falling from invisible branches.
“The transparencies of the way to Hanase are renowned,” said the boatman, coming up to Petrus. “They are said to be even more beautiful than the ones in Nanzen. Whatever the case may be, they both share the memory of the origins.”
“The origins?” echoed Petrus, who was thinking of other things.
He had a headache and everything was muddled again.
“The memory of trees,” said the boatman, looking at him, somewhat puzzled.
“What does that have to do with origins?” muttered Petrus out of mere politeness.
The boatman stopped in the middle of the path.
“What do you mean, what does it have to do with origins?” he asked.
“Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere,” said Petrus. Suddenly wrested from his thoughts, he didn’t understand a thing, but didn’t want to get in trouble either.
The boatman began walking again.
“There are some, nowadays, who forget the origins,” he said, with a mixture of anger and sadness; “it does not bode well.”
“Would you be so kind as to close your trap until tomorrow?” muttered Marcus.
“I was thinking of something else,” Petrus replied, “my head is upside down and my stomach is empty.”
“He’s thinking about eating,” said Marcus, turning back to Paulus.
“By the way,” said Petrus, “the memory of trees, the whispering of pines, the breathing of the world—I had my fill of all that in the Deep Woods, don’t start on it again here.”
Paulus tapped him curtly on the head.
“Shut your mouth,” he said, “I don’t want to hear you blaspheming.”
Petrus rubbed his scalp reproachfully.
“What is this city of the dead, anyway? If someone would tell me, maybe I would shut up.”
Paulus sighed and, working his way toward the front of the procession, went to speak to the boatman.
“Could you tell us where there might be a teahouse open at this time of night?” he asked.
“I’ll take you there,” said the boatman, glancing with dismay at Petrus. “You can also sleep there.”
But after a short silence, he gave a smile that spread from ear to ear on his silken otter face.
“At least you don’t get bored with this one around,” he said.
Before long, they arrived at the gates of Hanase. The streets were narrow, but as they walked up toward the top of the hill, they passed large gardens where gray flakes were rising, then enveloping the city. It was dark in those enclosures, and they could just make out the shapes of trees and rocks, and other, rounder shapes, from which the ashen sequins seemed to be wafting. Petrus, who had forgotten his headache and his hunger, followed his companions in silence, absorbed by the unusual atmosphere of the city. They passed a crowd of elves wandering through the halo of cottony particles, along the sides of beautiful houses where wooden verandas were adorned with low tables and comfortable cushions.
“Pilgrimage houses,” said the boatman to Paulus, pointing to one of them. “You could have spent the night there, too. But I think your friend needs a more robust experience.”
At the very top of the city, they stopped outside a dwelling plunged in darkness. On the wooden sign to the right of the entrance they could only make out the sign for tea.
“The oldest teahouse in Hanase,” said the boatman.
“I hope they have room,” said Marcus. “I’m exhausted.”
“It’s Nanzen that ordains the flow of tea,” said the boatman. “There is always room.”
He bowed amiably.
“Now I shall leave you,” he said.
And to Petrus, half-derisive, half-kindly:
“Good luck, my friend.”
The three companions, now on their own, looked at one another.
“Do we have to knock?” asked Paulus.
“Would you rather sing a serenade?” replied Petrus testily.
He was hungry again and he felt a shooting pain in his head. Raising his hand, he prepared to knock.
Before he had time to complete his gesture, the door soundlessly slid open to reveal a vestibule perfumed with an aroma of undergrowth and iris. On the dirt floor, three large flat stones, freshly rinsed with clear water, invited them to move forward into the darkness. At the back of the entrance, an elevated wooden floor led to a doorless opening, enhanced with a short, two-paneled curtain bearing the sign for tea. It had been calligraphed in a style whose name our friends didn’t know, but I may reveal it, if you like, because it matters to the beauty of the moment: and so, drawn in the style of wild grasses, the sign for tea invited them to enter. Beneath their bare feet the water was like the ford of a river. In an alcove