The day after the festival was the hottest day of the year so far. Gintaro, who was usually busy doing work around the garden or in the field, confined himself to the shade. He was reclining at the edge of the veranda with the sliding shoji doors opened as far as possible, fanning himself and listening to the loud chorus of cicadas. He wore a loose summer kimono which was dappled with sweat. It was an hour past noon, and the heat only seemed to be increasing. It was stiflingly humid, and rivulets of sweat trickled down from his forehead despite his stillness.

He turned his head to see what his daughter was doing. She was willowy and less affected by the heat, so she did not appear to be as uncomfortable as he was. She was reading from an old scroll, as was her custom when she was finished with her chores and had no lessons in the village. It was a habit that she had picked up before he had reunited with her, when she had lived among the Truist monks and nuns. She had a real appetite for knowledge, especially history, and he often listened to her recount stories of antiquity that even he was unaware of.

“It’s hot,” he said, hoping to start a conversation.

Yuki merely nodded, still focused on her scroll. He was happy that she enjoyed reading, as it was something that he could not do well, but sometimes it was like talking to the wind.

He frowned and then turned back and looked out at his land. The stalks of the rice shoots were growing taller by the day. The water in the paddy was looking low, but that could not be helped as it had been dry recently. Despite that, it seemed like there was going to be a good harvest this year.

He quietly reflected on his time in Kokoro Valley. When he first arrived about ten years ago, Yukiana was about seven, still a child in many ways, tender and untrusting of the man whom she had barely known because of the war. They had come to the village after a long and difficult journey and had inherited the house from a close friend who had died and left it to him. It was not located in the valley itself, but up along the eastern mountain range. The house was a fair size and sturdily built, but it had been abandoned and was almost completely beyond restoration when they first arrived. He had some money left over from the war and used it to fund their first year, which consisted primarily of rebuilding the house. He enrolled his daughter with a few teachers in town and set upon the task at once.

The house, despite its dilapidation, was well constructed, as someone of considerable wealth and skill must have built it in former years. It was of the aristocratic style, with sturdy wooden frames, clay-rounded roof shingles, tatami mat floors, and sliding doors that divided the rooms. They did not have much in terms of decoration, but Yukiana had done a remarkable job making it a home. Besides the house itself, Gin was equally proud of the small garden he had cultivated by the main entrance. For not being a man of the land, he thought it looked quite splendid with its pruned tree branches, serene pond, and small stone lantern.

After getting his house in order, he realized that his funding would not last them much longer and he needed a real source of income. Rice was the main crop in this region, and one he was vaguely familiar with, so he went about trying to learn how to create a rice paddy out of an overgrown thicket. Clearing the land took a great deal of time and energy, and soon it had been almost a year and a half since they arrived in Kokoro Valley. He frantically tried to work the earth to make it acceptable in time for planting, but unfortunately, his first crop failed. That was a difficult winter, as the two had to scrape by with little. He hated himself for having to watch his daughter grow hungry and felt himself coming to despise rural life.

However, at that point, the neighbors were aware of his presence and would sometimes venture up the mountain to greet him. It was one fateful day that Maeta came to visit and after scanning the field scornfully, he decided to give the newcomer some tips on proper irrigation. That information turned out to be invaluable, as come the following summer, Gin found himself with a field spattered with rice plants. From there, Maeta showed him ever more strategies to improve his yield, such as how to plow properly, how far apart and how much he should plant at a time, and how to weed. He even loaned him some of his equipment to use. After about three or so years in, Gin had really started to understand what he was doing, and by five or six, he was almost like a local.

Now it had been ten peaceful years in Kokoro, and he had kept his word. Yukiana was growing up healthy and strong, far from the chaos he had grown up in. The rural life was quiet, but it suited him. He had grown so tired of wandering.

“Gin-san!” a voice shot out from the path below.

He rose to his feet, knowing that the familiar voice belonged to Maeta. He had expected him to be lounging today as well, as he probably would have a headache from all the sake. For him to make the inconvenient journey up to his house meant that he probably needed something or was in trouble. Sure enough, Maeta’s great head emerged from the path that descended into the wood.

Gin chuckled. “Working on a day like today? You country folk are hardier than you look!”

“There's no time to joke around!” Maeta barked.

