[Short Story] The Right-Angled Sheep

Coming to the Utsukushigahara Highlands was entirely the result of a process of elimination.
I was tired of the ocean. Mountains are exhausting. Hot spring resorts feel strangely lonely when you're by yourself. This place was the only one that managed to slip through all my negative criteria. Urged on by my friend Natsu, who practically shoved me out the door saying, "Just go somewhere, anywhere," I boarded the Azusa train bound for Matsumoto.
Late July. Thirty-four years old. Divorced. Part-time worker.
When you line those three up, it feels like the "Special Notes" section of a resume. And I’m the one who wrote it, yet I’m the most puzzled by it.
After transferring from Matsumoto to a local bus for about an hour, the air changed the moment I arrived at the plateau, two thousand meters above sea level. Even though it was July, the breeze that touched my cheeks was cool, carrying a faint hint of autumn. It felt like a lie that the sticky, humid heat of Tokyo ever existed. The moment I stepped off the bus, I took a deep breath all the way to the bottom of my lungs for the first time in ages. I was a little surprised—had air always tasted like this? The greenness of the grass, the dampness of the soil, and the faint sweetness of flowers blooming somewhere. It was a luxurious cocktail.
There was nothing to obstruct my view to the very edge of the horizon. The hills rolled gently, and beyond them, the ridgeline of the Northern Alps floated faintly. The sky was a size larger than the sky in Tokyo, and clouds drifted slowly at a low altitude. The pasture swayed in shades of yellow-green and deep green depending on the angle of the light, and every time the wind blew, the whole expanse rippled. It felt just like the ocean. A sea of grass. I was a fish suddenly tossed into it, feeling a little lost.
I booked a pension near Ougato. The owners were a couple in their seventies, both quiet, but the dinner they served was too delicious to eat in silence. On the first night, faced with Shinshu beef sukiyaki, I remembered the feeling of being "grateful" for the first time in a long while. It wasn't so much gratitude as it was a gentle warmth rooted deep inside.
It was the next morning that I met the sheep.

One

After breakfast, with no particular destination in mind, I was walking along the pasture fence, heading down a gentle hill.
On a late July morning, the light at Utsukushigahara is unique. It has a different quality from the summer light on the plains. Perhaps because it descends straight through the thin atmosphere, the shadows are sharp and deep, and the areas hit by light appear to pop out in white. The shadows of cows and sheep stretched across the pasture were as vivid as if drawn with fine black paint. The grass was covered in morning dew, making a small squelching sound every time I stepped on it.
That was when I found a strange lump at the corner of the fence.
At first, I thought someone had snagged an old sweater on the fence. Because it was white, round, and fluffy.
When I got closer, I saw it was a sheep.
A single white sheep was standing perfectly still, pressing its body right against the corner of the fence—the very spot where two posts met at a right angle. It was resting its left shoulder against one side of the fence and its right shoulder against the other, at an exact ninety-degree angle. As if a surveyor were proving, "This is a right angle," precisely and meticulously.
But what caught my eye more than anything was the strange, overwhelming presence of its appearance.
It had so much wool. I don't know any other creature to which the onomatopoeia "fluffy" applies so accurately. From its head to its back, the white wool was piled high, as if someone had forcibly stuffed a cloud into the shape of a sheep. The density of the fur was so high that its outline was soft and indistinct. Every time the wind blew, the surface rustled, shimmering faintly in the light. In the morning's side-lighting, that white fleece was almost blinding—if a sheep were to have a halo, this is what it would look like. Looking back at the pasture, other sheep were grazing here and there. They were sheep, all right. But, how should I put it, they looked dull. An unbleached color, or perhaps as if they had absorbed dust—a color that settled just a bit short of the sheep's natural "whiteness." A lived-in white, if you will. Only that sheep was different. That white, for some reason, didn't have that "short of" quality. It was just white. Unreasonably, white.
It had horns. Small, but with a solid base, symmetrical spiral horns that curled from both sides of its head and stopped after a half-turn. It looked like two conch shells growing out of a sea of fur, and honestly, it was a little scary. No, not scary—mythical. The white, fluffy sheep standing at the corner of the pasture fence had a dignity like a sculpture from a Greek temple for some reason.
And then, the eyes.
It was the first time I had looked so closely at a sheep's eyes. Horizontal pupils were drawn smoothly into yellowish irises. That in itself should be a perfectly normal structure found in any sheep, but something else resided in those eyes. Depth, perhaps? There was a luster like wet black stone, and it felt as if something were quietly sinking deep within them.
It didn't seem to be eating grass, sleeping, or afraid of anything. It was just there. Tucked perfectly into the right angle.
As I stared at it, it slowly turned its face toward me. And then, it blinked.
That one blink completely took me in.
I can't explain it well, but that blink wasn't normal. It was just the eyelids closing and opening, yet I felt as if something was contained within that momentary darkness. A quiet conviction that could be taken as "I am watching you" or "I am not watching you at all." For a while, I couldn't take my eyes off it.
"...What are you doing, you..."
I said it out loud without thinking. The sheep glanced at me once more and then faced forward again. It had the face of a philosopher.
As I stood there observing it for a while, a voice called out from behind me.
"Rare, isn't it?"
I turned around to see an old man wearing a straw hat. He was about the same age as the pension owners, I guessed. Fine wrinkles were etched into his sun-tanned face, but only his eyes were remarkably young.
"Are you from the ranch?"
"Yes. I work at this ranch. Are you curious about that sheep?"
"I am. What is it doing there?"
The old man smiled a little. Rather than a smile, it felt more like the arrangement of the wrinkles on his face had shifted.
"Who knows. It's been like that for a long time. Every morning it goes there and stays until around noon. It eats grass and moves with the other sheep sometimes, too. But in the morning, it seems it wants to be tucked into that corner like that."
"The reason?"
"I've never asked the sheep."
The old man said that and grinned. I followed suit and laughed.
"Does it have a name?"
"We call it Pythagoras."
Because it's a "right angle." I repeated it in my mouth. I thought, indeed, that is a correct naming.

