From the horizon, the Goddess peeks at the town of Tachikawa. And with just a mere peek, darkness fades into nothing. The shadows are pushed back into their crevices while color is bred back into the world without failure, albeit with a slight hint of a healthy orange glow. Nearing the outskirts at the end of town, the farmstead was blessed with the same graces. Early to greet the day was the Farmer to tend to his field; late was his daughter. Hours into his work, and he returns to their home to pay her a visit in the bedroom. He creeps into her room, as quiet as the Goddess that peeked from behind the mountains, and finds his place by her bedside.
“Seijun~.” Called the Farmer, placing his rough hand softly upon her shoulder. A gentle squeeze for the first attempt.
“Little Seijun~.” His tone like honey from the hive to compensate for the gentle shaking for his second attempt.
“Juno~.” The Farmer believed his daughter to still be deep in slumber, had it not been for the tiny smile borne from his calling of her nickname.
The hand was retrieved, but placed again at her side with his fingers twiddling at her. In an instant, the small child begins to writhe in joy. The silence is broken by a bubbling laughter, infectious in nature; how quickly it erases his fatigue. Mercy was in order, the Farmer relinquishes his daughter by exchanging the tickling with soft kisses on the forehead.
“How long have you been awake for?” Asked the Farmer.
“Uhhhmmm….” Said Seijun, looking elsewhere whilst rolling in the bed.
“You know I need your help in the field, right?”
“Mhmm…” Her voice rose.
“We need to let Mama get extra sleep, remember? So she can make us breakfast before heading to the market?”
“Mhmm..” Her voice fell.
It broke his heart to hear her like this. After all, a child should never be asked to work for the sake of their parents. The parents should be able to provide for their children, but how could he when they were being bled dry? He almost froze there, seated and staring at his little girl. Shaking off his train of thought, the Farmer dips once again to plant a firm kiss on his daughter’s cheek.
“I can handle the crops today, you will be helping Mama, okay? Go eat with Mama and help her at the market after.” He plants one more kiss.
“Okay Papa…” Seijun, reluctantly, scoots off her bed.
“Did you check for rodents yesterday?”
“Yes Papa.”
“Were there any?”
“No Papa.”
As both a token of consolation and gratitude, he brings his arm around her and accompanies her to the table. Like clockwork, they both arrive to a delicious breakfast already prepared on the table. They stop in their tracks to contemplate this spectacle they saw before them — a full table and a hardworking woman behind it. The Farmer was in awe to find that though they did not have much, she knew how to make it as if they did. Seijun, on the other hand, felt terrible to realize that her mother had already finished preparing breakfast.
“Katashi.” Called the busy Mother, “Could you help me for a bit, please?”
“Coming!” He says to his wife, “Now you really have to go to the market with mommy.” He knelt down and whispered to his daughter.
Seijun watches her parents scuttle around the table to prepare their first meal. She fiddles with her fingers as she did, deep in contemplation; she thought how hard it must be for them to do this everyday, but to never have enough. As they gather to sit and eat, this is when she would see it the most, the crumbs that led to such a stark perspective of her current reality. She watches her father share food with her mother, and vice-versa; she watches them share food with her as well. Seijun once believed this to be nothing more than simple acts of kindness, something a family did together. While she does not doubt this, she was beginning to think that it was also a way to ensure that one member had more of the share than the other — a selfless act; an attempt at sacrifice, because there was barely enough to satisfy everyone’s hunger since the arrival of the samurai. As best she could, she smiles and eats what she was given. She hoped that clearing the food from her mouth meant clearing the worry in her heart, but she only finds the food harder to swallow.
“Tsuna.” Called Katashi.
“Hmm?” She answers.
“The crops to be sold are ready, I placed them in the baskets by the door. They’re not too heavy so you should be able to carry them.” He smiled.
“Thank you, dear.” She said, her voice matching the sweetness in his smile, “But you underestimate me, you know. I am stronger than I look.” Tsuna brought up her arm, slapping her bicep meekly.
“Is that so?” Katashi’s smile evolves into a smirk, chuckling as he fed himself rice.
“Ohh for sure! I can probably lift the house if I wanted to.” Tsuna lifts her bowl of rice, supposedly in the same way she would lift the house.
“I-I can carry the baskets for you, mama.” Seijun interjected.
