On the first day off in September, Kiyoshi went up the slope.
Smoke rose from the cooking fires at mealtimes, more punctual than the bells in the clan compound.
The vegetable plot had been turned over, and radish greens stood in neat rows on the new ridges, as though measured with a ruler.
A row of coarse bowls dried along the rim of the water jar, their bottoms facing the sky.
In the clearing before the warehouse, several little ones gathered around a wooden board to learn their characters, the voice leading them rising and falling.
Izumi crouched by the stove, feeding the firewood. When she looked up and saw him, she smiled first.
"The little bookkeeper's here." She dusted the ash from her hands. "Just in time. They've reached the character for 'accounts,' and I can't teach them any further. Your turn."
"Here." She pushed the charcoal into his hand. "These characters take more work than feeding a fire."
"I'll do it." Kiyoshi took it and crouched in front of the wooden board.
She got up to draw water from the jar, the cloth pouch against her chest bobbing with her steps.
The pouch was small, with a little bulge in it. She wore it while feeding the fire and while fetching water.
Kiyoshi glanced at it, filed that glance away, and asked nothing.
The children had a whole hierarchy of nicknames: the twelve-year-old who handed out water was called "the shopkeeper," because he was the fairest with his portions. The two who kept watch at night were "the night watchman" and "the wildcat." Last time, a five-year-old had pointed at Kiyoshi and called him "the little bookkeeper." This time, the child pointed at him again, then ran off.
The slope was a place where people lived now, not