#The Song Contest
zn07 closing story · Seriousness ★☆ · pure Scent (fiction). No rules or numbers appear.
Ono Sadayo loses. Today again, by a single syllable.
"In the autumn fields — standing alone — a single tree." The old monk serving as hanja (judge) tapped the fan against his knee. "The third line is one syllable short. Sadayo, you forgot to count on your fingers again."
"I did count! Five, seven, five — it was clearly five—"
"It was four."
The girl sitting across from him covered her mouth with her sleeve. Covering it did not stop the laughter from leaking out. You could plainly see her shoulders shaking.
"Chiyo. Don't laugh."
"I wasn't laughing." Chiyo laughed again. "Young master Sadayo's heart counts five but his fingers count four, that's all. You always come up one syllable short, don't you."
This gathering was a song contest held once a month on the veranda of the village shrine. The two were given the same topic, each composed one verse, and the old monk ranked them. And that ranking — as far as Sadayo counted — had leaned to Chiyo's side every month for twelve months straight.
Chiyo was a silk merchant's daughter, and Sadayo was the son of a fallen warrior house. Both had nothing to boast of but waka, yet only one of them was good at it. It was a galling business.
"Today's topic," the old monk said, clearing his throat, "is 'waiting.'"
Sadayo glared at the paper.
Waiting. An easy topic. So easy it was hard. Write "autumn" and it was stale; write "moon" and it aped Komachi; write "rain" and he'd probably miss a syllable again.
He glanced sideways at Chiyo. She was staring at the ceiling, brush tip pressed to her lips. At times like that, that girl — no, don't look. If he looked, the words wouldn't come. For a year now they hadn't come.
Suddenly, his fingers folded down five on their own.
That I am waiting / I can never bring to say / one autumn season // only the edge of your sleeve / I keep counting, over and over.
Once it was written, Sadayo turned red to his ears. Should he change "your sleeve" to "that sleeve"? No, "a distant sleeve"? Then no one would catch whose sleeve it was. His fingers counted the syllables again — "the edge of that sleeve" was five too. Changing it wouldn't break the meter. He could keep from being caught.
…But what good was it if he wasn't caught.
The old monk held out his hand. Time was up. With his heart about to leap out of his mouth, Sadayo handed over the paper, unaltered, just as it was.
The old monk spread the two papers side by side. He read Chiyo's first — smooth, lovely, not a single syllable off, that ever-winning skill. Then he read Sadayo's.
"…only the edge of your sleeve / I keep counting." The old monk raised an eyebrow. "Hm."
Chiyo dragged the paper over as if snatching it and read. Once. Twice. Her expression stiffened oddly.
"This." Chiyo's voice rose slightly. "This is mocking me, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Because I always win. 'Counting the edge of your sleeve' — you mean counting the number of times I've won, don't you. You're sneering that I've lost for twelve months straight! And wrapping it up prettily in a poem, no less!"
"No, that's not it—"
"It's underhanded. Count one more syllable fair and square, why don't you!"
Sadayo's mouth opened and closed. To make an excuse he'd have to say what it really meant, and rather than say what it really meant, he'd sooner miss one more syllable. The old monk was shaking his shoulders behind his fan. Shoulders with no intention whatsoever of helping.
"Chiyo." The old monk cut in. "If a quarrel starts over one verse, answering with one verse is the rule of this gathering. Compose a reply poem."
Vexed, Chiyo took up her brush.
Do not go counting — / the breast of the one who lost / aches the more // …it was I who won, and yet / why is it I who trembles?
Once it was written, Chiyo froze. She'd had no intention of writing the last two lines. Her hand had written them on its own. She lifted her brush to erase them, but the old monk had already snatched the paper away.
"Oho." The old monk read it aloud. "'It was I who won, and yet / why is it I who trembles?'"
Chiyo's face turned redder than the autumn leaves.
Sadayo traced the verse once under his breath. Five, seven, five, seven, seven. This time the syllables all came out right even without counting on his fingers. With the meter right, the meaning came through clearly too — far too clearly.
"Chiyo," Sadayo said carefully. "That… the 'your' in 'your sleeve' wasn't the number of wins."
"…I know." Chiyo hid her face with the paper. Hiding it did not keep how red she'd turned from showing. "You never miss a single syllable, yet you pretended not to understand for a whole year."
"That's because I come up one syllable short each time."
"…Then today?"
Sadayo spread his fingers. He folded down five, then slowly folded down the sixth all the way.
"Today I counted one syllable more."
The old monk stacked the two papers neatly together and did not rank them. Covering his mouth with the fan, he stepped down from the veranda. In the autumn wind, the wind chime at the edge of the shrine eaves rang once. It was neither five syllables nor seven, but both of them counted that sound clearly.
(End)