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by Haruki Murakami

  Then one day something happens that makes it necessary for the girl to be punished. She has been ordered that week to take care of the Gathering’s small herd of goats each morning and night, but, overwhelmed with her homework and other daily chores, one night it slips her mind. The next morning, the oldest animal, a blind goat, is found cold and dead. As her punishment, the girl is to be isolated from the rest of the Gathering for ten days.

  That particular goat was thought by the community to have a special significance, but it was quite old, and some kind of illness had sunk its talons into the goat’s wasted body, so whether anyone took care of it or not, there was no hope it would recover. Still, that does not lessen the severity of the girl’s crime in any way. She is blamed not only for the death of the goat itself but for the dereliction of her duties. Isolation is one of the most serious punishments that the Gathering can impose.

  The girl is locked in a small, old earthen storehouse with the dead blind goat. The storehouse is called the Room for Reflection. Anyone who has broken the Gathering’s rules goes there in order to reflect upon his or her offense. No one speaks to the girl while she is in isolation. She must endure ten full days of total silence. A minimal amount of water and food is brought to her, but the storehouse is dark, cold, and damp, and it smells of the dead goat. The door is locked from the outside. In one corner of the room is a bucket where she can relieve herself. High on one wall is a small window that admits the light of the sun and the moon. A few stars can also be seen through it when the sky is not clouded over. There is no other light. She stretches out on the hard mattress on top of the board floor, wraps herself in two old blankets, and spends the night shivering. It is April, but the nights are cold in the mountains. When darkness falls, the dead goat’s eye sparkles in the starlight. Afraid, the girl can hardly sleep.

  On the third night, the goat’s mouth opens wide. It has been pushed open from the inside, and out of the mouth comes a number of tiny people, six in all. They are only four inches high when they first emerge, but as soon as they set foot on the ground, they begin to grow like mushrooms sprouting after the rain. Even so, they are no more than two feet tall. They tell the girl that they are called the Little People.

  This is like “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” the girl thinks, recalling a story her father read to her when she was little. But there’s one missing.

  “If you’d rather have seven, we can be seven,” one of the Little People says to her in a soft voice. Apparently, they can read her mind. She counts them again, and now there are seven. The girl does not find this especially strange, however. The rules of the world had already changed when the Little People came out of the goat’s mouth. Anything could happen after that.

  “Why did you come out of the dead goat’s mouth?” she asks, noticing that her voice sounds odd. Her manner of speaking is also different from usual, probably because she has not spoken with anyone for three days.

  “Because the goat’s mouth turned into a passageway,” one of the Little People with a hoarse voice says. “We didn’t know it was a dead goat until we actually came out.”

  A screechy-voiced one adds, “We don’t mind at all, though. A goat, a whale, a peapod: as long as it’s a passageway.”

  “You made the passageway, so we thought we’d give it a try and see where it came out,” the soft-voiced one says.

  “I made the passageway?” the girl says. No, it does not sound like her own voice.

  “You did us a favor,” says one of the Little People with a small voice.

  Some of the others voice their agreement.

  “Let’s play,” says one with a tenor voice. “Let’s make an air chrysalis.”

  “Yes,” replies a baritone. “Since we went to all the trouble of coming here.”

  “An air chrysalis?” the girl asks.

  “We pluck threads out of the air and make a home. We make it bigger and bigger!” the bass says.

  “A home? Who is it for?” the girl asks.

  “You’ll see,” the baritone says.

  “You’ll see when it comes out,” the bass says.

  “Ho ho,” another one takes up the beat.

  “Can I help?” the girl asks.

  “Of course,” the hoarse one says.

  “You did us a favor,” the tenor says. “Let’s work together.”

  Once the girl begins to get the hang of it, plucking threads out of the air is not too difficult. She has always been good with her hands, so she is able to master this operation right away. If you look closely, there are lots of threads hanging in the air. You can see them if you try.

  “Yes, that’s it, you’re doing it right,” the small-voiced one says.

  “You’re a very clever girl. You learn quickly,” says the screechy-voiced one.

  All the Little People wear the same clothing and their faces look alike, but each one has a distinctly different voice.

  The clothing they wear is utterly ordinary, the kind that can be seen anywhere. This is an odd way to put it, but there is no other way to describe their clothing. Once you take your eyes off their clothes, you can’t possibly remember what they looked like. The same can be said of their faces, the features of which are neither good nor bad. They are just ordinary features, the kind that can be seen anywhere. Once you take your eyes off their faces, you can’t possibly remember what they looked like. It is the same with their hair, which is neither long nor short, just ordinary hair. One thing they do not have is any smell.

  When the dawn comes and the cock crows and the eastern sky lightens, the seven Little People stop working and begin stretching. Then they hide the partially finished air chrysalis—which is only about the size of a baby rabbit—in the corner of the room, probably so that the person who brings the meals will not see it.

  “It’s morning,” says the one with the small voice.

  “The night has ended,” says the bass.

  Since they have all these different voices, they ought to form a chorus, the girl thinks.

