it up, but lawyers are so unimaginative.” Takahashi poured more tea before continuing. Timothy breathed in incense smoke and coughed.
    “We are sitting in the room where my ancestors negotiated with the first foreign merchants to visit Japan. In this room, representatives of Europe’s wealthiest families discussed terms with my family to purchase some of our finest work. To modernize this company, I have agreed to give up control.”
    “As I understand it, you are giving up family control because I’m buying the company.” Timothy glanced at the wooden cabinet. The incense smoke had stopped drifting skywards and was now flowing directly into his face. He coughed again, and though he didn’t want to show any weakness in front of Takahashi, was forced to ask, “Can you put out that incense smoke? It’s really strong.”
    Takahashi’s mouth fell open. “I’m sorry, O’hara-san, but it is for the spirits. To put it out might hurt them as they travel between worlds. If it bothers you, let me move your chair.”
    “Look, let’s just get this over with,” Timothy pulled a pen from his pocket and signed the contract on the table with a flourish. He pushed it in front of Takahashi. “There! I signed it. Now it’s your turn.”
    “If we can’t work out some benefits for those who are let go, it would be difficult for me to sign the contract.”
    “It may be difficult for you to sign,” Timothy stood, jabbing his finger on the contract, “but do so by tomorrow morning or the deal is off.”
    He grabbed his briefcase and sneered, “Why don’t you consult with your visiting spirits about what to do?” He stormed out; a trail of smoke swirled in his wake.
                                                                                                ***
    Timothy flung open the limousine door, threw his briefcase onto the back seat, and jumped inside. 
    “Where the hell were you?” he yelled at his driver.
    “Sorry, sir. The smoke from those fires got really strong and I could hardly breathe, so I moved over to that garden over there.”
    “Hmph.”
    “Back to Tokyo, sir?” 
    “No, the guy didn’t sign!” Rage surged through him. “I have to be back here tomorrow and I don’t feel like driving back and forth. Does this backwater even have a hotel?” 
    “Let me check, sir.” The driver lowered his head over his cell phone, thumbs tap, tap, tapping the screen.
    Timothy pulled out his own phone to check his messages; three from his lawyer, one from his mom, and--
    “What the fuck?” Timothy yelped. 
    “Sir?”
    “N…n…nothing.” 
    There was a text from his assistant, Brian. The problem was, for the last three months, Brian was resting at the bottom of the ocean with a chain wrapped around his waist.
    Timothy opened the text and read “It’s your turn,” at the same time a fiendish voice, dripping with loathing whispered, “It’s your turn.”
    “Holy shit! What was that?” His phone dropped to the black leather seat, its screen glowing with the strange message.
    “What was what, sir?”
    “You didn’t hear that?” Timothy could feel his heartbeat in his skull. That voice had come from inside the car, as if something demonic was sitting right next to him.
    “I don’t know what you mean, sir. Is something wrong?”
    “No, nothing.” The phone screen had darkened. He pressed the button to turn it on. There was no message from Brian. Just his home screen with notifications from his lawyer and mother. 
    “Mr. O’Hara, there’s a five-star hotel about 20 minutes away.”
    “Five stars? Really? I’m sure it’s crap, but take me there,” Timothy said.
    He lit another cigarette, took a few deep breaths until his heart had slowed, then tentatively picked up his phone. He spent the twenty-minute drive answering texts, but his hand shook and he couldn’t forget the intense hatred in that voice.
    Timothy only looked up from his phone when the driver turned onto a road lined with towering cedars. Sunlight punched through the thick canopy but was too weak to cast away the shadows that had gained ownership of the forest floor. Timothy caught glimpses of a glittering lake through the dense forest, like a promise of some future pleasure, but only when the car rounded the final curve and the trees were replaced by rows and rows of stone lanterns guiding them toward a hotel ablaze in afternoon sunlight, did he feel the gloom of the forest lift.
    “Wow! Look at that,” Timothy said. A lake and mountain range framed the hotel. Its clay-tiled roof swept across the building like a wave cresting over an entrance decorated with a delicate wrought-iron cornice.
    “Well, you outdid yourself. What a find,” Timothy told his driver. “Get yourself a hotel for the night and pick me up tomorrow at nine.”
    He ran up the white stone steps and passed the doorman when…
    “It’s your turn,” shrieked a hate-filled voice.
