The Eye of the Kami

The following evening, Gin stood at one of the stalls along the edge of the market square, sipping sake with many of the older men from around the village. Most of the men were farmers, with a few tradesmen and merchants in the crowd. This was not uncommon during festivals, for as the night wore on, the men usually began to congregate and become increasingly spoiled with drink. Eventually, an argument would break out that would be the talk of the town for the next few months. During the preceding festival, there was a dispute over a persimmon seed-spitting contest that nearly came to blows when the top two entrants appeared to tie.

Gintaro did not enjoy the raucous behavior but felt that it was a necessity to keep up good ties with the community, as he typically leaned toward isolation. For the most part, he kept quiet, observing the festivities going on in the center of the square.

At this time in the evening, there was a dance called the Kokoro Bon Dance, in which most of the women and some children would partake. There was a decorated wooden platform set up in the center of the square, and around that the dancers would move in concentric circles. The movements of the dance were slow and repetitious, keeping up with the rhythm of the giant taiko drums positioned in the center of the platform. Gin looked on fixedly, as the women in their flowing yukata moved around the platform in a circular motion, moving their hands like reeds swaying in the wind. He kept an eye on his daughter, who seemed to be greatly enjoying herself, laughing with her best friend as she bent and then lifted her hands to the stars.

“I wish her mother could see her now. She looks so happy, so free,” he thought.

“Gin-san!” one of the men standing next to him shouted, breaking his concentration. It was one of the other rice farmers from across the village, a man named Maeta. Maeta was Gin’s first and perhaps only true friend in Kokoro. He was the one who taught him how to cultivate the land and grow rice when no one else would. He was a bull of a man, thick and plump, and always wore an exuberant grin on his face as if he had just drunk quite a bit of sake, even though this was not always the case.

“Gin-san!” he shouted again, despite being right next to him. His face was shining red like an apple. “I see you looking over there at your daughter! What a princess! But look! You are not the only one! Best keep vigilant, lest one of those youngsters come and steal her away from you in the middle of the night!”

He knew that Maeta meant no offense, but at those words, he bristled. He stood a bit taller and put his sake cup down. Sure enough, at another stall across the marketplace, there was a small group of adolescent boys. Although the content of what they were saying could not be heard over the music, he could easily understand their intent.

“Come off it, Gin-san!” another man cried. This time it was a man named Kiro, a merchant from the town who specialized in pottery. He was an abnormally thin man with a sharp face. He was cooling himself off with an absurdly colorful fan. Unlike Maeta, Gin was not fond of him and tried to avoid his shop unless he was in dire need. “They are just boys!” Kiro continued, “Don’t get so bothered! Here, have another drink!”

“It’s a festival night,” Maeta interjected, trying to be reasonable. “They probably had as much sake as we did. I didn’t mean to get you upset.”

Gin glanced around. He did not think that he acted in any way that would mark him as upset, but he could see several people eyeing him apprehensively.

“These men still don’t trust me. After all these years here, they still think of me as a dangerous outsider,” he thought.

Sensing that Yukiana was too enraptured in her dance to notice the boys, Gin leaned back against the stall once again and took up his sake cup. At this everyone around him seemed to relax.

“You know,” Kiro said, casually making his way towards him, “One day that daughter of yours will likely marry one of these fine boys. Perhaps it may be my own! He’s a good lad, and handsome, just like his father.”

Gin made to frown at that notion, but Kiro lifted his sake cask, offering to pour him some. He nodded and accepted the offer.

Kiro smiled widely and bowed. Although it was a friendly gesture, Gin could sense the insincerity in the creases of his face.

“My daughter may marry someone here, or she may not,” Gin said flatly, just as Kiro made to turn around. “Either way, she is still young.”

“Not too young!” one other man said, pointing towards Yukiana, who, with her closest friend, Kotani Fuka, were now both clearly looking over at the group of boys.

“Come now!” Kiro said with a wry grin. “She is almost of age. You have the right to promise her to whomever you like. Why don’t you settle it out now?”

This time Gin did frown. “She is not yet of age,” he said firmly.

