Livora Gracely

Same face. Three swords. The introductions took a little longer.

“Didn’t I just let you in?”

The young woman at the gate looked past the keeper’s shoulder.

“That was my sister.”

“Then didn’t I just let your sister in?”

“That was my other sister.”

The keeper looked down at his register. He had written one name very confidently.

Three Arrivals

Inside the courtyard, two women turned toward the gate. The third stepped through to join them, and the keeper discovered that his difficulty had acquired a second difficulty.

All three wore dark robes, red sashes, and white headbands. Three sheathed swords rested at their sides. The breeze lifted the loose ends of their ribbons, offering no assistance whatsoever.

“Hana,” he said, pointing at the nearest one.

“Mei.”

He pointed at the middle one. “Mei.”

“Aki.”

He considered the woman on the left.

“Please be Hana.”

“I usually am,” she said.

His brush hovered above the page. Somewhere inside the hall, wooden practice swords knocked together. The courtyard smelled of damp cedar and freshly swept earth.

“You weren’t standing there before,” he said.

“We walk,” Mei explained.

A Useful System

The keeper asked them to stand in a row: Hana, Mei, Aki.

“There. Now nobody move.”

Mei glanced at the practice hall. “Is that the first lesson?”

He dipped his brush. A drop of ink fell beside the name he had already written.

Hana leaned closer. “You have me down as Hama.”

“I can correct that.”

“Good. Hama hasn’t brought a sword.”

While he scraped the extra stroke into something smaller, Aki bent toward the gate. Its lower hinge pin had worked halfway out. She pressed it back into place with her thumb.

“You may want to check that,” she said.

The keeper looked up at the gap in his row.

“Who moved?”

“The gate,” said Mei.

Hana turned to her and caught a trailing end of her headband before it brushed the wet register. She tucked it through the knot and pulled gently.

Now two of them had moved.

The keeper laid down his brush.

One at a Time

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Could we begin again?”

Mei opened her mouth. Hana touched her sleeve, and she waited.

“I’m Hana,” said the woman still holding the ribbon. “I arrived first.”

He looked at her face before writing. This time, he made the name carefully.

“Hana.”

She nodded.

Mei introduced herself next, without adding anything about gates, walking, or the unfortunate Hama. Aki came back from the hinge and waited until he was ready.

He wrote all three names. Beside Aki’s, he made a small reminder to repair the gate.

“Thank you,” he told her.

“It should stay up until then.”

“A generous improvement.”

Mei laughed. He looked at her.

“Mei?”

“Yes.”

His shoulders lowered.

Present

At the hall door, their instructor called, “Hana?”

One hand rose.

“Mei?”

Another hand.

“Aki?”

The third.

The keeper watched them cross the courtyard. Hana checked the knot she had retied; Aki avoided the loose stone near the steps. Mei turned back and gave him a small wave.

He returned it, then drew three neat ticks beside the names.

The instructor looked toward the gate.

“Any trouble?”

The keeper glanced at his register.

“Three,” he said. “All present.”

The paper kept its wrinkles. The debt lost its weight.

The red stamp was too large for the space marked Balance.

Mrs. Finch held it above the promissory note, considering the available room. Across the desk, Mr. Vale watched her hand.

“Will it fit?”

“Somewhere.”

“I’d prefer it on my paper.”

“That is the usual arrangement.”

The Last Coins

His final payment lay in a small stack beside the ledger. Mrs. Finch counted it, moved the coins into her cash box, and ran a finger down the column of earlier payments.

Mr. Vale kept his hat on his knees. He had come to this desk so often that his thumb found the worn patch on its brim without looking.

The room smelled of ink and stove ash. Outside, a cart rattled over the stones. Mrs. Finch turned a page, and he straightened in his chair.

“Is something missing?”

“The next page.”

“Ah.”

She found it. He loosened his hold on the hat.

The note had travelled folded inside his coat through rain, sawdust, and several winters. One corner had gone soft; another insisted on curling upward. He pressed it flat while she checked the figures.

“It won’t stay down,” he said.

“Neither does my drawer.”

To demonstrate, she pushed the little desk drawer closed. It slid back out an inch.

Mr. Vale glanced at its crooked runner. Then his eyes returned to the ledger.

Nothing Remaining

Mrs. Finch wrote the final payment beneath the others. The pen scratched, paused, and scratched again.