Now that Gin could see his expression, he could tell that something serious had happened. He hopped down from the edge of the veranda. “What's wrong?” Maeta was either sweating profusely or had fallen in the stream, as his clothes were dark and clung to his body.

“It's the bridge. It collapsed.”

“My bridge?” Gin asked. This was not his bridge precisely, but it was on the only path that led to his land, perhaps ten minutes from his house. It was a small wooden bridge that straddled one of the fast mountain streams that flowed down into the valley. It predated his arrival and was rather old, but it certainly did not seem unsafe.

“Yes!” Maeta huffed, clearly exasperated. “I was riding up your way, and the blasted thing came apart! The horse and I fell in. Luckily, we were both able to make it to the embankment. I think he is all right, but the embankment is too steep for me to pull him up alone. Would you mind lending me a hand?”

“Yes of course,” Gin affirmed, sliding on his outdoor sandals. “Yuki?” he called out.

She was still kneeling, sitting with her legs crossed and her face buried in her scroll. She looked up for a moment when he called her. “I'll be fine on my own! I'd really like to finish this one before the afternoon.” Her voice was sweet with a tone of pleading in it. “Besides, you'll be on the path, won't you? If someone comes to call, you will see them before they ever come here.”

Gin glanced over at Maeta who was agitated and impatient, then back over at his daughter. “Fine, but don't go wandering off. I'll be back soon.” Hastily, he followed Maeta down the path, their strides quickening with increasing urgency.

“I apologize,” Gin said as they made their way down the path. “I didn't know that the bridge was in such a bad condition. I would have tried to repair it right away.”

“Don't bother apologizing,” Maeta said, relaxing a bit now that they were on their way. “I rode up it a week ago, and it seemed sturdy enough. I knew the man who crafted it too, and he was as good a builder as any. These things happen. It couldn't be helped.”

“Who built the bridge? No one ever told me.”

“My grandfather,” Maeta said with a laugh.

The shade from the trees overhead gave them some reprieve from the intense heat of the day, but Gin was already sweating heavily. He lifted the sleeve of his shirt to his brow, but it was so humid that it had little effect. Beads of sweat trickled down into his eyes so that he had to wipe them before they began to sting. Maeta was still just as wet as he must have been coming right out of the stream and looked as if he had barely dried at all.

They soon came to the place where the bridge had once been. Gin could easily see the extent of the damage. Most of the bridge had washed away down the stream, though some remained as flotsam stuck along the edges. On the far bank was Maeta’s horse, which he called Goro-Goro. He was a handsome beast, chestnut with an earthy brown mane, but Maeta often complained that he was lazy and foul-tempered.

Both men waded across, as it was only waist high. In the early spring, such a thing would be dangerous as the runoff from the snow-covered mountains would lead to a rise in the stream’s height and strength. However, at this time the current was not too strong, and they made it across without much difficulty. The real challenge was next.

This particular side of the stream’s bank was steep so that the horse could not easily climb without some prodding. Goro, being more stubborn than most, was even less inclined to do so. Maeta took the reins and climbed up the bank to pull while Gin pushed and prodded from behind. After a few moments of intense effort by both men, and none by Goro, they could tell that it was no use.

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“Perhaps there is a gentler bank further down the stream?” Gintaro suggested.

“I thought so too, but I couldn't find any,” Maeta explained, shaking his head. “Before I came up to you, I scoured this side for quite some distance. We’d have to go pretty far to even have a hope of finding a better angle, and this horse won’t tolerate the water.”

Gin rubbed his short beard. “Can we switch places? I have an idea.”

He then climbed up the bank and disappeared into the trees, while Maeta scolded Goro vehemently.

After several moments he reappeared. He had a shiny red apple in his hand. “Goro! Here boy!” he said enthusiastically, holding out his hand. At once the horse lifted his head and eyed the treat hungrily. Gin smiled. “Come on, come get it!”

The horse took a step to climb but then froze.

“You confounded animal! Move!” Maeta roared, slapping the beast on its rump. This was answered by a swift kick that almost caught him in the chin. He was able to dodge it just in time and cursed again, even louder.

“Hold on Maeta-san,” Gin said calmly. “I think he will do it.”

“And why do you think that?” Maeta growled, keeping his distance.

