Blight and Ransom

The storm that struck Kōgoe in the wake of the copied seals was fierce and unrelenting. Rain fell in unholy sheets, turning the village paths to rivers of mud. In the middle of that black night, disaster announced itself. Itou’s panicked shouts rang out through the thunder: his stable had been broken open and his horse was missing. Neighbors stumbled from their beds and grabbed lanterns, fighting against wind and rain as they rushed to help search. Jūbei, heart pounding, joined the throng converging near Itou’s paddock. The stable door hung askew, ripped clear off its hinges. Inside, the stall was empty save for muddy, chaotic hoofprints and deep gouges in the wooden beams where the terrified animal must have kicked.

Lightning flashed, illuminating a trail of prints leading out past the rice granaries toward the raging river. A few men followed them to the bank, only to stop in horror. There, half-submerged in the reeds, lay Itou’s horse. Its dark coat glistened with rain; it was struggling feebly, tangled in rope. They waded in and hauled the poor creature onto the bank, but their efforts were in vain. The horse’s eyes rolled back, and with a final shudder it went still, water gurgling from its nostrils. Under the flicker of lantern light, someone gasped and pointed at the animal’s hindquarters. Jūbei craned to see. The horse’s flanks bore bruises in the unmistakable pattern of clawed handprints - as though something with vice-like grip had seized it and dragged it down into the depths. A murmur of fear rippled through the onlookers.

Itou fell to his knees beside his beloved mare, fists clenched in grief and rage. “It’s the kappa! The kappa did this!” he howled above the pounding rain, voice breaking. No one dared contradict him, for the evidence was before their eyes and in their own nightmares of childhood. Some villagers made the sign to ward off evil; others simply stood rooted, water streaming off straw raincoats, faces pale. Jūbei felt sick. He laid a hand on Itou’s shoulder, but the man shrugged him off, casting a venomous glare upward. For an instant Jūbei thought Itou might strike him. Instead, through gritted teeth, Itou spat, “This is your fault, Endō.”

A few gasps were audible even in the storm’s din. “Itou, hold your tongue,” the headman barked, but the accusation hung in the air. Itou jabbed a finger at Jūbei, eyes wild with anguish. “You brought this on us. If you’d kept your - your demon on its leash, or shared whatever pact you made, we wouldn’t have to try to save ourselves! Now see what it’s done. My Suneko is dead!” His voice cracked as he gestured at the horse’s limp body.

Jūbei opened his mouth, but no words came. What could he say? He had warned them, in his own roundabout way, but far too late. And indeed, had he not set these events in motion by forging the pact in secret? The villagers looked between the two men, unsure of whom to fault, frightened of what might come next. Only the headman’s steady voice regained some order: “Enough. Not here, not now. Help me carry the horse. We will see to this in the morning.”

With heavy hearts, they labored in the torrential rain to drag the carcass to higher ground. Itou was led back to his house by his wife and Tasuke, the devastated man nearly incoherent with sorrow. Jūbei returned to his home drenched and trembling. All night, the storm raged, and sleep would not come to him. He sat by his shuttered window, the carved gourd talisman in his lap, and listened to the angry sky and the furious roar of the swollen river.

By dawn, the rain ceased, but the sky remained a leaden gray. The village awoke to more ill tidings. A foul odor hung in the air. When farmers went to inspect their fields, they found young barley shoots wilted and blackening as if scorched by blight. Denjirō discovered that much of his vegetable patch, freshly planted days before, had been completely washed out by flash floods; where his neat rows had been was now a mire of slimy mud and uprooted sprouts. In Tasuke’s paddies, a strange oily film floated on the standing water, and beneath it the rice seedlings from early sowing were yellowed and dying. Shouts and cries rose from every corner of the hamlet as the extent of damage became clear. Not a single farm that had raised a false kappa seal had been spared calamity.

Jūbei’s own plot, by contrast, looked largely untouched by storm or blight. His irrigation channels were clear, his soil damp but intact, and the seeds he had sown remained in their furrows. It was as if the worst of the weather had skirted around his fields. Noticing this, several villagers began to mutter darkly. Before noon, Denjirō, Tasuke, and a handful of others marched up to Jūbei’s yard, where he was fortifying a bank against further rain. Their expressions were a mix of anger and desperation.

