There was once a boy who lived in a village in a valley of Japan. His village had wooden houses with sliding doors and rushing water and creeks. One hot summer day, it rained heavily from dawn to dusk. The creeks got deeper and wilder, and the boy, Makoto, thought it was the perfect time to venture down to the creek and hop from rock to rock. Makoto loved to watch the water, to feel it gushing over his hands. He put on a finely-woven straw hat and his blue shoes. Makoto’s mother was fixing lunch, and she told him to be back in half an hour so he could eat with his father when he came home from his job at the post office. Makoto told his mother that he would be back by then. Stretching his socks up to his knees so he would not get mosquito bites, Makoto started down the road. Not many others were on the road at the time, but Makoto did not mind. He liked to be by himself, to breathe in the fresh, thick air, to wade in the creek, to trek amongst the large green trees of the valley School had just ended, and Makoto went out every day to see something new, or to visit old special places. School had just ended, and Makoto went out every day to see something new Makoto headed down the road, and stopped at the post office to say hello to his dad. Makoto reached into his pocket and took out a few pumpkin seeds. He handed them to his dad over the counter where he worked, selling people stamps or arranging for their letters and packages to be mailed. Makoto pressed the seeds into his father’s hand and his father smiled and thanked him. “Where are you off to today?” he asked Makoto. “The creek,” Makoto told him. Then, in a hurry to get there, Makoto waved to his father and ran down the rest of the road. Makoto walked past the giant bamboo stalks and he stepped carefully down to the creek. He hopped from rock to rock, and then stopped to listen to the loud, rushing water. He looked to his right, where two waterfalls stood. They had been there for hundreds of years. He hopped onto three more rocks, slipping on the last one, which was wet and slippery. He fell on it and scraped his knee, and as he scrambled up on the opposite bank, his shoe was pulled from his foot and swept down the river. Makoto ran down the riverbank as fast as he could. He caught up with his shoe, but then it floated away from him and under the bridge. There was no bank for him to run on and no rocks to hop on. He waded into the creek, then swam through the creek and under the bridge. His shoe had caught in between two rocks. He swam closer to it, but was soon swept off to the side. Makoto was tired from swimming and his limbs were sore. He pulled himself up onto the bank, and lay down on his side. He was wearing only one shoe. He turned to lie down on his back on the muddy bank. He sat for a long while, just thinking and sitting still. Then he remembered that he had been asked to be home to eat lunch with his father. His shoe was no longer in sight and Makoto was so tired that he couldn’t bring himself to swim through the rushing water and the sharp rocks. He decided that he would sit on the bank until a villager noticed him. But if he didn’t arrive home soon, his parents would be worried. Makoto was just falling asleep when he heard an ancient voice whisper into his ear. “I will take you back, and look! I found your shoe.” Makoto opened one eye and then two. A turtle was standing in the mud next to him. On the turtle’s back was his shoe! Makoto thanked him gratefully and put his shoe back onto his foot. The turtle waded into the water. “Climb onto my back,” he said. Makoto sat down on the turtle’s back and he leaned forward and held on tight to the turtle’s beautiful shell. Then the turtle swam swiftly into the water. Makoto held his breath, but the turtle assured him that he didn’t need to. Makoto breathed in, and water came out his nose. “I wasn’t ever able to breathe water before!” he told the turtle. The turtle smiled wisely and said to Makoto, “Did you ever try?” Makoto had not. The turtle said to him, “Makoto, you have always been one of us” The turtle said to him, “Makoto, you have always been one of us. You are really a human body and mind, but your spirit and soul are turtle. Once every seven years we give one newborn child the ability. The child can breathe and swim like us. When you fell into the creek when you were young, all the turtles of the creek circled around you to cast the spell. Your mother came and took you out of the water just after you had become part turtle.” Makoto was amazed with the turtle’s tale, and he believed it. He even found himself about to check if there was a shell on his back, but he remembered that his appearance was human. He began to get used to breathing water, and soon they had swum under the bridge. The turtle paddled in between rocks, and then up the bank. Makoto turned to say goodbye and thank you to the turtle. But the turtle had swum back into the creek. Makoto crossed the creek on the rocks once again, and he held on with his hands so that he didn’t slip. He hurried up to the road and ran toward his house. His slid open the door and took
Mythology
Arachne