  “We have no songs,” says the tenor.

  “Ho ho,” says the keeper of the beat.

  The Little People all shrink down to their original four-inch size, form a line, and enter the dead goat’s mouth.

  “We’ll be back tonight,” the small-voiced one says before closing the goat’s mouth from the inside. “You must not tell anyone about us.”

  “If you do tell someone about us, something very bad will happen,” the hoarse one adds for good measure.

  “Ho ho,” says the keeper of the beat.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” the girl says.

  And even if I did, they wouldn’t believe me. The girl has often been scolded by the grown-ups around her for saying what is in her mind. People have said that she does not distinguish between reality and her imagination. The shape and color of her thoughts seem to be very different from those of other people. She can’t understand what they consider so wrong about her. In any case, she had better not tell anyone about the Little People.

  After the Little People have disappeared and the goat’s mouth has closed, the girl does a thorough search of the area where they hid the air chrysalis, but she is unable to find it. They did such a good job of hiding it! The space is confined, but still she can’t discover where it might be. Where could they have hidden it?

  After that, she wraps herself in the blankets and goes to sleep—her first truly restful sleep in a long time: no dreams, no interruptions. She enjoys the unusually deep sleep.

  The dead goat stays dead all day, its body stiff, its eyes clouded like marbles. When the sun goes down, though, and darkness comes to the storehouse, the eye sparkles in the starlight, the mouth snaps open, and the Little People emerge, as if guided by the light. This time there are seven from the beginning.

  “Let’s pick up where we left off last night,” the hoarse-voiced one says.

  Each of the other six voices his approval in his own way.

  The seven Little
People and the girl sit in a circle around the chrysalis and continue to work on it, plucking white threads from the air and adding them to the chrysalis. They hardly speak, concentrating their energies on the job. Engrossed in moving her hands, the girl is not bothered by the night’s coldness. She is hardly aware of the passing of time, and she feels neither bored nor sleepy. The chrysalis grows in size, slowly but visibly.

  “How big are we going to make it?” the girl asks when dawn is nearing. She wants to know if the job will be done within the ten days she is locked in the storehouse.

  “As big as we can,” the screechy-voiced one replies.

  “When it gets to a certain size, it will break open all by itself,” the tenor says gleefully.

  “And something will come out,” the baritone says in vibrant tones.

  “What kind of thing?” the girl asks.

  “What will come out?” the small-voiced one says.

  “Just you wait!” the bass says.

  “Ho ho,” says the keeper of the beat.

  “Ho ho,” the other six join in.

  . . .

  A peculiar darkness pervaded the novella’s style. As she became aware of it, Aomame frowned slightly. This was like a fabulous children’s story, but hidden down deep somewhere it had a strong, dark undercurrent. Aomame could hear its ominous rumble beneath the story’s simple phrases, a gloomy suggestion of illness to come—a deadly illness that quietly gnaws away a person’s spirit from the core. What brought the illness with them was the chorus-like group of seven Little People. There is something unhealthy here, without question, Aomame thought. And yet she could hear in their voices something that she recognized in herself—something almost fatally familiar.

  Aomame looked up from the book and recalled what Leader had said about the Little People before he died.

  “We have lived with them since long, long ago—from a time before good and evil even existed, when people’s minds were still benighted.”

  Aomame went on reading the story.

  The Little People and the girl continue working, and after several days the air chrysalis has grown to something like the size of a large dog.

  “My punishment ends tomorrow. After that I’ll get out of here,” the girl says to the Little People as dawn is beginning to break.

  The seven Little People listen quietly to what the girl is telling them.

  “So I won’t be able to make the air chrysalis with you anymore.”

  “We are very sorry to hear that,” the tenor says, sounding genuinely sorry.

  “You helped us very much,” the baritone says.

  The one with the screechy voice says, “But the chrysalis is almost finished. It will be ready once we add just a little bit more.”

  The Little People stand in a row, staring at the air chrysalis as if to measure the size of what they have made so far.

  “Just a tiny bit more!” the hoarse-voiced one says as if leading the chorus in a monotonous boatman’s song.

  “Ho ho,” intones the keeper of the beat.

  “Ho ho,” the other six join in.

  The girl’s ten days of isolation end and she returns to the Gathering. Her communal life starts again, and she is so busy following all the rules that she has no more time to be alone. She can, of course, no longer work on the air chrysalis with the Little People. Every night before she goes to bed, she imagines to herself the seven Little People continuing to sit around the air chrysalis and make it bigger. It is all she can think about. It even feels as if the whole air chrysalis has actually slipped inside her head.

  The girl is dying to know what could possibly be inside the air chrysalis. What will appear when the chrysalis ripens and pops open? She is filled with regret to think that she cannot witness the scene with her own eyes. I worked so hard helping them to make it, I should be allowed to be there when it opens. She even thinks seriously of committing another offense so that she can be punished with another period of isolation in the storehouse. But even if she were to go to all that trouble, the Little People might not appear. The dead goat has been carried away and buried somewhere. Its eye will not sparkle in the starlight again.