“I know you can, because you are strong like me too.” Tsuna wrinkled her nose, smiling at her little girl.
“Ehh?! What about me? Little Seijun got her strength from me too!” Said Katashi.
“Hmmm… maybe a little.” Tsuna chuckles, “She got more from me.” She winked at Seijun.
The wink catches her off guard, and it shatters her worrisome state instantly. With her hardened shell rendered to dust, Seijun’s lips curl into a wondrous smile; her next bite motivated by glee, it explodes with flavors she noticed only seconds prior.
Having concluded breakfast, and with the promise of her husband that he will be shouldering all the housework for the day, Tsuna makes her way to the door to find that the baskets were missing. Confusion struck her first before thinking that Katashi must have placed them outside the door. Sliding the door open, she sets her sights to find Seijun with one wicker backpack on her back while she holds another basket on her front with both hands. She gasped at her daughter’s show of initiative and strength, but also out of pity for such a little girl.
“Seijun.” She said worriedly.
But the little girl only replies with a proud smile.
Tsuna takes the liberty of taking the basket from her daughter's hands, wearing it herself on her own back. As much as she wanted to take the other basket too, she knew better than to exclude little Seijun from helping. Instead, she pats her head softly and leads their way to the market. She checked on her daughter periodically, peering over her shoulder to ensure that the basket was not weighing her down too much. Instead, Seijun looked elsewhere. She flung her gaze out to the furthest that the eye could see; Tsuna knew her daughter wanted to take in as much of the view as she could before they were surrounded by tall houses and other buildings. Their lives had its moments; a walk through plains and paddy fields was a nice view to start the day with. Tsuna slows herself down to match her pace with Seijun, it was time for their morning game. Both of them set their gaze to the blue sky, a clear canvas on which clouds would be drawn by the gods while they attempt to discern which cloud looked like what. She hoped that the game relieved her daughter of her fatigue as much as it did her. Soon enough, their view of the sky would be framed by the roofs of houses. Seijun dropped her gaze to marvel at them; their land may be of considerable size even as a small farmstead, but their house was truly nothing in comparison to an urban home. Their isolation fades when their neighbors greet them either by nod or by word, bringing them both back to reality. Not long after, they arrive at the marketplace — a bustling focal point for trade and business. Tsuna leads them to their stall, clearing away the covers so that they could display their crops for sale.
Hours come to pass, yet their most abundant transaction consisted of exchanges in pleasantries. Exhausted, Seijun lifts her head temporarily from the crops she sorted behind the stall to find her mother sighing. Dipping her head between her arms allowed Seijun to see more of her; the tightness at which her eyes were closed and the slant of her lips openly displayed Tsuna’s fatigue. Seijun watches it vanish as soon as her mother sees her staring, not a trace of a weary cheek nor a lusterless iris. Tsuna lifts her gaze, feeling the presence of a customer. The speed at which an arrow flies was nothing compared to how her smile vanished upon seeing a samurai standing before her stall. A ragged cloak drapes over the navy blue armor that he wore underneath, unlike his brethren that proudly display their colors. And unlike them, she could safely say that he did not need a mask; ferocity was natural to the curves of his face, no matter the expression.
He leans forward, almost excessively, to closely inspect her goods. “A fresh batch.” A paltry amount of snickering from the rest of his party of four ensued.
“If you are here to buy something, then I will be happy to assist you. If not… Please do not keep my other customers from approaching.” Tsuna’s tone, the leftover ash in their hearth from this morning.
“ I see none.” He spoke without ever lifting his gaze, nor his torso.
Seijun, peeking from behind their stall, saw how her mother’s lips trembled with frustration. Shifting her weight, she steals a glance at the samurai. He was clearly looking at their goods, but it also felt as if his gaze pierced through and looked past them.
“Please, just leave.” Said Tsuna.
“Clearly, you are wasting your time here.” He ran his thumb over the wooden counter of the stall on which her produce was assembled; "My men think you could be doing, and earning so much more.”
The samurai’s hand is a bee that perches itself onto her hand. Hastily, she withdraws her hand in disgust. But this displeased the bee, and it saw fit to sting her; the hand covered in armor — the very same that had perched onto hers — was swings across her face with brute strength, knocking Tsuna to the ground. Such an act of violence would not go unnoticed, but the swords tied to the waists of the warriors stayed the hands of the concerned townsfolk. None would dare, except for one little girl.
