razed whole villages at a whim. Yet as I look out over the garden and see the backs of villagers bent over the flowers, I realize that “raze” means more than one thing.
A windstorm last night left the flowers broken and scattered just before the Japanese delegation's visit. We woke well before sunrise, picking strands of stem from between the grass with our nimble fingers and retying ribbons onto healthy blooms. These visitors are my favorites, for they take careful steps and stay on the path. But today is windless, and the Emperor wants to show off his musical gardens, so he takes his waking stick and ruffles the heads of a patch of daises vigorously. I stiffen as I see flowers break, bells fall, ribbons disintegrate.
In the candlelight before bed, I urge the others to organize. Refuse these conditions. Escape. They call me a madman, for the Emperor pays generous wages, far more than we could ever make fishing or baking. Their disdain silences me, and I make a gentle joke about my temper and pretend to sleep.
In some stroke of cosmic lunacy, the Emperor gives me an award for the fastest belling. He serves me a lavish dinner in the servants' hall, but I grumble as I eat my ephemeral reward. The rich food tastes queer to me and makes me violently ill. Still, what else would I like? A golden medal, to hang around my neck while I scramble in the dirt?
The court develops a passion for a bird in the nearby forest. They trample the garden to visit the forest, and we scurry behind, beginning the cleanup as soon as they leave. The madman will expect his garden to be perfect on his return, and we have no way of knowing how long the bird will amuse him. They return from the forest exhausted by their meagre exertion, weakly dragging their shoes, parasols, lunch pails, and dresses over the flowers, crushing stems and breaking bells. I curse them behind my subservient smile and write out an order for ten-thousand new bells, for the Emperor has promoted me to Head Clerk of my Cabinet.
As Head, I see more clearly. My fellow workers do shockingly little. They tie the ribbons sloppily without using the sharp tips of their tweezers. Many unthinkingly stare off into the middle distance. Others vie for my favor. One in particular, a middle-aged woman name Ani, tries to pass off her neighbor's work as her own, hoping to gain a reward.
34 | Psychopomp Magazine