  The story goes on to describe the girl’s daily life in the community—the disciplined schedule, the fixed tasks, the guidance and care she provides the other children as the oldest child in the community, her simple meals, the stories her parents read her before bedtime, the classical music she listens to whenever she can find a spare moment. A life without “po-loo-shun.”

  The Little People visit her in dreams. They can enter people’s dreams whenever they like. They tell her that the air chrysalis is about to break open, and they urge her to come and see it. “Come to the storehouse with a candle after sunset. Don’t let anyone see you.”

  The girl cannot suppress her curiosity. She slips out of bed and pads her way to the storehouse carrying the candle she has prepared. No one is there. All she finds is the air chrysalis sitting quietly where it has been left on the storehouse floor. It is twice as big as it was when she last saw it, well over four feet long. Its entire surface radiates a soft glow, and its beautifully curved shape has a waist-like narrowed area in the middle that was not there before, when it was smaller. The Little People have obviously been working hard. The chrysalis is already breaking open. A vertical crack has formed in its side. The girl bends over and peers in through the opening.

  She discovers that she herself is inside the chrysalis. She stares at this other self of hers lying naked on her back, eyes closed, apparently unconscious, not breathing, like a doll.

  One of the Little People speaks to her—the one with the hoarse voice: “That is your dohta,” he says, and then clears his throat.

  The girl turns to find the seven Little People fanned out behind her in a row.

  “Dohta,” she says, mechanically repeating the word.

  “And what you are called is ‘maza,’ ” the bass says.

  “Maza and dohta,” the girl says.

  “The dohta serves as a stand-in for the maza,” the screechy-voiced one says.

  “Do I get split in two?” the girl asks.

  “Not at all,” the tenor says. “This does not mean that you are split in two. You are the same you in every way. Don’t worry. A dohta is just the shadow of the maza’s heart and mind in the shape of the maza.”

  “When will she wake up?”

  “Very soon. When the time comes,” the baritone says.

  “What will this dohta do as the shadow of my heart and mind?” the girl asks.

  “She will act as a Perceiver,” the small-voiced one says furtively.

  “Perceiver,” the girl says.

  “Yes,” says the hoarse one. “She who perceives.”

  “She conveys what she perceives to the Receiver,” the screechy one says.

  “In other words, the dohta becomes our passageway,” the tenor says.

  “Instead of the goat?” the girl asks.

  “The dead goat was only a temporary passageway,” the bass says. “We must have a living dohta as a Perceiver to link the place we live with this place.”

  “What does the maza do?” the girl asks.

  “The maza stays close to the dohta,” the screechy one says.

  “When will the dohta wake up?” the girl asks.

  “Two days from now, or maybe three,” the tenor says.

  “One or the other,” says the one with the small voice.

  “Make sure you take good care of this dohta,” the baritone says. “She is your dohta.”

  “Without the maza’s care, the dohta cannot be complete. She cannot live long without it,” the screechy one says.

  “If she loses her dohta, the maza will lose the shadow of her heart and mind,” the tenor says.

  “What happens to a maza when she loses the shadow of her heart and mind?” the girl asks.

  The Little People look at each other. None of them will answer the question.

  “When the dohta
wakes up, there will be two moons in the sky,” the hoarse one says.

  “The two moons cast the shadow of her heart and mind,” the baritone says.

  “There will be two moons,” the girl repeats mechanically.

  “That will be a sign. Watch the sky with great care,” the small-voiced one says furtively. “Watch the sky with great care,” he says again. “Count the moons.”

  “Ho ho,” says the keeper of the beat.

  “Ho ho,” the other six join in.

  The girl runs away.

  There was something mistaken there. Something wrong. Something greatly misshapen. Something opposed to nature. The girl knows this. She does not know what the Little People want, but the image of herself inside the air chrysalis sends shivers through her. She cannot possibly live with her living, moving other self. She has to run away from here. As soon as she possibly can. Before her dohta wakes up. Before that second moon appears in the sky.

  In the Gathering it is forbidden for individuals to own money. But the girl’s father once secretly gave her a ten-thousand-yen bill and some coins. “Hide this so that no one can find it,” he told her. He also gave her a piece of paper with someone’s name, address, and telephone number written on it. “If you ever have to run away from this place, use the money to buy a train ticket and go there.”

  Her father must have known back then that something bad might happen in the Gathering. The girl does not hesitate. Her actions are swift. She has no time to say good-bye to her parents.

  From a jar she buried in the earth, she takes out the ten-thousand-yen bill and the coins and the paper. During class, she tells the teacher she is not feeling well and gets permission to go to the nurse’s office. Instead she leaves the school and takes a bus to the station. She presents her ten-thousand-yen bill at the window and buys a ticket to Takao, west of Tokyo. The man at the window gives her change. This is the first time in her life she has ever bought a ticket or received change or gotten on a train, but her father gave her detailed instructions, and she has memorized what she must do.