The Plain

The bubbling of water upon rocks. Muna opened her eyes to a spotless azure sky. Not even a sun was up there, and yet she felt a sunlike, summery warmth gently wrap around her, along with a sweet breeze. She was loath even to get up, but curiosity drove her to her feet. After all, she thought, this place seemed familiar…

Yes, this was it. A land charted out somewhere in her memories. Looking one way, a great wilderness, with open fields and forests, stretched out endlessly toward the horizon, and a river ran just as far. This was the river she had heard before, wide and clear, sitting right at her feet. And where she had been resting her head was a rock; not that she could tell before she laid eyes on it, because it felt as soft as rich soil. Never, not on this island and certainly not in Hi, had she seen grasses and trees so lush, fields and waters so blue, as she had here.

Turning the other way she saw a great wall of stone, out of which the river ran through a small opening, and towering above it many great red structures topped with black sloping roofs. Towers which, even when she had entered within those walls, she had never dared to visit. Clouds of light swirled about the tallest ones, giving the whole settlement a halo of its own.

The Plain—that was what Father had called this place. It was not home, no, but in her dawning years he had taken Muna here to teach her the ways of surviving in the wilderness. The people who lived within the walls, in the place called the Miya-ko, were at peace, and they let Muna, Father, and many others stay and live off the land. And yes, this river Muna and Father had visited many times before. Many creatures roamed the Plain, some of which could not be found back on the island, but Muna’s favorites had always been the fish found right here. Decked with dazzling, multicolored scales, she had taken much pleasure in tracking them downstream, and then catching them with her knife when the time was ripe. Sometimes she would even take the teeth from them and string them together. This was the first hunt Father had taught her.

Suddenly she felt compelled to do this very thing, just as she had all those years ago. She removed her shoes, let her feet sink into the grass, and peered over the water’s edge. She swiveled her head left, right, left again. Then she saw it—a massive carp, nearly three feet long and with all golden scales, barreling upstream. She gave chase, running swiftly but softly, so softly that one could barely hear her feet rustle the grass. She tucked her head in, cocked to the side, eyes bearing on her quarry.

The ground turned rocky. Muna pressed on, delicately running on the balls of her feet. Finally the fish stopped its surge and came to a halt. Muna nearly split her toes on a jagged edge when she re-applied her weight. The carp lingered, nibbling with its oversized jaws on some piece of weed that had broken through the river’s bed. Muna quietly positioned herself over its massive body. Even hanging barely more than a foot over it, with the light that shone in the Plain, Muna hardly cast any shadow. Her body was perfectly balanced. Her legs were planted fast. Her arms were ready. She moved quickly. Her open arm she plunged directly into the waters, to grab the carp and pin it to the floor. The other hand, holding the knife, was quickly to follow. She surely had it now.

But what followed next was sharp pain. Was it some creature from the river? No—her leg had cramped, or worse yet broken. She tumbled into the river, reeling in pain. Once her head hit the cold water she squeezed her eyes shut. And when she opened them again…

* * *

Muna was jolted awake, for real this time. The sun was shining directly down on her. High noon. Her leg still ached terribly. Furthermore she felt a sensation she had not, strangely, in her dream: a hemp rope digging into her wrists, which were tied behind her back. She was seated on the ground, still outside, her back propped up against something solid. When she looked up, she saw the two faces she wanted to see again the least.

The younger of the two men she had clashed with in the forest clearing still had his right foot outstretched, inches away from Muna’s left shin. But after meeting her eyes, his face contorted into something that approximated half-shock and half-ridicule.

“Hey! Big Brother! I think that woke her up!” he said gleefully to his fellow—or rather, his brother.

“Yes, I can see that. Settle down a little,” the elder responded wearily.

Now that Muna was forced to look directly at them, these two really did give off the air of being family. They both had clean-shaven faces, save for a thin mustache across their lips; narrow eyes set under a scant brow; and milky white skin. Without their weapons, there were only three things that set the elder brother apart from the younger: his height, the breadth of his shoulders, and the number of loops he had tied his hair into behind his ears. In all three of these the elder outstripped the younger.