    Timothy spun around. The doorman looked at him expectantly. Timothy sprung toward him, pressing his briefcase into the man’s chest like a riot shield. 
    “What did you say!? What the fuck did you say?” Timothy yelled.
    “I…I…I asked if you had any bags, sir…I’m sorry, I…”
    “How can I help you, sir?” The Hotel Manager pulled Timothy away and guided him into the lobby, throwing a look at the confused doorman that implied he would take care of him later. “I’m so sorry about that. I assure you, I’ll deal with the situation. Now, let’s get you checked in.” He turned to one of the hotel staff hovering nearby, “Ueda-san, get the gentleman a glass of champagne. You do drink champagne don’t you, sir?”
    “Y…yes, thank you.” Timothy took a deep breath and was tempted to light another cigarette, but a No Smoking sign rested on the counter, and after his strange encounter with the doorman, he didn’t want to push it. He handed over his passport and credit card. “I’d like your best room,” he said in a shaky voice he hardly recognized as his own.
    He gulped half the glass of champagne down at once, then averted his attention to the details around him, a technique his mother had taught him to control the tantrums he’d had as a child. Inlaid paintings of flowers decorated the hotel’s panel ceiling. On one side of reception, wood parquet flooring led to a sunroom with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a Japanese stone garden and koi pond. On the opposite side of the lobby, mahogany paneled walls, claret carpets, and leather chairs provided a haven for shadows and contrasted starkly with the sunroom’s airiness. 
    “I’m surprised this small town has such a remarkable hotel,” he said, taking a sip of the champagne this time.
    “This hotel has quite a history,” the Hotel Manager answered in a tone that indicated he was about to launch into an oft-told story. “There is a company in town that is renowned for its metalwork and sculpture. Look around the lobby and you’ll see some of it: the wrought iron railing lining the stairs, the teapots in the sunroom, and the statues throughout the property. The Takahashi family grew so influential, the grandfather of the current owner became Minister of State. He met dignitaries from all over the world, so he built this hotel to host meetings and summits. Even the Emperor visited for tea once."
    “Takahashi? This is the hotel owned by Takahashi Metalworks?”
    “Yes, you know of it?”
    Timothy laughed out loud at his luck. A hotel had been listed in the company’s holdings, but he had presumed it was like any of the cheap business hotels that populated Japan. But this place? His investment had just become more lucrative!
    Timothy sipped his champagne and looked around the lobby with a critical eye. Those chandeliers were probably real crystal and would bring in a pretty penny. The metal goods were clearly not as valuable as those at the company but would find a market, and with so few customers, clearly, he could cut some staff.
    “It’s your turn.”
    Timothy grasped the counter for support. Pain, like spoken tears, infused this voice. He scanned the room for its source. That woman, silhouetted against the sunroom window, hadn’t been there before. Timothy’s chest contracted. The woman was leaning against the table the same way Robin had that night he--
    “It’s your turn.”
    Chills crept along Timothy’s skin, his knees buckled, and he gripped the counter tighter. A mucous-filled gurgle of a voice came from the shadow-filled sitting room. He set down the champagne glass, its base clanking loudly against the counter as his hand shook. He peeked at the hotel manager to see his reaction, but the man continued typing into his computer. Timothy turned slowly. 
    Smoke filled the spaces between the shadows, veiling a figure in a chair. He could see the man’s shoes and trousers, which clung to his legs as if he’d been caught in a storm. A glance outside showed the sun was bright, the doorman a silhouette. When Timothy looked back at the sitting room, the smoke had dissipated enough to reveal a swollen hand clasping a cigar. Open wounds in the fingers oozed liquid that glistened in the little sunlight that wormed its way to the room. The man raised his cigar, dispersing smoke with his movement and unveiling swollen, purple lips set in a bloated face. One eye seemed ready to pop from its socket, and a ripped cheek exposed white flesh.
    “Wh…wh…what…?” Timothy said, but his constricted throat released only a series of squeaks. He cleared his throat, but before he could say more, the manager said, “Ok, Mr. O’hara. You will be in the Chrysanthemum suite on the top floor, where the Emperor once stayed. It has an extensive balcony with a beautiful lake view. I’ll send up a complimentary bottle of champagne, so you can relax and watch the sunset, which should be in about an hour. Ueda-san will show you to your room.”
