The Red Thread

by Unknown

  And though I was sure he would find nothing the way he was going, I have not been entirely able to forget him. What would prompt such a creature, obviously ill-equipped for any great achievement, to hope for the ultimate and impossibly-great achievement, happiness? And such an odd way to expect it, happiness dispensed by some magic machine gauged to beauty and truth and love. In a resplendent place at the end of a long trip.

  To hear him talk you’d think happiness could be based on lily-weak things. How weird. Power is joy; strength is pleasure; put your trust only in the thick wall with the viewer and the warner. But sometimes, in spite of myself, I think of this little flesh-ridden man and wonder where he is.

  And when I’m at my ease, feeding my flesh-strips the complicated fluids of the introven, knowing I can live practically forever with the help of the new-metal alloys, a vague uneasiness comes over me and I try to evaluate my life. With the machines that serve me all buzzing underneath my Stronghold and working fine—yes, I am satisfied, I am adequate. And when I want a little more than quiet satisfaction, I can probe out and destroy one of my neighbor’s Walls perhaps, or a piece of his warner. And then we will fight lustily at each other for a little while from our Strongholds, pushing the destruction buttons at each other in a kind of high glee. Or I can just keep home and work out some little sadistic pleasure on my own. And on the terms the flesh-man wanted—truth, beauty, love—I’m practically sure there is no Happiness Machine out there anywhere at all. I’m almost sure there isn’t.

  THE EARTHGOD AND THE FOX

  Kenji Miyazawa

  ON THE northern edge of a stretch of open land the ground rose in a slight hillock. The hillock was covered entirely with spike-eared grass, and right in the middle of it stood a single, beautiful female birch tree.

  The tree was not actually very big, but her trunk gleamed a glossy black and her branches spread out gracefully. In May her pale flowers were like clouds, while in autumn she shed leaves of gold and crimson and many other colors.

  All the birds, from birds of passage such as the cuckoo and the shrike right down to the tiny wren and the white-eye, would come to perch in the tree. But if a young hawk or some other large bird was there, the smaller birds would spy him from afar and refuse to go anywhere near.

  The tree had two friends. One was the earthgod, who lived in the middle of a marshy hollow about five hundred paces away, and the other was a brown fox, who always appeared from somewhere in the southern part of the plain.

  Of the two of them it was the fox, perhaps, that the birch tree preferred. The earthgod, in spite of his imposing name, was too wild, with hair hanging unkempt like a bundle of ragged cotton thread, bloodshot eyes, and clothes that dangled about him like bits of seaweed. He always went barefoot, and his nails were long and black. The fox, on the other hand, was very refined and almost never made people angry or offended.

  The only thing was that, if you compared them really carefully, the earthgod was honest, whereas the fox was, perhaps, just a bit dishonest.

  •

  It was an evening at the beginning of summer. The birch tree was covered with soft new leaves, which filled the air around them with a delightful fragrance. The Milky Way stretched whitish across the sky, and the stars were winking and blinking and switching themselves on and off all over the firmament.

  On such a night, then, the fox came to pay the birch tree a visit, bringing with him a book of poetry. He was wearing a dark blue suit fresh from the tailor’s, and his light brown leather shoes squeaked slightly as he walked.

  “What a peaceful night,” he said.

  “Oh, yes!” breathed the birch tree.

  “Do you see Scorpio crawling across the sky over there? In ancient China, you know, they used to call the biggest star in the constellation the ‘Fire Star.’”

  “Would that be the same as Mars?”

  “Dear me, no. Not Mars. Mars is a planet. This one is a real star.”

  “Then what’s the difference between a planet and a star?”

  “Why, a planet can’t shine by itself. In other words, it has to have light from somewhere else before it can be seen. A star is the kind that shines by itself. The sun, now, is a star, of course. It looks big and dazzling to us, but if you saw it from very far away, it would only look like a small star, just the same as all the others.”

  “Good heavens! So the sun is only one of the stars, is it? Then I suppose the sky must have an awful lot of suns—no, stars—oh, silly me, suns, of course.”

  The fox smiled magnanimously. “You might put it like that,” he said.

  “I wonder why some stars are red, and some yellow, and some green?”

  The fox smiled magnanimously again and folded his arms grandly across his chest. The book of poetry under his arm dangled perilously, but somehow stopped just short of falling.

  “Well, you see,” he said, “at first all the stars were like big, fluffy clouds. There are still lots of them like that in the sky. There are some in Andromeda, some in Orion, and some in the Hunting Dogs. Some of them are spiral-shaped and some are in rings the shape of fishes’ mouths.”

  “I’d love to see them sometime. Stars the shape of fishes’ mouths—how splendid!”

  “Oh, they are, I can tell you. I saw them at the observatory.”

  “My word! I’d love to see them myself.”

  “I’ll show you them. As a matter of fact, I’ve a telescope on order from Germany. It’ll be here sometime before next spring, so I’ll let you have a look as soon as it comes.”

  The fox had spoken without thinking, but the very next moment he was saying to himself, “Oh dear, if I haven’t gone and told my only friend another fib again. But I only said it to please her, I really didn’t mean any harm by it. Later on, I’ll tell her the truth.”