“Bah! Perhaps not according to your city standards, but out here we marry younger to provide hands for the village.” This new voice boomed out strongly from amongst the crowd of men, who had started to murmur. A broad-shouldered man sauntered before Gintaro. It was the village headman, Goto Waru, a robust man with a squarish face and a deep voice. He had just taken over for his father who had died less than a year ago and had become very prideful in his new position. Gin usually acted cordial with him, but as they were similar in age, he always felt an uneasy air between them. “She is growing more and more beautiful by the year,” Goto continued. “Why not provide her with the security of an engagement?”

“Is not the father the one to decide when and to whom his daughter should be married?” Maeta asked pointedly, despite the rueful glare from Goto.

“It’s all right,” Gin said to Maeta reassuringly. He stood erect once again and peered at the men awaiting a response. “I am of the mind to let my daughter decide who and when she will marry. My wife and I came to this decision a long time ago. I will not choose a husband for her.”

At this, some of the men scoffed, and the murmuring increased.

“Another city notion,” Goto said darkly. “Not one that will find much respect here.”

“Respect or no,” he replied, meeting Goto’s glare with his own. “It is my wish, and it is final.”

For a few moments, the two stared at each other, neither showing signs of wavering. Fortunately, the tension was broken by a younger man who had not been privy to the argument, as he came directly from the center of the market.

“It’s time!” he said to Goto with a hurried air about him. “The contest is to start next!”

Goto stroked his hairless chin thoughtfully and turned back to face Gin. “Gentlemen!” he shouted to everyone in the vicinity but kept his eyes locked on his rival. “Gin-san has lived among us for nearly ten years, and he has yet to participate in any of the local contests. While they are not compulsory, I wonder, does he have any notion of community pride? Furthermore, he will not consider the engagement of his daughter to any of the many honorable houses of this valley, which is an ancient and well-founded custom here. So, why don’t we settle these issues all at once? If he joins in the next contest and wins, we as the people of Kokoro and the surrounding valley will let this issue rest and Gin-san can do with her what he wants.”

This was met by many cheers of assent, much to Gin’s surprise.

“Leave him alone!” Maeta cried, turning an even deeper shade of red. “He is under no obligation to compete or to marry off his daughter! There is nothing you can do!”

“Perhaps…” Kiro chimed in, a cruel smile etched across his face. “But if laws were to change, Gin-san would have to comply or relocate, and where would a man without a hometown go?”

“Ah, yes, that is something to consider,” Goto said with an insightful nod.

Gin frowned once again. He was not expecting to be the target of this year’s drunken quarrel but knew it would all come to a head at some point. For the last ten years, he had been treated largely as an outsider and had come to enjoy the solitude that came with it. However, he knew that people in villages like this could not keep from finding out each and every detail of the inhabitants that dwelt within it. His quiet and seemingly mysterious life was like a blister on the heel.

“Gin-san,” old Ota said quietly, coming in from the edge of the crowd. “Let’s go. There is no need to…”

At this moment, an idea came into Goto’s mind, and it showed clearly on his face. “Hah!” he exclaimed, stepping forward and becoming uncomfortably close to Gintaro. His voice was barely audible so that only Gin could hear him. His breath reeked of sake, but he did not flinch or step back. “There are rumors that I have wanted to discuss with you,” Goto whispered. “I heard that Ota-san owes you quite a debt of gratitude. Indeed, if it is true, all of us do. Now, that kind of story would bring a great deal of fame to a man. So, I wonder, why wouldn’t you want it to get out? What are you hiding?”

Gin’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his scowl intensified. His hands instinctively began to clench tightly into fists.

“I want to see what kind of man you are Gin-san, that’s all…” Goto said, backing away slowly, with his arms held out quizzically. “So, what do you say?”

“The contest of swords?” Gintaro asked after a few moments passed.

Goto nodded, the smile on his face widening.

“So be it,” he said with a nod. “But you will all leave my daughter alone.”

“If you win…” Kiro said with a smirk.

But Gin was already on the move.

Across the open market square, there was a large wooden post, as tall as two and a half men, lodged firmly into the ground. Hung from it was the body of a great wild boar. It had been killed only very recently, as blood still dripped from its yellow tusks. Its rugged hide was still black and had not faded. There was already a crowd gathered about it, anticipating a yearly tradition in which some of the men would compete to see how deeply they could cut with a single sword strike.