    Timothy felt weak. The strange voices, the grotesque man. Were these things real or was he having some kind of hallucination? He needed to get to his room, get some sleep. 
    He downed the remaining champagne in his glass. “Instead of champagne, send up a bottle of your best whisky,” he told the manager, before following Ueda across the lobby. He gawked at cigar man who, at first, stared back, but then stood up and began walking toward the elevator. 
    “Let me have the key. I don’t need to be shown to my room,” Timothy told Ueda.
    “Of course. Here you are, sir.”
    Timothy picked up his pace, practically running to the bank of elevators, then rushed inside a waiting car and repeatedly punched the button. Cigar man and another guest, an emaciated man who looked as if he’d slept in a muddy ditch, reached the elevator just as the doors were closing. Cigar man slipped his bloated hand between the doors just as they closed. A pinkish ooze squirted onto the floor. Timothy screamed and jumped back. The elevator began its ascent. The stench of rotten flesh pervaded the elevator and Timothy fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief or something to cover his mouth. When he looked at the floor again, it was dry. Clean. Only the stench lingered. He gagged, then closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. 
    It had to be jet lag. He’d check in with his US office, drink some whisky, then go to bed early. 
    “It’s your turn…”
    He recognized that voice! Marie? His eyes sprang open. He screamed.
    Marie stood before him, her baby nestled in the crook of her arm and grasping the hand of her toddler. Each child had a black hole over its heart where the bullet had entered. He couldn’t see the back of Marie’s head, but knew it was blown wide open.
    “You’re dead! You’re dead!” he shouted at the ghouls. “Get away from me!”
    They stood in the elevator corner, staring at Timothy. The sparkle Marie had always brought into a room was gone, replaced by despondency. The baby rested quietly in her arms, but the toddler’s mouth hung open in a silent scream.
    Timothy slammed his eyes shut. They’re not here! They’re not here! he told himself, willing them away. 
    Instead, a movie memory projected against the screen of his closed eyelids. There was Marie standing next to him on the factory floor, so eager to help, as he addressed a group of uniformed workers, assuring them that they needn’t worry about the rumors of layoffs and plant closings. The mental movie showed their faces change from fear to skepticism and then to hope when he explained Marie LaPlaya, trusted company manager, would be his assistant. “We will be transparent,” he had told the crowd, “and make this company more efficient and profitable.” And they had believed it! All of them! He had returned to New York, so he hadn’t seen their reactions when the local newspaper announced he had declared the company bankrupt and their pension fund was now worthless.
    Marie, a single mother of two living in a community that now saw her as a traitor, lasted six months after the bankruptcy announcement. He had read in the newspaper that she had shot her kids, then herself, when the bank foreclosed on her home.
    “There’s no such thing as ghosts. I’m just imagining this. They’re not here,” Timothy mumbled, almost crying.
    Ding!
    His eyes bolted open. The ghosts were still there. He darted into the hallway before the doors fully opened and ran to his room, not looking back to see if the ghosts had followed. He thwacked the key against the touchpad, raced into the room, and slammed shut the door. 
    The refined comfort of the room and its magnificent view of the lake and mountains offered Timothy no peace. He paced. He had liked Marie. Everyone had. She had been diligent, friendly, and a great liaison. Sure, he had felt sorry for her when he learned about her suicide, but whatever drove her to kill her kids and then herself wasn’t his fault. Why would he “see” her now, halfway across the world from where she had died?
    He walked onto the balcony hoping to distract his haunted mind with the view. A boat had recently docked at the lake edge and the disembarking tourists’ voices floated up to him before drifting away.
    And what about those voices he’d heard? They sounded as real as the ones below. 
    That curvy silhouette in the tea room downstairs had reminded him of Robin. That memory was like a punch to the gut, and he kicked the balcony railing in response. The last time he’d seen Robin she’d been leaning over her desk—the one they had made love on that first time. Her ample breasts, those big, beautiful treasures that he loved to bury his face in, shook with each of her sobs. He had known she would be angry about him selling the business to a competitor. But she was tough, like him, and they were in love. He hadn’t expected her to break down like a sniveling child.
    “I thought we were going to run the company together,” she’d said.
    “I did what I had to do. Of course we’ll still work together.”
    “And do what?” She had practically screamed. “Destroy other people the way you’re destroying me?”