  The fox was quiet for a while, occupied with such thoughts, but the birch tree was too delighted to notice.

  “I’m so happy!” she said. “You’re always so kind to me.”

  “Oh, quite,” said the fox rather dejectedly. “You know I’d do anything for you. Would you care to read this book of poetry, by the way? It’s by a man called Heine. It’s only a translation, of course, but it’s not at all bad.”

  “Oh! May I really borrow it?”

  “By all means. Take as long as you like over it. . . . Well, I must say goodbye now. Dear me, though, I feel there’s something I forgot to say.”

  “Yes, about the color of the stars.”

  “Ah, of course! But let’s leave that until next time, shall we? I mustn’t overstay my welcome.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter.”

  “Anyway, I’ll be coming again soon. Goodbye to you, then. I’ll leave the book with you. Goodbye.”

  The fox set off briskly homeward. And the birch tree, her leaves rustling in a south wind that sprang up just then, took up the book of verse and turned the pages in the light of the faint glow from the Milky Way and the stars that dotted the sky. The book contained “Lorelei” and many other beautiful poems by Heine, and the birch tree read on and on through the night. Not until past three, when Taurus was already beginning to climb in the east above the plain, did she begin to get even slightly drowsy.

  •

  Dawn broke, and the sun rose in the heavens. The dew glittered on the grass, and the flowers bloomed with all their might. Slowly, slowly, from the northeast, bathed in morning sunlight as though he had poured molten copper all over himself, came the earthgod. He walked slowly, quite slowly, with his arms folded soberly across his chest.

  Somehow, the birch tree felt rather put out, but even so she shimmered her bright green leaves in the earthgod’s direction as he came, so that her shadow went flutter, flutter where it fell on the grass. The earthgod came up quietly and stopped in front of her.

  “Good morning to you, Birch Tree.”

  “Good morning.”

  “D’you know, Birch Tree, there are lots of things I don’t understand when I come to think ab
out them. We don’t really know very much, do we?”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Well, there’s grass, for instance. Why should it be green, when it comes out of dark brown soil? And then there are the yellow and white flowers. It’s all beyond me.”

  “Mightn’t it be that the seeds of the grass have green or white inside them already?” said the birch tree.

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” he said. “But even so, it’s beyond me. Take the toadstools in autumn, now. They come straight out of the earth without any seeds or anything. And they come up in red and yellow and all kinds of colors. I just don’t understand it!”

  “How would it be if you asked Mr. Fox?” said the birch tree, who was still too excited about last night’s talk to know any better.

  The earthgod’s face changed color abruptly, and he clenched his fists.

  “What’s that? Fox? What’s the fox been saying?”

  “Oh,” said the birch tree in a faltering voice, “he didn’t say anything, really. It was just that I thought he might know.”

  “And what makes you think a fox has got anything to teach a god, eh?”

  By now the birch tree was so unnerved that she could only quiver and quiver. The earthgod paced about with his arms folded over his chest, grinding his teeth loudly all the while. Even the grass shivered with fear wherever his jet-black shadow fell on it.

  “That fox is a blight on the face of the earth!” he said. “Not a word of truth in him. Servile, cowardly, and terribly envious into the bargain!”

  “It will soon be time for the yearly festival at your shrine, won’t it?” said the birch tree, regaining her composure at last.

  The earthgod’s expression softened slightly.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Today’s the third of the month, so there are only six days to go.”

  But then he thought for a while and suddenly burst out again.

  “Human beings, though, are a useless lot! They don’t bring a single offering for my festival nowadays. Why, the next one that sets foot on my territory, I’ll drag down to the bottom of the swamp for his pains!”

  He stood there gnashing his teeth noisily. The birch tree, alarmed at finding that her attempts to soothe him had had just the opposite effect again, was past doing anything except fluttering her leaves in the breeze. For a while the earthgod strode about grinding his teeth, his arms folded high across his chest and his whole body seeming to blaze as the sunlight poured down on him. But the more he thought about it, the crosser he seemed to get. In the end he could bear it no longer and with a great howl stormed off home to his hollow.

  •

  The place where the earthgod lived was a dank and chilly swamp grown all over with moss, clover, stumpy reeds, and here and there a thistle or a dreadfully twisted willow tree. There were soggy places where the water seeped through in rusty patches. You only had to look at it to tell that it was all muddy and somehow frightening.

  On a patch like a small island right in the middle of it stood the earthgod’s shrine, which was about six feet high and made of logs.

  Back on this island, the earthgod stretched himself out full length on the ground beside his shrine and scratched long and hard at his dark, scraggy legs.

  Just then he noticed a bird flying through the sky right above his head, so he sat up straight and shouted “Shoo!” The bird wobbled in alarm and for a moment seemed about to fall, then fled into the distance, gradually losing height as it went, as though its wings were paralyzed.

  The earthgod gave a little laugh and was getting to his feet when he happened to glance toward the hillock, not far away, where the birch tree grew. And instantly his rage returned: his face turned pale, his body went as stiff as a poker, and he began tearing at his wild head of hair.