Gin peered into the dark eyes of the horse, who was still staring at him. “I can see it in his eyes,” he answered.

“Well, good luck,” retorted Maeta skeptically, bending down to the stream to take a drink. “I might have to go get a shovel and dig him a ramp.”

“Come on Goro, you can do it,” Gin repeated, staring into the horse’s eyes, and holding out his hand. “Come get this apple.”

All at once Goro heaved his body upwards, and with two great pushes from his front and hind legs, he climbed up the embankment and onto solid ground.

“Great job!” Gin commended, giving the horse the apple who bit into it with a loud, wet crunch. “What do you think about that, Maeta-san?” he asked, expecting to get some sideways remark from his friend.

“Not bad, but what do you think of this?” Maeta replied, his voice soft as if confused.

Gin hopped back down the embankment, to where his friend was squatting at the stream’s edge. He was looking down at a piece of wood, moving it around in his hand.

“What is it?” asked Gin, kneeling beside him. He examined the piece of wood, which resembled a perfectly cut triangle. “Is that from the bridge?”

“Looks like it was hewn from the support beams. But who would try and sabotage a bridge like this?”

“Sabotage?” whispered Gin, his skin going cold.

“Yes, it looks like someone cut a chunk out of the support beams to make it collapse when it was tasked with too much weight. But why? It doesn't make any sense.”

Gin stood up. He could feel the blood empty from his face and his stomach lurched. “Maeta, tell me,” he said, his voice growing quiet. “Why did you come to see me today?”

“Oh?” his friend murmured, standing up and scratching the back of his head. “The postman was going to deliver a parchment to you, but I said that I'd do it instead. I wanted to give you proper congratulations for yesterday. It's there with a jar of my famous honey in the saddlebag and…”

Gin ran up the embankment so quickly that it startled Goro, who neighed loudly. Gin paid him no mind, throwing open the bag and taking out the parchment. He broke the string that bound it and then opened it frantically.

There were only three characters which read from top to bottom. It was his full given name.

“銀太郎－Gintaro.”

His eyelids opened wide as he read it repeatedly. Then he turned towards the path leading up to his house, towards Yukiana.

“No...” he whispered, simultaneously dropping the parchment, and moving towards the stream once again.

“Gin, what's the matter?” Maeta asked, puzzled at his friend’s sudden change in demeanor. “Do you know who might have done this?”

“Stay here!” Gin commanded as he barreled into the stream.

“But why? What's going on?”

Gin did not have the time to answer him. He ran as fast as he possibly could, pushing himself harder and harder with each step. His legs burned and his face was dripping with sweat, but his hands were as cold as ice. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. Was this a dream? Was this a nightmare? His mind was a blur, as thoughts and panic threatened to drown him. He was going to pay. At last, he was finally going to pay for his sins. But not like this. He could not pay like this.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally emerged into the clearing where his house and field were. He peered around, searching for anything that seemed out of place. It was still, too still.

“Yukiana!” he screamed. “Yukiana!” He hoped to hear her voice. He prayed for it. Perhaps she was nearby, looking for flowers, or maybe still reading? “Yukiana!”

That which resounded in his ears confirmed his grave suspicion. Silence.

He ran up towards his house, his head swiveling, looking for signs, anything. All the while he continued his frantic cry. “Yukiana! Yukiana! Answer me! Yukiana! Yukiana!”

He lept up to his house in a single bound and gazed about. There was nothing, no indication of a struggle, nothing overturned. Nothing.

Gin scanned back and forth, trying to calm himself down so that he could think. There had to be some clue to tell him what had happened.

Just then his eyes fell upon a fresh parchment that Yuki had just started. It was addressed to him, but there were no other contents.

“Papa,” it began.

Gin’s stomach knotted up, and tears welled in his eyes. He could not control himself in reading that word. The weight of that word was everything to him. Yuki, who had usually referred to him as ‘Father,’ had written him a letter and called him ‘Papa.’ It was that familiarity that he longed to hear.

But no, he could not weep just yet. There was something strange about this. The parchment was in perfect condition but there was a longer stroke than usual, and it trailed off slightly. She was startled. Yuki had taken calligraphy classes for years. She would have never let that happen, unless...

Someone had come for her.