    “Don’t be so dramatic. You aren’t being destroyed. We’re going to make a fortune off this sale. Then we’ll get married. You’ll be fine.”
    “I built this company. This company is me! But it’s worse off now than when you came in to help.” Timothy reached out to hold her, to wipe her tears and end the pain that infused her voice, but she recoiled from him, “Don’t touch me!” 
    “Come on. Don’t be like this.”
    “You’re a monster! How could you do this to someone you love?”
    “I didn’t plan on falling in love with you. It’s my business, and I can’t let emotions dictate my business decisions. I love you so much. You’ll be ok. We’ll be ok. I promise.” 
    Robin’s unhinged laughter filled the room. Timothy’s hands slunk into his jacket pocket and rubbed the soft lining there. 
    “You promise,” she whispered once she was calm. Robin wiped her eyes, drew herself up, then walked to the door. “I never want to see you again.”
    “Wait!” Timothy called. 
    She turned to him.
    “You have to sign the papers.”
    She looked at the floor, swallowed, then raised her gaze to meet Timothy’s. “If there is a God, you’ll get what you deserve someday.” She closed the door gently behind her.
    Her lawyer signed the papers the next day. 
    A blast from the ship’s horn brought Timothy out of his painful memory. He bent over and rested his elbows on the balcony railing, his head in his hands. Oh, Robin, you would love this place, he thought. A group of tourists was boarding the boat below. Their enthusiastic laughter mocked his pain. 
    “It’s all that talk of spirits today,” he muttered, “it spooked me, that’s all. But…wait…does that mean Robin’s dead? No, no, they aren’t real ghosts, it’s just…Takahashi must have put something in that tea. I’m hallucinating.”
    A knock at the door interrupted his reverie.
    “Room service.”
    “Come in.”
    The hotel waiter entered with a bottle of whisky. Behind him followed Cigar Man, Marie and her children, Robin, the filthy man at the elevator, and a few others who Timothy didn’t recognize.
    The ghosts fanned out across the room. The same cloying scent of incense from Takahashi’s office comingled with their stench. Timothy struggled to breathe.
    “Who are you? What do you want?” he yelled and stepped back as the ghosts glided forward.
    “I’m nobody,” “I’m employee #489,” “I’m expendable,” “I’m Marie,” “I’m…,” 
    A deluge of simultaneous answers drowned out the hotel waiter’s confused, “I’m room service.”
    Cigar man stepped in front of the others. “You don’t recognize me? Didn’t you get my text this afternoon?” he hissed.
    “Brian?” Timothy’s voice was barely a whisper.
    Brian raised his cigar to his mouth and bit on the end. The ghosts surged forward, Timothy leapt backward. The balcony railing stopped his retreat.
    “Go away! GO AWAY!” Timothy screamed at the ghosts.
    “Ok, sir, I’m sorry, sir. I’ll just set your whiskey down here,” answered the man from room service.
    Brian walked to within an arm's length of Timothy and took a long pull on his cigar. Even in his terror, Timothy was mesmerized by the cigar tip’s angry embers, which writhed like maggots exposed to light. He jerked backward when Brian leaned deeper toward him. The balcony railing dug into the backs of Timothy’s legs as he leaned further back, arms waving wildly as he struggled to keep his balance.    
    “Sir, stop, you’re going to fall!” the waiter raced toward the balcony, but Brian leaned in close and blew a cloud of putrid smoke into Timothy’s face.
“It’s your turn…,” Brian said.

                                                                                                ***
    “Such a shame about his death. He seemed like such a…nice… young man,” Takahashi said as he handed over the signed contract to his lawyer. “Make it known that his last act was to invest in a company he believed in.” 
    Takahashi bowed to the photos of his ancestors and closed the butsudan’s doors.

                                                                                                -end-

Listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast


     In ancient Japan, a woman combed the forest for wood. The winter was wickedly cold, and she needed fuel to keep her husband happy and warm. Reaching for a fallen branch, something fluttering in the dry leaves caught her eye. A wounded sparrow dragged a broken wing along the forest floor, its weight disturbing leaves and releasing pockets of musty air that hinted of death. The woman dropped the wood she’d collected, gently wrapped the bird in her coat, and carried it home to mend its injured wing.
     Her husband, though, was not pleased.
