“Don’t fall behind,” Dad called out, and we picked up the pace, careful not to slip.
We moved to the side of the path and walked through the torii gate. Traditionally, the middle was reserved for the gods.
The path beyond the gate stretched before us, so long we couldn’t see where it led. The snow had been cleared, but there were still clumps of it mixed with gravel below our feet, and we had to walk slowly to avoid falling.
Ayase wasn’t used to the snow and almost slipped a few times, so I showed her a trick. You had to step on the snow as if grabbing it with the soles of your feet.
The ground beyond the torii was mostly level, and after about fifteen minutes, we’d made it halfway. The spot was marked with a large, vermilion-painted gate with a thatched roof. Had it not been winter, the ground would have been covered with grass, but now it was covered with snow. Lengths of hemp rope used for purification, called shimenawa, hung from the top of the gate, blocking worldly misfortunes from entering. Ayase pulled out her phone again and took more photos.
She must really like old buildings.
I took another look at the gate before me.
“When something is this old, you can really feel the history,” I said.
“Mm. There’s more to it than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“People say they feel a sense of history when they look at something old, but I don’t think that’s the real reason. Don’t you think we’re really talking about how the building has been treated?”
“How it’s been treated?”
“For example, say you found an old Daruma doll—you know, the ones you paint the eyes on when you make a wish? Well, let’s say the one you found didn’t have any eyes. That would mean no one had ever used it. The doll is still old, but looking at it would just make you feel sad.”
“Ah.”
“Wooden buildings exposed to the rain decay and disappear without proper maintenance. People often say that vacant buildings are more susceptible to damage.”
Ayase’s words reminded me of something she’d said in the car on our way to Nagano.
“Old buildings carry lots of memories.”
It seemed like what Ayase was trying to say was this: The rustic vermilion gate in front of us wasn’t just old—people had appreciated and cared for it all these years. The very fact that it was still there was proof of that.
I said as much, and she nodded.
“Exactly.”
Was that what she meant by a building’s memories?
“Are you into profiling?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“It sometimes comes up in mystery novels. You use statistics to come up with a description of the perpetrator of a crime.”
“Isn’t that the same as deduction?”
“You’re not just trying to figure out who the culprit is, you’re coming up with a statistically likely description of what sort of person commits a certain type of crime. Exceptions always exist, of course. For example, two murderers might have wildly different motives. In fact, those differences are the whole reason we have whydunits.”
“…Asamura, you really know your mystery novels.”
“You’re exaggerating…”
To be honest, I knew someone who was a lot more into mystery novels at work. For a moment, the figure of a Japanese beauty with long black hair flashed in my mind.
“That’s just some stuff I read in a book once,” I said. “Anyway, you’re interested in how old buildings became what we see now, right?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“It’s like ‘My Grandfather’s Clock.’”
That was a song about a clock that kept running from the time the narrator’s grandfather was born until he died. There was even a story about the real-life clock that inspired the song’s author.
You could look at something a person made or received and tell how it was created or how much it was treasured or neglected. In the song, the clock stopping is directly compared to the grandfather’s death.
“Please don’t sing it,” Ayase said immediately.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I can’t bear to hear it.”
“You don’t like it?”
“It makes me cry.”
There were candles burning on either side of the path, glowing in the darkness. I could only barely make out Ayase’s face in the dim light. But her words were so unexpected that I couldn’t help staring.
“Oh… Okay, then.”
We went up the steps and passed the stone komainu, then entered the shrine grounds. Unfortunately, the water at the purification fountain was frozen, so I wasn’t able to wash my hands.
We proceeded to the front of the shrine, then I tossed the five yen I’d brought into the offering box and rang the bell. The sound echoed through the darkness. I bowed twice and clapped my hands twice. I typically did this simple, standard prayer unless strict formality was called for.
The second time I brought my hands together, I naturally began to think over the past year. I could feel my mind calming and my thoughts sorting out.
The custom of visiting a shrine or temple at the start of the new year originated in the Heian period, when the head of a family would spend the night at a shrine housing their guardian deity. They’d stay there from New Year’s Eve until the morning of January first, praying for a good harvest and for their family’s safety. These days, however, I got the feeling that Ninen-Mairi was more about reflecting on the past and renewing your spirit in readiness for the upcoming year.
These were my thoughts as I closed my eyes before the shrine.
✦ ✦ ✦
A lot had happened that year.
It was only six months ago in June when Dad married Akiko and we welcomed her and Ayase into our home.
All of a sudden, I had a stepsister the same age as I was. At first, I was stunned by her flashy clothes, so different from my own.
I’d helped her study for her Modern Japanese exam, then I’d gone to the pool with her and other students from our school during the summer. That was a rare event for me, since I tended to stay at home.
It was then that I’d realized I was in love with her.
That had been painful for me. Both our parents had gone through terrible divorces and were trying hard to make sure their new family would be happy. I knew they were still hoping we would get along well as siblings.
We had a lot of misunderstandings, but by the beginning of autumn, we’d finally come out and confided in each other about our growing feelings. We decided to spend time with each other, doing whatever we felt was permissible for particularly close siblings. But then, on Halloween night, we kissed…
The events of the past year flashed through my mind, one after the other. Then I finished praying and opened my eyes. People were lining up behind us; there was no time for me to lose myself in memories. I bowed one last time, then retreated from the worship hall.
Our parents had been waiting for us, and as we walked back toward them, I asked Ayase what she’d prayed for.
She chuckled and said, “I was so busy thinking about the past year that I didn’t have time to make a wish.”
I laughed and said I did the same.
The four of us retraced our steps and headed back to the parking lot.
“Hey,” Ayase said. “Don’t you want to get your fortune?”
“Oh, yeah. I get one every year.”
Dad overheard us and said, “Let’s do that before we head home, then.”
We got into the car and headed for the shrine midway up the mountain. During the winter, they didn’t give out fortunes at the upper shrine.
Eventually, we reached our destination and got our fortunes. But when Ayase opened her slip, she froze.
“It says my luck is terrible…”
“I didn’t know they even gave out bad fortunes on New Year’s,” I said.
“What about you, Asamura?”
“Slightly lucky.”
She glared at me. Hey, it’s not my fault. Though I guess I did say I wanted to do this…
“If it’s bad, you can leave it behind,” Dad suggested. “Look, you can hang your slip over there.”
I looked in the direction he was pointing and saw numerous white pieces of paper hanging from a rope.
Ayase neatly folded her slip and tied it firmly to the rope.
She was smiling when we left, but I got the feeling she was still a little upset.
Leaving the still-ringing bell behind us, we left the shrine and welcomed the new year.