This piece is a inspired retelling of Helen Craig McCullough’s (1968) translation of “The Wellcurb,” as part of the Heian-era Japanese classic “The Tales of Ise.”
Where the sun had graced the bronze buddha and where wanderers stopped in prayers of their travels, there stood a village by the countryside. From the many travelers who passed and remained was a boy and a girl who met by incident of their parents. Although she was seemingly shy at first glance, the two grew close and became seldom apart. He would soon know her by name, by the length of her hair that fell just short of her ear. Her height, slightly taller than his, as they pressed their backs against each other by the wellcurb.
Though the boy often expressed his disdain of the village, claiming it was too plain and ordinary, he played with the girl everyday. In spring, he took her to see the cherry blossoms when they first bloomed and in summer, they swam and raced across the lake. When autumn came that year and the fields had fully grown, the two helped the elderly farmers harvest buckwheat. Then, with the buckwheat they harvested, the two would be treated to a fresh bowl of soba noodles as a reward for their labor.
As daughter to a lineage of scholars, the girl moved to the imperial capital, where she spent her days training to be lady-of-waiting for the empress. She would be put to the grand trial of wit and elegance, weaving poetry and song as proof of her worthiness to the court. On the occasion when she was free, she visited the village she played at as a child to see her friend again.
From the knowledge she gained from the palace, she took the boy’s hand and taught him how to write. The ink smudged his fingers as he tried to draw out the characters on his own, until he finally pushed the brush aside in frustration. The girl would laugh so hard she’d fall to the floor, before taking his hands again to trace the lines. One by one. For the next few hours.
Later in winter, when she was ready to accept her position in the palace, the girl sent the boy note of her final visit. As she wrote:
We once played by the wellcurb, our backs pressed against each other.
Your height only being a margin taller.
I have always known you by my side—for as long as I can remember.
I’ve grown taller since I last saw you.
Her carriage stopped right in front of the shrine’s snowy gates, where he stood patiently waiting. Then greeted her with a smile that faded under his unease, unable to speak a word in knowing that she would soon leave. He thought to turn away.
The girl, however, had already resigned to her fate and could only offer her hand in return. She gently lifted his head and looked into his eyes, his sharp gaze softening under her touch. As a final request, she asked the boy if he could walk with her again.
Soon, they made their way to the village, passing among the many foreign travelers that came for the new year’s festivities. From the wellcurb to the street markets and the rowdy children, the place that they had played in their youth had seemed so familiar, yet different. All the while, the cherry blossoms that had seemed to bloom just yesterday had all vanished with the season’s passing. The boy, although indifferent to his village’s traditions, took joy in seeing her laugh again.
Eventually, when the night was about to end, the two visited the shrine as custom to the new year’s rituals. The boy clasped his hands together in prayer, closing his eyes, then opening them once more to look at the girl then back at his hands again. His fingers clenched harder and unfolded visibly red even against the winter snow. The walk back to the carriage that night had seemed longer than usual.
Upon reaching the carriage, the boy handed the girl a letter. She gripped it firmly before sliding it into her sleeve. For a moment, neither said a word. The horses shifted in the cold. Frost gathered along the edges of the carriage step. She spoke at last, but the boy answered with only a nod. As she turned to leave, he reached for her hand and held it for a brief, but full seconds.
“I’m glad that I got to walk with you,” he said.
She smiled and wrapped her hand around his fingers.
“I am, too.”
The two then part.
Her heart rushing to match the beat of the carriage.
She unfolds the note from the boy, unravelling brushstrokes that formed the characters she had taught him.
The time they spent crouched up against the floor, the ink that had smudged her hand, all had slowly painted into memory again.
The boy wrote:
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Although I cannot read nor write as well, I believed if—
I kept expressing how I felt, repeating how much I wanted to be there for you—
that on every winter we prayed at the shrine,
I made a selfish wish:
“I want to be the one next to you and see you writing forever.”
And for that, I pray to the Great Buddha that I do not even believe in.