     “Where is the wood for our fire?” he demanded.  “And, what are we to do with this bird?”
     “Don’t worry. I’ll go back out to fetch the wood. And this poor little thing won’t be a bother at all,” she assured him. “Besides, perhaps she’ll entertain you when you come home from work. Wouldn’t it be nice to have some bright, joyful music after being in the mines all day?”
     “Hmph…,” he grunted as he gobbled up the rice and miso soup his wife had placed before him. The woman set out a small place of rice for the bird, which it ate with a grace that surprised her.
     “Look, dear. She’s eating like she’s at a royal dinner.”
     “What would you know of a royal dinner?”
     “I’m just sayin’.”
    The woman carefully massaged the bird’s bruised wing and wrapped it with a strip of cotton she had cut from a yukata that she had worn thin. When her husband was away, she talked to her little companion, told it about the child they had lost, the hard life she and her husband led since a tree branch had fallen on his leg, and how her husband is not as gruff as he pretended to be. The woman admired the bird’s gentle and refined way of eating, and named it O-chan in honor of the Emperor.
     Each day, the woman went deeper into the wood in search of food and wood. She made certain to always arrive home before her husband so as to have the hut warm and his dinner prepared, but one day, when he stayed home because of his aching leg, she asked him to feed O-chan while she was out, pointing to a few grains of rice she had set aside for the bird. But the woman had forgotten that O-chan often drank broth from her own bowl, so when the man found the bird drinking from his bowl, all the jealousy he had suppressed at his wife’s affection for the little creature rose up. He grabbed O-chan, spilling the broth in the process.
     “You little thief,” he yelled, squeezing his fist tight against the small body. O-chan stabbed at his hand with her beak, and, in a fit of rage, the man cut out her tongue with a nearby knife. “Now, get out! Get out!”
      O-chan flew away.
     That night, tears mixed with the broth the woman served her husband. She buried her face in the small bed where O-chan had slept, breathing in the familiar scent of the little bird who had abandoned her, for her husband had told her that O-chan was lonely for her own kind and followed a flock of sparrows that had flown by.  But the woman worried that winter had so wormed and twined its icy fingers through the forest and wrapped its winter cold around their village that O-chan would never survive. The next morning, as she scoured the forest for wood, she called, “ O-chan,  O-chan! Come back.”
     She went deeper into the forest than ever before. The cedar trees were so thick that sunlight fell like freckles on the forest floor. Soggy moss clung to every rock, stump, and inch of earth, muffling her footsteps. Strips of shredded bark hung from gnarled branches, casting shadows in the weak sun that were like claws reaching for her.
     She turned to make her way back the way she’d come, but no path led her through the dense grove. She stepped in the direction she was sure she’d come from, a branch dropped from a tree, blocking her way. A crack behind her. She spun around, arms up, ready to fend off whatever was there. Nothing. 
     She cocked her head, certain she heard giggling. In a freckle of sunshine, a pair of sparrows dressed in strawberry-red kimonos covered their beaks with speckled wings, like two shy girls at a party. They giggled again before waving for the woman to follow and hopping away. The birds led her to a thatched-roof inn where thousands of kimono-clad sparrows sang like tinkling wind chimes. At the inn’s entrance stood two elderly sparrows and O-chan, who wore a black kimono with gold and bronze blossoms. 
      O-chan flew onto the woman’s shoulder. She introduced the woman to her parents, who bowed low in thanks for saving their daughter. Food was brought out, and while they feasted on bread and flowers, nuts and seeds, and salads that tasted like they’d been delivered from heaven, a group of sparrows performed a dance that looked to the woman like corn popping in hot oil. The woman laughed and sang with O-chan and her family well into the evening. When the party was over, she was guided to two bamboo chests—one large, one small. 
     “For your kindness, please choose one of these to take home,” said  O-chan’s father.
     “Oh, no, thank you,” the woman answered. “I don’t need any payment. If I may just take a little food for my husband, then I would be grateful.” But  O-chan’s parents insisted. The woman chose the small chest, received a box of food for her husband, then said her goodbyes before being guided out of the forest.
     The night, she and her husband found piles of the finest silks and mounds of sparkling jewels when they opened the chest. 
     “You fool!” the greedy husband scolded. “Just imagine what the larger chest holds. You must take me there tomorrow to get what we deserve.”
