Mythfits

8- Ella

It took a solid 4 hours of waiting, silently, in my dad's closet for him to fall asleep so I could take back my mom's book. after I was satisfied that he was asleep enough not to notice, I slowly creaked the door open, and fell out of the closet, sneezing. Why am I sneezing? I haven't shifted! was the first thought to pop into my head as I desperately tried to stifle my sneezing fit, that is, until I remembered that one of my fathers co-workers had a therapy dog. Thanks a lot Dad!

An elbow over my nose and mouth, I made my way, semi-silently, across the room to his side-table, where he had placed the book before falling asleep. Tip-toeing my way through the minefield of scattered papers and discarded briefcases, I recall his words, warning me away from this mythical mumbo-jumbo. Sorry Dad, but it's a bit too late for that! I think, but wonder what he meant when he said that Mom had been wrapped up in all of this.

All too wrapped up in my train of thought, I failed to notice the sharp corner of the bed frame sticking out where an unsuspecting daughter might run into it. Rubbing my sore leg, I scowl, pick up the book, and gingerly hop across the floor, careful to avoid any hazards. At the doorway, I pause, turn back to face my father's cluttered room and shake my head, You're almost as bad as me, Dad! Goodnight.

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Back in my room, I sit cross-legged on my bed and flip through the old book, keeping a close eye on the delicate-looking spine. Page after page is covered in Japanese script and elaborate drawings of foxes, some with one tail, some with more, doing all sorts of things that I was fairly sure foxes usually didn't do; walking half in and half out of people, hovering above ponds while surrounded by colored spheres and sitting in fire. What on earth is this?  I wonder, turning the page, and more importantly, why was it in our attic?

The family tree that I had replaced among the pages was still there, folded neatly, nestled next to images of people with nine tails holding glowing orbs. I unfold it gingerly, feeling like I was on the brink of the unknown, the type of feeling where you feel as if you are standing on the edge of a cliff in the dark, not knowing which direction will take you back to safety and which direction will lead you to certain death.

Tracing the smooth pen-strokes with my paper, I stare at the characters on the paper, knowing they held meaning, probably information that pertained to my family, growing more and more frustrated with my inability to read Japanese. Unfortunately, the only person I knew who could read fluently was my father, whom I had already seen did not want anything to do with this.

A low rumble escapes my throat as I consider my options; A) I could try to convince Dad to translate it for me, which was, even if I could, likely to ensue questions which I did not exactly want to answer, B)I could try to translate it myself (with the help of the internet), or C) I could ask for help. None of them look likely to work, so I might as well just work down the list.

I wonder if Google Translate will work?