It was a popular event, not only because of the spectacle of watching farmers use swords like samurai but also because it was easy to make bets. For some, this was the chance to recuperate their money spent on sake, for others, a chance to make enough to buy something nice in the city.

By the time the rest of the men joined in, the crowd had swelled considerably. Young children and some women stayed away from what would be a bloody scene, but everyone else huddled close to get a glimpse of the action.

Traditionally, only three people would take place in the contest. This year it would be Maeta, Goto, and Gintaro. Goto was able to convince the previous competitor, another local farmer, to step down to make room for the newcomer. Gin was quite sure that Goto had threatened the man in some way, and as the village headman, he had reasonable power to do so. Thus, the man reluctantly backed into the crowd without a word. Each of them donned a hachimaki, or a ceremonial headband, with their respective number painted upon it. As with many traditional games, there was often a historical skit performed before the event even took place. Actors dressed up in elaborate costumes danced around the post, fighting with wooden swords as ancient rhythms sounded and exaggerated their performance.

“They are depicting the great battle between the Shinjin, the God-man and the Akuma, the Yomi King,” an old woman explained to her grandson, who must have been watching the competition for the first time. “The Shinjin eventually defeated the Akuma and broke his dominion over these islands. However, many dark and evil spirits were brought into this realm by the Yomi King and have survived to this day. This is why you must be kind to your grandmother and do what she asks of you. She can ward off those evil spirits for you.”

Gin had seen it all before and was more concerned with the task at hand. He did not know if it was the amount of sake he drank or the subtle threats to his daughter, but he was angry. His hands itched with a feeling that he had almost forgotten. He was glad that he had instructed Yuki to stay at her friend’s house. He would not be able to focus if he knew she was watching.

Maeta stood next to him waiting for the act to finish. He was busy wrapping his hands, believing it might give him some edge in the competition. Gin surveyed the crowd and grew more anxious by the moment. Most of the people he knew were from the village, but there were a few unfamiliar faces. One was a portly, bald man, who, judging by his expensive clothes, was a wealthy nobleman from a nearby city, coming in for the festivities and the plethora of festival food. There was also a group of young men, just on the cusp of adulthood, who likely came up from the south to lay their eyes on the local girls. Gin made sure to glare at them, though none seemed to notice him doing it. There were also several acolytes robed in grey which, despite their ascetic vows, appeared quite pleased to drink to their hearts’ content without the watchful eyes of their superiors upon them.

Finally, there was a man dressed in dark traveling robes who wore a wooden box on his back. He had the look of a traveling merchant of some kind, perhaps selling rare herbs or medicines. His face was covered by a large, conical shade hat, which was often worn by such men, though not usually in the evening unless they were traveling. He had a sturdy frame, and his posture was rigid. He appeared to match Gintaro in height.

“Who is that?” Gin asked Maeta, who was still getting ready.

“Who?” Maeta said looking up. “Ah, the merchant. I don’t know. I saw him come in this afternoon. He sold tonics to some of the old crones before the festival, probably claiming it would make them beautiful again. He looks pretty wild, so I’d guess he's probably on his way to or back from the far south.”

The center of Minami-shima was well known for being a hard terrain to navigate through, with only small villages like Kokoro scattered about every few days. However, another domain existed on the southwest corner of the island, and while it was usually accessed by boat, the occasional merchant or pilgrim would make the journey on foot.

“I’m not so sure,” Gin said, still skeptical. “Seems a bit robust for a traveling merchant, don't you think?”

“That is true,” Maeta agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and shooting Gin a look. “Could be a former soldier. You know, a lot of those men needed to find new work after the war ended.”

“Or he could be a swindler,” Gin ventured, peering at him cautiously. “Here to pick the pockets of the drunk.”

“Could be…” his friend murmured, finishing up the last of his preparations. He was now wearing armguards and an ancient helmet, which he swore belonged to his great, great grandfather who he claimed was a famous samurai. “Either way, he and the others will be gone by the morning. There's not much to do in a small village like this besides these kinds of things. Well, wish me luck!”

“How can I?” Gin replied with a laugh. “You're now my rival!”

Maeta smiled wide and strode off in the direction of the post, making sure to draw as much attention to himself as possible.