     “This is more than we ever dreamed of. It’s enough for you to quit the mine. And we could start a small restaurant, like we always wanted.”
     “We saved the life of that ungrateful bird. We deserve the larger trunk and you’re going to take me there.”
     For the first time in her life, the woman refused her husband’s demand, but she did explain the way to him. The next day, when he arrived at the mossy forest, the two giggling sparrows greeted him. “Welcome. Welcome to—”
     “I am here to see  O-chan,” he cut the birds off.
     They bowed and silently guided him to the inn.
     “You must be tired,” said  O-chan without a hint of a grudge for how she’d been treated by him. “Please have some tea and cake.”
     “You have your tongue!” the man said before realizing he was bringing up a topic better left forgotten. “I’m not here for tea and cake,” he replied before O-chan could answer. 
     “As you wish. Why, then, are you visiting my family’s inn?”
     “I’ve come for the large chest you owe my wife.”
     “It’s the chest standing outside at the entranceway. You are welcome to it.”
     The husband lifted the chest onto his back, bowed nearly in half by its weight, but excited about the treasurers it held. He left without saying goodby, stumbling behind the dainty birds that guided him out of the forest.
     As soon as he reached the edge of the forest, he could contain his excitement no longer. He opened the lid.
     A swarm of sparrows streamed from the chest and encircled the man, beating at his face and pounding against his skull before forming themselves into the shape of an old hag that clawed the clothes from his body, then shifting yet again into a snake that twisted and writhed around his legs, tripping him. The teeming flock of birds created a roiling tableau of maniacal skeletons and one-eyed monsters that poked and prodded and stomped on the man while he curled into a ball on the ground. Then, all grew quiet. The man lowered his hands from protecting his head.
     Before him stood O-chan. Not the sweet bird that his wife loved and who sang to them while they ate their dinner, but a fierce creature, whose skin of living birds writhed and shifted to keep its shape. And this version was three times larger than he.
     “Stand up.”
     The man did as he was told.
     “Have you nothing to say for yourself?” she asked.
     He stared at her, mouth agape.
     “I’m the one whose tongue was cut out, yet you are the silent one.”
      “I was in pain. I was hungry!”
     “Do you think you are the only one in pain? The only one who is hungry? Do you think your pain is an excuse to hurt others?” O-chan raised a wing and the birds again encircled him, swarming into tableau after tableau of starving peasants, lonely widows, homeless families freezing to death, daughters forced into prostitution, children beaten and abused, heinous murders and--
     “Stop! I can’t take any more.”
     The giant O-chan stood before him again, her black eyes, now the size of a sake cask, glared at him.
     “You have a wife who gives up all to care for you, food on your table, a home,” she paused, then in a softer voice said, “and a chest full of treasures. Yet that is not enough for you.”
     “It will be, I promise. Let me go and it will be enough.”
     O-chan’s laugh bounced through the forest behind them, shaking a few branches loose and upsetting a nest of crows that flew off, cawing angrily.
     “It’s too late for that. You opened the chest and released so much pain and suffering into the world. It is, though, your pain and suffering.”
     O-chan again waved a wing. The swarm of birds engulfed the man and settled on his shoulders. Tiny, almost insignificant birds that formed themselves into a tower, the weight of which buckled his knees and hunched his back. 
     He bent forward, taking the weight on his body and able to lift his head just enough to see a few feet in front of him where O-chan, once again a small bird, stood in her black kimono.
     “You have a choice.” Her voice was song-like, her words like notes that floated about his head before organizing into understandable ideas. “The pain and suffering you carry can crush you, kill you after a short, miserable life.”
     She flew closer. He gasped, shocked at his miserable, hateful face that was reflected in her black eyes.
     “Or with each act of kindness, some of your pain will return to the chest. It’s your choice.”
     She flew away.
     So, what did the man choose?
     The man spent the rest of his life apologizing to everyone in town who he had been unkind to. With the silks from the small chest, he clothed the needy; with the jewels, he fed the hungry.
     He planted a tree every month so that his wife would never again need to brave the cold for firewood. And each day, he spooned a little broth from his soup into a bowl for the little bird who taught him to love his wife and neighbors.
     When he passed away at the age of 88, his neighbors were astonished that the man who so often seemed weighed down with pain stood tall and waved to the sky.