When Algren returned to the village, travel-worn, battle-weary
and alone, Taka looked at him with a wordless smile, a trace of
relief visible in the arch of her eyebrows, the curve of her
upper lip. Like water dripping over cold stones in a stream
peace flooded over him, taking away the guilt he had born for
such a very long time – she did not blame him for what had
happened.  In silence, she took up her basket and opened the
small, wooden gate for him.  That night, he lay down on the
futon spread on the floor and let Taka pour sake on his wounds,
the stinging pain on his side and the ache inside him reminding
him freshly of the death on the battlefield. Opening his eyes,
he looked at Taka's hands, so delicately tying up the wounds he
had taken on the behalf of the village he had come to love more
than his home.  Wordlessly, with needle and thread she sewed his
hurts, her fingers staining in his blood. Afterwards, she closed
the door behind her and left him to sleep without nightmares.
On the morrow – after