Arachne was my sister, but we were as different as night and day. I was tall and lanky, tanned from hours spent on the seashore hunting for the shellfish that Father used in his dye. She was small and pale from hours in front of the loom, doing the weaving that had brought her fame. Ever since she was small, Arachne had been able to take an ordinary piece of cloth and turn it into a blaze of color and beauty that would take your breath away. On her work, figures breathed and flowers blossomed. Her amazing weaving had spread through Greece, and now people came from Crete, Sparta, Macedonia, places we had never heard of, to see the miracle weaver for themselves. On the morning that it happened, the spectators were already thick around our hut. Father was behind it, dying a new batch of yarn. I was looking for my best friend, Cora. We liked to stand behind the crowd and hear their praise and Arachne’s biting remarks. Besides extraordinary weaving skills, my sister also possessed a sharp tongue. Finally, I was about to resort to looking in the pig sty when I heard Cora calling me. “Alethea!” She was standing by the crowd. I joined her with a dirty look. She shrugged and mouthed, I was at the beach, and I mentally kicked myself for not thinking of that. We turned our attention back to the crowd just in time to hear a man joke to his companion, “Now if only my wife could weave like that! I’d be richer than the emperor! How does she do it?” Arachne had challenged Athena, and Athena had come Arachne’s response was quick and sharp. “I certainly did not learn by standing still and gawping like a goat! I used my own two hands, to a much better result than you!” Another woman murmured, “What skill! Surely, dear, you must have been taught by Athena herself !” She made two of the worst mistakes you could make with Arachne. Father once absentmindedly called Arachne dear and she threw a fit and tore one of the tapestries she had woven that day into shreds. Arachne also hated to be compared to anyone. I held my breath and hoped Arachne wouldn’t kill the woman or tear the cloth, because we needed the money. Thankfully, her attack was fully verbal. “How dare you compare me to that goddess! My weaving is far better than hers, but she won’t admit it! I would challenge her to a contest, but of course she wouldn’t come!” In the shocked quiet that followed this outburst, a hunched, ragged old woman near the front suddenly spoke in a quavering yet surprisingly firm voice. “You foolish girl. Nothing good has ever happened to mortals who challenged the gods. Take back what you said at once, and later make an offering to Athena, lest she truly come and unleash her fury on you.” For an inexplicable reason, my blood ran cold when she uttered the final threat, and I glanced at Cora. She was pale under her tan. Gripped by fear, I started to squeeze my way through the crowd, trying desperately to reach Arachne before something happened to her. I also kept an eye on the strange old woman as well as I could. But she was too angry and too proud to notice anything but this old woman that dared to rebuke her. “I will not take back my challenge!” Arachne raged. “What do you, a ragged old beggar, know of me? I am the greatest weaver among both the gods and the mortals, and Athena is welcome to compete against me!” Barely had her words died off when the old woman began to glow. She threw off her ragged cloak and was suddenly dressed in a shining white chiton. She grew taller, and her face was radiant and beautiful, tender yet at the same time stern. I had seen that face before, on statues in temples. Arachne had challenged Athena, and Athena had come. My sister stood silently before her loom, and her face was a thunderstorm of emotion. Anger, astonishment, and was that fear? The crowd was silent with shock, waiting for something more to unfold. Finally, Arachne’s mouth tightened into a thin, determined line, and she motioned Athena towards another loom that was standing in the corner. She removed the cloth she had been working on and, without any further ado, began a new weaving. Athena did too. Someone must have told Father because he came running with two baskets filled with skeins of his yarn, in colors bright as the rainbow and as varied. He silently placed one basket by Arachne and one by Athena, with a bow to her. Then he looked around and came to stand beside me. We watched without a word. Athena wove faster than Arachne. A pattern began to take shape on her loom. I strained to see, and suddenly understood. It was a warning to Arachne. In the center of the pattern, Athena competed with Poseidon for possession of Athens. She stood by her newly created olive tree, and the sea god stood tall by his creation, the horse. The other gods were also there, Zeus in the middle, blazing with glory. It was clear, somehow, that they were all favoring Athena. On the four corners of the cloth, the goddess had woven the terrible fates of mortals who had dared to compete with the gods. It was clear what Arachne’s fate would be if she continued to defy Athena. I turned to see my sister’s weaving, and gasped. Her face was hard and angry, and her pattern was a direct insult to the gods. There was Leda, with Zeus disguised as the swan, and Danae, locked in her tower, visited by Zeus as a golden ray of light. I also recognized Europa and the bull. All the unworthy acts of the gods were displayed on Arachne’s