“One hundred and fifty received,” she said.

He nodded. He knew the total. He had carried pieces of it here in pockets, envelopes, and once a clean sock when the envelope tore.

Her pen moved to the last line.

0.00.

“There.”

Mr. Vale leaned forward. “Is that everything?”

“Everything.”

He looked at the small round zeros.

“They don’t take up much room.”

“Would you like larger ones?”

“No. Those will do.”

She pressed the stamp into the ink pad, turned it diagonally, and brought it down across the note.

Thump.

PAID IN FULL.

Mr. Vale’s hand moved toward the paper. Mrs. Finch held up one finger.

“Let it dry.”

He sat back. For once, the waiting required no arithmetic.

The Same Paper

When she slid the note across, he lifted it by the edges. The stains remained. So did the folds and the corner he had been trying to flatten.

He read the red words once, then turned the paper slightly and read them again.

Mrs. Finch closed the ledger.

“Same day next month?” he asked.

She looked up.

He looked down at the stamp.

“Oh.”

His hat stayed on his knees a moment longer. Then he put it on, tucked the note into his coat, and stood.

At the door, he stopped.

“That drawer,” he said. “I could straighten the runner tomorrow.”

“You don’t owe me a repair.”

“I know. It bothers me.”

Mrs. Finch glanced at the drawer, which had quietly opened another inch.

“It bothers me too.”

He smiled. “I’ll bring my tools.”

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

He reached for the door handle, then turned back.

“Must I bring the paper?”

“Only if you want to show it to the drawer.”

She paused for fresh air. He checked it for biscuits.

On Nora’s walks, a sniff was supposed to take three seconds. Pip had never agreed to this.

He was still considering the first lamppost when she counted to four.

“That’s extra.”

His nose moved an inch to the left.

“You can’t start again on the other side.”

Pip started again on the other side.

Important Information

The morning air nipped Nora’s cheeks above her pink scarf. Her boots scuffed along the pavement, while Pip’s little brass tag ticked against his collar. At the next corner, a gust lifted his ears and blew a curl across her mouth.

She tucked it away with a glove. Something small and gritty brushed her fingertips inside her coat pocket.

“Come on. We’ve hardly gone anywhere.”

Pip left the lamppost. He inspected a leaf, a drain cover, and the place where the leaf had been before the wind moved it.

Nora waited with one hand on her hip.

“Are you reading the whole pavement?”

He lifted his head at last. She took this as a yes.

Her Turn

Beyond the houses, the path opened beside a patch of frosty grass. The wind came cleanly across it, carrying the damp smell of earth and a faint trace of woodsmoke.

Nora stopped.

She tipped her face toward the sun and breathed in. The cold reached right to the back of her nose. Beside her, Pip raised his muzzle too, his eyes narrowing beneath the ruffled white curls.

For a moment, they stood exactly alike.

“See?” she said. “This is a nice smell.”

Pip sniffed again. His tail began to move.

“No investigating. Just enjoying.”

He stepped closer to her yellow coat.

Nora turned toward the grass. Pip turned with her. She faced the other way, checking whether the woodsmoke came from the houses.

Pip followed that way too.

“It’s not a dance.”

He sat down beside her pocket.

A Second Opinion

Nora put her free hand inside and felt the gritty crumbs again. Beneath them lay two little dog biscuits, wrapped in a folded paper bag.

Mum had tucked them there before they left.

“Oh.”

Pip’s tail swept the pavement.

“You’ve been smelling my coat.”

She took out the bag. His eyes opened fully.

“I thought we were having a moment.”

Pip remained seated. He was prepared to continue having it.

Nora crouched and offered him one biscuit. It disappeared with a dry little crunch. She brushed a crumb from his chin, then slipped the folded bag back into her pocket.

The lead lay loose between them when she stood. This time, she left it that way.

Fresh Air

They stayed beside the grass a little longer. Nora breathed in again, letting the sun warm her eyelids. Pip lifted his nose beside her knee.

“There,” she said. “Now you’re getting fresh air.”

His nose turned toward her pocket.

“There’s only one left.”

Pip sat down again.

Nora looked at him, then up at the blue sky.

“Apparently the air needs another minute.”

A calmer heart tastes sweeter.

