Where the Mountain Gods Live
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Where the Mountain Gods Live
On days when mirages glinted above beaten cobblestone and dirt paths, when rusted portable fans were brought out from closet corners and set spinning and creaking, when each breath was a pant and sweat covered the skin of anyone who stepped outside for more than a second, that was when the cicadas cried the loudest.
On days like those, the village’s residence of mostly aged and withered folk would stay indoors with shoji doors pushed open and wind bells faint. My brothers and I wouldn’t do much but lie sprawled on the tatami, watching the oscillating fan spin cool relief on our flushed, damp skin. Molten asphalt would line the cracks of a skinny main road. The shade brought no relief from the heat. And most importantly, it was too dangerous for my grandmother to carry a daily offering of apples up to the mountain gods, nor was anyone in the town willing to climb up to the shrine.
I didn’t mind taking the offerings to the shrine, honest. Maybe if I had lived in the tiny village year round, I would have, but bringing the offerings meant going up the mountain, and up the mountain was the most exciting place in town. My older brother couldn’t go because he had to take care of my grandmother, and she wouldn’t let my younger brother go because mountain spirits might’ve stolen him away. But I had just turned ten and–according to grandmother–the most the spirits could do was try and lead me astray. And all I wanted was to meet one.
So every morning, I would sprint to the foot of the mountain to begin my trek to a soundtrack of birdsong and cicadas.
The green shrine didn’t get its name from nothing. The forest surrounding it would boast all shades of emerald and jade, and golden sunbeams speckled through to illuminate the earthy browns of the forest floor. The