Chapter 16
Prologue, The God of Making Ends Meet
Since my time is near, I thought maybe it was about time to rely on gods or buddhas, but even at this age, I just can't bring myself to believe in heaven or hell.
I suppose that doesn't make me an atheist. It's actually the opposite. I do believe in the god of my village. I just can't believe in anything else.
Only our god, you know. The sun god and the buddhas don't do anything, but our god watches everything and makes sure the debts of this world are paid—or collected.
Heaven and hell, I think, are things the weak believe in. I don't mean that as an insult. There's no one who isn't weak in some way, so maybe it's something we all want to believe in.
Say your family or friends get caught up in something terrible, and no matter what, you swear to catch the culprit, but you're only human. There's a limit. Years pass and still no culprit. At times like that, you try to calm your heart by thinking, "Even if they escape in this life, they'll be judged by the King of Hell."
On the other hand, someone might live their whole life kindly, never doing anything wrong, but as they lie on their deathbed, they feel like nothing good ever happened. For people like that, they might find peace thinking they'll enjoy all the happiness they missed out on in heaven.
But we don't really know what happens after death. That's why our god shows it all while we're still alive.
My father used to run a company. He built it from nothing while we were still poor, and just when it finally grew big, his secretary ran off with all the money.
He was devastated, going to the police every day, asking if there was any progress. But nothing came of it, and he wasted away day by day—it was painful to watch.
Then one day, the police called to say they'd caught the secretary.
They said she'd been found in the bamboo grove my father owned. When he went to the station, it turned out she was already dead.
During questioning, she suddenly started convulsing and collapsed. They figured she'd taken poison once she realized she couldn't escape, so they ordered an autopsy.
And then, from her stomach—all the way from her gut to her throat—they found solid gold. When it was all added up, it matched exactly the amount of money stolen from my father.
Things like that happened more than once.
There was a devout woman, very kind-hearted, but she was infertile. She worked as a maid in a mansion and loved the family's child like her own.
But after the lady of the house passed away, a new wife and her child moved in, and they were awful. They didn't like the idea of the first wife's son becoming the heir and bullied him constantly.
The maid always comforted him, but one day, the boy took his own life. The master of the house had made his wealth in the cotton textile business, but he used one of those fabrics to hang himself in the barn.
The maid grieved as if it were her own child. But then, after she had long given up hope, she became pregnant.
On the day she took leave to give birth after ten months, the stepmother and her child suddenly died, coughing up cotton.
And the baby boy born to the maid had a red birthmark wrapped like a ring around his neck.
The god of our village doesn't need heaven or hell—he balances all the good and bad right here in this world.
I've been in the god's debt quite a few times myself.
What do you mean by that?
That... I'm afraid I can't say.