Dragon Island (14 page)

The women are dressed in bright, multicolored robes and headbands with elaborate embroidery very similar to that worn by the cave guardian, Mikoshi. Although these robes are very kimono-like, they actually appear more akin to something you might expect to see on display in a Native American museum. The sight of them makes me wonder once again just where in heck
Kaiju
Island
actually is!

As we pass by, the women drop their farming tools in the dirt and join the men in line behind us so that Kitsune and I now roll with an entourage so large it would make even P-Diddy jealous! The fact that, despite the size of our group, we are walking in complete silence unnerves me, to say the least!

We breach the outer rim of reed huts along the village’s periphery. These are adorned with the same kanji Kitsune formed with rocks outside the over-turned galleon during our first night together.

The village proper consists of several small grass houses resting a few feet above ground on wooden posts. These smaller houses orbit another three times as long located at the village’s heart.

Kitsune heads directly for the long house, taking us by elderly grandmothers weaving on outdoor looms. They watch us pass with ancient, knowing gazes.

Females barely older than Kitsune and I stroll the paths worn between the houses. Many of them carry bundles of wood strapped across their backs.

Last, but certainly not least, are more bearded, ferocious-looking men dressed in the Toho’s apparent garment of choice: brightly colored, embroidered robes. They practice archery and spear-hurling at a range positioned directly outside the long house.

Where are all the children? I think. There should be hordes of them out here poking and prodding me out of curiosity. And crying babies held tight in the arms of their mothers. But so far as I can tell, Kitsune and I are the youngest in people in the village.

Kitsune approaches the long house’s entrance and one of the archers steps in front of her. In contrast to the other Toho men, he appears to only be in his late teens. His jaw is covered by a sparse growth of five o’clock shadow rather than a bushy beard.

Kitsune and the archer begin arguing back and forth in Tohonese (for lack of a better word), each of them jabbing fingers in my direction. Their quarrel becomes so heated that the young man drops his hand to the hilt of the samurai sword hanging at his side. The gesture appears a subconscious one, as though the archer’s body was simply reacting to conflict in the way it had been trained, but I take in a sharp, fearful breath of air regardless.

The sword looks old and worn, like a relic of antiquity Kusanagi could easily slice to pieces if I still actually wielded the blade.

Reality-check, Raymond: you don’t!

So instead of leaping to Kitsune’s aid, I swallow hard and try to keep the noise created by my knocking knees to a minimum.

My father’s voice barks inside my head.

Coward!

Another voice, one deepened and grizzled by countless years, calls from within the long house and the archer-slash-swordsman releases his hold upon his weapon and steps aside. He even bows and gestures for Kitsune to enter.

Kitsune turns and speaks to me for the first time since we crossed the river. As usual, her words are brief and to the point.

“Come, Raymond-sai.”

She holds out her hand. I approach and take it.

“When we cross the threshold,” Kitsune says, “do not look up. Keep your eyes on the ground and kneel. Bow your head until it touches the floor. Do you understand?”

Unable to find my voice, I merely nod.

We step inside the long house and the smell of burning incense fills my nostrils. I follow Kitsune’s instructions and keep my eyes on my shoes. When she kneels and bows, I follow her lead and press my forehead onto the coarse, woven mat beneath us.

I feel more than hear or see the angry archer come inside and bow beside us. The voice that called to us when we were outside speaks from across the room. I feel the air shift and realize the archer has risen from his bow.

He speaks what I take to be a few introductory sentences in Tohonese, though the only word I truly recognize is Kitsune’s name.

When he finishes, I hear another voice ring out from across the room, this one old and female. From the corner of my eye, I see Kitsune sit up.

Kitsune converses with the owners of the two elderly voices. The old man’s tone is accusing while the female’s is inquisitive. Their volley of remarks increases in fervor and speed until at last Kitsune is forced to give only pleading, monosyllabic responses.

At last, I hear a third voice break in, this one male and as old as the others, but gentler in tone. But don’t let my description fool you. It was anything but weak. Rather, it gives off the impression of being the calm eye the hurricane of the other two voices revolves around. The voice is so disarming that it takes me a second to realize it’s speaking English.

“But look, we are making him nervous,” the third voice says. “Let us use the sailor’s tongue so that he may follow the conversation.”

There are two reluctant but affirmative grunts.

“Please rise, Raymond-sai.”

I remain still until finally Kitsune’s hand slips under my arm and urges me to rise. I sit up and rock back onto my haunches so that I’m kneeling. My position is one shared by Kitsune and the archer.

Folded under me like this, my legs begin to ache.

I immediately wish I was bowing again. It’s much easier to grovel than to remain upright.

I now see that the long house’s interior is comprised of a single, large room. Its reed and bamboo walls are covered by ornate quilts, sculptures, carvings, knives, tools, pots, pans, and all sorts other of rudimentary utilitarian items.

Smoldering coals fill the house’s center piece: a rectangular fire pit built into the floor. A low fire shelf hovers above it, blocking any stray sparks from igniting the long house’s grass ceiling.

Kneeling on their own mats around the fire pit are the owners of the three foreign voices.

To my left is an old, wiry man with a long, thinning beard. He is dressed in a formal robe and a surcoat with starched shoulders. A crown of wooden shavings adorns his bald, spotted head. Despite his age and emaciated appearance, he has a strong bearing about him like that of a military man. The samurai sword he clutches at his left hip only serves to reinforce this. If I had to guess, I would say he was Kitsune’s prosecutor.

Taking in his sword, I dare a quick glance at the young archer. His own blade is noticeably absent from his waist.

I decide he must have removed it before entering the long house. Probably as a show of respect.

