Envy's Imitation

The turning of the season from autumn to winter did little to quell the whispers around Kōgoe. If anything, as the fields lay fallow and villagers had more idle time, speculation about Endō Jūbei’s good fortune became a common fireside topic. On cold nights, while sipping hot millet wine around their irori hearths, a few farmers allowed envy to germinate in their hearts like seeds in the dark. Chief among them was Itou. The bony, sharp-eyed man could not forget what he had witnessed by the willow - those cucumbers disappearing as if claimed by an invisible hand. Nor could he ignore the tangible proof in Jūbei’s abundant harvest. As frost silvered the paddies and woodsmoke curled from cottage chimneys, Itou convened quiet conversations with two confidants: Tasuke, his wife’s brother, and Denjirō, a young and ambitious farmer who had struggled with blight that year. Huddled in Itou’s storehouse one evening, their breaths misting in the dim light of an oil lantern, the trio hashed over what they believed was Jūbei’s secret.

“It has to be that kappa,” Tasuke muttered, glancing about as though the very walls might eavesdrop. “Old Nan swears she heard him call it at the river. And didn’t you say you saw cucumbers offered?”

Itou nodded curtly. “Aye. Cucumber offerings, just like in the tales. So he’s made himself a bargain with the thing. And look how the river rewarded him - like the land was blessed.” He spat to the side in bitter frustration.

Denjirō, hunched with elbows on knees, frowned. “If that’s true… it’s risky business. Kappa aren’t exactly benevolent gods. They’re yōkai. One misstep and it could drown him.”

Itou gave a low chuckle. “Misstep? The only misstep I see is ours - sitting by while he hogs all the blessings. The river spirits should favor the whole village, not just one cunning fellow.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I say we level the field. Whatever charm or trick he used, we can use too.”

Tasuke and Denjirō exchanged uneasy looks. “You mean… approach the kappa ourselves?” Denjirō asked. He could not hide the tremor in his tone; he still remembered childhood warnings of drowning demons under the bridge.

“No, no,” hissed Itou. “Why risk our necks wrestling a goblin if we don’t have to? Jūbei’s done the dangerous part. He got the creature to grant a blessing - likely gave it cucumbers and prayers. But the real proof of the pact is that token of his.”

“You think he has a talisman?” Tasuke pressed.

Itou’s narrow face took on a conspiratorial glint. “I’m certain. I saw a gourd hanging on a stake in his field, carved with some kind of marking. He never had that before this year.”

Denjirō’s eyes widened. “A gourd with a marking… Did you get a good look at it?”

Itou scowled. “Not as close as I’d like. He’s secretive. Brings it inside at night most times, from what I hear. But I did catch sight of it one dawn, glinting as he set it out. There’s definitely a symbol on it. That must be the kappa’s seal or some protective ward.”

Tasuke scratched his grizzled chin. “If we had that symbol… maybe we could copy it. Mark our own fields.”

“Exactly.” Itou’s voice quivered with a mix of excitement and malice. “The charm itself should carry the power. Spirits aren’t clever - they see a sign and obey it, that’s how it works. If that kappa swore to guard any land bearing its seal, then let’s give it more land to guard.”

Denjirō bit his lip. “What if… what if it only works for Jūbei because he’s the one who made the offering? The kappa might know the difference if the same mark is up.”

Itou waved a dismissive hand. “Spirits are bound by their word and symbols. Likely it doesn’t know the difference if the same mark is up. Besides, did Jūbei look worse for wear? He seemed fine. If the kappa hasn’t dragged him off by now, it won’t come after us just for borrowing a blessing. We’ll be helping the village prosper, in a way.”

Tasuke gave a dry chuckle. “Prosper, eh? Helping ourselves, you mean.”

Itou flashed a grin. “Call it what you will. I’m not asking you to swim in the river at midnight or anything. Just to take note of a carved pattern.”

