It started sadly, but that year went by pretty peacefully, on the whole. I did well in school, outgrew a lot of my clothes, got scratched to bits picking wild berries and plants Grandmother used in the kitchen, found out I was immune to poison ivy, and learned that walnuts will stain the heck out of anything the juice gets on. Father came home for my eighth birthday, and his present to me that year was a wonderful katana, a replica of a blade that had belonged to an Emperor several hundred years ago. I was thrilled, and tried it out often on the trees around the house. When I wasn't using it, it hung on the wall of my bedroom, where I could look at it and think of Father.

I entered second grade when school restarted and found that it wasn't nearly as interesting as first had been. The only real change was that the class was smaller, because the two second-graders had gone into third. The teacher was the same, the classroom the same, and a lot of what we were 'taught' was stuff we'd already learned. It was very easy to get good grades, but it was awfully boring. It was nice to see my schoolmates and teacher again, but I didn't like sitting in a classroom being bored when I could have been running around in the woods.

The autumn rains arrived in October, bringing the leaves down and making the road a mass of mud and puddles. I rarely got home without giving in to the temptation to splash around, despite knowing I'd get scrubbed and scolded when I got home. It was worth it!

That winter was a mild one, or at least, I thought so. I'm not sure Grandmother would have agreed with me.

When spring came, I started playing soccer after school. I liked it a lot; it was good to be able to run on a level field instead of around trees, over logs, across creeks and through bushes like I had to do in the woods. I found out that I was a pretty fast runner, but I also found out that if you run too fast, you can quickly lose control of the soccer ball and someone will steal it from you. And if you're really unlucky, you'll 'overrun' the ball, which means you trip over it and land on your face.

Another discovery I made was that people get jealous over the most ridiculous things. My team was made up of first, second and third graders, since there weren't enough of each year to make separate teams, and some of the third graders resented the fact that a 'little kid' was faster than they were. Privately, I thought that if someone really wanted to be faster, they should do something about it- like practice more- instead of just complain about it, but I didn't say so. I had the feeling such a remark would not be welcome; people who'd rather complain than take action don't like it when it's pointed out to them.

Since there weren't any schools close enough to compete against, we teamed off against the fourth, fifth and sixth graders twice a month. Sometimes we even won, which was as much a surprise to us as it was to everyone else. I think that was when I learned that a poor chance doesn't mean no chance, and odds aren't everything.

Summer passed with my ninth birthday, and autumn came again with the falling leaves and frosts. I went into third grade, which was a lot more interesting than second had been, though the teacher wasn't as nice. It was a man this time, an older man with glasses, and he almost always carried a ruler in his hand. He never hit anyone; what he did was slap the desk when someone got a question wrong. But we were always a little concerned that someday that might change, so everyone behaved very, very well.

As winter crept in with cold rain and early darkness, soccer stopped till spring. I didn't understand that at all; they said it was too cold to play, but it was still so warm that I came home every day with my jacket unzipped or half off- or even stuffed in with my books, if I forgot to put it on before I went into the house. Grandmother scolded me for it, saying I'd catch pneumonia, but I never got so much as a cold. It wasn't until the middle of December, when the snow was up to my ankles and all the trees were covered in ice, that I decided it really was chilly enough to have a coat on. I rarely needed blankets on my bed at night, either. Grandmother used to slip in while I was sleeping and cover me up with an extra comforter, and I usually woke up in the morning with the comforter on the floor, where I'd kicked it off.

I didn't think much of what Grandmother called my unnatural warmth; she often said I felt as though I had a fever, but anyone could tell I wasn't sick. Grandfather seemed more amused than concerned by it all and thought she was making too much fuss. "The young seldom feel the cold like their elders do," he told her, "and this one, particularly, runs around so much that it's no surprise he doesn't get cold; he generates his own heat. Or perhaps," he added, looking at me where I sat in front of the fire, "you carry a little of the fireplace inside you, my Wild Child?"

It makes me wonder now, how much he knew... but at the time I just laughed and said that must be it, I was fire-powered instead of solar-powered like other kids. Grandmother laughed too, and said that most kids she'd known had been sugar-powered. She stopped fretting so much after that- or at least, she stopped fretting about me. We were all starting to get concerned about Father, though. He hadn't been home since August, for my birthday, and what was worse, the postcards and letters and packets of his photos that he always sent had stopped coming in September. That worried us more than the fact that there had been no money for a while. Father had arranged to have his pay sent to us, and Grandfather sorted it into separate accounts for different uses. There had been gaps and pauses before when he was between assignments or having disagreements with the magazine-editors, but he'd never gone so long without telling us what he was doing, and where.

That New Year passed without Father, which had never happened before, and it was a pretty miserable holiday. We were too worried to enjoy it much, and it was lonely without him. When the celebrations ended, Grandfather made what investigations he could, but no one could tell him anything except that they hadn't heard from Sanada-san since his last assignment. In fact, several of them admitted they had been ready to contact us and ask after him, since they had assignments they hoped he would take. That added to our concerns, but there was nothing we could do but wait and hope that he was all right. The winter break ended and I went back to school, where I managed to forget, for a few hours at a time, that something must be very wrong for Father not to contact us.