“You,” Denjirō said hoarsely, “why is it that your land is safe while ours lie ruined?” He gestured with a trembling hand at the expanse of Jūbei’s orderly field, then back toward the sodden mess of his own. “The kappa protects you and strikes us. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Jūbei put down his shovel, mud streaking his knees. He could hardly deny it; the contrast in fortunes was plain to see. “Denjirō,” he began carefully, “you placed those charms without understanding the cost. I tried to-”

But Tasuke interrupted, voice sharp with fear. “All we understood was that you enjoyed a bounty while we struggled. So we evened the odds. Why should the river guardian be only yours, Endō? If it’s angry, maybe it should have blessed us too. Maybe you…” He swallowed, eyeing Jūbei as though weighing a dangerous thought. “Maybe you cursed us for trying.”

Jūbei’s eyes widened. “No! I would never-”

“He doesn’t have that power,” snapped the headman, arriving on the scene with several older men in tow. The village elder’s voice was stern. “This is beyond any mortal scheming. Can you not see? The river spirit is enraged. And small wonder, after being mocked with false tribute.” He fixed a hard stare on Tasuke and Denjirō. “You brought this upon yourselves, copying a sacred pact without honor.”

Some of the men shuffled their feet, shame creeping into their faces. Denjirō’s eyes brimmed with tears, not only for his lost crops but for the foolishness that he now realized. “We… we only wanted our families to eat well,” he mumbled. “We meant no offense to any god.”

Jūbei stepped forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Everyone, listen. What’s done is done. Blaming each other will not mend our fields or bring back Itou’s horse.” He took a shaky breath. “The kappa - the river guardian - is indeed angered. It feels cheated, and rightfully so. But I beg you, punish us no further. Accept our repentance and let us make amends.”

Tasuke looked at him incredulously. “Reason with a kappa? Are you mad? It just drowned a beast and poisoned our soil!”

Jūbei held his gaze. “Better to try than to watch our children starve come summer, or worse calamities befall us. You all know as well as I that this will only escalate if we do nothing.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “Last night… I heard it in the water. I think it was a warning. It wants restitution.”

At that, a frail voice piped up from the gathering crowd. It was Itou’s mother, an old woman hunched with age, clutching a rosary of wooden beads. “Restitution,” she echoed, nodding as if she understood. “Yes… we took without giving. The kappa demands payment.” She turned rheumy eyes to the men around her. “I remember my grandmother told me: never cheat the river gods. They take double repayment in blood or plague.” Her words sent a chill through those assembled.

Just then, a new commotion arose near the edge of the village. A young girl came running, tears streaming down her face. “Denjirō! Father!” she sobbed, rushing into the farmer’s arms. It was Denjirō’s daughter, Mayu. “It’s Jirō! He… he…” she tried to speak between gasps.

Denjirō blanched. “Mayu, child, what is it? Where’s your brother?”

Through hiccuping cries, the girl managed to explain. Jirō, Denjirō’s eight-year-old son, had gone with her to check their lower rice paddy by the riverside. When they arrived, Mayu had looked away only a moment - and Jirō was suddenly gone. She thought she heard a splash and a yelp. She ran to the bank and caught sight of something “green and big” in the water pulling Jirō under. Mayu had screamed and rushed to find help.

A stunned silence followed her words, broken only by Denjirō’s anguished roar. He and several others sprinted toward the river. Jūbei’s heart seized - a child, taken. The villagers fanned out along the muddy banks, calling Jirō’s name desperately. The river flowed by, deceptively calm now after the storm, giving no hint.

It was Jūbei who spotted the boy’s hand first, clinging limply to a cluster of waterweed near the sluice gate of the irrigation channel. “Over here!” Jūbei shouted. He waded knee-deep into the water and hauled the boy out with the help of two others. Little Jirō was unconscious, skin as pale as a lotus root. His lips were blue, and for one terrifying moment Jūbei thought the child had already drowned. But then the boy coughed, expelling a gush of river water, and drew a rattling breath. Denjirō fell to his knees, crying out thanks to heaven as he cradled his son.

When Jirō came to his senses moments later, he began sobbing in terror, clinging to his father. Amid comforting words, they gently pressed him for any recollection of what happened. The boy shivered violently and managed to stammer, “A…a monster… pulled me. It had claws!” He broke down in wails again.

