Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

Sei’s paralysis was total, but she could see everything, right up until the moment the nuns respectfully closed her eyelids, believing her to be dead. Even when she had warmed slightly, the venom still immobilized her. For three days, the ama-san prayed silently over her. Yakichi was alerted and came to bury the daughter who had sacrificed her life so that he might live.

The daimyo also came, to ensure that this was no hoax. He had heard that Sei was to be buried, which made him suspicious as it was a well-known fact that Buddhists were cremated so the flames would purify the soul. If flesh remained, the soul would still long for its existence on Earth and feel uneasy in Heaven. However it was Sei’s own written request that she be buried, because she wanted to exist forever as a part of the earth that Heisaku would continue to till.

Yakichi had brought Heisaku with him, but introduced him as a new glassblowing apprentice. Fear of the daimyo made this lie necessary. Who knew what he might do if he realized that this was the youth who had bested him for Sei’s affections?

The daimyo was the one who shut the lid to the coffin after ensuring that Sei was truly inside. Unable to move, Sei lay there listening to his horrible voice, “Yes, I am satisfied. She really is dead.” Sei was thankful that her eyelids had been drawn shut, for how awful it would have been if her last sight had been this loathsome man’s face.

Sei heard the sound of the stretching ropes as her coffin was lowered into the ground and her body given to the earth. Yakichi threw the first shovelful of dirt into the grave and Heisaku threw the next. All the while, Sei listened as the dirt thudded against the lid of her coffin.

And then there was a miracle. She felt the poison in her veins wear thin and her body begin to loosen. She was able to open her eyes but saw only darkness. She could wiggle her fingers and toes but was not yet recovered enough to lift her arms or legs, so she could not bang on the lid. But she knew that if she yelled, those above would be able to hear her. She could feel the ability creeping back into her throat, and felt elation that she would not die after all. All she had to do was yell…

Then Sei remembered her promise. She would become the wife of the daimyo if she spoke even a word to save herself. Her father would be executed, and Heisaku as well. The daimyo was right there with them, so there could be no denying that she had broken her word. There could be no denying that Heisaku had visited the temple.

And so, Sei shut her mouth and allowed herself to be buried alive. She listened to the dirt being thrown into her grave, with the sound becoming more muffled as every shovelful piled up above her. When the sound stopped altogether, she knew that the hole had been filled and that she was sealed into the earth.

Above the ground, Yakichi and Heisaku cried at the unfairness of Sei’s life. She had given up so much to protect the ones she loved, and this was her reward. As for the daimyo, he cared nothing about the woman who had been buried before him; he was simply satisfied to know that she had not tricked him once again.

As he’d never been to the temple before and it was unlikely he would ever return, the daimyo decided to explore the grounds before returning to his castle. The ama-san tried to prompt him along a path that would keep him away from Sei’s workshop but they were unsuccessful. When he pushed his way into the shop, he was astonished to see the glass likeness of Yakichi’s new “apprentice” standing there in a half-finished field of lilies. The daimyo was no fool: he immediately understood that this was a statue of the farm boy whom Sei had loved so well, and thus he also knew that the boy pretending to be the apprentice was Sei’s great love.

Light poured in through the temple windows and lit the statue. The very beauty of it, the care and detail, mocked the daimyo. He picked up a wooden rod that lay upon the workbench and swore that he would destroy the statue first, and then destroy the real boy. The daimyo lunged forward, swinging the rod like a scythe to cut through the glass lilies that surrounded the statue. The swipe was mighty, and broke through dozens in a single stroke.

There was an enormous blast as glass petals and stems erupted everywhere, riding a massive wave of sound. All the whispers of love that Sei had encased in her lilies came rushing forth simultaneously. Their force was so great that the glass shards traveled outward as if on the wind of a hurricane. They cut the daimyo completely, disfiguring him beyond recognition. The sound was so thunderous that he was deafened and all his hair turned instantly white.

The noise exited the workshop and spread out across the sky over Japan. People in every corner of the country could hear it, and later all agreed that it was the most beautiful thing they’d ever heard. It sounded like pure love.

The daimyo lived, but as a hobbled little half-man, scarred and beaten. His own anger and jealousy had done him in. He no longer had the spirit for intimidation and never again attempted to harm Heisaku or Yakichi.

Heisaku and Yakichi, for their part, loaded the glass statue into a cart and took it back to their village. Heisaku moved into the old man’s house as the son he never had, and they grew to be great friends. After all, they were bound by the love of the woman that they had both lost.

For the rest of their years, the glass statue sat in the middle of their house. It made Heisaku feel somewhat awkward to see his likeness every day, but it served a great purpose. When their grief for Sei’s loss became overpowering, Heisaku or Yakichi would break off a small section of the statue-a fingertip, a lock of hair, the petal of a remaining lily.

Aishiteru, aishiteru, aishiteru. From each broken pocket of glass, Sei’s voice would whisper out to ease their sorrow.

Even though she obviously knew the answer, Marianne Engel made a great show of asking me what day it was.

“Good Friday,” I answered.

“Follow me.” We climbed into her car and it was not a half-hour before I realized exactly where we were headed: to the hills where I’d crashed. When we arrived, there was nothing to indicate that the accident had ever occurred. The trees no longer looked as if they housed a dark troop of mercenaries sent to destroy me. The wooden posts had been replaced, restrung with new metal cable, and were now weathered enough to be indistinguishable from the rest. There were no tire tracks and no upturned dirt; it was just another curve. When I asked how she knew the exact site, Marianne Engel just smiled and let Bougatsa out of the backseat. He jumped around excitedly, and she had to scold him when he got dangerously close to the road’s edge.

She pulled a small leather bag from the car trunk and took me by the hand to the boundary between road and cliff. Here I saw the first indication that my accident had, indeed, happened. There was a still-scorched area at the base of the gully, a small black circle not unlike the period you’ll find at the end of this sentence, right beside the creek that had saved my life.

Motorists whizzed by, no doubt wondering what we were looking at. “Let’s go down,” she said, leading me past the new wooden posts. Bougatsa ran ahead of us, happily finding a path to the bottom that we could follow, and off to one side I saw a broken wedge of red plastic, a turn signal cover that had been ripped from a car. My car. My stomach tightened.

As we climbed down, there were dozens of rocky slots into which I could wedge my orthopedic shoes, but it was difficult to keep my balance. I tried to command my legs to react the way they would have before the accident, but it was not possible: my rebuilt knee was too feeble. When I told Marianne Engel I couldn’t make it down, she refused to accept that. She placed herself directly in front of me, her legs wedged against the slope, so that I could place my hands on her back. This provided enough resistance that I could make it to the bottom, and not claim otherwise.