By lantern-light they formulated a plan. They would wait for an opportune moment - perhaps when Jūbei went to town or visited relatives - and then sneak a close look at the gourd charm. If possible, they would draw or scratch a copy of the symbol onto a board. Then each of them could recreate it on their own talismans: a wooden amulet or gourd, whatever they fancied, and place it in their fields before the next planting. Early spring was only weeks away; the timing was ripe.

Fortune seemed to favor their scheme, for near the end of winter a chance presented itself. In the second month, Jūbei made a two-day trip to a neighboring village’s temple, to light incense on his late wife’s death anniversary. The night before he left, a thick snow blanketed Kōgoe. In the hush of that winter night, Itou, Tasuke, and Denjirō crept into Jūbei’s yard, their footfalls muffled by snow. Jūbei, absorbed in preparing for his journey, had left the carved gourd hanging under the eaves of his storehouse - perhaps thinking it safest there while he was away. The intruders found it easily by the faint moonlight reflecting off the white ground.

Breath billowing in the cold, Itou gently lifted the gourd. In the darkness, the etched emblem was hard to make out, so he produced a shuttered lantern from inside his coat and opened it just a sliver. A blade of light fell across the gourd’s surface, revealing the carving: a swirl intertwined with jagged shapes, like a whirlpool entwined with vines or lightning. The design was intricate and uncanny, seeming almost to shift under their gaze. Tasuke felt a prickle of fear, as if the thing were alive and watching them, but he held the lantern steady as Itou and Denjirō hastily took a rubbing. Using a bit of charcoal and rice paper, Denjirō pressed and copied the grooves of the symbol. The charcoal lines came out a bit smudged, but the motif was captured.

As they worked, a sudden gust of wind hissed through the yard, rattling the bare persimmon tree branches. The men froze. For a heartbeat they thought they heard a low gurgling noise, like a muffled hiccup or grunt, from somewhere beyond the fence. Denjirō felt the hairs on his neck stand up. “Did you… hear that?” he whispered.

Tasuke peered into the darkness. The moon had slipped behind a cloud, and the yard was plunged into deep shadow. “Probably a fox or a badger,” Itou murmured, though his voice faltered. “Let’s finish and go.”

They left the gourd exactly as they found it and stole away, hearts pounding. Unknown to them, from the half-frozen river canal that ran behind Jūbei’s storehouse, a pair of luminous eyes watched their retreating figures. A moment later, the canal’s surface bubbled violently, as if something beneath thrashed in agitation. The disturbance went unnoticed by the sleeping village.

Jūbei returned two days later, his pilgrimage completed, and noticed nothing amiss at first. The snow had melted, ushering in an early spring thaw. He busied himself readying his tools and seeds for planting, grateful for what looked to be a fair season ahead. On the first day of spring plowing, he brought out the carved gourd and tied it to his field’s boundary post once more, offering a silent prayer of thanks to the river guardian. The sky was clear and the smell of wet earth strong; Jūbei felt optimistic. Yet as he worked the soil alongside other farmers, he sensed an undercurrent in their demeanor. Itou and a few others were unusually cheery and confident for so early in the season. Denjirō, who last year had lamented his failing crops, now strode with a spring in his step, boasting that this year would be different. “I’ve made some… improvements to my farm,” Jūbei overheard Denjirō saying to another neighbor with a sly tone. “You’ll see - no more soggy patches or bird raids for me.” Itou, catching Jūbei’s ear, simply gave him a genial clap on the shoulder and said, “Best of luck this year, Endō. May we all share in the good fortune.” Something in his smile made Jūbei uneasy, though he forced himself to return the pleasantry.

That evening, as dusk settled and Jūbei walked home along the riverbank, he noticed in passing that a post stood at the corner of Itou’s field bearing a new talisman. It looked to be a wooden board affixed to the post, etched or painted with a symbol. Jūbei paused, peering through the dim light. The marking was crude but unmistakable - a spiral with forked lines radiating from it, strikingly similar to the carving on his gourd. Jūbei’s mouth went dry.

