The Legend of the Mountain Village

第一章

"Keep weight on the back leg."

A smack to the appendage in question with the bamboo rod forced me into the correct position. Sweat dripped off my brow, the muscles of my legs strained, my shoulders burned with the weight of my katana, but all of this was by now a familiar and welcome experience. Though I wrestled with exhaustion, the years of training and conditioning kept my feet planted solidly against the dirt. My eyes remained fixed ahead as my father circled around me, rod in hand behind his back, inspecting from every angle. "One." At the count, I returned to the starting position of the routine, my left leg slightly back and my katana held low. "Two." I slid my right leg behind me and brought my arms up to block a blow to my chest. "Three." Then sliding the right foot forward as I bring the sword up to cut straight through the imaginary opponent's arm. Kept a straight face when the rod snapped against my back. After running through the routine twice more, he signaled me to stop. I stood at attention, brought the katana to its scabbard at my hip, and bowed low in his direction.

He snapped the rod to my back again, this time with less force. A smirk flitted across his face and he nodded his head to the side. "Hurry back to your mother, boy, before she scolds me for keeping you too long."

I ran from the clearing through the thick hinoki trees, holding the hilt of my sword to keep it steady at my side. Finally able to wipe the sweat from my brow. The burning in my chest and the thrum of my heartbeat was reassuring and pleasant, all my senses alive with the pain and strain. Over the rocky ridges and down the sloping mountainside, the waning light of the sun shielded by the canopy of leaves, the sounds of the nearby creek bubbling. Within minutes, the first homes of the village became discernable against the trees. There at the waterside knelt several women, some mothers with their daughters, filling buckets either for cooking or for washing. Following the worn footpath led me past several homes raised off the ground, the doors of which were slid open to reveal families gathered indoors to eat. As I jogged past one of them, a girl turned towards her open door and our eyes met. I smiled and lowered my head slightly in a rushed bow, and she did the same, brown eyes alight against her pale skin, dimples deep and indicative of frequent smiling. Her personality fit her name too well- 笑舞, "Ema", meaning "Smiling Dancer". I slowed as I reached the steps to my own home, recalling the first time we had been introduced formally as betrothed. We had known of each other for several years. However our arrangement had been made when I was eight and she was five. How strange, to have played and talked together, but then have the relationship change so suddenly. Neither one of us had fully understood what it meant to be promised to one another. As I pulled off my cloth shoes and slid into my zori, I remembered her being presented to me by her parents. My own parents stood behind me as she was made to kneel on the floor of our center room, neither of us sure why she did so or why I had to take her hand and help her up. Since then, we would still play and talk and tease, but every so often be reminded of our engagement. I walked across the deck to the open shoji door, through which the scent of dinner hung heavy in the air. Following my nose led me to the kitchen, where my mother and her servant readied steaming vegetables and a pot of serow broth. Upon seeing me peeking behind the doorframe, she motioned me over with a pale but worn hand. I immediately responded, and she motioned for me to take the pot. Carefully I brought it through the halls to the center room, where the hearth already burnt and warmed the cooling evening air. I hung the heavy pot from the irori over the fire, a fine fresh sweat breaking on my brow at the weight. As I set aside my blade against the wall and readied the room for dinner, my mother and her servant brought out the remaining dishes on bamboo trays. My father entered the room, hands behind his back as he meandered over towards the head of the hearth.