It also certainly did not help that they were wearing nearly identical outfits—cream-colored tunics, red sashes for belts, and cream-colored trousers. A uniform of some sort, perhaps, for the guards of this village. But if that was true, then they, who seemed to be of equal standing, must have had a leader; where could he be found? Not wishing to stir the pot any more, Muna did not speak out to either of the brothers, but thankfully the younger eagerly crouched down and taunted her instead.

“Well,” he began with a chuckle, “Welcome to Kona! Not that you’ll be seeing much of it, but you’re sure to become a part of this domain’s history—as the first and last Hayato to ever make the mistake of stealing from us.

“The first thing I’ll do to you,” he continued as he pulled out a steel knife from his waistband, “is cut off each of your fingers and toes and feed them to the foxes. Then, while you’re still writhing in pain, I’ll slit your belly open and take your innards out—you know, like you did to that stag. Those can go to the dogs. Then, as your life slowly slips away, I’ll dig into your neck and—”

BOOF!

A blow to the head was dealt from the elder to the younger.

“Enough with the jokes!” he admonished. Strange, thought Muna, that he was trying to play ethical now, when only a few hours earlier he had joked with his brother about putting her head on a spike. But she was not alone in feeling this.

“Bah!” exclaimed the younger. “You know you want to, too!”

The elder harrumphed. “Whatever the case, you remember what Muraji said. She’s probably being kept as a slave.

“To take our roles, I hope,” he said with a pitiful snicker as an aside.

So, ultimately, Muna had been right. It had taken some persuasion on her part, but this village—Kona?—now wanted to put her to use. Still, much like “conflict”, the word “slave” left a bad taste in her mouth and a bad note on her ears. In fact, the two seemed to go hand-in-hand, judging by what Muna had heard. Though the Yamato nobles were not picky and would gladly enslave their own if any in such straits happened upon them, the Hayato had spoken with great dread of entire tribes of their own kind being sent to such a fate. After killing the fighting-aged men, of course, they would take the boys, children, and older women and yoke them under hard labor, give them over to “masters” who controlled every aspect of their life; the girls, those Muna’s age, they would take as wives and concubines. One Yamato chief in the north-western land called Tsukushi (which the Yamato themselves took to be the name for the whole island) by the sea had a corps of some five hundred Hayato and Kumaso slaves under him, it was said. Few of them ever found freedom.

But Muna did not see things so narrowly. It was bold of these brothers to speak of “slaves” with such distinction when they knew full well their work could also be taken by a “slave”. And without their Muraji or their Great Kimi, where would these men find themselves? Only by the goodwill of their community and a bonus in their conditions, most likely, were they set apart from slaves.

Still, Muna wondered what sort of fate this Muraji might try to force on her. It gave her some solace, at least, that the brothers spoke of labor and not of marriage. She might tarry and play along for a little while, time enough to recover from her wounds, but then she would leave. She did not mind lingering in communities—she had done so with the Hayato before setting off on her own in her sixteenth year—but she expected goodwill in return. Even with the Hayato, that was hard to find.

“There you two are!” broke out a new voice suddenly. It was far-off, and behind Muna, but drew closer. The two brothers jumped the moment its gravelly tones reached their ears and stood up straight. Now Muna heard the slow plodding of heavy footsteps; plodding not because of the size of this speaker, but of what thick boots he must have had over his feet.

“M—Muraji!” the older brother exclaimed.

“So, this is her?” replied this voice—Muraji. Taking a few more steps, he finally came into Muna’s view. This was an imposing man, was her first thought. In stark contrast to the two brothers, he wore a gray tunic that reached down to his knees, and a black jacket over this. This jacket, furthermore, was decorated with white stitching; Muna could make out two serpents coiling around each of his arms. For as built as the elder brother was, Muraji was taller and even more strapping; a long leather belt wrapped around his whole frame, keeping the tunic and jacket to his body and matching his leather boots. His hair, surprisingly, was not in the distinctive Yamato style, but was tied in a simple knot behind his head. His beard was long, and showed the first signs of graying.

“Scram!” he barked at the two brothers. “Back to your posts! I’ll deal with her myself.”