The monkey had been meditating for eleven minutes when the pear arrived. This was unfortunate. Eleven minutes was a personal record.

He sat chest-deep in the mountain spring, eyes closed, hands resting neatly on the warm stone beneath the water. Steam curled around his white fur, while snow clung to the rocks above him. Somewhere beyond the mist, water trickled steadily down the mountain.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

Peace had been achieved. Or something very close to it.

The Pear

Then came the smell: ripe pear, sweet and cold in the rising steam.

His left nostril moved. He corrected it.

On the rock behind him, his younger brother held a long stick. A loop of string cradled half a pear beneath its tip. Morning light shone through the cut flesh, turning it translucent gold around two dark seeds.

The younger monkey lowered it until it hung five centimeters from his brother’s nose. The nostril moved again.

“Inner peace,” whispered the younger monkey.

His brother said nothing. The pear swung left, then right, while he continued breathing slowly.

In. Pear.

Out. Pear.

In. Definitely pear.

The younger monkey covered his mouth to stop himself laughing. Then he lowered the fruit another centimeter.

His brother opened one eye.

The little monkey froze, holding the stick perfectly still. After a moment, the eye closed again.

A Tired Arm

Another minute passed, then two. The little monkey’s arm began to ache. He shifted his grip, and the stick dipped. The pear tipped sideways in its loose loop and slipped free.

Ploop.

Both monkeys stared at the fruit floating between them. The younger one laid down the stick and scrambled to the water’s edge. He reached for the pear, then stopped. His older brother had already picked it up.

The little monkey sighed. The pear had won.

His brother examined the fruit. Then he pressed his thumbs into the ripe flesh and gently pulled it into two smaller pieces. He held one out toward the rock.

The little monkey took it and blinked.

“You wanted it?”

“Very much.”

“Then why didn’t you take it?”

The older monkey bit into his piece. Crunch. Juice ran down his chin as he chewed.

“I was waiting.”

“For what?”

Another crunch.

“For you to get tired.”

Beside Him

The little monkey stared at him through the drifting steam. Then he looked at the piece in his hand and took a bite.

His brother finished eating and settled back against the warm stone. After a moment, the younger monkey climbed quietly into the spring beside him, holding the last mouthful above the water until he had found somewhere to sit.

He ate it. His brother closed his eyes again.

For almost thirty seconds, neither moved. Then the younger monkey whispered,

“Are we meditating?”

“No.”

“What are we doing?”

The older monkey opened one eye.

“Digesting.”

Five flowing manes, and room enough for every stride.

Pffft.

The palomino spat out a mouthful of mane. The other four horses were looking toward the horizon, which was where she would have looked too, given access to her face.

“Ready?” asked the black horse.

“Nearly.”

She shook her head. The wind put everything back.

The Starting Line

They stood on the rise above the meadow: chestnut, black, white, dapple-grey, and palomino. Dew chilled their hooves. Beyond the slope, the grass turned silver wherever the breeze passed over it, and a low white stone marked the far end of the field.

“To the stone,” said the black horse. “All together.”

He took one step forward. The chestnut matched him. The white horse followed, while the grey edged sideways to avoid a thistle.

“Straight line,” said the black horse.

The grey returned to the thistle.

The palomino flicked her forelock aside and looked along the row. “Is this a race?”

“A morning run.”

“Then why are you already winning?”

He looked down at his forefeet and moved them back.

Five Across

They set off with a rustle of grass, then the heavier drumming of hooves on the dry slope. The chestnut’s mane streamed behind him. The grey shook off the last beads of dew, scattering them against the white horse’s neck.

The black horse lengthened his stride.

Beside him, the white horse did the same. The chestnut drew closer on his other side, and the grey moved inward around a patch of nettles. For several strides, five tails lifted and five sets of hooves carried them downhill.

Then the palomino dropped behind.

“Keep up,” called the black horse.

She moved left. The grey was there. She tried right and found the white horse’s flying tail.

Pffft.

This time the hair was not even hers.

The black horse slowed to a trot. The others slowed with him, warm breath blowing through their nostrils. Behind them, the palomino emerged with her ears flattened.

“Shorter steps?” he suggested.

“Wider horses,” she said.

He looked at the white horse, then at the grey. There was scarcely a hoof’s width between them.

“Wider gaps,” she corrected.