“Leave my mother alone!” Shouted Seijun, standing in front of her mother to shade her from their villainy.
“Oh—” His thought stagnated, shocked to see a little girl emerge from seemingly nowhere. “How cute….”
“LEAVE!!”
“Seijun—”
The Mother, reeling from the throbbing pain on her cheek, is reawakened by the loud voice of her daughter; it is rendered as but a murmur, her own voice lost in the ringing of her ear. Still picking up her own pieces, she misses the sound of iron meeting tender skin. With her gaze still on the ground, however, she watches her daughter’s torso land beside her. Her realization came late, but it came nonetheless.
“Seijun…? Seijun? SEIJUN?! WHAT HAPPENED?!” She turns her to lie on her lap. Her question was answered by the visible mark left on the little girl’s cheek, as red as the innocent blood they spilled daily in their little town.
Despite her efforts to comfort Seijun, the sting of the attack engraved itself thoroughly on her. She writhes in pain, her daughter’s cries bringing the heavens to tears as dark clouds stop to gaze upon her and weep as she did. If her embrace would not help, then she begs the gods that her own tears would numb Seijun to the pain.
The cloud is replaced by the samurai, blanketing them in his cruel presence. For a brief moment, his attention was taken away by the gathering of more townspeople. Violence is a peculiar thing, it compels a person to look away and to keep looking simultaneously. What were these two forces that pushed and pulled at them? The push was certainly disgust, but the pull had to be an innate lust for blood; a primal need to see it gush out, to hear bones snap in two, to watch as a head falls from the shoulders and rolls on the floor. At least this is what the samurai thought, one of many ruminations that always remains unfinished; his attention was pulled away yet again, though to a much closer proximity. The Mother’s sniffling catches his ears first, and then his eyes. Most especially, he watches how her tears drip from behind draped hair. He sees it land on her daughter’s skin, and vanish over the horizon of her cheek. It nearly kept him from hearing his own name being called.
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“Isamu-sama!” His men called him.
“Hmm?” Isamu looks over his shoulder to his commissioners, both feet still looking forward.
“Might I suggest using our new weapons?” He taps the arquebus strapped onto his person.
“...Your new weapon has a stain on the handle.”
The commissioner’s worry over the spotted stain, and his attempt to clean it, was rendered as but noise to him now that Isamu turns his back on them. He returns his focus on the woman and her daughter at his feet.
“Please…” She met his gaze, unfortunately. “We have done nothing to deserve this.”
“How are you so certain?”
Tsuna shies away from the question.
“The witnesses to your transgression against me surround you. A little far, but they surround you. You know what I must do now.” His hand moves to the hilt of his sword and pulls it free from the scabbard; it commands the crowd to gasp in fear and cling to whatever they could — their clothes, their loved ones, themselves. “Find comfort in knowing that you at least became an example to them.” He nods his head to the direction of the crowd, frozen in place. “This is why you were brought into this world, peasant.”
He raises his sword high, the crowd matching its height with their cries.
Seijun is forcibly pulled into an embrace by Tsuna, wanting it to be the very last thing she feels before the cruelty of the samurai comes to pass. Her vision is mostly obscured by her mother’s figure, but there was enough space for her to peek beyond and watch as a man, coming out of nowhere, intercept the blade as it came down; the stranger was quick enough to catch the blade and crafty enough to make his move before Isamu’s men could take aim and pull the trigger on their guns. Blood wets the soil. Almost instantly, the man falls on his chest, commanding the crowd to cry and wail. No doubt his fall struck his last breath out of him. How cruel of the world that a little girl is the closest audience to his death; so close is she that her eyes caught this last breath manifesting as the dust that flew outward.
Isamu felt the clean passage of his sword through the flesh, and the result sprawled on the floor could not lie. Despite the successful swing, he is left unsatisfied by the intervention of the poor fool. Clearing the blood from his newly-sharpened sword, Isamu is suddenly stained with a bright idea. And as soon as he heard a bird’s frantic flapping to take flight in the distance, he sets the plan in motion.
This time, he will not need his sword.
This time, he will attack with deathly precision and speed.
This time, he sheathed his sword and raised a hand sign.
And then—
“Oi.”