Jūbei knelt beside the father and son, placing a reassuring hand on Jirō’s back. As he did, his eyes widened - there, on the child’s little arm, were livid red marks in the shape of webbed fingers. The sight hardened Jūbei’s resolve to the core.

The headman cleared his throat, voice unsteady. “The creature nearly claimed a child now. We can’t ignore this. Endō… you may be right. We must appease it or we’ll have no end of tragedy.” He looked around at the villagers, who nodded in somber agreement. Even Tasuke and Itou (who had hobbled over, drawn by the tumult despite his grief) gave reluctant assent, faces etched with fear and regret.

Jūbei rose, rainwater and river muck streaming from his clothes. He knew what had to be done. “I will go to the river shrine,” he announced quietly. “Alone.”

A flurry of concerned protests met this: “Not alone, you won’t,” “It’s too dangerous!” “What if it kills you?” But Jūbei shook his head firmly. “The kappa and I have a pact - it may still listen to me. More people would only anger it further. I’ll go and beg its mercy, offer whatever it requires to spare our village.”

Denjirō, still clutching his son, looked up with wet, red eyes. “Please, Jūbei… I’m so sorry… we were fools. If you can, save my boy from that thing’s wrath. Save all of us.”

Itou stepped forward, shame and desperation writ plain in the lines of his face. “Endō, I wronged you. I see that now. I… I beg you to do this. Whatever the kappa wants - cucumbers, prayers, my own life - I’ll pay. Only help us set it right.” The proud man bowed his head low before Jūbei, a gesture none would have imagined a day before.

Jūbei swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He placed a hand on Itou’s shoulder in forgiveness. “We will set it right.”

Without further delay, Jūbei fetched the carved gourd - the original seal of the pact - and secured it at his waist. He also took up a bundle of the finest cucumbers remaining from his winter stores, a length of braided straw rope, and a small brass bell used for Shinto rites. Dusk was falling and the sky bruised purple, threatening another bout of rain. The villagers trailed behind Jūbei as he made his way toward the river, stopping at a respectful distance as he continued alone to the old willow at the water’s edge.

The river before him was growing dark and mist-laden. The current swirled ominously around the half-submerged rocks - especially at one spot by the willow roots, where a whirlpool spun in an almost perfect circle, gurgling as if hungry. Jūbei’s pulse pounded in his ears, but he forced himself calm. He could feel many eyes on his back from the villagers watching anxiously. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the shallows. The cold water numbed his feet and soaked the hem of his trousers.

He lifted the brass bell and rang it three times, the clear tones piercing the evening hush. With each ring, he called out, “Guardian of the Kitakami, hear me! It is Endō Jūbei, who keeps the pact with you!” His voice rang over the water. When the bell’s echoes faded, silence fell, broken only by the soft rush of the current.

Jūbei took another step forward, now waist-deep, and tied the straw rope around his waist, securing the other end to an exposed root of the willow - a precaution in case the kappa tried to drag him under as well. He placed the cucumbers into the eddy one by one, letting them drift into the spinning center. “I bring offerings,” he called, “in apology and tribute. We have wronged you. I humbly ask that you show yourself, so we may atone.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Jūbei feared the kappa would spurn this overture. But then, the whirlpool beneath the willow began to expand, spinning faster. A bubble rose to the surface and popped, sending concentric ripples outward. The villagers gasped and stepped back, some praying under their breath. Jūbei held his ground, though his knees trembled under the water.

Suddenly, with a surge of water, the kappa broke the surface. It emerged right in the heart of the whirlpool, water sheeting off its green, scaly skin. Its yellow eyes blazed with anger in the twilight. Jūbei heard a few villagers cry out at the sight of the creature’s hunched form and turtle shell, but he kept his focus. The kappa’s usually impish face was contorted in a scowl, and its wiry arms clutched one of the cucumbers Jūbei had offered, crushing it in a webbed fist. The shallow dish atop its head was brimming with river water that sloshed as the being moved.

“You…” the kappa hissed, its voice carrying like a bubbling echo. It fixed Jūbei with a withering glare. “You dare summon me with tokens, after what they have done?” It jabbed a clawed finger toward the cluster of villagers on the bank. Though twilight masked their features, it clearly knew they were there.