A few fields beyond, he could just discern another talisman staked in Denjirō’s vegetable plot: perhaps an old bucket lid with a charcoal-drawn motif, propped up facing the river. In the twilight gloom, the symbol’s outline made Jūbei’s heart clench. It was his guardian’s seal, copied and displayed like a common scarecrow charm.

Jūbei continued home on unsteady legs. His worst suspicions were confirmed - the others had discovered or deduced the source of his fortune and were trying to appropriate it. He spent a restless night by the brazier, turning the situation over in his mind. Would the kappa honor those imitations? Could a simple duplication of the sign really fool the river spirit? He doubted it, yet he feared what offense this might cause. The pact he made was personal and bound by genuine exchange. These neighbors offered nothing, only taking the symbol for their own gain. It was a theft not just from him, but from the kappa itself.

Unable to sleep, Jūbei eventually donned his coat and crept out to his fields under the nearly moonless sky. He gently took down the gourd from its post and held it in his hands. The engraved seal caught the faint starlight. To his eyes, it looked duller than before, as if some vitality had left it. With a chill, he noticed a hairline crack running through one of the swirling lines that had not been there previously. When did that happen? He ran a thumb over the crack and felt an ache in his chest akin to guilt or dread.

A sudden splash from the river made him lift his head. Down by the willow, the water churned in an eddy even though no breeze blew. Jūbei walked to the bank, heart thumping. In the ebony water, he could see the ripple of movement. Hoping to reassure his unseen ally, Jūbei whispered into the darkness, “Forgive them… They know not what they do. I will make it right.” His words fell into the night with no reply but the ceaseless whisper of the current.

The next morning dawned grey and sullen, with clouds hanging low over the valley. Villagers rose to begin planting their early crops of barley and vegetables. Jūbei trudged to his plot with a heart heavy as the sky. Across the way, he saw Itou carving something on a new gourd of his own, and Tasuke helping Denjirō erect a fresh post on his boundary, atop which sat the makeshift talisman marked with the copied seal. They were openly displaying the imitation charms now, exchanging self-satisfied nods.

By afternoon, a cold drizzle began to fall. Jūbei noticed with unease that the rainwater collecting in the ditches had turned a murky brown in places, with an odd odor rising - a faint stench of decay that clung to the air. He spotted Itou and Denjirō inspecting their drainage channels and shrugging, as though perplexed by the sudden foulness. Jūbei’s own irrigation stream, by contrast, ran clear at first, but as it flowed past Itou’s land, he watched the water darken and carry the taint onward. A bad feeling settled in Jūbei’s stomach like a stone.

That evening, news spread that frogs and fish were found floating dead in some of the paddies downriver. The villagers muttered anxiously - such a thing had not occurred before. Some blamed runoff from rotted straw or an early sickness in the water. Under the eaves of his porch, Jūbei listened to the distant concerned voices and clenched the carved gourd to his chest. The crack in its pattern seemed larger than before.

As night fell, the drizzle intensified into a steady, chilling rain. Jūbei lit a small lantern and placed the gourd talisman beside it in his home, hoping the gentle light might somehow reach the kappa’s awareness. He silently prayed for guidance, or at least for forgiveness. Outside, the wind picked up, and in its howling he almost imagined he could hear a watery growl rolling in from the direction of the river.

Envy had led his neighbors to a reckless imitation of the kappa’s gift. Jūbei feared that the delicate balance he’d maintained was tipping towards disaster. In the gloom of that rainy night, he resolved that at first light he would go speak with Itou and the others - try to persuade them to take down the false charms before worse misfortune befell them. But fate, it seemed, was already hurtling forward. The rain pounded harder, and somewhere in the darkness came a sound that made Jūbei’s blood run cold: a sudden, echoing crash of wood splintering, followed by shouting voices carrying through the storm. He flung open his door, heart in his throat, sensing that the troubles he had dreaded were beginning to break upon them like a dam unleashed.