“How big are we going to make it?” the girl asks when dawn is nearing. She wants to know if the job will be done within the ten days she is locked in the storehouse.

“As big as we can,” the screechy-voiced one replies.

“When it gets to a certain size, it will break open all by itself,” the tenor says gleefully.

“And something will come out,” the baritone says in vibrant tones.

“What kind of thing?” the girl asks.

“What will come out?” the small-voiced one says.

“Just you wait!” the bass says.

“Ho ho,” says the keeper of the beat.

“Ho ho,” the other six join in.

.    .    .

A peculiar darkness pervaded the novella’s style. As she became aware of it, Aomame frowned slightly. This was like a fabulous children’s story, but hidden down deep somewhere it had a strong, dark undercurrent. Aomame could hear its ominous rumble beneath the story’s simple phrases, a gloomy suggestion of illness to come—a deadly illness that quietly gnaws away a person’s spirit from the core. What brought the illness with them was the chorus-like group of seven Little People. There is something unhealthy here, without question, Aomame thought. And yet she could hear in their voices something that she recognized in herself—something almost fatally familiar.

Aomame looked up from the book and recalled what Leader had said about the Little People before he died.

“We have lived with them since long, long ago—from a time before good and evil even existed, when people’s minds were still benighted.”

Aomame went on reading the story.

The Little People and the girl continue working, and after several days the air chrysalis has grown to something like the size of a large dog.

“My punishment ends tomorrow. After that I’ll get out of here,” the girl says to the Little People as dawn is beginning to break.

The seven Little People listen quietly to what the girl is telling them.

“So I won’t be able to make the air chrysalis with you anymore.”

“We are very sorry to hear that,” the tenor says, sounding genuinely sorry.

“You helped us very much,” the baritone says.

The one with the screechy voice says, “But the chrysalis is almost finished. It will be ready once we add just a little bit more.”

The Little People stand in a row, staring at the air chrysalis as if to measure the size of what they have made so far.

“Just a tiny bit more!” the hoarse-voiced one says as if leading the chorus in a monotonous boatman’s song.

“Ho ho,” intones the keeper of the beat.

“Ho ho,” the other six join in.

The girl’s ten days of isolation end and she returns to the Gathering. Her communal life starts again, and she is so busy following all the rules that she has no more time to be alone. She can, of course, no longer work on the air chrysalis with the Little People. Every night before she goes to bed, she imagines to herself the seven Little People continuing to sit around the air chrysalis and make it bigger. It is all she can think about. It even feels as if the whole air chrysalis has actually slipped inside her head.

The girl is dying to know what could possibly be inside the air chrysalis. What will appear when the chrysalis ripens and pops open? She is filled with regret to think that she cannot witness the scene with her own eyes. I worked so hard helping them to make it, I should be allowed to be there when it opens. She even thinks seriously of committing another offense so that she can be punished with another period of isolation in the storehouse. But even if she were to go to all that trouble, the Little People might not appear. The dead goat has been carried away and buried somewhere. Its eye will not sparkle in the starlight again.

The story goes on to describe the girl’s daily life in the community—the disciplined schedule, the fixed tasks, the guidance and care she provides the other children as the oldest child in the community, her simple meals, the stories her parents read her before bedtime, the classical music she listens to whenever she can find a spare moment. A life without “po-loo-shun.”

The Little People visit her in dreams. They can enter people’s dreams whenever they like. They tell her that the air chrysalis is about to break open, and they urge her to come and see it. “Come to the storehouse with a candle after sunset. Don’t let anyone see you.”

The girl cannot suppress her curiosity. She slips out of bed and pads her way to the storehouse carrying the candle she has prepared. No one is there. All she finds is the air chrysalis sitting quietly where it has been left on the storehouse floor. It is twice as big as it was when she last saw it, well over four feet long. Its entire surface radiates a soft glow, and its beautifully curved shape has a waist-like narrowed area in the middle that was not there before, when it was smaller. The Little People have obviously been working hard. The chrysalis is already breaking open. A vertical crack has formed in its side. The girl bends over and peers in through the opening.

She discovers that she herself is inside the chrysalis. She stares at this other self of hers lying naked on her back, eyes closed, apparently unconscious, not breathing, like a doll.

One of the Little People speaks to her—the one with the hoarse voice: “That is your dohta,” he says, and then clears his throat.

The girl turns to find the seven Little People fanned out behind her in a row.

“Dohta,” she says, mechanically repeating the word.

“And what you are called is ‘maza,’ ” the bass says.

“Maza and dohta,” the girl says.

“The dohta serves as a stand-in for the maza,” the screechy-voiced one says.

“Do I get split in two?” the girl asks.

“Not at all,” the tenor says. “This does not mean that you are split in two. You are the same you in every way. Don’t worry. A dohta is just the shadow of the maza’s heart and mind in the shape of the maza.”

“When will she wake up?”

“Very soon. When the time comes,” the baritone says.

“What will this dohta do as the shadow of my heart and mind?” the girl asks.

“She will act as a Perceiver,” the small-voiced one says furtively.

“Perceiver,” the girl says.

“Yes,” says the hoarse one. “She who perceives.”

“She conveys what she perceives to the Receiver,” the screechy one says.

“In other words, the dohta becomes our passageway,” the tenor says.

“Instead of the goat?” the girl asks.

“The dead goat was only a temporary passageway,” the bass says. “We must have a living dohta as a Perceiver to link the place we live with this place.”

“What does the maza do?” the girl asks.

“The maza stays close to the dohta,” the screechy one says.

“When will the dohta wake up?” the girl asks.

“Two days from now, or maybe three,” the tenor says.

“One or the other,” says the one with the small voice.

“Make sure you take good care of this dohta,” the baritone says. “She is your dohta.”

“Without the maza’s care, the dohta cannot be complete. She cannot live long without it,” the screechy one says.

“If she loses her dohta, the maza will lose the shadow of her heart and mind,” the tenor says.

“What happens to a maza when she loses the shadow of her heart and mind?” the girl asks.

The Little People look at each other. None of them will answer the question.

“When the dohta wakes up, there will be two moons in the sky,” the hoarse one says.

“The two moons cast the shadow of her heart and mind,” the baritone says.

“There will be two moons,” the girl repeats mechanically.