Second Day

Going to see Pythagoras became a habit from the next day on.
Every morning around seven, after finishing breakfast at the pension, I would head to the pasture, and Pythagoras would be exactly in that spot. Tucked into the corner of the fence, looking into the distance. I would sit down a few meters away and drink my coffee while watching him. Sitting on a folding camping chair the pension owner lent me, wrapping both hands around a stainless steel mug.
The light on the plateau changed quickly in the morning. An hour after dawn, the morning sun would rise rapidly, illuminating the entire pasture from an angle. During that time, Pythagoras looked as if he were bathed in a spotlight.
His white fleece sparkled in the morning sun. It looked as if grains of light were resting on every single strand of hair, and Pythagoras himself seemed to be glowing faintly. When backlit, his outline was rimmed in orange, and the fluffy mass stood at the corner of the fence like a lighthouse. Those symmetrical horns also caught the light and shone like a halo when viewed from that angle. Why, despite being a sheep, was he so majestic?

Third Day

When the morning sun suddenly peeked through a break in the clouds, the white fur burst into a dazzling glow. Pythagoras didn't move an inch.
"Aren't you dazzled?"
When I spoke to him, Pythagoras slowly turned toward me and blinked.
That blink again. The momentary darkness as the eyelids closed and opened. But in that instant, something was packed. As if to say, "Dazzling things are dazzling, but I am here." Or perhaps, "Dazzling or not, this is my morning." He was choosing to be here.
I took a sip of my coffee. The plateau morning was chilly, and the temperature of the mug was just right.
"Choosing, huh."
That word rolled around in my head for a while.

I got married when I was twenty-eight. The person was a man two years older than me whom I had been dating since college, and if you asked me if I was particularly in love with him, honestly, I'm not sure. "Because that was the flow of things" is probably the most accurate explanation.
The marriage lasted three years. We didn't fight, and there was no betrayal. It was just that one day, I realized we had become complete strangers. Two people who ate at the same table and slept in the same bed, yet had absolutely no interest in each other. A relationship like wallpaper facing wallpaper.
He was the one who brought up the divorce, and I agreed with surprising ease. If anything, I felt, "I'm glad you said it." However, on the way back from submitting the divorce papers, the moment I passed through the ticket gate at the nearest station, I burst into tears. It wasn't sadness. It was more like the feeling that "it's over" was unexpectedly huge. It wasn't just the marriage that ended; a story of "living life this way" had come to an end.
For two years since the divorce, I've been living by hopping between part-time jobs. Cafe staff, bookstore clerk, event staff. I'm not particularly suited for them, nor are they particularly fun. But life is moving along.
My friend Natsu told me, "It's like you're punishing yourself."
Punishing? I tilted my head.
"Don't you think you just don't believe you have the right to try your best yet?"
Natsu sometimes touches on the deep parts of people's hearts with pinpoint accuracy. The moment she touches it, it stings, but I immediately want to say, "That's not it." The fact that I can think "that's not it" probably means that somewhere, I feel it's "correct."
The day before I came to Utsukushigahara, I told Natsu, "That's not it." Natsu said, "I'm glad if that's the case." I thought about how her voice sounded just a little lonely the whole time I was on the bus.