Jūbei bowed as deeply as he could without losing balance, keeping his gaze lowered. “Honored guardian, hear my plea,” he said, projecting his voice steadily. “These villagers acknowledge their offense. They imitated your sacred seal without offering or leave. In their folly they have angered you. But I beg you, punish us no further. Accept our repentance and let us make renewal.”

The kappa bared its teeth in a snarl. “Amends? They defiled my mark, stole my protection as though it were a trinket! I protected your fields as promised, mortal, and in return you let others profane our pact!” The water around it churned, sending waves against Jūbei’s chest.

Jūbei winced at the cold slap of water, but lifted his palms in supplication. “Their actions were taken out of ignorance and desperation, not malice toward you. The blame is mine as well, for I kept our pact secret. Perhaps I should have spoken openly and guided them to seek your favor properly, instead of letting envy drive them to theft.” He spoke earnestly, and behind him he heard some villagers murmur in surprise at his readiness to share blame.

The kappa’s eyes flicked to Jūbei’s waist, where the gourd talisman hung. “You speak of guidance. Did you guide them to carve my seal on rotten planks and gourds?” it spat. “No. They crept and stole it like thieves in the night. You at least honored me with cucumber and courtesy. But these… humans,” the word dripped from its mouth like an epithet, “they thought to take without paying. So I have taken in return.” It raised the half-crushed cucumber, then cast it aside disdainfully. “A horse’s blood, crops and fish, a taste of a child’s fear… are these payment enough?”

On the shore, a few villagers wailed softly at the recounting of their losses. Mayu, Denjirō’s daughter, clung to her brother and wept. Denjirō himself knelt in the mud, head bowed in shame and sorrow.

Jūbei’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to speak with calm reverence. “Great one, we ask not for lenience without cost. We offer now what should have been offered before.” He gestured toward the bank. At this cue, the headman and two elders stepped forward and gently tipped over a large wicker basket they had brought. It spilled open to reveal dozens of cucumbers, gathered hastily from whatever stores or pickling jars the village had - some fresh, some preserved in brine. The green offering rolled into the shallows en masse. The elders also produced a bottle of aged sake and poured it into the water, an appeasement to the river.

A hush fell as everyone watched the kappa. The creature’s nostrils flared at the scent of the cucumbers and possibly the sweet rice wine now mingling with the river’s scent. It eyed the floating offerings, then looked back to Jūbei. Its expression was still fierce, but the fury in its eyes dimmed to a smoldering anger rather than an inferno.

“They offer tribute now, when their fields rot and their hearts quake,” the kappa said, voice less harsh but laced with scorn. “Why should I accept such late payment? Their suffering is the price of dishonor.”

Jūbei bowed deeper, water up to his chest. “Because even a late payment shows they have learned respect. Let that lesson take root. I swear to you, from this day forth, these villagers will honor the river and its guardian properly.” He raised one hand out of the water in a gesture of oath. “If anyone fails to give you your due, let their fate be on my head.”

At this, a collective gasp came from behind. Jūbei was offering himself as guarantor - a promise that essentially made him responsible for any future slight. The kappa’s eyes narrowed. It drifted closer through the water until it was an arm’s length from Jūbei. The farmer could see his own reflection quivering in those golden eyes and smell the fishy tang on the creature’s breath.

“You pledge your own life for theirs?” the kappa gurgled softly, so low that only Jūbei could hear.

“I do,” Jūbei replied without hesitation. Rain began to fall again in sparse droplets, dimpling the river’s surface. One cold drop slid down the back of his neck, yet he did not flinch. “Spare them, and I will ensure the offerings you are owed are never neglected again.”

The kappa tilted its head, regarding Jūbei for a long moment. It extended a clawed hand and, to Jūbei’s surprise, gently grasped the rope tied at his waist. With a small tug, the kappa indicated the lifeline tied to the willow root. “You would tie yourself to them, and yet tether yourself from me?” it asked in a sardonic whisper.

Jūbei’s cheeks flushed. Wordlessly, he reached down and untied the rope from around his waist, casting it aside. A ripple of concern came from the bank as the villagers saw him remove his only safety line. Now nothing prevented the kappa from dragging him under if it so chose.

