The Koyo Hut

Tanemoto Shun, sighing at the crazy spin of his compass, was mid-sip of his water canteen when he ducked into his supposed shelter for the night. It most definitely had been night, the shelter little more than a collection of moldering boards. Yet he stood very suddenly in the dirt entryway of a hut, under streams of daylight through vertical slats. A siskin whistled in refrain to the rustle of trees.

He spun, his canteen dropping with a metallic clatter. "What is this place?"

Shocks of red foliage rode upon careening gusts, while golden larch trees cast dappled rays over the rows of a small farm. A dream, thought Tanemoto, watching the sway of lycoris flowers along the dirt path behind him. He had passed out the moment he slid into the shelter and missed the beginning of his dream. Right? He took a step toward the hut's doorway, when a patter of steps made him turn again.

A woman, black hair tied under a kerchief, emerged from the corridor on the opposite side of the hut. She was pert nose and waxen cheek, almond eyes and tight lip, but then, the confused crinkle of her brow broke into an open-mouthed smile. "Tane-san!" She scampered across the raised floor, wiping wet hands on the apron over her checkered kimono. "Come up, come up! I'll bring you water to wash up!"

Youthful, but motherly. Welcoming, with none of the deference of a practiced servicegirl. She bustled away then returned with a basin of water, cool to the touch and smelling sweetly of cedar. Tanemoto slid out of his hiking boots and up the hut's raised floor as she chattered on. "You're just in time—we were allowed a generous portion of rice, you see, and the sweet potatoes came out quite the size! Make yourself comfortable!"

Tanemoto, seated on a side of the central sunken hearth, crossed his stiff legs. A merry flame crackled over whitened charcoal, heating a covered pot burbling on a hook. Steam rose toward the rafters with the rich, earthy aroma of mushroom and radish.

Rafters?

Tanemoto looked about, stricken by the hut's impossible spaciousness. Paper doors beyond the hearth opened into another separate room, revealing a loom on the woven straw floor. Further still, wooden shutters opened out into the yard, allowing in brisk drafts as well as sunlight, illuminating the loom's threads like strands of honey.

A single maple leaf meandered in.

The straw mat bunched as Tanemoto shifted and rubbed his knee. Where no longer mattered, but when—when was this place, this pre-modern hut that could belong to his grand- or great-grandmother? He peered around the pothook to examine the woman, knees tucked under her on the other side of the hearth. A relative?

But her face, smoky and ruddy, resembled none of his relatives. Yet still, his chest squeezed in remembrance.

Or perhaps that was his stomach, empty except for the last crumbs of a nutrition bar. Tanemoto clutched the padding of his vest, his starved tremors begging for food as the woman ladled in a smear of miso. "I know I must sound rude," he said, "but I have to ask: Do you have me mistaken for someone else? I'm positive I simply wandered in."

The woman shook her head, strands of hair swaying free as she stirred the pot. "Nonsense. Tane is Tane. I should know."

"Because you are…?"

She said her name, its syllables dissipating among another shower of leaves, then gave a stellar grin.

"Silly thing," she chided, burying a clay beaker into a corner of the hearth. "It doesn't matter how many years it's been since you crossed the bridge. I'll always know it's you. Let me get the rice."

Off she bustled again, returning this time with a steaming bowl of rice, millet, chestnuts and sweet potato. Ladling another bowl full with miso soup, she handed Tanemoto a blunt, twiglike pair of chopsticks then sidled back to her seat. Once both gave supplications over pressed palms, they tucked in to their meal.

He choked on his first bite. Convenience store curries and rice balls had been his "home cooking" for a few years too many.

But Tanemoto nodded along as the woman's stories filled the space between leafy gusts and the clatter of dishware. Much had changed in the mountains—the matron of the foothills now sold homemade pickles with her buckwheat mochi, while the tea farmers of the eastern grove now supplied for both the Sparrows and the Crows. Yet some things, like the as-yet unsettled feud between the Foxes and Monkeys, remained the same.

Tanemoto glanced outside, still bright with sunbeams through the larches. A ginkgo tree in the yard shimmered, its dual-petaled leaves fluttering. The woman spoke again and Tanemoto replied, their conversation a leisurely bout while a squirrel's chitter joined the siskin. When he eventually stared down at used chopsticks across empty bowls, he wondered at the last time he held such lengthy, easy conversation.

In the midst of his reflections, his hostess cleared their dishes and next brought sake cups on a tray. As she unearthed the heated beaker, Tanemoto raised an apologetic hand. "I really shouldn't."

"What's this?" she chuckled. "Is Tane-san a bad drunk?"

He grimaced. No need to revisit those exploits. Warbling, off-key karaoke as he sweat through his collar. Dry, unenthused simpers, ending with Tanemoto lying face-down in a bush outside the park.

"Just one," she said, her titter mellow. "To celebrate."

Tanemoto sighed at the pinch of her voice. Just one, he told himself, and lifted his cup. At the ceramic clink of cup meeting beaker, the woman's face lit. Steam rose with the trickle and fragrance of sake, while another gust echoed the beat and trill of drums and flute. A ginkgo leaf spun in and landed with a ripple across Tanemoto's drink.

The woman raised her own filled cup. "To your health and happiness," she said, smiling. "Your future and fortitude."

Embarrassed and unable to return the same prayer, Tanemoto, mouth set in a hard line, picked out the leaf and laid it against his knee.

"To the path you walk," the woman continued, staring into the depths of her drink. "To the rest I grant you now."

Rest. A weight landed on Tanemoto's shoulders and hunched him over his drink. Could he, entirely unspecial, accept respite? Did he deserve this prayer or celebration? Sake flared down his throat. His thoughts spun to the reedy tones of the flute—did he need to ask "when?" Did he need to ask "why?" Did he need to ask any questions at all? With good food, sake, and hospitality, why not rest and celebrate like his hostess bade him?

He set down his emptied cup. "If you don't mind me inconveniencing you further," he started, "would you show me around the festival?"

The brightest smile dawned across the woman's features. "Of course!" she chirped. "Let me get ready; don't go ahead without me!"

Tanemoto chuckled his assurances as the woman bounded back into the corridor. Crawling back to the dirt entryway, he laced up his boots and stood up, hands in his pockets. Outside, light stilled over the yard, the wind now tranquil. He turned to the doorway. How fresh would the air taste now?

His hostess, as though hearing the scuff of Tanemoto's heel, hurtled back into the room, her combed hair swaying. "Wait, Tane-san! Don't leave without me! You'll—!"

Tanemoto looked back, his mouth open to respond, I'll just be waiting outside—and stepped across the threshold.

How strange that the woman appeared to lunge after him.

Then night plunged the vibrant colors of autumn to deep black, as a lamenting rain lashed overhead.

"Wait," he mumbled.

Rain swathed the larches and ginkgo in a haze, the lycoris and farm naught but grass and dirt. Clutching the doorpane, Tanemoto staggered back inside, but neither hearth or daylight illuminated the boards again. "Wait!"

Rain washed away the hut's warmth on his skin. He tried calling the woman's name, but no sound left his throat.

A maple leaf, wet, curled, and decaying, laid at his feet.