The samurai felt as if an invisible tether wrapped around him, preventing him from proceeding with his plan. Like the crowd, he is frozen in place; feet firmly planted into the soil. It was not the call that froze him, but the familiarity in its volume; its depth; the cadence and the raspiness.
“Stand down.” The voice came from not too far behind him.
Isamu did as he was told, lowering his hands. Ever so slowly, he turns on his axis to meet the eyes of his superior, standing as firm as a house. The scar on his cheek was old — if not older — than the hairs on his graying beard, adding only to his distinction and authority as a seasoned warrior of great experience. His gaze immediately fell on his superior’s fingers, tapping away at the naginata he held dearly.
“Yes, Yasu-sama.” Answered Isamu, tucking his extremities in to bow in the presence of his superior. He walks off, immediately followed by his men, leaving the mother and her daughter to their vices.
With the cruel samurai out of sight, the crowd quickly flocked toward the mother and her child. Despite drenching them with attention, they kept their distance. A woman thought to part from the rest of them, stepping in to actually extend her help to them; her soul the singular flame that lit all their torches in such a steep darkness. Now that the path was clear, they followed suit. From below, Seijun watched as an entire forest closed in on her. Their voices came to her as but an orchestra of rustling leaves. Her mother continued to pull at her, hoping the tightness of her embrace would keep her from breaking apart. While she remains whole in her arms, her attention lies elsewhere;
with the man that lied still while red poured out of him.
That Night…
Thin walls in a small home certainly ensured close ties in a family. If Seijun can hear the kettle whistle from within her room, she can hear them.
“BASTARDS!”
“Katashi—”
“They cannot do this to us! This is OUR town!”
“I know that, but—”
“They come here and use the things WE built?! Take OUR food??! Hurt OUR people?!! This town belongs to US! WE have watered these soils with our tears and our sweat for years and they just plan to take it?!!! And THEY are supposed to be our lords?!”
“Tashi, your voice—”
“And look at what they have done to you! I cannot stand idle. I will not. NOT ANYMORE, NOT EVER. If they think they can hurt MY family without consequences, they are MISTAKEN! I curse them! CURSE THEM! I will water my soil with their blood.”
“Katashi.”
“WHAT?!” There it was, the whistle of the kettle, finally given its moment. “I am sorry. I did not mean to—”
“I know, my love.” Tsuna sets the kettle down first before wrapping her hands around Katashi’s waist.
All of a sudden, the intense whistling slowly dies down, grabbing Seijun’s attention to bear witness to the two shadows that stood behind the door as they unify into a singular being.
“But you know I cannot stand idle. Not after what they have done. Blood has been drawn, Tsuna. And it will be drawn again if we do nothing.”
“You are right…” she parts from him and lifts the kettle once more, “but we cannot be the ones to strike back. These are hardened warriors. We are farmers, Tashi.” A flawless stream of tea flows into the cup.
“We built this country, Tsuna.”
“And that is our role.” She sets the kettle down once more. “We are builders, not destroyers. You know more than anyone what a battlefield looks like.” Her warm hands find his cheek.
“What if that is what we need? These men… these monsters… will take everything from us. We need to do something.”
“Well whatever it is, it cannot cost us the family. Katashi, this is all we have. We know what we fight against, but let us not forget what we are fighting for.”
“Sigh… You are right.” His arms take her in again, a kinder wind replacing the previous one. “I knew I married you for a reason.” The softness in his tone — in his words — contrasted like an open hand and a closed fist.
“Which reason are you using this time?” She asks with a playful tone.
“Hmm… your cooking. And that big heart of yours.” He replies sweetly.
The shadows move apart, just enough to gain a distance between them but not enough that two separate shadows would be produced. Seijun watches her father return the favor of a hand on the cheek.
“I should have been there, Tsuna. I am sorry.”
“You are here now.”
It was a mystery to her how she could tell that shadows were smiling.
And yet she could
and they were.
“How was she?” Asked Tsuna.
“Quiet. But I cleaned her up as much as I could… Got her to dress… She kept asking about the man that was killed today. He saved you, right?” He parts from her, taking the kettle into his hand.
“He did…” She looks down. “If it were not for him…”
Katashi, though already across the table, returns to cup his wife’s cheeks. As a farmer, he knew exactly how to plant crops to yield the best results. It was no wonder that the kiss he plants on her face yields the widest smile. “His sacrifice will not be forgotten. We buried him outside the village for now, near the old tree. Tomorrow we will transfer him to the cemetery.”
