The Chichibu valley is a land shaped by the restless waves of the ocean; its terrain is never flat, and the forest is rich with timeworn trees that have witnessed the tides of battles and new eras. Their very roots are said to hold the remains of great warriors, and out of respect, nature cultivates bamboo near the fallen who were never claimed—a sign of their spirit, for bamboo was once shaped into the shinai that wielded their legacy.
As the path continues to descend, the bamboo varies in size, shrinking into smaller sprouts as we near the bridge that crosses over into Nagatoro.
"I'm glad they've outlawed harvesting them, the bamboo."
Masato says, veering to the right side of the path for a closer look. I follow his line, maintaining my duties as his chaperone.
"Of course you are, else your father would have a collection of weapons to clobber you with."
"You're damn right about that," he replies, shuddering.
"I'd have the flattest behind known to Japan. Still, it's pleasing to see our village preserve such heritage."
I can't help but smile. Sure, fate hasn't been kind to Masato, but I've always praised his mind, not his physicality. If he were good-looking or had a knack for baseball, then surely I would be beyond anonymity—I'd traverse this world as an invisible subsistence.
"Heh," I let out. Yeah, Masato was definitely destined for his role as heir to the temple; it suits him well.
"What's with that? Your face just turned uglier."
I fall back to his side. I swing my arm around his neck, smacking his double chin. "No, I was just considering that in another life I might take your place."
He scoffs.
"Like hell you would."
~*~
The river is always flowing, a fluid instrument that has become an imprint of our home. Water crashes against rocks like a stiff breaker, while trees begin to clear like curtains revealing a new stage.
The path now leads to stairs made of moss and stone. I take the first two steps and wait for Masato's hand on my shoulder, knowing that he is ready to continue, and the process repeats. Once at the bottom, the stairs diverge into a wider and broader stage.
It's not surprising when you look across the river to the far right, on the bank further down, that children are still mucking about, playing tag, or skipping stones across the water.
The village is always the most lively during sundown. Children playing—mothers finishing up the last bit of gossip, while the fathers are nowhere to be seen—their hearts seduced by a pub that promises warm affection throughout the coming night. It's only payment cheques loyalty to sour liquor.
Oh, how times have changed!~ Men once had valor and reason for conquest—victories and banquets. If they saw our generation, subjugated and content with letting time by, then surely the forest would move.
I notice the smell, a grand change indeed. The forest is pleasant, subtle even—nothing comes out at you trying to dominate your mind. Here at home, everything dances for your attention.
However, in my personal opinion, no dance is greater than the bridge. The very stage that brings all of the great things of Nagatoro together, the golden glue.
It's the crossing between modern duties and ancient freedom.
I look up into the sky—the birds are making their final vows, the distant clouds promise rain in a moment's notice—but they await night's approval. The sun is mere minutes away from disappearing, gathering its last breaths before diving down below.
"We are just in time," I say, wiping Masato's hand off my shoulder; can't have rumors spreading.
"I'd say we have 17 minutes until the silver line." He says, scoping his hands into the shape of binoculars.
We hurry our pace across the bridge, hoping to find a spot near the cafe—its warm smells flowing into the air like a river of its own.
The bridge is empty, with only Masato and myself crossing, giving us the time we need to enjoy the sound of water passing below us.
As we near the end, the voices of the locals are urging us on to find a seat in haste.
I point to a bench, next to an elderly couple. Masato makes his way to it, greeting them with his double chin as he lowers his head respectfully.
I walk further on, around the corner and into a narrow street, where a decade-old vending machine hums in a silent wake. I place the silver coins in, enough to get 2 iced coffees. The vending machine claws at the cans, the mechanisms grinding—something otherworldly—before finally spitting out my request.
I head back over to the bench only to find that we now have company.
All three intruders are girls. Masato sits on the far right, his plump buttocks sliding against the bench like a tectonic plate ready to collapse onto pavement. The girl closest faces him with much interest, as if studying a local sculpture. Her eyes are lively with questions and energy that resembles a blossoming cherry tree. The other girls cast their eyes aside in hauteur, but just like the princesses of old, they're too well-bred to voice their opinions.
Naturally, I walk towards Masato's side of the bench, placing the iced coffee on his shoulder to reveal my presence. He greets my arrival like a prayer being answered, attempting to stand up and offer his seat; however, just as the kind gentleman that I am, I politely decline by placing the iced coffee into his hands.
"Yoshi!~ We were just talking about you. Masato says you painted a masterpiece within the tunnels~." The cherry blossom smiles, her autumn bloom shifting the seasons.
"That is a kind way of saying how I spray-painted the tunnel."
"Nonsense Yoshi Taka!" She points her finger out and aims it between my eyes. I am standing a respectful distance from the bench, but her wild nature has no limitations.
"I am sure your painting is so spectacular, even nature will treasure it as a relic!"
I hold my breath, rotating toward the river—I only hope my red ears don't betray me.
Also, since when has her Japanese become this impressive?
Masato covers his mouth into a whisper as he leans forward. "Are you training her? I'm reminded of you when she speaks."
I only respond with a shrug and a new sprout of self-consciousness that grows as I think about how my own words must sound.
"What are you two punks whispering about?" she says with a sulk.
"Probably over something that is beneath you." This coming from Kiori, the girl sitting on the other end of the bench—ensuring she has maximum space between herself and us blockheads.
