After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

This is like “
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
,”
the girl thinks, recalling a story 
her father read to her when she was little. 
But there’s one missing
. 
“If you’d rather have seven, we can be seven,” one of the Little People says to her 
in a soft voice. Apparently, they can read her mind. She counts them again, and now 
there are seven. The girl does not find this especially strange, however. The rules of 
the world had already changed when the Little People came out of the goat’s mouth. 
Anything could happen after that. 
“Why did you come out of the dead goat’s mouth?” she asks, noticing that her 
voice sounds odd. Her manner of speaking is also different from usual, probably 
because she has not spoken with anyone for three days. 
“Because the goat’s mouth turned into a passageway,” one of the Little People 
with a hoarse voice says. “We didn’t know it was a dead goat until we actually came 
out.” 
A screechy-voiced one adds, “We don’t mind at all, though. A goat, a whale, a 
peapod: as long as it’s a passageway.” 
“You made the passageway, so we thought we’d give it a try and see where it came 
out,” the soft-voiced one says. 
“I made the passageway?” the girl says. No, it does not sound like her own voice. 
“You did us a favor,” says one of the Little People with a small voice. 
Some of the others voice their agreement. 

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“Let’s play,” says one with a tenor voice. “Let’s make an air chrysalis.” 
“Yes,” replies a baritone. “Since we went to all the trouble of coming here.” 
“An air chrysalis?” the girl asks. 
“We pluck threads out of the air and make a home. We make it bigger and bigger!” 
the bass says. 
“A home? Who is it for?” the girl asks. 
“You’ll see,” the baritone says. 
“You’ll see when it comes out,” the bass says. 
“Ho ho,” another one takes up the beat. 
“Can I help?” the girl asks. 
“Of course,” the hoarse one says. 
“You did us a favor,” the tenor says. “Let’s work together.” 
Once the girl begins to get the hang of it, plucking threads out of the air is not too 
difficult. She has always been good with her hands, so she is able to master this 
operation right away. If you look closely, there are lots of threads hanging in the air. 
You can see them if you try. 
“Yes, that’s it, you’re doing it right,” the small-voiced one says. 
“You’re a very clever girl. You learn quickly,” says the screechy-voiced one. 
All the Little People wear the same clothing and their faces look alike, but each 
one has a distinctly different voice. 
The clothing they wear is utterly ordinary, the kind that can be seen anywhere. 
This is an odd way to put it, but there is no other way to describe their clothing. Once 
you take your eyes off their clothes, you can’t possibly remember what they looked 
like. The same can be said of their faces, the features of which are neither good nor 
bad. They are just ordinary features, the kind that can be seen anywhere. Once you 
take your eyes off their faces, you can’t possibly remember what they looked like. It 
is the same with their hair, which is neither long nor short, just ordinary hair. One 
thing they do not have is any smell. 
When the dawn comes and the cock crows and the eastern sky lightens, the seven 
Little People stop working and begin stretching. Then they hide the partially finished 
air chrysalis—which is only about the size of a baby rabbit—in the corner of the 
room, probably so that the person who brings the meals will not see it. 
“It’s morning,” says the one with the small voice. 
“The night has ended,” says the bass. 
Since they have all these different voices, they ought to form a chorus
, the girl 
thinks. 
“We have no songs,” says the tenor. 
“Ho ho,” says the keeper of the beat. 
The Little People all shrink down to their original four-inch size, form a line, and 
enter the dead goat’s mouth. 
“We’ll be back tonight,” the small-voiced one says before closing the goat’s mouth 
from the inside. “You must not tell anyone about us.” 
“If you do tell someone about us, something very bad will happen,” the hoarse one 
adds for good measure. 
“Ho ho,” says the keeper of the beat. 
“I won’t tell anyone,” the girl says. 

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