Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

I began a coolheaded assessment of my situation. First of all, the water came up only to my waist, so I didn't have to worry about drowning. True, I was unable to move, but that was probably because I had used up every ounce of strength. Once enough time had gone by, my strength would probably come back. The knife wounds didn't seem very deep, and the paralysis at least saved me from having to suffer with pain. The blood seemed to have stopped flowing from my cheek.

I leaned my head back against the wall and told myself, Its OK, don't worry. Everything had probably ended. All I had to do now was give my body some rest here, then go back to my original world, the world above-ground, where the sunlight overflowed.... But why had this well started producing water all of a sudden? It had been dried up, dead, for such a long time, yet now it had come back to life. Could this have some connection with what I had accomplished there? Yes, it probably did. Something might have loosened whatever it was that had been obstructing the vein of water.

Shortly after that, I encountered one ominous fact. At first I tried to resist accepting it as a fact. My mind came up with a list of possibilities that would enable me to do that. I tried to convince myself that it was a hallucination caused by the combination of darkness and fatigue. But in the end, I had to recognize its truth. However much I attempted to deceive myself, it would not go away.

The water level was rising.

The water had risen now from my waist to the underside of my bent knees. It was happening slowly, but it was happening. I tried again to move my body. With a concentrated effort, I tried to squeeze out whatever strength I could manage, but it was useless. The most I could do was bend my neck a little. I looked overhead. The well lid was still solidly in place. I tried to look at the watch on my left wrist, without success. The water was coming in from an opening-and with what seemed like increasing speed.

Where it had been barely seeping in at first, it was now almost gushing. I could hear it. Soon it was up to my chest. How deep was it going to get?

Be careful of water, Mr. Honda had said to me. I had never paid any heed to his prophecy. True, I had never forgotten it, either (you don't forget anything as weird as that), but I had never taken it seriously. Mr. Honda had been nothing more than a harmless episode for Kumiko and me. I would repeat his words as a joke now and then when something came up: Be careful of water. And we would laugh. We were young, and we had no need for prophecies. Just living was itself an act of prophecy. But Mr. Honda had been right. I almost wanted to laugh out loud. The water was rising, and I was in trouble.

I thought about May Kasahara. I used my imagination to picture her opening the well cover-with total reality and clarity. The image was so real and clear that I could have stepped right into it. I couldn't move my body, but my imagination still worked. What else could I do?

Hey, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said May Kasahara. Her voice reverberated all up and down the well shaft. I hadn't realized that a well with water echoed more than one without water. What are you doing down there? Thinking again?

I'm not doing any one thing in particular, I said, facing upward. I haven't got time to explain now, but I cant move my body, and the water is rising in here. This isn't a dry well anymore. I might drown.

Poor Mr. Wind-Up Bird! said May Kasahara. You emptied yourself out trying so hard to save Kumiko. And you probably did save her. Right? And in the process, you saved lots of people. But you couldn't save yourself. And nobody else could save you. You used up your strength and your fate saving others. All your seeds were planted somewhere else, and now your bag is empty. Have you ever heard of anything so unfair? I feel sympathy for you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, from the bottom of my heart. Its true. But finally, it was a choice you made yourself. Do you know what I mean?

I do, I said.

I felt a dull throb in my right shoulder. It really happened, then, I told myself. The knife really cut me. It cut me as a real knife.

Are you afraid to die, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? asked May Kasahara.

Sure I am, I said. I could hear my voice reverberating in the well. It was my voice, and at the same time it wasn't. Sure I'm afraid when I think about dying down here in a dark well.

Goodbye, then, poor Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said May Kasahara. Sorry, theres nothing I can do for you. I'm far, far away.

Goodbye, May Kasahara, I said. You looked great in a bikini. May Kasahara's voice was very quiet as she said, Goodbye, poor Mr. Wind-Up Bird. The well cover closed tightly again. The image faded. But nothing happened. The image was not linked to anything. I shouted toward the well mouth, May Kasahara, where are you now when I need you?

The water was up to my throat. Now it was wrapped around my neck like a noose. In anticipation, I was beginning to find it difficult to breathe. My heart, now underwater, was working hard to tick off the time it had remaining. At this rate, I would have another five minutes or so before the water covered my mouth and nose and started filling my lungs. There was no way I could win. I had brought this well back to life, and I would die in its rebirth. It was not a bad way to die, I told myself. The world is full of much worse ways to die.

I closed my eyes and tried to accept my impending death as calmly as I could. I struggled to overcome my fear. At least I was able to leave a few things behind. That was the one small bit of good news. I tried to smile, without much success. I am afraid to die, though, I whispered to myself. These turned out to be my last words. They were not very impressive words, but it was too late to change them. The water was over my mouth now. Then it came to my nose. I stopped breathing. My lungs fought to suck in new air. But there was no more air. There was only lukewarm water.

I was dying. Like all the other people who live in this world.

Hi, again, Mr. Wind-Up Bird.

Hey, are these letters really getting to you?

I mean, I've been writing you tons and tons of letters, and I'm really starting to wonder if they ever reach you. The address I've been using is a kind of kind of thing, and I don't put a return address on the envelope, so maybe they're just piling up on the little letter lost shelf in a post office somewhere, unread and all covered with dust. Up to now, I figured: OK, if they're not getting through, they're not getting through, so what? I've been scratching away at these things, but the important thing was for me to put my thoughts down on paper. Its easy for me to write if I think I'm writing to you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, I don't know why. Hey, yeah, why is that?

But this letter is one I really want you to read. I hope and pray it gets to you.

Now I'm going to write about the duck people. Yes, I know this is the first time I've mentioned them, but here goes.

I told you before how this factory I'm working in has this huge property, with woods and a pond and stuff. Its great for taking walks. The ponds a pretty big one, and thats where the duck people live, maybe twelve birds altogether. I don't know how their family is organized. I suppose they've got their internal arrangements, with some members getting along better with some and not so well with others, but I've never seen them fight.

Its December, so ice has started to form on the pond, but not such thick ice. Even when its cold, theres still enough open water left so the ducks can swim around a little bit. When its cold enough for thick ice, I'm told, some of the girls cone here to ice-skate. Then the duck people (yes, I know its a weird expression, but I've gotten in the habit of using it, so it just comes out) will have to go somewhere else. I don't like ice-skating, so I'm kind of hoping there wont be any ice, but I don't think its going to do any good. I mean, it gets really cold in this part of the country, so as long as they go on living here, the duck people are going to have to resign themselves to it.