Gin, looking on, could not help but laugh. Maeta embodied the best of the rural life he had come to accept. He was jovial and kind, hardworking but laid back. He feasted often and well, and he was the first to help someone else in need. He sauntered up to the post and lifted his hands which drew a wave of shouts and applause. He clearly relished the attention. The judge of the competition, who happened to be the dubious Kiro, stepped forward and handed him the sword. Maeta took it and immediately unsheathed it and lifted it overhead while the people erupted with cheers. After a few moments of riling up the crowd, he turned to face the beast hanging from the stake.

He eyed it up for a few moments, then gripping the hilt of the katana, he strode forward. He stopped just short of the boar’s body, held up the sword with both hands and wound up to deliver a mighty blow. The crowd was brought to dead silence, waiting with anticipation to see what would happen next.

As Maeta cocked his arms back as far as he could, he let out a thunderous shout and then swung the sword sideways with all the force his limbs could muster. The sword hit the boar with a loud thud, and blood sprayed out as the sharp edge cleaved its way through the flesh. It stopped a quarter way firmly into the thick hide, directly in the center of the boar.

“He has strong arms,” Gin observed. “But the sword needs more than arms to be effective. The sword needs every fiber of your body, all of your mind, even your soul to be directing it.”

Maeta was now closely examining the cut, as was Kiro, and both were arguing about the judgment. Gin could tell that both men had consumed too much sake, as their faces were almost right against the hide of the animal. People in the crowd were celebrating, some jeering, others were calling for the next competitor. Goto strode up within a few moments and grabbed the sword from Maeta who was still trying to talk his way into a second swing.

Goto had the top of his kimono removed, and Gin could see that he was a powerful man, still in the prime of his life. His muscles were large and well-defined, and he was sweating heavily, perhaps from the warm summer air or the sake. His eyes were black and determined, and the veins of his forearms were swollen, resembling the mountain streams after heavy rain.

He had heard that Goto, as the village headman’s son, had received lessons in swordsmanship as a young man. It was a customary thing, as the village heads were often seen as the local authorities in many places. They collected taxes and were under the district officials and their patrols, who were under provincial administrators and their retainers. At the top of each province was the daimyō, who ruled the land like a king, but were themselves subordinate to the Shōgun, the ultimate ruler of all the Islands. However, because only samurai and lords were thoroughly trained in the way of the sword, these local headmen only used them in ceremonial circumstances or cases of dire need.

Still, Gintaro was interested to see what this man could do. “A hare amongst the reeds, perhaps?”

Goto proudly announced that the sword he was holding was one passed down from his father, a man whom many of the townspeople revered. He told about how it was given to his father by the district official and local lord for keeping the village safe during the war.

Gin had to scoff at this. While he did not doubt the character of Goto’s father, one could not have found a place more untouched by the war than Kokoro Valley. The devastating battles and skirmishes happened so far from this place that most of the villagers had no knowledge of them other than vague stories and embellished rumors. To them, the war was merely a source for legends to be told around the hearth, not a reality.

“I've seen entire villages like this one burn until there was nothing left but ash and bones,” Gin thought to himself grimly. “These people could never understand that.”

Goto had finished his long-winded narration of the sword’s history and was now preparing himself to cut. Gin stood a little taller to get a better view. He didn't want to miss this.

Goto lined up his strike, moving the edge of the sword up and down along the boar’s hide.

“He's feeling for the spaces in the rib cage. Clever.”

When Goto was satisfied, he pulled back his arms and settled into a combative stance. He brought his arms up and as far back as they could go and gave a loud shout. This time his cut made a sound like a crack, which could only mean that he had hit bone.

“He hit the spinal column!” Gin whispered to himself with excitement.

He could tell that this was an exceptional cut, as the crowd was ecstatic. The confident grin on Goto’s blood-spattered face confirmed that he was happy with it as well. The boar was hanging in such a way that hitting the spinal column would mean that his cut went just about halfway through, so he had clearly beaten Maeta, who stood looking sorely defeated.

Gin could feel a pang of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. This was not an ordinary boar, it weighed as much as a full-grown man if not more. Its hide was much tougher than most other animals. Its sinewy muscles were clearly defined through the skin, which would add to the density of the flesh. This would not be easy.

“Perhaps back then, but now?” he wondered.