Ella scribbles a parable.

      The cobblestones in front of the sage’s house rippled along the street like choppy waves frozen, and before she had noticed them, she tripped over them and fell. Pain ran through her knees and her hands; and she could hear her heart in her temples with the pace of running feet, although she was no longer running. She wiped her palms on her threadbare skirt and left a few rusty streaks. Panting, she got to her feet again just as the sage came out of his open door with his crimson robe furled around him.
      ‘Are you all right, little one?’ he asked.
      She hesitated, looking down at her purple-smudged shins, and with trembling lips said, ‘I don’t know.’
      ‘Come inside.’ He stood aside and let her limp into the cool of the house. In the shade, she could see almost nothing. She sank down to the floor, as if the dry noon sun had drained out the last of her life.
      The sage had vanished in the shadows, but now his bright robe reappeared as he sat down beside her, holding out a large cube of ice. ‘Running away?’ he asked.
      ‘No, sir—I mean, yes, sir—or at least I was, sir—but not now, sir,’ she said, gratefully pressing the cold wetness against her bruised legs.
      ‘What happened?’
      ‘It’s a long story.’
      The sage nodded. ‘You’d better go home now,’ he said, giving her a hand up.
      She nodded and, murmuring her thanks, started back home as quickly as she could, still limping, but not quite so badly.

      In the afternoon she was still sore, so she went to the samurai’s house next door. The samurai was sitting in his house building a tower of books, but at once he greeted her cheerfully and asked how she was.
      ‘I fell again today,’ she said, displaying her purple legs.
      He gave a sound of sympathy.
      ‘Do you think that I could have some ice?’ she asked.
      ‘Of course.’ He took a piece of ice from a large amphora in the corner and gave it to her. When her skin was pleasantly numb and they had talked for nearly an hour, she went home.

      And so life went on for a while. Whereas before she had had only the samurai, now when the samurai was away on campaigns, she went to the sage, and he generously gave her ice for her ever-bruised shins. Sometimes the sage and the samurai were together, for they were old friends and got along famously. One afternoon she came to the sage’s house, and he was, as usual, reading a massive tome, so engrossed that his beard and nose were hidden in the book.
      ‘Sir?’ she said, and he looked up blankly. ‘May I—that is to say—I wondered—do you—?’ She stopped, looking away from the eyes that did not recognise her. She felt compelled to remind him who she was, but instead, she gathered her courage and said only, ‘May I have some ice, sir?’
      He sighed and started to drag himself up from his book.
      ‘Actually, sir, don’t bother. I don’t really need it, and I—well, yes. Have a good day.’
      His face disappeared into his book again.

      The next day she stayed at home, hiding in the henhouse; but by the third day she was in so much pain that she overcame her fear and returned to the sage’s house. He was whistling as he put his books in order. ‘Well, hello, little one,’ he said.
      ‘Hello, sir,’ she said, letting his grin wash away her doubts. ‘I’m sorry that I disturbed you the other day.’
      ‘Oh, no,’ he said cheerily. ‘You look sore. Ice?’
      ‘Yes, please, sir.’
      ‘Still running away?’
      ‘It’s not just that,’ she said, studying her feet. ‘That is—well, my uncle is an excellent farmer, and he’s very kind in letting me live in his attic, so you mustn’t misunderstand me, but sometimes he does throw rocks at me.’ And though she hadn’t quite meant to, she began to cry. She let her shawl slip from her shoulders, showing large bruises on her arms.
      ‘I’m sorry,’ the sage said, offering her more ice for her arms. ‘The ice never runs out; come back any time.’
      ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘Is there anything that I could do to repay you?’
      ‘Don’t say ridiculous things,’ he said. ‘Friendship is not about being even.’

      The next day she returned to the sage’s house, but he was again hidden in a book and seemed hardly to recognise her. She did not ask for ice but slipped back home. When the samurai returned from his campaign, she went to his house and found him working at his tower of books. There was a shallow scratch on his forehead, and the floor was covered with the day’s dust.
      ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
      ‘Oh, it’s been a long day,’ he said.
      ‘I could sweep the floor for you,’ she said, ‘and then you could rest sooner.’
      ‘No, it will be fine,’ he said; ‘but I think that you’d like some ice.’
      ‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘I went to the sage, but he was busy reading. He almost didn’t seem to know who I was.’
      ‘That’s the way he is,’ the samurai said. ‘Sometimes he’s very much there for you; sometimes he isn’t. It has nothing to do with you personally.’
      ‘I hope not,’ she said.

      The next day she was taking a walk with the samurai, and they came to the sage’s house; she hesitated an instant before following the samurai in. The sage greeted them warmly. ‘You look rather hot, my dear samurai,’ he said. ‘Catch.’
      The samurai caught the slippery piece of ice. ‘It’s a hot day,’ he agreed, putting it into his mouth. ‘What have you been reading?’
      ‘Esoteric wisdom, of course,’ the sage said with a laugh. ‘And how is your tower coming?’
      While they were talking, she slipped out the door and went home.

      Later in the afternoon, she came to the samurai’s house; he was standing on a ladder to work at his tower of books. They chatted for a bit, as he kept building. From time to time, she glanced at the amphora of ice, but he said nothing about it.
      ‘My legs hurt a lot,’ she said hintingly.
      ‘I’m sorry,’ the samurai said.
      ‘Is there something wrong with me?’ she asked after a moment. ‘Why won’t anyone give me ice today? Does everyone hate me?’
      ‘It’s just that when you expect something all the time, people get tired of giving it,’ the samurai explained wisely.
      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, almost crying. ‘I’ll stop trying to expect it.’
      ‘It’s all right,’ he said.

      The next morning, she went shyly to the sage’s house. He was sitting on the front step, reading. He looked tired, but he gave a half-hearted smile.
      ‘How are you?’ she asked.
      ‘Quite well,’ he answered as usual; ‘and you?’
      ‘My uncle keeps throwing rocks at me,’ she said, and suddenly began to cry.
      He sat for a while in silence. At length, he said, ‘Stop crying, little one. I can’t do anything about it. You’re nearly grown up; this is your problem.’
      ‘But everything hurts,’ she said.
      ‘I know. Do you think that you’re the only one with pain? Everyone, absolutely everyone, hurts.’ He pulled aside his robe to show his ankle, which was swollen bore the twin tiny punctures of snake’s fangs.
      She sighed and wiped away the last of her tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to do anything for it? You never let me help you.’
      ‘There’s nothing that you can do to heal this,’ he said.
      ‘I know,’ she said, ‘and there’s nothing that you can do to keep my uncle from throwing rocks at me. But even if we can’t heal each other, couldn’t we at least help each other? I could sweep your floor, so you could rest your feet, and you—’ But she did not dare to complete her sentence, or even look in the direction of the amphora.
      ‘No, I don’t need my floor swept,’ he said, though it was slightly dusty.
      So she went home. When she passed the samurai’s house, he came out to greet her, bringing a piece of ice.

      The next day she saw the sage again, and he apologised for speaking harshly.
      ‘No, it’s good for me,’ she said. ‘But—’ She paused. ‘I feel so useless. I feel as if you do so much for me, and I never get to do anything for you.’
      ‘You don’t need to do anything for me,’ he said. ‘Friendship is not about being even.’
      ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘You aren’t letting me show friendship to you.’
      ‘I see,’ the sage said. ‘I’ll have to let you sweep my floor, then.’ But he never did, and she wanted to stop going to him for ice.