The tenth month began with the sachets' tying.
Ren tied them at the work bench before dawn. Twelve sachets of the wound powder, tied in pairs. Each pair hung a moment from his fingers. The weight felt even across all six pairs. Labels went on as each sachet was finished. A tied sachet without a label did not exist here.
The hill road was cool at that hour. Mist lay in the lower lane's hollows. He carried the bundle in a flat basket this time. The basket rode level against his hip, steadied by one hand. At the office door, Osamu was sweeping the step. The clerk set his broom aside and took the basket in.
The inspection room held the smell of ink. Osamu untied nothing until the labels were read. He read them across the basket's rim, one by one. The labels were read first, all twelve of them. Only then did the sachets come out onto the cloth. He chose six of them, of his own choosing. He chose them without looking down at the cloth. His fingers found each sachet by its knot. Those six were weighed on the office scales. The six came through the weighing agreed. Each agreed with the standard it was weighed against.
The office money came from a drawer, not a tray. Osamu set the coin out in small piles across the drawer front. He spoke the sum once as the last pile fell. One thousand, four hundred and forty. Ren counted it back in silence, stack by stack. The sums agreed, as honest sums agree. The money went into the strongbox, under the month's own line. The tenth month was accepted, twelve of twelve. No word of praise was added to the line. The line did not need any.
Two names remained on the winter list. The twelfth name came in the morning's full light.
Gen was the plasterer's apprentice. A plasterer coats walls with smooth plaster. White dust whitened the boy's forearms to the elbow. A trowel's callus marked his right palm. He was young, and the fever was his own. It had kept him from the wall work two days. He set his coins down one by one, careful. He turned the last coin over twice in his palm. His breath came short while he counted it again. Then he set it down and nodded.
Ren lifted Gen's jar out of the front section. That section still held the second summer month's jars. He read the label out at the counter. Name, drying week, and mark, in their order. Gen listened with his whole attention on the words.
Then Ren said the course in short parts. One jar, one course of three days. A dose in the morning, a dose in the evening. The cup hot for every dose taken. Gen repeated each part after its saying. He missed nothing on the second saying. He tucked the jar inside his work jacket. The white dust would mark the jar's shoulder. The label would stay clean under his hand.
The price was the board's price, three hundred. It was the price for the list as for the street. Ren wrote the service against the twelfth name. Gen, the plasterer's apprentice, served in his turn. One name now remained on the page. The page had carried thirteen names since winter. Twelve of them had now been served in order.
Old Misao came in the hour before noon.
She kept the bathhouse towels in order. Towels for the bathhouse were her daily charge. She carried a folded towel over one forearm. Its fold was exact, edge matched to edge. Her step was slow from the bathhouse lane. Her coin cloth was knotted in three knots.
Ren untied none of them for her. She worked the knots loose at her own pace. The counter waited while she did it. Haste at a counter is a kind of rudeness. She counted the price out onto the wood. Three hundred, at the board's price, as always.
Her jar came from the second summer month. It was the last list jar of that month. Ren read its label before he set it down. The name, the drying week, the mark were read. Misao nodded at each part as it passed. Her nod came at once, with no pause between parts. She tapped the counter once when the mark was read.
She said the course back before he finished. Three days, morning and evening, the cup hot. Her voice was dry and pleased with itself. She had carried home courses for other people before. This one was hers, and she carried it herself.
At the door she stopped and turned once. "The bathhouse will manage its towels today," she said. "Other hands can fold for one day. Mine will be busy holding a cup." Then she laughed at her own joke, shortly. The laugh turned into a small cough at the end. She waved the cough away like steam off water. The folded towel went over the jar's top. She bore it out like a small covered dish. Behind her, the bathhouse lane took her back.
The winter list had no name left unserved. Ren looked at the page a long moment. Thirteen names had come onto it in the snow. Thirteen names had now been served from it. None had been passed over for a later name. None had been hurried ahead of its turn.
