Deep up in the mountains of central Japan, hidden away from the busy minds of everyday humans and their preoccupations, from the hum and bustle of mercantile fever, hung a sliver of a man on a gnarled branch of an ancient tree, its roots imbedded deeply into the side of a steep incline. The sky was breaking clear, the grey blue of dawn slowly receding as the sun came up above the lip of the high mountains. Spring was in the cold, brisk air and Ikeda breathed a little lighter. Patience, he said to himself. Patience. Life could be lost so easily, yet he knew that this was not the moment. This was not even the question. Patience. He steadied his mind into an expanse of blankness. Breathe. Slowly and gently he took his breath in to his belly, then to his chest. His right shoulder and rib were bruised against the tree, but he felt nothing broken. Ikeda closed his eyes and saw himself in a tree, hanging in the void. He was caught in the void.

He was caught in the void.

Pah! Nothing could be caught in the void. He was the void, the tree was the void, the void was the void, his body was the void. Suddenly out of that void the image of Mme. Kawamoto arose. The intensity of that woman was shocking to Ikeda, to his sensitized system. There was something she was holding back, and he could feel it in his guts. She had initiated the Chant and the whole cycle of events that had lead Ikeda to be caught in these branches, almost freezing to death. He sighed. No, it was not her. She was caught in the throes of something else, something other than what he was facing, asked to face, called upon to face.

Ikeda felt powerful emotions surging through him. What do you want from me? I am a man of Peace. I have asked for nothing. I have performed all the rites as proscribed. What would you have me do?

“Ho!” a voice came from above him. “Ho, are you with breath?”

“Good thing I had rope with me,” the stranger laughed a full, belly laugh. Ikeda was lying on a straw palette inside a dark space. A cave? He blinked cautiously and after a moment, decided he did not have much choice than to let this person know he was awake. He felt feeble and disoriented but tried to raise himself up.

“Ho, steady there, bird man,” the stranger said, turning at the small sounds Ikeda was making. “You couldn’t fly out of that tree, you think you can stand up?” More laughter, and a slapping of thighs met his crawling, collapsing attempts. Then with quick movement, the stranger came beside him and knelt down and took his wrist. Ikeda almost recoiled in shock.

“You can thank the earth and the tree for catching you and saving you.” 

“You are a woman,” he rasped. There was no mistaking the hands upon his wrist were that of a woman, despite the rough and callused skin. From behind wild, matted hair glinted black eyes in a single flash, then the stranger closed them again. Ikeda could feel her fingers checking all his pulses.

“Well,” she finally said, “there is nothing a bit of warm food wouldn’t cure. You need to eat more, old man.”

Before he could answer, she pressed to his lips a cup. “Here,” she said. “This should give you some appetite.” Ikeda smelled a familiar smell of cooked herbs, and gladly drank the warm concoction.

He did not know how long he had been going in and out of consciousness. The stranger would come by his side and give him herbal medicine or mashed food. And then, Ikeda would simply blank out and sleep until she came around again. One day he awoke and without thinking, simply sat up. He felt good, his body rested and rejuvenated. He gave himself a good stretch, then sniffing, realized that the smell of meat cooking with spring herbs was what had awakened him. His belly rumbled loudly enough for the woman to turn around and grin at him.

“You eat honorable hare,” she said, then turned back to the cooking.

Ikeda stayed where he was and carefully studied the woman and his surroundings. They were in a small hut, sparsely furnished but clean. Sunlight was streaming in through the open door. Next to where she was cooking were shelves of stoneware jars. There were also bundles of fresh cut herbs piled to the side. She was dressed in a faded, cotton kimono and pants, the color of dry grass, worn but seemingly in good repair. Her matted hair hung wild around her, but other than that, she seemed a normal female of medium frame and agile body. From where he sat, he could not see her face, making it difficult to guess her age. She had youthful carriage and jet black hair, but something in the air about her told Ikeda she was probably past child-bearing age.

When she brought a bowl of the hare stew over to Ikeda, he sat up formerly and bowed to her.

“Thank you. I owe you my deepest gratitude.” he spoke as he flattened his person and his pride to the floor. He was a Shinto priest, and who knew who she was, yet in this instance, the natural order of things was for him to place himself below her.

“Never mind,” she said as she sat down in front of him. “You should thank the yomogi for growing right by that tree. Yomogi called me, so I went to harvest it before the sun claimed it, and there you were. Good thing I had more rope than I needed. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to pull you out.”

Ikeda faintly remembered a rope being tied around him.

“You pulled me up by yourself?” he asked.

“I’ve pulled up heavier things than you, old man,” she replied.

“But how did you get down to the where I was?”

