Chapter 9: New Year Mochi

On New Year's morning Tomoe woke before dawn and went to pound rice.

The steamed rice sat hot and glossy in the big wooden mortar.

She lifted the mallet and brought it down, and the sticky grains began to turn into dough.

The back door opened behind her.

"Let me," Shiori said.

She was in her work robe with her sleeves tied back.

"You'll break the mortar."

"I will not."

Shiori took the mallet in one hand and swung.

The rice smacked and flattened, and Tomoe darted in to turn it with wet fingers.

They found a rhythm in four strokes.

Thud, turn, thud, turn.

By the time the sky lightened, the dough was smooth and white, and Tomoe was laughing, and Shiori's face was flushed from work.

"This is the first New Year I have spent with anyone," Shiori said.

She said it to the mortar.

Tomoe wiped her hands on her apron.

"Then we'll make it a good one," she said.

She did not expect anyone else.

At noon the gate creaked, and Tomoe looked up from a tray of rolled mochi and saw the old rice-seller in the yard.

He was holding a bundle of pine branches in both hands.

Behind him, in a long line up the snowy path, came the whole village of Fumoto.

There were old women in padded jackets and men with baskets of tangerines.

There were children running ahead through the drifts, shrieking.

A boy of about seven stopped at the gate, looked at the hall, and froze.

Shiori had come out onto the porch.

She stood very straight, with her left hand on the sword.

"They came for you," Shiori said, low.

"They came for the mochi."

"Tomoe. They are afraid of me."

"They climbed a mountain in the snow."

Tomoe put a rolled mochi in her hand.

"Nobody does that for someone they're afraid of. Go and open the gate."

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