The room wasn't dark when I opened my eyes. Moonlight was pouring through the window. This great big moon like a stainless-steel tray was hanging over the hill. It was so huge, it looked as if I could have reached out and written something on it. And the light coming in the window looked like a big, white pool of water. I sat up in bed, racking my brains, trying to figure out what had just happened. Why had you been calling my name in such a sharp, clear voice? My heart kept pounding for the longest time. If I had been in my own house, I would have gotten dressed-even if it was the middle of the night-and run down the alley to your house, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. But out here, a million miles away in the mountains, I couldn't run anywhere, right?
So then you know what I did?
I got naked. Ahem. Don't ask me why. I'm really not sure myself. So just be quiet and listen to the rest. Anyhow, I took every stitch of clothing off and got out of bed. And I got down on my knees on the floor in the white moonlight. The heat was off and the room must have been cold, but I didn't feel cold. There was some kind of special something in the moonlight that was coming in the window, and it was wrapping my body in a thin, protective, skintight film. At least thats how I felt. I just stayed there naked for a while, spacing out, but then I took turns holding different parts of my body out to be bathed in the moonlight. I don't know, it just seemed like the most natural thing to do. The moonlight was so absolutely, in- credibly beautiful that I couldn't not do it. My head and shoulders and arms and breasts and tummy and legs and bottom and, you know, around there: one after another, I dipped them in the moonlight, like taking a bath.
If somebody had seen me from outside, they'd have thought it was very, very strange. I must have looked like some kind of full-moon pervert going absolutely bonkers in the moonlight. But nobody saw me, of course. Though, come to think of it, maybe that boy on the motorcycle was somewhere, looking at me. But thats OK. Hes dead. If he wanted to look, and if he'd be satisfied with that, Id be glad to let him see me.
But anyhow, nobody was looking at me. I was doing it all alone in the moonlight. And every once in a while, Id close my eyes and think about the duck people, who were probably sleeping near the pond somewhere. Id think about the warm, happy feeling that the duck people and I had created together in the daytime. Because, finally, the duck people are an important kind of magic kind of protective amulet kind of thing for me.
I stayed kneeling there for a long time after that, just kneeling all alone, all naked, in the moonlight. The light gave my skin a magical color, and it threw a sharp black shadow of my body across the floor, all the way to the wall. It didn't look like the shadow of my body, but one that belonged to a much more mature woman. It wasn't a virgin like me, it didn't have my corners and angles but was fuller and rounder, with much bigger breasts and nipples. But it was the shadow that I was making--just stretched out longer, with a different shape. When I moved, it moved. For a while, I tried moving in different ways and watching very, very carefully to see what the connection was between me and my shadow, trying to figure out why it should look so different. But I couldn't figure it out, finally. The more I looked, the stranger it seemed.
Now, here comes the part thats really hard to explain, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. I doubt if I can do it, but here goes.
Well, to make a long story short, all of a sudden I burst into tears. I mean, if it was like in a film scenario or something, it'd go: May Kasahara: Here, with no warning, covers face with hands, wails aloud, collapses in tears. But don't be too shocked. I've been hiding it from you all this time, but in fact, I'm the worlds biggest crybaby. I cry for anything. Its my secret weakness. So for me, the sheer fact that I burst out crying for no reason at all was not such a surprise. Usually, though, I just have myself a little cry, and then I tell myself its time to stop. I cry easily, but I stop just as easily. Tonight, though, I just couldn't stop. The cork popped, and that was that. I didn't know what had started me, so I didn't know how to stop myself. The tears just came gushing out, like blood from a huge wound. I couldn't believe the amount of tears I was producing. I seriously started to worry I might get dehydrated and turn into a mummy if this kept up.
I could actually see and hear my tears dripping down into the white pool of moonlight, where they were sucked in as if they had always been part of the light. As they fell, the tears caught the light of the moon and sparkled like beautiful crystals. Then I noticed that my shadow was crying too, shedding clear, sharp shadow tears. Have you ever seen the shadows of tears, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? They're nothing like ordinary shadows. Nothing at all. They come here from some other, distant world, especially for our hearts. Or maybe not. It struck me then that the tears my shadow was shedding might be the real thing, and the tears that I was shedding were just shadows. You don't get it, I'm sure, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. When a naked seventeen-year-old girl is shedding tears in the moonlight, anything can happen. Its true.
So thats what happened in this room about an hour ago. And now I'm sitting at my desk, writing a letter to you in pencil, Mr. Wind-Up Bird (with my clothes on, of course!).
Bye-bye, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. I don't quite know how to put this, but the duck people in the woods and I are praying for you to be warm and happy. If anything happens to you, don't hesitate to call me out loud again.
Good night.
37 Two Different Kinds of News
The Thing That Disappeared
Cinnamon carried you here, said Nutmeg.
The first thing that came to me when I woke was pain, in different, twisted forms. The knife wound gave me pain, and all the joints and bones and muscles in my body gave me pain. Different parts of my body must have slammed up against things as I fled through the darkness. And yet the form of each of these different pains was still not quite right. They were somewhere close to pain, but they could not exactly be called pain.
Next I realized that I was stretched out on the fitting room sofa, wearing navy-blue pajamas that I had never seen before and covered with a blanket. The curtains were open, and bright morning sun streamed through the window. I guessed it must be around ten o'clock.
There was fresh air here, and time that moved forward, but why such things existed I could not quite comprehend.
Cinnamon brought you here, said Nutmeg. Your wounds are not that bad. The one on your shoulder is fairly deep, but it didn't hit any major blood vessels, fortunately. The ones on your face are just scrapes. Cinnamon used a needle and thread to sew up the others so you wont have scars. Hes good at that. You can take the stitches out yourself in a few days or have a doctor do it.
I tried to speak, but I couldn't make my voice work. All I could do was inhale and let the air out as a rasping sound.
You'd better not try to move or talk yet, said Nutmeg. She was sitting on a nearby chair with her legs crossed. Cinnamon says you were in the well too long- it was a very close call.
But don't ask me what happened. I don't know a thing. I got a call in the middle of the night, phoned for a taxi, and flew over here. The details of what went on before that I just don't know. Your clothes were soaking wet and bloody. We threw them away.
Nutmeg was dressed more simply than usual, as if she had indeed rushed out of the house.
She wore a cream-colored cashmere sweater over a mans striped shirt, and a wool skirt of olive green, no jewelry, and her hair was tied back. She looked a little tired but otherwise could have been a photo in a catalog. She put a cigarette between her lips and lit it with her gold lighter, making the usual clean, dry click, then inhaling with eyes narrowed. I really had not died, I reassured myself when I heard the sound of the lighter. Cinnamon must have pulled me out of the well in the nick of time.