After all, like Kitsune said, everything is a matter of custom and principal in the eyes of the Toho.

Before me on my right sits a lanky old woman who is almost too tall for the thick, plush robe and headband she wears. The geometric patterns woven into her clothes are the most colorful and complex I’ve seen since entering the village.

Her face is impassive, but there’s the slightest mischievous twinkle in her eye—the kind someone has when they know a secret.

Between these two sits a plump, round old man. His girth is so large that it spills out of his robes to cover his knees. An inviting smile shines out from his long, white moustache and goatee, dividing his wizened face and wrinkling his ancient forehead. He looks like the happiest little Buddha you have ever seen!

“So,” he says and I immediately recognize his voice as that of the third elder, “this is Kintaro’s heir.”

“Ha!” the thin man scoffs. “Surely you jest, Tanuki-sage!”

So the fat man’s name is Tanuki, I think.

“One only need but look at him,” the old military man continues, “to realize not a single drop of warrior’s blood runs in his veins, much less that of the greatest of warriors!”

“And yet, Mujina-sage,” the old woman says, “Kitsune tells us that, like Kintaro of old, he appeared the night the star fell.”

And the old, wiry military man is called Mujina, I think. Now that only leaves the old woman’s name to be discovered.

Mujina waves a dismissive hand. “And faced down kaiju and daikaiju alike with Kusanagi in hand. I heard Kitsune’s story, Bakeneko-sage. Surely one as wise as yourself sees that kami-tale for the rubbish it is—?”

Old woman’s name, I think. Bakeneko. Check. Now I know all three elders.

“But it is true!” Kitsune shouts.

The three elders give her warning glances and Kitsune immediately bows, duly reprimanded.

“Well, it is,” Kitsune whispers so that only the archer and I are able to hear.

“My apologies to this most honorable council,” Tanuki says. He rearranges his bulk upon his bent knees. “Please forgive my daughter’s impertinence.”

Daughter?

I whip my head toward Kitsune.

“If it is true,” Mujina roars, “then where is Kusanagi?”

The woman Bakeneko leans forward in interest. “Yes. Tell us. Where is the sword of Ryuu?”

“Please forgive me,” Kitsune replies, “but it is as we have already told this honorable council: we lost Kusanagi in the deep labyrinth.”

“Is it not forbidden for all but the shobijin to go wandering in the lair of Ryuu, Daughter?”

“Yes, Father. But my training—!”

Bakeneko scoffs.

“Regardless of the training you received before your sister’s unfortunate death, you are not shobijin, girl, and do not possess the rights and privileges afforded them!”

Bakeneko points a gnarled finger at Kitsune.

“This disregard of our customs must be punished!” Abruptly, the archer prostrates himself before the council. His quick movement startles me.

“Please, Lady Bakeneko!” the archer pleads. “If someone must be punished for this offense, let it be me, Kitsune’s betrothed.”

“Betrothed?”

I clamp my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. The damage has been done. The council turns its attention in my direction.

“Does the heir of the mighty Kintaro have something to say?” Tanuki asks expectantly.

Do I have something to say?

Do I have something to say?

Yes, I certainly do!

I’m lost on an island swarming with monsters and dragons and madmen and now I find out the one and only person here who has helped me or been nice to me is the daughter of one of your chiefs, or whatever, and betrothed to some bone-headed jock-type that, despite the fact he was fighting with her not two minutes ago, is now, out of the blue, trying to sacrifice himself to help her and so making me look like even more of a wuss than I already do for not jumping to her aid first and that really, really sucks!

That’s what I have to say!

“Uh, no, uh, Lord Taco, erm, Tanuki,” I say, “That is—”

“Perhaps this young one also wishes to take on Kitsune’s punishment for himself,” Bakeneko says, “and thus prove his claim by displaying the kind of bravery Kintaro was renowned for?”

“No!” I shout.

Kitsune glares at me from the corner of her eye.

“I mean, no. What I’m trying to say is, I never claimed I was—”

“My son’s request is an honorable one,” Mujina interrupts, “and should not be denied.”

The archer is Mujina’s son? Is everyone around here related but me?

“Agreed,” Tanuki says. “Both Ishiro and the heir of Kintaro will be allowed to serve Kitsune’s punishment in her stead.”

“But—!” I begin to protest.

“But,” Tanuki continues, “I think there is a way to see that honor is upheld while simultaneously serving the greater good of the Toho.”

“What do you mean, Tanuki-sage?” Mujina asks.

“The shobijin.”

Kitsune gasps.

Bakeneko nods and smiles. “The priestesses.”

“Sister Mosura and Sister Momoko,” Mujina says, his voice resigned.
“Yes, the sisters!” I say then titter with nervous laughter.

Oh boy!

Shintoism is a patchwork of nature worship, fertility cults, divination techniques, and shamanism. While the religion has existed in Japan since at least 500 BCE, the records of its true beginnings have been lost to antiquity...

Excerpt from
A Guide to Eastern Religion and Thought
, by Todd Morrison (2007)

T
his island just gets weirder and weirder!

Of course, in the current context of giant dragon-monsters, underground spaceships, and lost ancient civilizations, the term ‘weird’ begins to lose its meaning!

After I’m dismissed from the village elders’ hut, I receive a meal of raw fish and rice and a blessed night of deep sleep in one of the reed houses.
 
The woven mats the Toho use as beds are surprisingly comfortable—especially once you’ve gotten use to having a rock for a pillow!

The next morning, the archer—Ishiro—and I are marched out of the village by an accompaniment of his fellow militiamen, Ishiro’s father, Mujina, in the lead.