A crowd was gathered at the center of the market. Curious and hoping for some exciting performance of magic or acrobatics, she pushed her way through the thronging spectators, wielding her walking stick like an oar through thick mud and water. She was disappointed to see only two men sitting face-to-face on a woven mat at the center, their hair styled in the double scroll-bun indicative of their rank as toko dawiji, scholars who had passed the first level of the Imperial examinations.
“…knows that the closer something is, the bigger it appears, and the farther it is, the smaller,” said the first scholar.
“It is your contention then that the sun is closer at dawn and dusk, but farther away at noon, thus explaining why it looks bigger at sunrise and sunset?” asked the second scholar.
“Plainly,” said the first scholar.
“But everyone also knows that the closer a source of heat is, the hotter it feels. How do you explain the fact that the sun feels hottest at noon but cooler at dawn and dusk, if the sun is in fact farther away at noon?” asked the second scholar.
“Er…” The first scholar furrowed his brows, stumped by this puzzle.
“Simple. Your explanation is wrong!” said the second scholar.
“It is not wrong,” said the first scholar, his face turning red. “The great sage Kon Fiji explained that nature, like human society, follows a discernible structure of hierarchy. The sun is as far above the earth as the emperor is above the common people. It only follows that the gods must have intended the sun to be at its greatest distance from the earth when it is at its apex, symbolizing the grace and nobility of the Imperial throne.”
“But what about the noonday heat, my learned friend?” asked the second scholar.
“That is easily explained.” The first scholar took a drink from his cup of tea and furtively glanced at the crowd around them. Now that so many people were watching, he had to win this debate to save face. He put the cup down and raised his voice, injecting into it an arrogant confidence—sometimes it was enough to sound like one knew what one was talking about.
“Your argument assumes that the sun is at a constant temperature. But that is not so. Employing pure reason, we discover that if the sun feels hottest at its farthest point from the earth at noon, it must also gradually increase in heat as it rises and cool down as it sets. The point at which the sun is hottest is also when it is highest, which is indeed the most perfect design.”
Does the world follow a design that can be perceived? Mimi wondered. Is nature a model for society so that what is natural is also what is just?
She had never heard of such arguments before, and she was mesmerized. The learned men seemed to think that the world itself was a kind of speech that could be decoded. She remembered her attempts to understand the conversation of the gods as a child. She yearned for such knowledge, knowledge that would allow her to interpret the signs of the gods, to see through the veil of the world and get a glimpse of Truth.
“You Moralists always assume the conclusion before the argument,” said the second scholar contemptuously. “It is just as Ra Oji said: A disciple of Kon Fiji is the world’s most powerful lens, for he bends all rays of evidence to focus on his desired opinion. Even if he is idle and has an empty belly, he would argue that it is the fault of the food for not recognizing his moral superiority and actively seeking his belly.”
The crowd roared with laughter.
“In the end, a Moralist convinces no one but himself,” continued the second scholar, pleased that he had the backing of the crowd.
“You Fluxists are good at poking fun at seekers of truth while offering up nothing of use yourselves except witticisms,” said the first scholar, his voice trembling with rage. “What is your explanation for the sun’s changing size then?”
“Who knows? It might indeed be the case that the sun moves farther away as it rises, as you contend, or it might be the case that the sun shrinks as it ascends, like a jellyfish contracting its cap to propel itself upward in the ocean. But your very approach is wrong: We need not force nature into models drawn by our desires. As the Ano sages told us, Gipén co fidéra ünthiru nafé ki shraçaa tefi né othu. We need only conform our life to the rhythms set by nature. I wake up in the crisp morning breeze and enjoy a breakfast of raw strips of whitefish, bought fresh off the wharf and spiced with ginger; I hide in the shade of a great parasol tree to take a nap at noon, dreaming that I am a cuttlefish with a fluttering fin skirt and that the cuttlefish is also dreaming of me; and I wake up at dusk to take a brisk walk along the cooling beach, admiring the looming blush of the setting sun. I much prefer my life to yours.”
“Going with the flow is not the path to approach the reality of the universe. I’m no Incentivist, but Gi Anji was at least headed in the right direction when he pointed out that learned men must understand the world and improve it, for we’re not dumb beasts or dandelions scattered by the roadside, but endowed with the godly impulse to transform the earthly realm to bring it closer to heaven.”
“The reality of the universe must be experienced, not constructed….”
What’s it like to ponder such questions all day? Mimi thought. To not limit one’s thoughts to the weather and the harvest and the fishing haul, to not have to struggle to plan for the next meal and the meal after that, but to be able to imagine and debate the substance of the sun and to believe that it is possible to read the larger patterns of life?
The scholars went on debating in that vein, and the crowd cheered and offered their own observations from time to time. Eventually, the scholars tired of the argument and parted ways, having exhausted their store of classical quotations and learned citations. The crowd dispersed and only Mimi was left, still thinking and replaying the debate in her mind.
“The market is about to close, miss.” A kind voice interrupted her reverie.
“Oh no!” Mimi looked around and saw that it was true. The grain buyers were packing up and driving their carts back to the warehouses. She would have to come back the next day. She was mad at herself—how could she have been so irresponsible?
She saw that the speaker was tall, gaunt, like the trunk of a seasoned pine. He was in his late forties, with graying hair that he tied up carelessly in a loose bun, and his skin was as dark as the shells of the great sea turtles. Though scars on his face marred his otherwise handsome features, his green eyes were friendly and warm in the light of the setting sun.
“You seemed fascinated by that debate,” the man said, an interested expression on his face. “What were you thinking just now?”
Still a bit unsettled, Mimi said the first thing that came to her mind, “Why do so many sages have family names that end in ‘ji’?”
The man looked stunned for a second, and then laughed.
Mimi’s face flushed. She lifted the bag of sample grain over her shoulder and turned to leave, her humiliation making her stumble.
“I’m sorry!” the man said from behind her. “It’s refreshing to hear an original observation. I meant no offense at all.”
Mimi could hear the sincerity in his voice. He spoke with an accent from somewhere on the Big Island, and his enunciation was courtly and graceful, like the folk opera singers who played the nobles onstage.
“It was thoughtless of me,” the man said. “I offer you my apologies again.”