“I wasn’t alive long ago, but I should tell you a story from when I was little?” I said in a drawl.

Please do, Sensei replied, and slowly I began talking about things from that time, things that had risen up from deep within my body as Sensei had tapped on my palm.

I WAS AWAKENED BY A CLAMOR.

The source of the noise was inside the room. It was red. Something dark red and something pale red were arguing with each other.

As I pretended to still be sleeping in my futon on the floor, I strained my ears to discern the clamor being raised by these two people. (Or were they animals?) I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Perhaps because I had just woken up and was still in a bit of a daze—just as we are now—or perhaps I was surprised by the fact that these two red people (or animals?) were in my room.

WHILE I WAS LISTENING TO THE CLAMOR, my head gradually began to clear. The two beings looked exactly like the spirit creatures I had seen in folktale books—they had human bodies, red faces with long noses, and wings. You mean tengu? Sensei asked. Yes, these were tengu, I replied. Their faces were beautiful shades of red, just as depicted in books.

I CHANGED OUT OF MY PAJAMAS AND WENT to the kitchen, and these two followed after me. They continued to argue the whole time. Their voices were loud, and they were speaking fast. Mother won’t be pleased about this, I thought to myself. A mother will always find fault with whatever items a child brings back into the house. Colored tiles found on the street. Scarab beetles. Tadpoles scooped out of the rice paddy. Coix seeds. Stray cats. Get rid of that, mine would say at first. I’ll take care of it if you let me keep it, I would say. I won’t make a mess, I would promise. Better not, my mother would reply. And my insistent entreaties would ultimately be granted.

I wondered if the tengu were things (people?) I had brought home from outside. I had no memory of doing so, but maybe they had attached themselves to me without my realizing it. But where might that have happened?

As I sat down and started to spread margarine on a piece of bread, the two of them pointed at the margarine and grew increasingly boisterous. They were extremely disruptive. My heart was pounding, waiting for my mother to lose her temper. But there she was right in front of me, perfectly calm as she held the string of her tea bag, swaying it back and forth in her cup. My mother liked to say that swaying the tea bag brought out the prettiest color in the black tea.

“Tsukiko, the tengu want to lick the margarine,” my mother said. As if this were perfectly ordinary.