had changed. It was like somewhere I had dreamed. My friends looked the same, but they were strange to me. They moved around in their own dream, playing, not knowing.
At night, before I went to bed, my mother told me my favourite story, of the Dragon King’s palace at the bottom of the sea. It calmed me and soothed me a little, imagining the coolness in the depths of the ocean. But when I lay down to sleep, I fell into dreams of fire and torment and I woke in a fever. I burned and howled till my mother came and held me and hushed me, said it was fine, it was fine, it was just a dream and everything would be all right, and she lit a stick of incense, chanted the Nembutsu to protect me from all harm.
But from that day on, everything had changed. The fear was always there.
One day my mother took me to the bathhouse. It was something I loved, to soak in the warmth, surrounded by it, to drift away.
To purify the mind, she said, chant the Nembutsu. To purify the body, sweat out all the poisons, soak in a hot tub.
The attendant at the bathhouse was a young girl. My mother nodded to her, told her to make the water good and hot.
Turn it up, she said. The hotter, the better.
The girl bowed, gave me a smile, set to stoking the fire under the iron tub. She prodded and raked with a poker so the embers glowed, she added more firewood and topped it with chopped logs when it caught and flared. It was hot work. The girl’s face was flushed and a strand of her hair came loose, fell across her face. As she pushed it back, she left a smudge of soot on her cheek. She saw me looking and laughed. The flames flickered. I started to sweat.
Right, said my mother. Let’s get you scrubbed.
I stepped out of my sandals, took off my robe and hung it up. I sat on the low three-legged stool and my mother washed me thoroughly, filled a little wooden bucket and poured it over my head, twice, three times, rinsed me down till I stood there dripping, clean and ready for the bath.
I turned and stepped forward, aware of my own nakedness, this little body of mine so tiny and fragile, so vulnerable, soft flesh. The heat in the room had grown intense. Steam rose, swirled in the air. The water gurgled and churned. Two merchants had come in and their voices boomed. I stood still and could not move. Through the steam I saw the girl’s face as she smiled at me again, nodded encouragement. My mother pushed me forward. The fire was roaring under the tub. A huge flame suddenly leaped and the wood crackled, sent up sparks and cinders. There was a panic in my chest, a trapped bird desperate to escape. The waters would boil and scald me to death, my flesh would melt off the bone. I would plunge into the deepest hell and burn there forever.
No!
I heard my own voice, screaming, filling the place, till the girl covered her ears and the two men stopped their talking and stared, and my mother picked me up and wrapped me in my robe and carried me outside.
That night my father heard what had happened. He raged at me.
Why do you behave like this? Are you a baby?
I said nothing.
If you’re going to scream and cry like a little girl, at least tell us why.
I’ll tell my mother, I said, and no one else.
He looked for a moment as if he might slap me. Instead he let out a huge, long-suffering sigh and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he called my mother to come and talk to me.
So, little one, she said. That was quite a performance.
I stood with my head bowed, looked down at my feet in the straw sandals I wore indoors. This was me, standing here.
Well? she said.
It was the flames, I said. And the noise. And the heat.
Ah, she said.
I was afraid.
Of hell?
I nodded.
We have to put an end to this, she said. This fear is consuming you.
But how? If hell is waiting for us, how can we not be afraid? And if there is no escape, what is the point of anything we do?
There is a way, she said. But now it’s late and you need to sleep. I’ll tell you in the morning, I promise.
In the morning! That was no time, no time at all. She would tell me. I would know. I ran to her and she hugged me, stroked my back. The cotton of her robes smelled of incense from the shrine.
Some time in the night I heard a voice from behind the shoji screen, thin and wavery, a demon-voice wailing.
You’re going to burn in hell . . .
I sat up, alarmed, but immediately the demon let out a chuckle and I recognised the voice of my older brother Yozaemon. I laughed and lay down again. Everything was going to be all right. I slept well, released from the fear. In fact my sleep was so deep I woke late, well after eight, and the morning sun was streaming in through the shoji screen. I jumped up and threw my clothes on, rushed into the kitchen to find my mother. But she was bustling about the stove, cooking miso soup in a heavy iron pot.
Not now, she said, shooing me away. I don’t want you getting under my feet.
But you said!
Not now.
Well, when?
Later. As soon as I can. Now go and play.
She was hot and harassed, but she managed a smile.
Go!
I barely flinched at the little flames licking the bottom of the pot.
Outside I heard a gang of the neighbourhood children shrieking and yelling. I ran over, saw them kicking up dust, leaping and dancing like demons. One or two of them had sticks and were beating the ground with them, their screams getting more excited, high-pitched, as they stamped and screeched. I pushed through and saw what they were doing. They had tipped out a nest of baby crows and the boys ran and jumped and struck, chasing them, trying to stamp on them or hit them with the sticks.
I was excited and horrified all at once. There was a huge exhilaration in the game, in the hitting and beating and striking out, trying to crush and kill, and the crows were carrion, they were vermin, to be rid of them was good. But I could feel the panic and terror of the tiny birds as they fluttered and scurried, tried to escape. I felt it in my stomach, an agitation, discomfort, and maybe torturing the birds was a sin. I was suddenly hot, felt the prickle of tears. I pushed through the crowd of boys and ran back to the house.
My mother had said she would tell me, as soon as she could. But now she was sitting on the porch, talking to a neighbour whose husband was ill.
These things are sent to try us, said my mother.
What’s for us will not go by us, said the woman.
They
