The dark little birds hurtling from the sky sent Hiroshi scrambling towards shelter. Once safely under the bamboo shed’s roofing and conscious of the hammering overhead, he looked back. Astonishingly, Hanagawa was walking calmly down the forest path towards him. Her wide-brimmed farmer’s hat offered paltry protection and seeing her continue stubbornly, despite being knocked-off stride repeatedly by the beaked projectiles, turned Hiroshi’s blind panic into disbelief.
Was she mad? Why wasn’t she running for her life?
He knew he had not married an ordinary country girl. Since their wedding, Hiroshi had heard whispers about Hanagawa, her family and their habits. Whenever he asked for an explanation, the wagging tongues of the village would say that the peculiarities of Hanagawa’s character were typical of north country people. Then the voices would fall silent. A silence caused more by uneasiness than deference, Hiroshi always felt. Subjecting oneself to lashings by suicidal birds would only serve to lend credence to such wild rumors.
As she entered the shed, Hanagawa took off the hat, letting her hair fall loose. On seeing him staring at her, she laughed disquietingly.
“Why are you laughing? Why did you not hurry when the birds were attacking you? You might have gotten yourself blinded!”
Hanagawa’s expression changed to the kind of concerned look that always made him uneasy.
“Hiroshi-san,” she began gently, her voice carrying an undercurrent of concern,
“Birds, you said? What birds?”
Hiroshi followed her gaze back up the forest path which was littered with dozens of . . . tempting, rosy peaches. Had his eyes deceived him?
“Dear husband. Did you say that birds attacked me? Those are only ripened fruits. Be truthful. Are you seeing and hearing things again?”
Hanagawa gave Hiroshi the look again.
Photo from Unsplash.com by Masoomeh Salek