Once again, Gin's eyes filled with tears, but these were of sheer anguish. His hands contracted into fists, he threw his head back, and let out a shout as loud and as powerful as he had ever let out before. He could feel his soul rising, his blood pulsing, and untamed energy entering where his rage was exiting from his mouth. Years and years of memories and emotions were rushing back, filling him up once again. He had tried so hard to put those days behind him, but the day of reckoning had finally come.

“Yukiana!” he roared once again.

Tears streamed down his face, but this time when he opened his eyes, a look of violence shone within them. Never in his life, never, had he been so angry. It felt as if the spirits of ten thousand men had entered him, and now wanted to get out. He reached down and rolled up the parchment and put it in the pocket on the inside of his kimono. He then stormed over towards the place where his futon rested upon the tatami. He knelt with a loud thud and ripped the futon from its place on the floor. Below it was an opening in the tatami, where there were wooden floorboards and a latch. He pulled the latch so hard that the entire wooden frame came unhinged. He paid no mind to this and hurled it aside as he reached down into the space. His eyes were set, unwavering.

He carefully brought up a bundle wrapped in a black cloth and tied with a white string. He jerked on the string and cast the cloth aside to reveal a long sword, a katana, with a black banded hilt and small, circular crossguard. The blade itself was secured inside a wooden, black lacquered sheath.

He studied it carefully, almost apprehensively. His fingers rested lightly upon it as if he were afraid to even touch it. But the time for apprehension faded as quickly as it came, and his hand soon gripped the sword tightly. He pulled on the hilt but, to his surprise, the sword did not come out. It was badly rusted and stuck to the sheath. It would not budge. He tried several times, but it made no difference. The sword would not come out. Gin grunted with frustration. It did not matter. It was all he had. It was all he ever had.

He rose again, this time slowly, resolutely. “So it is…” he whispered to himself. “So it always is…” His body radiated with renewed energy. He did not feel the heat. He did not feel the subtle breeze flowing through his home. He felt nothing, nothing but an unquenchable rage.

He slowly examined his house once again. He saw the patterned futon on which his daughter had slept, the kettle upon the hearth, the arranged flowers in the clay vase, the wooden chopsticks he had carved, and Yuki’s crimson patterned kimono that she had worn the night before.

Gin ground his teeth so hard that he felt that they could shatter. He gripped his sword so tightly he felt that it would snap in his hands. He was so full of wrath that he could hardly open his mouth to speak. But he managed to get out one thing.

“Death…”

With that, he stormed away from the house that he had come to love, where he shared so many good memories with his daughter. She, like so many other things in his life, was taken from him prematurely. This time, however, it would be different. This time, he was going to save her.

He took off running down the path even faster than before, with a mad fervor about him that he had not felt in ages.

Eventually, he returned to the small clearing where the old bridge once stood. Sure enough, Maeta was there waiting for him, clearly frightened.

“What's going on?” he asked hurriedly, as he read the emotion on Gin’s face and saw the black sword in his hand.

“They took her,” he managed to get out, pausing momentarily to catch his breath.

“What? Took Yukiana? Who?” Maeta asked, his face turning pale. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I'm not sure, but perhaps…Maeta, I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it? How can I help? I’ll do anything!”

“You have always been a good friend to me, ever since I came here. I ask for your forgiveness, but I am going to need your horse.”

Maeta nodded. “Take him.”

Gin bowed, as his breaths were gradually easing. “I don’t know how long I will be gone, or if I’ll ever be able to return. The land, the house, all my things, they now belong to you.”

“No…” Maeta muttered, shaking his head. “You will come back! You will find her, and you’ll come back!”

Gin said nothing but instead looked at him mournfully. “I am sorry my friend. I'm afraid that this is goodbye.”

Maeta bowed deeply, as a sign of profound respect. “Go in peace, Gin-san.”

“I do not think that is possible,” he answered, before bursting into the stream at top speed. When he reached the other side, he wasted no time and hopped upon Goro, seized the reigns, and with one swift kick prodded him onwards like a gale.

All Maeta could do was look back in utter wonder. Something awful was happening. It was as if the earth itself was shifting. But he, a man used to the quakes that frequented the Islands, knew that this one was different. This unsteadiness was coming from within. Seeing Gin looking so intense, so full of wrath, made his blood seem to freeze in his veins.

“All-kami…” he whispered. “What have you done?”