“Thank you.”
“You should go see her. She might be sleeping or… pretending to be.” Katashi hoped for the latter since she still needed to take her medicine.
The little girl’s chest tightened, her father knew her well. She watches her father’s shadow disappear, and her mother’s shadow turns her head toward her. Quickly, she lays her head back down and closes her eyes. Her darkness was chased away by a warm light.
Was it the lamp?
Was it her mother?
Only the latter could tuck her hair behind her ear, and only she can do it so softly; not a single strand dared defy someone like her. With her hair moved aside, Tsuna is beholden to her daughter's bruised cheek. It broke her to see that even with her touch as light as a feather, her little girl winced.
“Seijun?” She whispered, hoping for a response.
She receives none, making her unable to determine whether this provided comfort or worsened her grief. Either way, Tsuna knew better than to disturb what peace her daughter found after a day like this. More than that, she knew how to make it better. Tsuna places the cup of tea down by Seijun’s head before she begins, knowing well enough that Seijun would drink her medicine as soon as she wakes up.
Just as her own mother did to her, she tucks Seijun in and brushes her hair as she lulls her with a song. Tsuna’s fingers move with the melody, gently dancing on her head from her brow to her jaw and all around. Seijun resists the urge to sing along, but it proves to be a chore. Knowing a song by heart almost compels the entire body to fall for its every note. Luckily for her, the sweet lullaby did its magic. The little girl falls through consciousness and into a deep slumber; she no longer felt the blanket around her, the bed on which her body rested, nor the dancing fingers that waltzed on her cheek or the kiss her sweet mother bestows upon it. While the evening attempts to pass them by as quietly as it could, Seijun awakens to catch it in the act. Both hands push at the bed to raise herself. She rubs her face, calling on her muscles to rise with her. There was no recollection of the song’s conclusion, leaving her to believe she must have fallen asleep immediately. Even so, she could somehow feel the imprint of her mother’s kiss on her cheek. Her lips have long since left, but love stays.
She wonders if this was why her cheek no longer hurt.
As silent as cat’s feet, Seijun exits the house with a cup in hand, now filled with water after having consumed her kampo tea. Several sips prior to her coming out rendered its amount to just half the cup. The contrast of day and night was more than light and dark. It was noise and silence, motion and stagnation, presence and absence. And at that moment, she could only think of the absence the man’s family might be feeling on a night like this; the very same man that has gifted her with the possibility of standing here to ponder about him.
The old tree. She thought as she turned her head toward its direction from here, remembering what her father said.
Within minutes, Seijun sets her sights on the mound that she could only consider to be their hero’s resting place. There was a nonchalance in her step, even as she succumbed to the shadows. This could only be achieved through mastery of the path ahead, and severely helped cut her travel from the house to here. There she stood, as close as he was to her when he took the blade for her. The walk, while short, compelled her to lift her cup for a drink. The very moment the water wets her lips, she pulls her hand back. Setting her eyes on the mound, her father’s voice rings clear in her head. As clear as the memory she sees.
Papa, why did you give Nori-san water? She asked.
When you and your mother reach the market in the morning, do you feel thirsty? Asked Katashi.
Seijun briefly looks outward in deep thought. She nods thereafter.
It is like that. Death is not the end for us, Jun. Replied Katashi. When we leave this world, we travel far. So we give them their last taste of water to prepare them for the journey they have ahead.
Little as she was, her heart was the size of the old tree that gave them shade. She raises her cup and pours the water atop the mound, hoping that it would seep through the soil and reach him below. The words her father spoke echoed, she questioned it with a refreshing sense of curiosity. Why was it that there was a journey ahead even in death? Is the journey in life not enough? How long would this journey be? Is their final destination somewhere in the land or even further beyond it? Is it not cruel to give them just one last taste of water then? Should she return every few minutes? She doubts that she herself could survive a day without water.
KROOOSH!
Seijun let out a blood-curdling scream, one she knew no one would hear this far out from the town at this unholy hour. Realizing that no help would come, she quickly dashed away back toward the direction of the house. But as it were, haste tends to make waste; the little girl had seemingly dropped her cup
next to the hand that burst out of the mound.