Fourth Day

The old man from the ranch came and sat next to Pythagoras. His name was Mr. Murata. Seventy-two years old. Originally from Nagano, he said he quit his corporate job over thirty years ago to start this ranch.
"What did you do when you were a salaryman?"
"Finance. A bank employee. It didn't suit me."
"When did you realize it didn't suit you?"
Mr. Murata looked up at the sky for a while before answering. The sky that day was a piercing blue, with almost no clouds. The light poured down from directly above, and the green of the pasture was as vivid as a jewel.
"About ten years after I joined the bank, I suddenly realized. If I went on like this until retirement, what of me would remain? The result that the deposited money increased would remain. But the trace that I had been involved would remain nowhere. That suddenly became scary."
"So you started a ranch?"
"So I started a ranch. You see, sheep remember me properly. If I talk to them every morning, they react. It might be a trivial thing, but that was important to me."
Mr. Murata stood up and slowly stroked the area around Pythagoras's neck. Pythagoras narrowed his eyes. Mr. Murata's hand disappeared as if buried in the fluffy fur.
"Why does Pythagoras like that, um, 'right angle'?"
When I asked, Mr. Murata thought for a moment before saying.
"A 'right angle,' huh. I think he feels protected when he's there. His back is supported from two directions, you see. In a wide plateau, sheep worry about what's behind them. They are timid creatures, after all."
Because they are timid, they tuck themselves into a right angle.
I swallowed those words slowly, as if ruminating on them. Like the last sip of coffee, it was a bit bitter, but warm.
Just then, light poured down from a break in the clouds again. The light hit Pythagoras's white body straight from above. Every strand of fur shone, and his fluffy outline was rimmed in gold. The spiral of his horns caught the light and shone glossily, and a small sun was reflected deep within his horizontal pupils.
"It's beautiful," I said without thinking.
"Isn't it?" Mr. Murata laughed. "I think he knows how the light hits. That spot gets the most light during the morning hours."
I looked at Pythagoras. Pythagoras blinked in the light.

Fifth Day

I walked the plateau alone in the afternoon. Slowly, along the promenade that continues from Ougato to Ougahana.
The wind was strong. The wind on the plateau had no fixed direction; it blew from nowhere, shook the grass, and went off in another direction. It was more whimsical than free. Still, it wasn't unpleasant. Rather, that disorder felt good. The Japanese azaleas had already finished blooming, but along the promenade, bellflowers and edelweiss were peeking out. Why are wildflowers so modest? They bloom quietly in places where they might be stepped on.
While walking, I thought vaguely about myself.
Where is my right angle?

Just as Pythagoras tucks himself into the corner of the fence, am I tucked into some corner? Perhaps I was resting my back against that corner at the intersection of the event of divorce and the feeling of being unable to do anything. It wasn't that I couldn't move, but that I had chosen to stay without moving. Saying I chose it sounds cool, but in short, I was probably just scared.
Mr. Murata's words rang in my head again.

When I reached the tip of Ougahana, the Matsumoto Basin spread out below. Beyond the haze, the ridgeline of the Northern Alps was visible. The peaks of Hotaka still had snow even in summer, and white streaks ran vertically down the mountainside. I didn't know the names of the mountains. It was fine not to know. They were just there. Huge, quiet, and unmoving. And, they were properly there.
I stood there for a while, gazing at the Alps. Standing at the edge of the plateau, it felt as if the sky was coming from three directions. The sky was pressing in from the front, left, and right. The wind blew from the front, messing up my hair. Behind me, it was open.

Sixth Day

It was raining this morning. It wasn't so much a drizzle as it was the fog itself being wet, and visibility was only a few dozen meters. The pasture was hazy and white, and the distant hills and nearby fences were all melting into the same gray mist.
Even so, Pythagoras was in his usual spot.
I opened my umbrella and went over to the pasture. His wet wool looked heavy, and Pythagoras looked just a little smaller than usual. Still, he was leaning his body right against the corner of the fence, wearing the same expression as always. His spiraling horns were wet and glistening in the rain, and his fluffy coat was damp and heavy. Yet, he didn't move an inch.
"You come out even in the rain, huh?"
When I spoke to him, Pythagoras slowly turned toward me. His wet, black eyes were shining brightly in the fog. His horizontal pupils were cutting a thin slice through the whiteness of the mist.
"You really like it here, don't you? You truly do."
There was only the sound of the rain, the droplets on the grass, and the sound of a cow lowing in the distance. Pythagoras blinked once more and turned back to face forward.
I stood there for a while that day, still holding my umbrella.
On that rainy morning, I felt like I finally understood Pythagoras clearly. He wasn't being forced, and he wasn't afraid; he simply knew that this was his place, and so he was there. That was all. And how certain a thing that simple fact was.
Where is "here" for me?
The rain continued to fall for a while.

