Early Summer, The Fox Spirit Netsuke

I found the netsuke inside the wrong cabinet again today.

It was the third time this month.

The Fox Spirit Netsuke belongs on the eastern cultural shelves beside the Oni Ward Mask Charm and the Prayer Wheel Reliquary. I know I returned it there myself yesterday evening after cleaning the display glass, yet this morning it was resting among the pressed botanical specimens as though it had always belonged there.

I cannot honestly explain why finding it unsettles me.

The object has never displayed any behaviour that could reasonably be described as dangerous, and I have never witnessed it move. Even so, whenever I discover it somewhere unexpected, I experience the peculiar sensation that I have interrupted something private. The tiny carved face possesses an expression that seems quietly aware of the room around it, making it remarkably easy to forget that it is nothing more than carved wood.

It is a beautiful piece despite its age.

Generations of careful handling have worn the edges smooth, while faint traces of black lacquer still remain within the deeper carvings whenever the morning light catches them at the proper angle. The figure is small enough to rest comfortably within the centre of my palm, yet it carries an extraordinary amount of character for something no larger than a walnut.

The tails remain its greatest mystery.

Each time I examine them, I find myself counting a different number. I have compared sketches, photographs, and previous catalogue notes, and none agree with one another. I am no longer certain whether the inconsistency lies within the carving or within the people attempting to observe it.

I carried the netsuke downstairs after breakfast intending only to update its catalogue entry before securing the cabinet more carefully that evening. It promised to be a straightforward morning of inventory work, and after the past several weeks I welcomed the prospect of doing something entirely uncomplicated.

The conservatory was unusually bright for once. The storms had finally withdrawn, leaving warm sunlight to drift slowly across the ivy walls while fresh air entered through the upper windows carrying the scent of rosemary, damp earth, and the sea beyond the cliffs.

Clio embraced the weather immediately.

She spent most of the morning asleep beneath the hanging herbs where the sunlight reached the stone floor, looking entirely content to supervise my work without contributing anything beyond occasional stretches and slow blinks in my direction.

Muninn was considerably more energetic.

At some point he discovered an open jar containing polished brass fragments beside the restoration shelves and proceeded to scatter them throughout the conservatory one piece at a time. I cannot imagine what purpose he believed this served, but he carried out the task with such obvious determination that it felt less like mischief than preparation for some celebration known only to him.

I intended to be annoyed.

Instead I laughed so suddenly that I very nearly dropped the netsuke into my teacup.

It occurred to me afterwards that the Archive had not heard laughter for several days.

Neither had I.

Sometime around midday I reached for the netsuke again and discovered it was no longer where I had left it.

I searched the worktable, the floor beneath it, and even the folds of the cloth where Clio had been sleeping before finally finding it resting upon the draped sculpture in the western hall.

It had not simply been placed there.

It had been balanced with remarkable care upon the highest fold of the fabric.

The carving faced downward toward the stairway leading beneath the Archive.

That detail unsettled me more than I expected.

Not because I believed the object had moved of its own accord, but because some instinctive part of me immediately understood the direction of its attention. I found myself looking toward the stairwell before I had consciously decided to do so.

The wood felt unexpectedly warm when I picked it up.

Not warmed by sunlight.

Warmed as though it had only recently left someone's hand.

For a brief moment another memory brushed quietly against my thoughts.

Paper lanterns glowed along polished wooden corridors while winter wind stirred outside unseen. Somewhere nearby, gentle music drifted through an open doorway. Oil lamps burned before a small household shrine hidden behind sliding screens, and bowls of freshly prepared rice had been placed beside folded paper charms with quiet, familiar care.

Someone sat near the fire carving something small from a block of wood.

They laughed softly at a joke I could no longer hear.

The memory faded almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only a feeling of warmth that lingered long after the images themselves had vanished.

It reminded me that not every forgotten thing carries sorrow with it.

Some memories seem content simply to remember ordinary happiness.

I returned the netsuke to the eastern cabinet before dusk and secured the latch myself, checking it twice before leaving the room.

This evening, while extinguishing the conservatory lamps, I noticed that Muninn had quietly gathered every polished brass fragment he had scattered earlier in the day. He had arranged them in a broad curved line before the cabinet containing the netsuke, almost as though outlining the entrance to it.

When I looked through the glass one final time, I noticed something I am certain had changed.

The little fox no longer faced outward toward the room.

It faced inward.

Toward the Archive itself.

I stood watching it for several moments before turning away.

For reasons I cannot adequately explain, it looked less like an ornament than a patient listener waiting for someone else to speak first.

— M