Conclusions,
as I have already mentioned, are difficult. The reader tends to trip
over loose ends like a child with shoes untied. All questions and
conflicts in the story need to be resolved, either within a chapter
or at the conclusion.
Resolution
is a key element in most art forms. Music, specifically as composed
in the western hemisphere, is built on tones that become chords that
are ordered so that a progression demands resolution. The key of 'C',
for example, in its simplest configuration, is comprised of the 'C'
chord. the 'F' chord and the 'G' chord. Played on any instrument, the
final 'G' chord begs to return to 'C'.
Not
all resolution is so clear cut. Popular fiction and literary fiction
might well use very different means to conclude a story. Popular
fiction emphasizes plot foremost, then character and lastly theme.
Dick Francis has sold millions of books. Commonly called
page-turners, his plots are tight and his characters distinctive.
Themes, besides horses and horse racing, tend to be subjects such as
banking, flying, painting and the like. Easy to understand.
Samuel
Beckett writes literary fiction (though he would have likely rejected
the label). Presenting a theme is the primary objective. Characters
and plot take a back seat. And abstraction is the order of the day.
Angst and anti-heros, chaos, confusion, death, and a wry brand of
humor are the subjects he presents. Beckett has won a Nobel prize for
literature. He does not write page-turners.
If
label this story I must, then stamp it with Literary Fiction.
The
Blind Geisha
III
- 13
Dogs
Run Madly
Dogs
yapping down the beach. A calling man's voice. Fog. The gulls make
dogs run madly cross the sand chasing elusive dreams, thought
Elizabeth. Dogs madly chasing gulls and elusive ... "Literate
this morning, I am". She rubbed the fingers of her hand around
the window pane smearing the condensation. Or is it 'literary'? She
heard Micki moving about downstairs. Whatever. Gumption, she thought.
I lack gumption this morning. Need gulls to chase. Galling.
"Grace,"
she said. It's her, downstairs, moving about, not ...
"Good
morning," the young woman called. "I have news."
"Good
or bad?"
"A
friend in Palo Alto has turned up another gem." Grace was
smiling. She stood at the bottom of the stairs as Elizabeth made her
way slowly down. Not as spry this morning, the young woman thought.
"Shall we go to the parlor?"
"Did
you spell that with a 'u', Gracie? You didn't, did you? Such a
slacker you are. Self-discipline is the key to survival. Just ask any
samurai you see." Elizabeth stopped and puffed and said, "Phew,
I am pathetic this morning."
"Were
you up early again?"
"Yes,
yes. My demented brain is busier than our little yellow humming
birds, flitting here and there."
"Candles?"
The
old woman tapped her forehead with the back of her hand. "Oh,
fiddlesticks," she said.
"I'll
get them," Grace said. "No worries. You come on down,"
and she extended a hand.
"Thank
you, dear. I'll just get my coffee and meet you in the parlour. With
or without that 'u'."
"The
manila envelope on the table," Grace said from the top of the
stairs, turning, looking down. "Your surprise."
Elizabeth
regarded the plain brown, slightly rumpled package perched against a
mug. She poured coffee. As she lifted her cup, pain broke her thumb's
grip and the cup tilted away, sloshing coffee on to the counter top,
the floor. Chin to chest, she gave a shake of her head, slumped
against the edge of the sink. Groaned.
"Beth,"
came Grace's voice.
"Here."
"What
is it, Bessie?
Another
shake of the head. "Nothing. Infirmities."
"I've
got you."
Arm
in arm, the two women moved slowly to the parlour.
They
sat quietly. A gray morning. Distant gulls.
"Shall
we have a look?" Grace said. Go ahead; you do the honors."
From
the envelope, Elizabeth extracted a thin sheaf of 81/2 x 11 pages.
They were crisp and white with a green post-it in the upper left
corner. "The squid man?" Elizabeth said.
"My
friend in Palo Alto was researching the Kuro Shio, the Japanese
Current and how it produces eddies all along the coast of Japan. Put
simply, little fish come with these eddies and the big fish follow,
including the fishermen with their fishing boats. This," taking
up the manuscript, "is a copy of a log from one of those boats.
15th century. Wood, scow-shaped, that distinctive junk rigging."
"Junk?"
"Think
delicate ribbed fan and blow it up big. Stick it on a post. Put the
post on a boat. Junk."
"Ah."
Grace
thumbed through the forty odd pages of the manuscript. Half-way
through, she stopped and squared the small stack.
"She
was scanning this document, this ship's log, and came across a
heading that read, literally: Old Woman In Hut. Onna no koya.
And, according to the coordinates, this was just down the coast a
mile or so from where our little Mori grew up. She called; we
talked."
"Antecedents,
dear. Most important. Your friend called, yes? Not our little Mori."
Grace
shook her head. "Pedantic. Whatever. The upshot is that while
the woman in the log is unnamed, the dates seem right and it could
be her. It should be."
Position: 34ยบ
N, through Bungo Strait, then SSW
Date: 3rd day, Changing Clothes Month,
12th year Sengoku
Clear, wind NNW, swell 2 feet, filled
hold with young squid
The old woman still living in hut.
Found her there at the end of the season. Many squid this year with
the big eddy sweeping them in onto the shelf. It is good not to have
to sail deep water and contend with the black current.
And in the margin, after the date,
another green post-it with '1479' written on it.
"This
is the first reference in the log. The Sengoku period began in 1467
with the Onin War and ended in 1615. But clearly this fisherman had
seen her before. It goes on," and Grace read from the
highlighted script of the manuscript.
We left her to it. Warm, this winter,
and dry. We give her squid. She gives us song. Dead eyes, but sweet
voice.
"That
was the clincher for me. 'Dead eyes' was the translation of shindame.
A figurative phrase for 'blind'? I've sent a query to a man in Japan.
We should hear in a couple of days. So there's location, date, age of
the woman, her apparent blindness, and her singing. Like I said, if
this wasn't Mori, it should be."
Elizabeth
frowned. "Except for that 'old'," she said. "She was
fifty something. Old?"
"A
relative term."
"Oh
really? Look at me. Look at you."
Grace
smiled and shook her head. "Mori was somewhere in between. But a
much different time." She leaned forward. "Might have
been, then. Likely, I think. And several weeks later there was this,"
and Grace read:
Whaler's Cove. 14th year.
Ran from storm. Anchors out fore and
aft. Careened her after. Barnacles again. Took ship's boat up coast
looking for schools. Found woman down the beach. Dead. Buried her up
above tide line. Rocked the mound. Burnt the hut.
"Took
sick and died, she did," Elizabeth said. "Alone on her
beach."
"The
ague no doubt." Grace thumbed the pages.
"The
same year as Ikkyu's death, yes?"
"The
same."
"Coincidence
or ..."
The
two women sat quietly.
"Synchronicity,"
Elizabeth said. She frowned.
"Ah,"
said Grace.
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