“With a bit of rope around me, I go down places that are steeper than where that tree was. I go wherever the herbs are.” she replied with an even tone. “What were you doing down there?”

Ikeda looked faintly embarrassed. “Well,” he said, “Well, the ground gave away, and I fell.”

She eyed him for awhile, then held the bowl of stew out to him. “You had better eat this now,” she said. “Better get your earth stomach and legs back. It looked more like you gave away and the tree caught you, old man. You can thank the earth and the tree for catching you and saving you. Maybe they have plans for you.” She grinned broadly as she said this and he could see she had a few teeth missing. “It’s a tricky thing when the earth saves you,” she said. “I hope you know how to pray.”

It was Ikeda’s turn to eye her back. “I….,” he started, but his stomach got the better of him. Much as he wanted to inform this mountain woman about his rigorous training as a priest, he found his hands reaching for the bowl and his body craving the meat under his nose. Just as he was about to stuff his mouth with food, the woman stayed his hand.

“Pray,” she said. “Thank the hare spirit and ask for their wisdom.”

Ikeda’s eyes met hers. She held her gaze steady. “You are going to need it, old man.”

He ate with relish, his body welcoming the break from his long fast. The woman then brought him another herbal concoction. This time, he asked her what it was.

“This will help you take in the hare,” she answered simply.

After he drank the tea that was bitter and pungent, he turned to her, again arranging himself formerly.

“Please, may I ask your kind indulgence in this delay, and introduce myself,” he said, bending slightly forward, his head slightly bowed, his hands on the floor. “My name is Taizo Ikeda. I am the 42nd kannushi of Hanawa Shrine in Takayama.” Here, he paused, allowing the woman time to take this in. He wanted to look up and see her reaction, yet even if she were below him in the station of life, she was still his savior, and had rightly won his respect. Hearing nothing from her, Ikeda continued.

“My person, my family, and the Shrine which I serve as priest is indebted to you beyond what I can simply express in words. You have gone beyond the call of duty and care for your own survival with your diligent attendance to the health and recovery of my person, and…” Ikeda stopped short. What was that sound? He inadvertently looked up just at the moment when the woman sitting across from him on her haunches fell squarely on her backside shaking with mirth.

“Ai, ai, haaaai,” she heaved, “Oh, ho, hoa, ha, ha, ha, heeeaiaiai, ha, ha, ha,” she took a breath, “Heeeeai, ahaha, ho, ho, hoa, ha.” She beat her feet on the ground like a child, hands over her belly. “Fu, fah, ha, ha, ahahahaha, heeeeeeaiai, ha!”

Ikeda had never seen a woman laugh like this before. It was so unusual that instead of feeling miffed, he simply stared in fascination. Every now and then, she would come to a stop, then her eyes would meet his, and suddenly she would be off again, rocking with laughter. It might have seemed insane to him under other circumstances, but somehow, with the sun streaming in, Spring in the soft air, stomach comfortably full with hare stew, knowing he was of one piece and sound in body, he found himself starting to enjoy this woman rolling around with wild hair, laughing with the abandon of a 3 year old child.

It started at the corner of his lips as if certain molecules were being displaced. Then warmth started to spread through his belly. And when their eyes met, a tremor started up from his stomach. “Fm, hm, hhmmm,” he started. “Ffm, hum, hoho, humhum…” And before long he was laughing harder than he could ever remember. When the last tremoring of laughter finally subsided between them, he felt stronger and less uncertain of how to proceed.

“I know your Shrine,” the woman suddenly said. “I was taken there as a child.”

“Were you born in Takayama?” he asked. “May I have the honor of knowing who has saved my life?”

She flashed a grin. “All right, old man,” she said. “But speak straight without any of your niceties, now, or I’ll bust my sides again.” She straightened out her kimono and sat up with her back straight.

“My name is Mina. I was brought up in these mountains.”

“I have not heard of anyone living up here,” protested Ikeda. “You are perhaps meaning one of the villages in the foothills?”

“No.” Mina replied firmly, “I am of the people from the Hida Mountains. Some of us still remain, even though I have not seen anyone in a while.”

Ikeda thought back to all the stories that his father and grandfather had told him to prepare him for the mountains. The mountains were sacred and therefore, dangerous, and one approached them with respect and care.

“What people are these?” he inquired.

Mina looked at him from behind her hair, studying him as a fox might, encountering a human on a mountain pass. She cocked her head to a side as if listening to something and narrowed her eyes.

“Can’t you tell,” she said quietly. “Surely, being a priest and all, you would know.”

And suddenly, Ikeda understood. She was an Eta, one of the Outcasts, the Untouchable ones. He had been saved by an Eta. Ikeda’s newly gained certainty suddenly dissipated as he groped to take this in.