There comes a point in time where every story begins, an unremarkable moment that blends the transition between what once was and what now is—not the creation of a world nor those who inhabit it, just as the earth we call home didn’t begin at the moment of our birth. The moment can only be assumed through the blurry vision of retrospection and yet stories come to us all too naturally, requiring no excessive thought to make sense of its structure or purpose when we recite tales to one another over a series of generations. There can be no doubt that the simple art is a very aspect of being human; such a realization began my work to document the stories of my travels. But I am a mere narrator and do not care much to talk of myself. Instead, let me share with you a story:
It was on a brisk night, in the season between red leaves and white ash, that I traveled a flattened footpath following the flow of a shallow stream. I was alone and eager to return home. The rustle of the trees bade me listen and it was then that I could hear distant music. My path brought me nearer to its source; a crowd of no less than a hundred people surrounding a temple stage, bathed in warm light and transfixed on the figures upon the stage. The figures danced, wearing lifelike masks draped in beautiful costumes. I recognized it as Noh theater, though I had yet to see one in person. While I arrived last, the tale was not complete and I watched them replicate history upon that stage.
Three figures stood together: A strong man wielding a sword, an elder man bearing a mirror, and a brave man dressed elegantly in white and red. Across from them stood a tall figure, draped in black and shadow. At his feet danced puppets of demons and fire, hailing their master’s command to charge.
Simultaneously, the air vibrated with the beat of the drum as the strong man threw lightning while the wise man summoned magic, jointly combatting the foe fiercely. But it was not enough, and the black figure began to engulf everything with hellfire and darkness. The brave man stepped forth, clutching a sacred jewel and summoned wind that bade the figure halt. The pounding of the drums was drowned out by the chanting and cheers from the audience. The expressions of the masks shifted from fear to determination and together the three dispelled the fire and darkness from the stage, casting it out into the night.
Suddenly silence blanketed the audience as the strong man and wise man ceremoniously bowed to the brave man, presenting him with their sword and mirror. He took them each in one hand as the jewel bore boldly upon his breast. With the ritual complete, the two men vanished, leaving the one to begin his work.
The story of our country’s salvation by the deeds of the kami is well known even by small children but to know it’s events is simply incomparable to experiencing it. I wished more than anything to have had the honor to witness the battle with my own eyes. I wondered what amazing things were happening out in the world that I might also one day lament not experiencing.
After the music ended and the crowd dispersed, I walked once more along the stream. Was I to float along its surface drifting like an autumn leaf? No longer anticipating home, I wondered where the stream I followed began. Curious, I followed it in reverse and have not returned home since.
Above, a dry leaf
Carried by the river’s flow
Below, a salmon
Douglas Rysdyk 