When Grandfather started talking about taking a job, I knew things were seriously bad. It meant we were running out of money, and I knew Father would never stop providing for us unless something truly terrible had happened. I think we all three feared the same thing, but no one said it- as if not saying it would keep it from being true. And as January turned into February, Grandfather began walking to town with me every morning, carrying his lunch packet in his gloved hand. Each day, I stopped at the school building and watched as he went on to the little train station, to ride into Toyama with the other commuters. None of us said anything about it, it was something that happened without any talk or discussion.

It amazes me even now that such a tremendous change could happen and none of us speak of it, but we were all too deep in hope, or denial, to admit what was going on. Keeping silent is the last piece there is of hope, because if you say something, then it's said and it's real.

The biggest change for me was coming home every day and doing the chores that Grandfather had always done while I was in school. The main one was gathering wood, since the heating was unreliable and we had a fire going constantly, but there were other things too: clearing the snow off the roof so it wouldn't get too heavy and cave in, keeping the steps from icing up, making sure none of the water pipes froze, and dealing with the trash. (We weren't on a garbage route; we had to haul it to the paved road every few days to be picked up there. That was a smelly chore!) None of them were difficult to do, but it gave me a strange feeling. I felt older somehow, and I also felt a great need to make sure they were done correctly. I didn't want Grandfather to have to be worrying while he was working; I wanted him to know he could count on me. He did, too. Both my grandparents remarked on how helpful and responsible I was becoming, not exactly to me, but to each other in my hearing. It always made me feel good inside for a little while- and then the worry and fear about Father would grow heavy again.

Spring came, and I got on the soccer team again and enjoyed it. When I was in school or on the soccer field, I could forgot, for a while, that I hadn't seen my father for almost a year. But as soon as I started up the unpaved road towards my home, the memory came back with a sort of mental crash and I hurried home to see if there was anything: a note, a postcard, maybe even Father himself. I was always disappointed, but I could never quit hoping. But spring went on and summer came and I turned nine and there was no word of him. I started wondering, that birthday, if that was how it would be for the rest of my life.

And then one day, we heard.

It was a perfectly ordinary September day; I'd come home from school and done my chores and completed my homework, just like I always did. The days were getting shorter again, but the weather was still warm, and that wasn't just my odd 'fire-energized' perception. In fact, Grandmother was teasing me a little about that as she chopped vegetables at the counter, asking if I thought I'd need a coat this winter. There was a seriousness behind her question, though; even though Grandfather was working, he wasn't making as much money as Father used to send, and winter was always a time of higher expenses. I had just reassured her that if I did use a coat, my old one would do fine, when the door opened and Grandfather came in. He was strangely pale and his eyes were wide, almost blank.

Grandfather didn't get easily flustered or upset, so my first thought was that he was ill. I jumped up from the sofa and ran over to help him; he sat down, but waved away the water Grandmother brought him. "A letter," he said almost feebly. "A letter from law enforcement officials, in India."

Grandmother and I looked at each other over his head. India was the last place that Father had gone on assignment. So now we would finally know.

"What is it?" Grandmother whispered, her hand going to her heart.

Grandfather slowly pulled out an envelope from his coat pocket, and I watched from a great distance as his wrinkled old fingers shakily opened it. He pulled out the paper inside and unfolded it, and something fluttered to land on the coffee table. Grandfather ignored it, squinting at the letter and reading slowly as I held my breath with fearful impatience. Then his hand dropped to the table and his head bowed. "Poachers," he muttered. "He was photographing snow leopards. Saw poachers skinning several of the animals. Took their photographs. They saw him. They killed him and buried his body in the snow."

I leaned against the sofa, shaking as my hopes died forever. I didn't feel grief, not at first; I felt anger, furious anger at the criminals and great pride in my father. He had been doing a good thing, a right thing, and I was glad. He had loved the animals he photographed, and it was somehow right that he lost his life trying to protect them. But I longed to get my hands on the poachers; I felt like I could tear them apart and burn their bodies. I had never hated anyone before, but I learned quickly.

Grandfather was speaking again, with an effort. "When the snows melted this summer, he was found- a shepherd. The camera was with him, and the pictures were in it. The poachers were identified. Two who had served time in prison before, and been released."

My breath went out in a hiss of sheer fury. "Released? How could they?" I demanded.

"They are dead," Grandfather said blankly, looking at the letter again. "There was a search, and they were found- their bodies. It says that there were paw-prints around them, and on their throats, fang-marks. But too big to be leopards, and one of the rare white tigers was spotted a mile or two from the place. A female with a young cub."