I've noticed she has changed her highlights again, to red, which ironically is the color I associate her with.
"Alison honey, we need to start heading back—it's almost your curfew," Erina notes, shifting a green Polaroid in her hand.
She's always been like an older sister figure, not to mention she has a soft spot for Masato, but when Kiori's around she's more like a divorced mother.
Alison turns her attention towards them, like autumn debating the calendar with Summer and Winter.
"Oh hush you two—we have Yoshi and Masato here; we are protected!" Alison says with a smile, trying to spread her enthusiasm, which makes me wonder if it's a manipulative tactic.
Kiori stands up, rolling her eyes, while Erina gathers her pale white purse. "Let's not concern your mother hon~ and you know how your brother is."
"My mother is preparing for her trip tonight, and Palmer is an ogre I wish to ignore during my mother's absence."
Wouldn't it be better that you go home then? was what I thought, but I'm aware that families of high stature operate much differently than ours.
Alison takes Erina's hand, her eyes pleading.
"Please, could you take a picture of me in the sunset? Over on the bridge.~"
Erina smiles her way, adoring Alison's doe-like eyes.
We follow them over towards the bridge with no invitation needed. It only takes Alison a few moments to find her setting, running her hands against the stone walls, her eyes tracing the flow of the river's current. She turns around, facing Erina and the green Polaroid—her eyes gleaming with the sunset.
After two takes, and a third with a reluctant Kiori, I offered to take the photo for Erina—freeing her to join her friends in the frame. She nods gratefully, handing me the green Polaroid.
As I prepare my stance, I notice in the far distance the sun intrudes the hills. Alison follows my gaze and smiles Masato over for the picture, slotting him between herself and Erina.
I take three long breaths before holding it, to steady my hands, finding focus, finding benison, for just behind them the sky erupts a silver light that traces across the earth like a blessing from the heavens.
The Polaroid prints out the spectacle; the photo is like a tangible memory. I hold it up closer to my face. It's astonishing how such a gadget can print out breathtaking scenery in mere seconds.
Alison peers over my shoulder. "You took it so well~ you got it all in the perfect moments." She says with delight, and without realizing it I'd handed the pictures over to her.
"But you know what would really deserve a frame?" She says with another smile, handing the picture back.
I've already caught on to her request; after all, she's my most demanding habitué.
I let out an exasperated sigh.
"Oh~ If only my talents were profitable—"
I reach my hands out into the sky, clenching them into fists.
"Must I go through life doing free favors? When will I have the Artistic realm that I so desire?"
I hear her giggling before returning my dramatic gesture.
"Have I not given you experience? When will you see my appreciation for your talent!" She reaches her hand towards me dramatically before grabbing air and pulling it back, but before she could continue, Masato invades our cinema.
"You two…" He says in a sigh that exclaims that he thought he'd seen it all, his hands holding on to Alison and my shoulders for support.
"I appreciate the free drama series, really I do… But my soul trembles in discomfort."
As we headed back into the village, passing the café, Kiori had diverged onto another path, claiming she saw her sister, and left us with a bittersweet goodbye.
Masato, realizing that the tides had changed, dropped back to Erina's side, who walked a few steps behind Alison and I. She was analyzing both the Polaroid and the photos she took.
Alison closed the gap between us, lowering her voice.
"You know, when I open my own school here in Japan, I'd commission you for all the décor."
She had never openly expressed her plans to me; I knew she wanted to work with kids—but I assumed those with stuffed pockets could dream bigger.
Before I could respond with humble gratitude, a dark navy blue Toyota Crown rolls around the corner ahead of us, and Alison stops dead in her tracks.
The driver, careless of the locals milling about, blasts the horn impatiently. A hand reaches out from the driver's window, and they wave at us.
I look over at Alison; her face contorts, tightening in irritation.
"Tsk…" She mutters as the Toyota rolls to a stop.
~*~
Interactions with Palmer are never positive; he is a massive contrast to Alison's attitude—in fact, he is much more hostile towards Masato and myself than what Kiori is.
I am not aware of which king I toppled in my last life, but I am certain Palmer is their vengeance.
"Alison, it's dark; why haven't you clocked in at home yet?"
He says it like it's a rhetorical question, his gaze shifting between us.
Alison, sensing his imminent intentions, faces me—her hands digging into her pockets as she takes out the photo I took of her and her friends on the bridge. She places it in my hands, offers an apologetic smile, and quickly heads off into the back of the car.
Palmer shrugs his shoulders, as if disappointed from her submissive behavior. Before getting back into the car, he is sure to send daggers my way with his challenging stare.
The car sped off like a chariot, leaving tire marks in its wake.
I hadn't even realized it, but my hands were shaking.
After that, the evening grew cold, and clouds began to march in by the commands of the imperial orders of nightfall.
Erina told us that she was sleeping over at her aunt's place in a bouquet shop. I watched as Masato walked her through the end of the street where the shop stood. Erina bowed her way, promising to greet Masato tomorrow at the new semester.
My mind reeled, struggling to settle. The only thing softening my mood was the picture in my hand, which my eyes lingered on between moments of discomfort.
I notice Masato walking back over, his hands placed behind him—the same way Hiroshi does when he walks up the mountain to meditate.
When he returns, he meets my gaze—our eyes exchanging nothing.
"My place tonight?" he says with a strained smile.
I nod. "Yeah."