The Hats for the Six Jizō

High up in the mountains of Japan, where the pine trees stood silent under the weight of snow, there lived an old man and his old wife in a small wooden house. It was the day before New Year's Eve. The wind tiptoed around the corners, and long icicles hung from the roof, glittering in the pale afternoon light. Inside the house, everything was quiet. A thin glow flickered on the small hearth, and in the rice pot, where mochi usually simmered before the New Year, there was nothing at all.

'We have no rice and no turnips,' said the old woman softly, turning an empty bowl in her hands. 'And not a single mochi to place on the altar.' The old man nodded slowly. He looked out through the little window and watched the snow falling, quiet as flour, over the mountain path. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'I'll weave some straw hats tonight. Tomorrow I'll carry them down to the village and sell them at the market. Then we'll have a small bag of rice to start the new year.'

All night the old man sat on the straw mat and wove. His thin fingers worked nimbly, and the straw twisted into a round hat, then into another. Outside, snow fell over the mountains, and inside the old man wove one, two, three, four, five, six straw hats. When the last one was finished and tied with a cord, the first morning was shining pale yellow through the paper of the window. He slung the hats onto his back in a bundle and tied his own worn straw hat under his chin.

'Be careful,' said the old woman at the door. She slipped a bamboo hand-warmer filled with hot coals down into his sleeve. The old man smiled and bowed slightly. Then he stepped out into the snow. The path down from the mountain was long and white. The snow crunched like fresh rice husks under his sandals, and his breath rose up in little white clouds. The trees stood motionless, and the whole world seemed to be listening.