"Good!" I said harshly, and I meant it with all my heart. "Good for her, they deserved to die like that." I wished I could go there, see that wonderful tiger, even from a distance. Maybe she couldn't ever comprehend that she'd avenged my father- and a number of her own distant kin- but I felt grateful to her.

Grandmother, who had been silent the whole time, slowly picked up the glass of water and drank from it herself. Then she set it down and straightened her back, taking the letter from Grandfather's quivering hand. "It is nothing we did not know in our hearts, anata," she said softly to Grandfather. "I am glad it was a death such as this, and not one of grief or sorrow."

"Yes," Grandfather said absently, and took her hand. "Yes, you are right. He died well, doing a brave deed. And he has been avenged in the most fitting manner. His...body will be sent to us, and-" He stopped and picked up the other piece of paper. "And we are compensated," he concluded after a moment, frowning. "The pictures he took will be used, and his fee is here. And some small extra as well, in appreciation for his effort to bring the criminals to justice."

I wasn't sure I understood that, and as far as I did understand, I didn't like it. Father's photo fee was one thing, but the 'extra' didn't sit well with me. It was too much like charity, and I didn't like money anyway. I don't think my grandparents liked it much either, from the look they exchanged, but neither of them said anything against it. I wasn't as restrained. "You mean they're- that's- we don't need their stupid-"

"Pride feeds no one, Ryo," Grandmother interrupted sharply, frowning at me, and I recoiled. "Pride warms no one, shelters no one, pays no debts. Pride is something that must be weighed carefully and discarded when necessary, or it will become a burden too great to bear. We will accept this money and we will use it and be grateful for it."

I bowed my head and murmured, "Yes, Grandmother." And then I ran out of the room, down the hall, into my own room- dropped onto my bed- and burst into tears. I couldn't tell if I was crying because of her rebuke or because my father's death was starting to sink in, but the result was the same: I cried myself half-sick and when Grandfather came in with a cup of tea for me to drink, I could barely get it down. But it helped; it untwisted my stomach and dropped a sort of fog over the dreadful pain inside me.

"Your Grandmother spoke harshly," he said eventually, after I stopped sniffing. "She grieves, little one, and it makes her sharp, but she loves you and did not mean to hurt your feelings. She heard her own thoughts in your words, and spoke firmly to subdue them. We must accept what they give us, unfortunately...but none of us need like it. And we do not. But it is the only choice we have." His hands drew the covers over me, then rested on my chest. "Do you understand?"

I nodded. I understood, but I didn't feel better. Hurt feelings are hard to forgive at any time, but especially so when all your hope's been killed and you have nothing but sadness inside.

There was something in that tea that put me to sleep, because I drifted off only a little while after drinking it. I have a very hazy memory of waking to see Grandmother stooping over me with a bowl in her hands and I think she was urging me to eat, but I just shook my head, turned over, and went back to sleep. Even if I'd been hungry enough to want supper and awake enough to eat it, I don't think I would have been able to.

The funeral was a few days later, and I'm not going to talk about it. But I will say that by the time I got home, I wasn't on good terms with either grandparent. It was nearly a month before I stopped avoiding them both, and longer before things started to get back to normal. I'm not usually one to hold grudges, but those were major exceptions.

Oh...what the hell. What happened was that when I didn't want to leave the coffin, Grandfather got me moving with a brutally insensitive lecture about how my father was dead, gone to be with Mother; it was his empty shell, not him, and it was time for me to be brave and live my life without him. Excuse my opinion here, but you don't say that to a grieving kid, no matter how concerned you are that they might not behave properly. There's a lot more to life, and death, than 'proper behavior in public'. I think that was when I figured out that you can love someone and still be incredibly angry at them, so angry that you don't want to be under the same roof with them. I ended up spending most of my time in the woods and sharing most of my feelings with my imaginary friends, instead of taking comfort from my grandparents. My 'friends' were a lot more sympathetic.

We didn't celebrate the New Year that winter. There was nothing to celebrate, and not much to celebrate with, truthfully. I guessed that the extra money had to be made to last as long as possible, which meant buying only the most necessary things. I pretended not to mind, though I was really pretty divided about it. Celebrating without Father felt wrong, but not celebrating at all felt wrong too, in a different way.

It was after the year turned that I finally forgave my grandparents for saying such unkind things to me, and actually I forgave Grandmother first, since I saw her more than Grandfather. Ironically, it was what Grandfather had said about her not meaning to hurt me that eventually sank in and let me stop resenting her. But it wasn't until I saw Grandfather looking through the picture albums in Father's study that I began to let go of my anger at him. He was doing exactly what I did when I missed Father: I reasoned that he must have found it difficult to leave the coffin, too; after all, Father was his son. I don't think I had really registered that fact before- too caught up in my feelings to think of anyone else's. But we were all doing some of that.

So by the time my March break came along, we were all reconciled with each other, sadder and quieter, but no longer formal and awkward or avoiding each other. I'm grateful for that; I can't bear to think how I'd feel now if I hadn't forgiven them.