The street's jars filled the rest of the day.
First came a mason from the gate works. His wife's fever had risen in the night. A jar of that same front month went to him. He paid, heard the course, and went at once. Dust from the gate road greyed his sandals.
Next came the candle-stall keeper's daughter, for her house. Ine's granddaughter had a quick, clear way of speaking. Another jar of the front month went with her. She said the course back without a pause. Then she was gone down the lane again.
Third came a carter, still dusty from the road. His boy lay feverish at the lodging house. A third jar left the second summer month. The carter held it in both hands to the door. Both hands, all the way out of sight.
The fourth street jar came from that month too. A woman from the well lane asked for her brother. She had kept his house through two bad nights. Her eyes were tired, her counting was exact. The jar went home in her basket, under greens.
Then the month in front changed its count. Four jars of it remained on the shelf. Ren left the four standing together, untouched. The month would go out whole, not in crumbs, from the next day's first call. The second summer month had given what it gave that day. Only then did Ren reach past its slip. The next street jars came from the autumn month. A cooper's mate came in for his mother's fever. Kōsuke's workmate paid the price at the counter. He took a jar from the first autumn month. Its label was read, its course was said. He carried it toward the cooper's yard lane.
A bathhouse boy came next, for his aunt's fever. He took a jar from the first autumn month too. He heard the course and said it back clean. He carried the jar down the bathhouse lane.
The last street jar of the day came at dusk. A rope walker's wife asked for her husband's house. Rope was the trade of the first name served this spring. Her jar came from the first autumn month as well. Three autumn jars had gone to the street that day. Four summer jars had gone before them. The book would hold each jar at its month.
When the shutters went up, Ren read the shelf. He read it by its sections, label by label. The second summer month's section held four jars. Their labels faced out, in the front places. The first autumn month's section held thirteen. The second autumn month's section held sixteen. He counted the sections a second time, backward. Sixteen, thirteen, and four came back to him. The shelf agreed with the day's lines. Thirty-three jars in all, each at its month.
Then he washed the day's cups at the basin. He set the counter's cloth to dry on its peg. The shop settled into its night order around him. Only the book was still open on the counter.
At night Ren turned to the winter list's page.
He read the page from its first name down. Hana had been served first, in the winter itself. Jinsuke and Tami had followed in their order. Fumi had been served fourth, from her own house. The carter's boy had been served fifth, from his cart. Ine had been served sixth, by her daughter's counting. Then came the names the spring had finished off. Rui, and old Bunta, and Aya had gone in spring. Kōsuke and O-Haru had gone after them, in their order. Gen had been served that very morning. Old Misao had closed the page at noon.
He counted the names on his fingers once. Then he counted them in the book's lines again. Thirteen entered, thirteen served, in their order. No line on the page was a skipped line. Fumi's line had ended in the other way. She had been served fourth, in her turn. Her death was written on her winter page. The closing of this list did not erase it. Every course had been paid at the board's price.
He drew one clean line under the last entry. Under it he wrote the page's closing, in full. Then he let the ink dry before turning the leaf. A closed page deserved dry ink, not haste.
The tenth month: twelve of twelve, delivered and accepted. In: one thousand, four hundred and forty. The box holds ten thousand, eight hundred and ninety.
The winter list is closed. The twelfth name served: Gen, the plasterer's apprentice. The thirteenth name served: Old Misao, of the bathhouse towels. Both jars from the second summer month, in their order. Thirteen names entered. Thirteen served. None skipped. Fumi's end stands written on her winter page. The list stands at zero.
The street took seven jars today. Four came from the second summer month. Three came from the first autumn month.
On the shelf: thirty-three jars. The second summer month: four. The first autumn month: thirteen. The second autumn month: sixteen.
He put the book back on its shelf, spine out. The closed page stayed closed behind its cover. The shop was quiet in the late spring dusk. Somewhere down the lane, a bathhouse door sighed shut. The list that winter had written was finished. What came next would start on a clean page.