The Paper Maker – Part 1: The Vat

"Breathe first," said Ren.

Hana stood at the edge of a stone vat in a cold, bright workshop, holding a bamboo screen over a pool of milky water. Steam curled from the surface. The air smelled of wet fibre and mountain stream. Sunlight fell through paper windows in soft, diffused bars.

She was twenty-nine, a graphic designer from Tokyo, here in the hills to find handmade paper for a book project. The mill was run by a family who had made washi for six generations. Ren, the youngest son, was thirty-three, lean and quiet, with a shaved head, an indigo apron and long, wet-sleeved arms. He had met her at the station with a bicycle and a thermos and said very little.

"Dip," he said. "Level. Then lift."

She dipped the screen. The water swirled. She lifted too fast, and the fibres slid into a lumpy tangle.

"Again."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Paper forgives."

He stood behind her, close enough that she could smell soap and cedar, and put his hands over hers on the frame. They were warm and strong. "Slowly. Rock it. Let the fibres settle."

She rocked. The water shivered. A thin white veil gathered on the screen, smooth and fine. When she lifted it clear, the sheet hung glistening, delicate as a petal.

"Oh," she breathed.

"Yes."

"I made that."

"We made that."

She laughed, her heart in her throat. In the days that followed, he taught her everything: how to steam the mulberry bark, beat the fibre, mix the mucilage. She learned to feel the water in her wrists. In the evenings they ate rice and pickles on the porch, watching mist rise from the valley.

"Can I ask you something?" said Hana.

"Yes."

"Why paper?"

"Because it remembers touch," said Ren. "Every sheet is a record of the person who made it."

"Green?" she said, a leaf, a screen.

"Green," said Ren, his ears turning pink. "Very green. Tomorrow, you dry them."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Drying Boards.