Room to Run

The black horse stepped sideways into unmarked grass. The chestnut moved farther out, and the grey found a clear stretch beyond the nettles. The white horse waited while the palomino came alongside.

“Here?” asked the black horse.

She stretched one foreleg, then the other. Her tail swung freely.

“Here.”

This time, he waited for her first step.

They climbed into a gallop. The ground struck firmly beneath them; cool air rushed over their eyes and through their manes. The black horse glanced sideways once. The palomino was still there, running with her nose clear of everyone else’s tail.

Ahead, the white stone rose above a clump of dandelions.

She reached it first.

At the Stone

The black horse pulled up beside her, breathing hard.

“I thought you said it wasn’t a race.”

The palomino lowered her head and bit off a dandelion.

“It wasn’t.”

The chestnut arrived. Then the white horse and the grey, who had gone around another thistle on principle.

The black horse looked back across the broad meadow. Their tracks spread all the way to the rise.

Beside him, the palomino chewed.

“You were in a hurry, though,” he said.

She swallowed and nosed the remaining flowers toward him.

“Breakfast.”

He inspected the dandelions. Then he lowered his head.

The grey pushed between them.

“Now it’s a race.”

Some advice sounds very wise until you see who is giving it.

The left scarecrow lowered his voice. Every crow on the fence leaned closer.

“We have a security problem.”

The right scarecrow looked at the fence. A black beak disappeared briefly beneath a wing.

“Yes,” he said. “I can see it.”

“We need expert advice.”

The beak reappeared.

A Larger Hat

Morning warmth had begun to reach the rice. Heavy golden heads brushed the scarecrows’ trousers, and the breeze carried the dry, dusty smell of straw beneath their collars. Neither had moved from his stake since April. The left one’s coat had, however, lost two buttons and most of an elbow.

“A commanding presence,” he said, lifting his remaining elbow. “That’s what we’re missing.”

“Your hat’s folded at the back,” said the right scarecrow.

“Precisely. It should be larger.”

“I meant—”

“Excellent suggestion.”

The crow on the highest post nodded. “A wide brim. Very important.”

The left scarecrow turned toward him.

“You understand these things?”

“I’ve seen a great many scarecrows.”

This was difficult to dispute.

With some assistance, the folded brim was spread outward. Straw scratched against straw. A thread snapped. The right scarecrow held the edge while his colleague pushed the crown into what he considered a more authoritative shape.

Below them, the hat’s shadow widened across the rice.

Two crows hopped down from the fence.

Field Experience

“Better,” said the crow on the post.

The left scarecrow tried a stern expression. His stitched mouth made limited adjustments.

“And we should change positions each morning.”

The right scarecrow glanced at the stake running through his trousers.

“Perhaps every Tuesday,” the left one added.

A choking sound travelled along the fence. One crow opened both wings; another gripped the rail until the shaking stopped.

“They’re nervous,” the left scarecrow whispered.

His colleague watched a third bird drop into the rice. The stalks stirred beneath the widened brim. A soft crack came from somewhere near their feet.

“We could ask the farmer about bells,” he said.

“Unnecessary noise,” said the crow above them. “A quiet field is far more dignified.”

The left scarecrow nodded. “I was thinking exactly that.”

The right one looked down again.

“What?” asked his colleague.

“Come a little this way. Just your head.”

Beneath the Brim

The left scarecrow leaned as far as his stake allowed. His hat brushed the other one’s shoulder.

Under its broad shadow, a crow stood on a bent rice stalk with a grain between his beak. Another was already choosing the next head.

The first swallowed.

“Much cooler,” he said.

Above them, the expert inspected a feather.

The left scarecrow stayed bent for a moment. Then he straightened and reached for his brim.

“Could you fold it back?”

His colleague did. He tucked the broken thread beneath the band and pressed the crown into place without mentioning its authority.

“You were saying something about bells?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

One More Recommendation

By afternoon, the farmer found both scarecrows facing the path. One sleeve flapped toward the fence; the other pointed to the grain husks beneath their stakes.

The crows watched from the rail, rounder than they had been that morning.

“Before you make any changes,” called their expert, “we recommend another meeting.”

The left scarecrow looked toward his colleague first.

“Tomorrow?”

“After the farmer’s been.”

The expert stopped arranging his feathers.

“We may be unavailable.”