Day 7

In the evening, Mr. Murata's wife—a petite woman named Kyoko with many laugh lines—brought a large amount of vegetables to the pension. She said they were summer vegetables grown on their farm. Zucchini, tomatoes, green beans, and basil.
"I feel bad about this," I said, and Kyoko laughed, saying, "You spend time with our sheep every morning, after all."
The owners of the pension made pasta with the vegetables. It was a simple tomato sauce topped with plenty of basil. As the four of us sat around the table eating, I found myself talking aimlessly to the Muratas and the owners about myself.
About my divorce. About my part-time job. About what comes next.
When Kyoko asked, "What about the future?" I answered honestly, "I don't know."
"It's okay not to know," Kyoko said. "If you just keep moving without knowing, you'll see something eventually. We didn't know anything either when Mr. Murata said he wanted to start a farm. But once we tried it, we realized later that this was our place."
"Is it something you realize later?"
"That's right. There's nothing you can know beforehand."
Kyoko said this as she scooped up some tomato sauce with her fork. The movement was effortlessly powerful.

Day 8

The final day. I went to the pasture a little earlier than usual.
Pythagoras was there. In his usual spot, in his usual posture.
The light that morning was particularly strong. There wasn't a single cloud over the highlands, and the sky was so clear it made the rain of the previous days seem like a lie. The morning sun surged up from the ridge of the eastern hills all at once, dyeing the entire pasture orange. Even the distant Alps had shed their haze, and every single ridge was so sharp it stung my eyes.
Pythagoras stood in that light.
His white coat shone dazzlingly in the morning sun. The surface of his fluffy, mounded wool glowed gold, and his horns shone like brass. The rim of backlighting ran orange, making Pythagoras's entire silhouette look as if it were wreathed in fire. His body, tucked perfectly into the corner of the fence, cast a sharp shadow in the light, and that shadow alone was carved into the ground in a deep navy blue.
I sat down directly on the grass by the fence. The dew soaked my trousers, but I didn't care.
"I'm going home."
Pythagoras turned toward me. His eyes, catching the morning sun head-on, shone gold. Deep within his horizontal pupils, a small morning sky was reflected.
"I think I'll remember you for a while. The sheep who stands at a right angle."
Pythagoras blinked slowly. His eyelids closed and opened again. In that momentary darkness, something else was contained. And then—he let out a "Baa." Just one sound. It was short, dry, but strangely dignified. It vanished smoothly into the morning air. This time, I felt like I heard him say, "See you later." I decided to take that as his reply.
"You know your place, don't you?"
Sitting on the grass, I watched the sky turn blue for a while.
A right angle is a place where two directions meet. Vertical and horizontal, or past and future, or the self that is here now and the self that is to come. Pythagoras leans his back against that intersection and is there every morning. Protected, yet facing outward. Shining properly within the light.
My right angle is surely not here yet. I might find it when I return to Tokyo and try to start something, when I stumble over something else, or perhaps on some completely unrelated evening.
But today, I watched the sky turn blue right here.
That much was certain.

It was 10:00 AM when I boarded the bus bound for Matsumoto.
Watching the highlands recede from the window, I took my smartphone out of my backpack's inner pocket and typed a message to Natsu.
"I'm heading back. I met a sheep. A sheep that likes right angles. He was an interesting fellow."
After a while, a reply came from Natsu.
"What is that, too funny. Tell me more. Also, is your complexion looking better?"
"I don't know. But, well, just a little."
"That's enough. Welcome back."
I put my smartphone away and looked out the window again.
The highlands were already quite far away, as if melting into the summer light. Pythagoras must be somewhere, likely still in that corner, receiving the morning light with his whole body again today. Light pouring down on his fluffy white body, his horns shining, his horizontal pupils filled with that quiet conviction.
Thinking of that, I smiled just a little.
The bus continued down the slope. The Matsumoto Basin was gradually drawing closer.

Nine

The week after I returned to Tokyo, I went to the Hello Work office.
It wasn't that I had a specific goal. I just wanted to try opening a door, any door.
I took a number at the reception and sat in the waiting chair. Next to me was an old man who looked to be in his seventies and a young boy in his early twenties. Everyone is here for their own reasons. That was, in a way, a comfort. The right angles of life aren't just one kind.
My number was called, and I stood up.
In that moment, I remembered the wind of the highlands. A fickle wind with no fixed direction. You never know where it will blow until it blows.
I walked toward the counter.
Hoping that Pythagoras is catching the light in that corner again this morning.