The air on Hi-no-Kuni tasted sweet, like sun-warmed peaches and salt spray. Tonight, it tasted even sweeter, thick with the smoke from roasting sea boar and the sugary scent of kompeito candy the vendors spun into delicate, starry shapes. Lanterns glowed everywhere, bobbing like captured fireflies along the main street of our village, casting dancing shadows on the stucco walls. It was the Summer Star Festival, my favourite night of the whole year.
I was seven, and the world felt vast and kind, held safe within the circle of the ocean around our island. My red festival yukata, patterned with little white cranes, felt scratchy but important. Mama had tied the obi extra tight, and Papa had bought me a candied apple almost bigger than my head. I'd already licked most of the sticky red coating off, leaving smears on my cheeks.
Laughter echoed from the harbour square where musicians played fiddles and drums, their rhythms making my feet want to dance even though I was sitting on the edge of the stone quay, legs dangling over the dark water. The setting sun painted the sky in streaks of orange and purple, the colours bleeding into the calm sea of the West Blue. It was perfect.
That's when the big oji-san sat down beside me.
He was… loud. Not in his voice, not right then, but in his presence. Big shoulders, a weathered face framed by unruly grey hair, and a laugh that rumbled like distant thunder even when it was soft. He wasn't wearing a uniform, just simple trousers and a slightly stained shirt, but he looked strong, like he could lift the whole quay if he wanted. He smelled faintly of gunpowder and the sea, and something else… rice crackers?
He grinned, showing lots of teeth. "Quite a sunset, eh, squirt?"
I nodded, suddenly shy. Grown-ups usually talked to Mama or Papa, not just to me.
"Got any more of that apple?" he asked, eyeing the sad, half-eaten thing in my hand.
I offered it to him. He chuckled and broke off a tiny piece, popping it into his mouth. "Ah, sweet! But nothing beats a good senbei." He rustled in a pocket and pulled out a large, round rice cracker, snapping it cleanly in half. "Here. Trade ya."
We sat there for a while, munching in comfortable silence, watching the last sliver of sun dip below the horizon. The first stars began to prick the darkening sky. He told me stories – silly ones, about chasing monkeys that stole his hat, and wrestling giant sea snakes (he said he let the snake win, sometimes), and eating donuts the size of ship wheels. He laughed a lot, a big, booming sound that made me giggle too. He seemed… nice. Like my grandpa, but louder and with more stories about punching things.
He asked about my island, about the fishing boats bobbing in the harbour, about the funny wooden carvings Papa made that sat outside our house. He listened, really listened, nodding along like my stories were just as important as his giant sea snakes.
"Justice," I declared proudly, puffing out my chest after telling him how Old Man Hiroshi, the village watchman, had caught the boys who'd tried to steal melons from Mrs. Sato's patch. "Justice means the bad people get caught, and everyone else can feel safe. Like the Marines! They sail the seas and protect everyone, right? They're the heroes."
The big man's smile seemed to flicker, just for a second. He looked out at the darkening sea. "Yeah… something like that, kid. Heroes…" He sighed, a sound surprisingly heavy for someone who wrestled sea snakes. "You like it here, huh? Seems peaceful."
"It's the best!" I chirped. "I love my home!"
He looked back at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He seemed… fond. Like the way Papa looked at me sometimes. "Remind me of someone, you do," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, louder, "So, this wonderful island of yours, what's it called?"
I beamed, happy to share the name of the best place in the world. "It's called Hi-no-Kuni!" I said brightly. "The Land of Fire!"
The change was instant and terrifying.
The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by something cold and wide. The hand holding the senbei trembled, dusting crumbs onto the stone. His face, tan and weathered moments before, went slack and pale beneath the lantern light. The laughter lines around his eyes seemed to deepen into lines of horror.
"No," he whispered. The word was barely audible over the distant festival music, but it hit me like a physical blow. It wasn't a question, or a disagreement. It was a denial. Like I'd said the name of a monster hiding under the bed.
"Hi-no-Kuni?" he repeated, his voice rough, strangled. "Not… not that island…"
My smile faltered. Confusion prickled at the back of my neck. "Oji-san? What's wrong? It's a good name!"
He didn't seem to hear me. He stared past me, towards the village square where lanterns glowed and people danced, but his eyes saw something else entirely. Something dreadful. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the quay.
He turned back to me, his expression a terrible mix of sorrow and urgency. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that scraped against the festive sounds. "Listen to me, kid. Listen close."
He told me things. Things that didn't make sense. About big ships, bigger than any fishing boat, flying a flag I knew – the flag of the World Government, the symbol of the Marines, of justice. He spoke of orders, of smoke and fire that wasn't from festival bonfires. He mentioned a word that sounded like 'Buster'. He kept saying "they don't understand," and "it's wrong," but his words were tangled with a desperate fear I'd never heard in a grown-up's voice before.
"Three days," he choked out, gripping my small shoulder, his fingers digging in just enough to hurt. "You have three days. You have to leave. Everyone has to leave. Warn them. Tell them Garp—" He stopped himself, shaking his head fiercely. "Tell them a friend warned you. Tell them to run. Now."
My candied apple slipped from my suddenly numb fingers and rolled off the quay, splashing unheard into the dark water below. The sweet taste in the air turned bitter in my throat. Three days? Leave? Why? We hadn't done anything wrong. Justice protects the innocent. The Marines are heroes. Weren't they?
The big man stood abruptly, his large frame casting a long, wavering shadow in the lantern light. He looked down at me, his face etched with a pain so deep it scared me more than his words.
"I gotta go, kid," he said, his voice thick. He didn't look like someone who wrestled sea snakes anymore. He just looked old, and tired, and desperately sad.
He took a step back, then another, melting into the deeper shadows away from the festival's glow. I wanted to call out, to ask him why, to tell him he was wrong, that Hi-no-Kuni was safe, that justice would keep us safe.
But he was gone.
The fiddle music suddenly sounded too loud, too cheerful. The laughter felt hollow. The warm lantern light seemed weak against the sudden chill that had settled deep in my bones. I looked from the empty space where the kind, loud oji-san had sat, towards the happy, unsuspecting faces of my neighbours, my family, my friends.
Three days.
Something was terribly wrong. The world, so vast and kind just moments ago, suddenly felt sharp, and cold, and full of shadows I couldn't see. And the word 'justice' tasted like ash in my mouth.