The river spirit’s taut lips eased into something resembling a grim smile. It appreciated the gesture of trust. “Very well, Jūbei,” the kappa said, raising its voice again for all to hear. “I accept your oath.” It then swept its gaze toward the shore, addressing the trembling assemblage. “Hear me, humans of Kōgoe! You sought my boon without tribute and tasted my wrath. Endō Jūbei now speaks for your village. If you honor our pact - with proper offerings and respect - I shall forgive this offense and restore balance. But,” and here its voice dropped to a rasping growl that made villagers blanch, “should you ever betray our covenant again, the river will claim far more than horses and harvests. No ransom of cucumbers will save you.”

Every head on the bank bowed low, wet forelocks pressed to muddy earth. In unison, the villagers cried out words of apology and promise: “We will honor you, Kappa-sama! Forgive us! We swear it!” Even Itou, who had hung back, prostrated himself fully in the shallows, his grief over his horse now mingled with awe and repentance.

The kappa loomed before Jūbei, still eye to eye. The farmer felt a certain sadness emanating from those eyes now, as the anger ebbed - a centuries-old weariness from being forgotten and disrespected by mortals. Quietly, Jūbei said, “Thank you.”

The kappa gave a slow nod, then raised one webbed hand above the water. In it, the half-crushed cucumber it had grabbed earlier was miraculously whole again - fresh and unblemished. The creature gently set the cucumber afloat toward Jūbei. “The pact is renewed,” it murmured, so low that only Jūbei caught it. “Take this token, friend, and plant its seeds. Let a new season begin cleanly.”

Before Jūbei could respond, the kappa’s form began to submerge. It sank smoothly into the whirlpool, waves closing over its turtle shell, until only the top of its head with the water-filled dish remained visible. The dish tilted in a small bow, never spilling a drop, and then the creature was gone, dissolving into the dark water with barely a ripple.

For a heartbeat, the gathered folk stood in stunned silence, punctuated by the soft patter of rain on the river. Then a collective sigh, a sob, a nervous laugh of relief broke the spell. The ordeal was over - or at least, the promise of an end was in sight.

Jūbei, legs shaking, picked up the pristine cucumber bobbing near him. He clutched it to his chest like a sacred relic. Behind him, villagers were wading into the shallows to retrieve the remaining offerings, not daring to leave a single one unaccepted. They would later place those cucumbers at the foot of the old willow as an offering shrine, ensuring they were presented properly rather than merely tossed.

The headman approached Jūbei carefully. “Come, Endō,” he urged gently. “You’re shivering.” Only then did Jūbei realize how cold he was; the adrenaline that had sustained him ebbed, leaving him exhausted and drenched. He allowed the headman and Kaneko to guide him back to dry ground, the rope and bell trailing forgotten in the water.

On the bank, Denjirō came forward carrying little Jirō, who was wrapped in a blanket. The boy, though frightened, was safe and alert now. Denjirō bowed so low his forehead touched the mud. “Thank you,” he choked out, voice thick with emotion. “You saved my son. You saved all of us.” Others echoed similar sentiments in ragged voices, offering Jūbei grateful bows and tearful smiles. Itou, shoulders bowed under the weight of both grief and gratitude, managed a hoarse whisper: “I will never forget this debt, Jūbei.”

Jūbei shook his head lightly. “We owe it to the river, and to the kappa… and to each other to remember this night,” he said softly. He gazed at the cucumber in his hands, already envisioning the seeds inside sprouting into new life. “Let this be the last time we ever try to take without giving back.”

Before parting, the headman turned to the crowd and declared that never again would they neglect the river spirit. The village would build a proper shrine by the willow and hold a ceremony of thanks at each planting and harvest. A cheer of approval, tinged with sniffles of lingering emotion, rose from the assembly. There was much work ahead to repair what had been damaged, but their hearts felt light.

As the villagers dispersed to fetch dry clothes, tend to the sick, and begin cleaning up, the rain lightened to a gentle mist. Jūbei remained by the willow a moment longer, staring into the swirling eddy where the kappa had vanished. The river’s surface was calm now, reflecting the dim glow of lanterns being lit across the village. In that current, Jūbei almost thought he could discern a whisper - not one of anger this time, but of cautious peace.

He bowed deeply toward the water, a final gesture of the night’s accord. The blight would pass, the ransom had been paid in humility and offerings, and now a covenant - hard-earned and sincere - lay ahead. With weary steps, Endō Jūbei turned and followed the path back to the village, the precious cucumber cradled in his arms like a newborn promise.