Chapter 23: The Road Home

The last of the snow lay in grey patches along the path, and the gate of the dojo stood wide open.

Tomoe heard the hammering from the bend in the trail.

It rang off the mountainside in a dozen different rhythms.

"What is that?" she said.

"I do not know," said Shiori.

They came around the corner together and stopped.

The whole village was on the roof.

Fumoto's carpenters sat astride the ridge beam with nail pouches at their belts, and women passed up bundles of new thatch from the yard.

Boys ran in and out of the woodshed with planks.

The old rice-seller stood in the middle of the yard, directing the whole thing with a long pole.

On the porch a row of children sat with their legs dangling, eating rice crackers.

"You said the east wing roofs fell in," he called, without turning round. "We thought it might be rude to wait."

"I did not ask for this," said Shiori faintly.

"No one ever asks," the old man said. "Go inside. You are in the way of the beam."

Tomoe laughed so hard she had to hold on to the gatepost.

They did not get to the hall for another hour.

Someone pressed a bowl of hot barley tea into her hands, and someone else pressed a bag of dried persimmons into Shiori's.

A woman Tomoe had never met kissed her on both cheeks.

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