  A solitary woodcutter on his way to work on Mt. Mitsumori came up from the south of the hollow, striding along the narrow path that skirted its edge. He seemed to know all about the earthgod, for every now and then he glanced anxiously in the direction of the shrine. But he could not, of course, see anybody there.

  When the earthgod caught sight of the woodcutter, he flushed with pleasure. He stretched his arm out toward him, then grasped his own wrist with his other hand and made as though to pull it back. And, strange to say, the woodcutter, who thought he was still walking along the path, found himself gradually moving deeper and deeper into the hollow. He quickened his pace in alarm, his face turned pale, his mouth opened, and he began to gasp.

  Slowly the earthgod twisted his wrist. And as he did so, the woodcutter slowly began to turn in circles. At this he grew more and more alarmed, until finally he was going round and round on the same spot, panting desperately all the while. His one idea seemed to be to get out of the hollow as quickly as he could, but for all his efforts he stayed, circling, where he was. In the end he began to sob and, flinging up his arms, broke into a run.

  This seemed to delight the earthgod. He just grinned and watched without getting up from the ground, until before long the woodcutter, who by now was giddy and exhausted, collapsed in the water. Then the earthgod got slowly to his feet. With long strides he squelched his way to where the woodcutter lay and, picking him up, flung him over onto the grassy ground. The woodcutter landed in the grass with a thud. He groaned once and stirred, but still did not come to.

  The earthgod laughed loudly. His laughter rose up into the sky in great mysterious waves. Reaching the sky, the sound bounced back down again to the place where the birch tree stood. The birch tree turned suddenly so pale that the sunlight shone green through her leaves, and she began to quiver frantically.

  The earthgod tore at his hair with both hands. “It’s all because of the fox that I feel so miserable,” he told himself. “Or rather, the birch tree. No, the fox and the birch tree. That’s why I suffer so much. If only I didn’t mind about the tree, I’d mind even less about the fox. I may be nobody much, but I am a god after all, and it’s disgraceful that I should have to bother myself about a mere fox. But the awful thing is, I do. Why don’t I forget all about the birch tree, then? Because I can’t. How splendid it was this morning when she went pale and trembled! I was wrong to bully a wretched human being just to work off my temper, but it can’t be helped. No one can tell what somebody’ll do when he gets really cross.”

  So dreadfully sad did he feel that he beat at the air in despair. Another bird came flying through the sky, but this time the earthgod just watched it go in silence.

  From far, far away came the sound of cavalry at their maneuvers, with a crackling of rifle fire like salt being thrown on flames. From the sky, the blue light poured down in waves. This must have done the woodcutter good, for he came to, sat up timidly, and peered about him. The next moment he was up and running like an arrow shot from a bow. Away he ran in the direction of Mt. Mitsumori.

  Watching him, the earthgod gave a great laugh again. Again his laughter soared up to the blue sky and hurtled back down to the birch tree below. Again the tree’s leaves went pale and trembled delicately, so delicately that you would scarcely have noticed.

  The earthgod walked aimlessly round and round his shrine till finally, when he seemed to feel more settled, he suddenly darted inside.

  •

  It was a misty night in August. The earthgod was so terribly lonely and so dreadfully cross that he left his shrine on an impulse and started walking. Almost before he realized it, his feet were taking him toward the birch tree. He couldn’t say why, but whenever he thought of her, his heart seemed to turn over and he felt intolerably sad. Nowadays he was much easier in his mind than before, and he had done his best not to think about either the fox or the birch tree. But, try as he might, they kept coming into his head. Every day he would tell himself over and over again, “You’re a god, after all. What can a mere birch tree mean to you?” But still he felt awfully sad. The memory of the fox, in particular, hurt till it seemed his whole body was on fire.

  Wrapped in
his own thoughts, the earthgod drew nearer and nearer the birch tree. Finally it dawned on him quite clearly that he was on his way to see her, and his heart began to dance for joy. It had been a long time. She might well have missed him. In fact, the more he thought about it the surer he felt it was so. If this really was the case, then he was very sorry he had neglected her. His heart danced as he strode on through the grass. But before long his stride faltered and he stopped dead; a great blue wave of sadness had suddenly washed over him. The fox was there before him. It was quite dark by now, but he could hear the fox’s voice coming through the mist, which was glowing in the vague light of the moon.

  “Why, of course,” he was saying, “just because something agrees with the laws of symmetry is not to say that it is beautiful. That’s nothing more than a dead beauty.”

  “How right you are,” came the birch tree’s soft voice.

  “True beauty is not something rigid and fossilized. People talk of observing the laws of symmetry, but it’s enough so long as the spirit of symmetry is present.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure it is,” came the birch tree’s gentle voice again.

  But now the earthgod felt as though red flames were licking his whole body. His breath came in short gasps, and he really thought he couldn’t bear it any longer. “What are you so miserable about?” he asked himself crossly. “What is this, after all, but a bit of talk between a birch tree and a fox out in the open country? You call yourself a god, to let things like this upset you?”