Chapter 1
Oscar Dupont. A man with dark hair and a hint of brown in his eyes. Born and raised in France, he now found himself wandering Hoshitoge Village in Niigata Prefecture, as he always did every morning. As he walked down to the farm he passed the other villagers and greeted them, as he had for the past fifteen years. And of course, as usual, Okame, an eleven-year-old girl, was the first to greet him.
“OSCAR-SANNNNNN!” she screamed.
Startled, Oscar replied, “Okame. It’s a little too early in the morning for this much energy.”
“I think the years are catching up to you, old man,” she smiled.
He chuckled, and they chatted about the small happenings of village life, a short conversation but one that mattered. After all, Okame, being the youngest in the village, was one of the few who had known him ever since he arrived. The rest of the villagers — barring the younger ones — remembered his sudden appearance. They didn’t usually have outsiders, and yet when he showed up asking for shelter and food for the night, the look in his eyes made no one dare turn him away. A lot had happened since then. Regardless, Okame knew him only as he was in the village, and he often enjoyed their little morning talks. Her complaints about family and her teasing about his old age — although forty-three probably seemed ancient to a little girl — were some of the most enjoyable parts of his day.
As they made their way through the village, he found the eldest of them, Hiruzen, to discuss the rice farms for the year. He called out to him laughingly and said, “Hiruzen-sama, Okame here says I’m getting old. As an expert in old age, what do you think?”
Although Oscar may have been teasing the old man, he always managed to land a few taps on him with his cane. “How’s that for an old man?” he smiled.
“See, Okame — being old isn’t so bad.”
She laughed. “Yeah, whatever you say.”
--
After the pleasantries, Oscar went on to discuss plans for the rice fields with Hiruzen. The two of them worked out the lay of the paddies so the rest of the villagers could help cultivate them. The fields shone like mirrors as they reflected the rising and setting sun. Truly one of the most beautiful rice terraces in Japan, and Oscar had become an essential part of the village’s success. He was looked up to by the youngsters, relied upon by the elders, respected by the men, and admired by the women.
Sometimes it made him forget… only sometimes.
He hadn’t thought about life before the village in years and had found a true home here — somewhere to live with purpose and somewhere to die in peace.
“Oscar-kun,” Hiruzen said as Okame ran off to do whatever children do for fun, “I know we joke about it, but I’m not getting any younger. I’ve lived in this village for as long as I can remember and have seen many people come and go. When you showed up all those years ago, I thought you’d just wander off like the rest. But instead you stayed, and you repaid what no one asked you to. Rather than taking our food, shelter, and kindness for nothing, you offered to stay and help with the fields. Somewhere along the way, you became family — part of the village.”
“Since when did you get so sentimental?” he smiled. Hiruzen had taught Oscar how to live as a villager. He was kind but stern when he needed to be. He showed him how to cultivate the rice and the paddies, how to give respect to the people of the village and their beliefs. Initially, no one cared about just another traveler, but the old man showed sympathy when none was warranted. They came to know each other well, which was why Oscar knew where this was going.
“Listen. There are more years behind me than ahead of me. This village is the only home I know. I want to make sure that before I die—”
“Enough talk about dying,” Oscar interrupted. “I’ll take care of it. Everything. The fields, the paddies, the villagers — just like you taught me. All you have to do is focus on smacking me around when I mess up. There’s no replacement for you here: not me, and not anyone else. So save the speeches.”
Hiruzen simply nodded. After all, he knew his message had been received. If he were to die, he trusted the village would live on.
“Anyway,” Oscar stood up, “I think we’ll have enough rice this year for the village and the tax for the government.”
They began to head back to the village as it was getting late. Oscar bid his farewell to Hiruzen, said goodbye to the rest of the men working the fields, and returned home. The next morning he woke up to Okame’s tears dropping on his face. He rose frantically and asked her to calm down.
“What’s going on, Okame?!”
“IT’S THE RICE!” she choked through her tears. “THE RICE WE STORED — IT’S BEEN BURNED!”
Oscar sprang up in confusion and went outside. He sprinted to where the rice was stored and pushed past the villagers. There it was: a fraction of the rice they had cultivated remained, and the rest was burnt to a crisp. Hayata, a young man who helped in the fields, asked Oscar what they were going to do. At that moment, no one thought about how it could have happened or who might have done it. They were all too worried about what it meant. Every year the village was required to pay one koku — the general amount of rice that one person would eat in a year (330 pounds) — to the government. That was separate from what they could use. It took 33,000 pounds of rice to just barely feed everyone in the village. The amount that remained was 5,000 pounds and the harvest was over. They did not have enough to feed the village, and on top of that they would have to pay the rice tax and lose another villager’s worth of food in the process. In fear and anguish, everyone turned to Oscar. The worried expressions of elders and children alike looked to him for an answer. Yet he had none. In his mind he truly had no idea what they could do. But it was probably their fear and admiration that led him back to that path. Backed into a corner of expectation, Oscar needed to find a way to keep the village alive by any means necessary.
“The collectors are coming for the annual rice tax soon! How will we pay and feed the village?!” one man shouted.
Arguments and screams ran through the room as the villagers discussed what they could do. Hiruzen and Oscar sat quietly. After all, there was truly nothing they could do. The collectors were ruthless and had no qualms about taxing a village to starvation. And yet, despite this predicament, Oscar still spoke up.
“That’s enough!” The room fell quiet. “I understand your worry. We worked hard for this harvest and it’s all burned to ash. But arguing among ourselves won’t solve anyt—”
A man quickly interrupted him. “What will solve our issue then?! We don’t have enough to feed the village for the year, let alone pay the tax! So what else do you suggest we do?!”
Hiruzen intervened. “Is that any way to speak to your fellow man? Oscar has helped us cultivate these fields for years now and has earned the right to speak without interruption at these meetings! Is this all it takes for you to fall against each other?!”
The room fell silent. They all looked down shamefully. Hiruzen was the most respected man in the village and, as usual, he was right. Rather than come together, they had fought among themselves when this issue was presented.
“It’s okay, Hiruzen-sama,” Oscar began. “It’s going to be okay. We worked for this harvest and it’s gone, but arguing won’t fix it. When the collectors come, I’ll speak with them. I have a plan to take care of the tax and get enough food for the year.”
Everyone looked up at him, shocked but hopeful. Some questioned his reasoning and he simply told them not to worry. After Hiruzen calmed them, they seemed to listen. The villagers were so desperate for a solution that they didn’t realize Oscar had absolutely no idea what he was going to do. As everyone dispersed with relief, he sat with a heavy heart, having no plan for what he would tell the collectors when they arrived.
He took a walk back to the fields and began to think. It had been a long time since he had thought about his life before the village. In that life he didn’t have to worry as much: no responsibility, no people to protect. He had been paid depending on how high-profile the job was and had lived like that for years. Now he had Hiruzen, Okame, and the rest of the villagers to care for. It fulfilled him and yet, soon that would be taken away. That night he decided that when the collectors came for the tax he’d sacrifice his life with the villagers so they could prosper. It was the least he could do. He looked up at the sky, sighed, and chuckled. “It was fun while it lasted.”
--
Finally, a couple days after the villagers met, the retainers — low-ranked samurai — for the daimyo came to collect the annual rice tax from the villages. They saw these peasants as the lowest rank in the nation and did not care for their well-being. Oscar was not surprised when he arrived and saw them beating some villagers after being told there was no rice. Although Oscar had told them he had a plan, some of the villagers tried to take matters into their own hands, hoping to scare the collectors off. Some may consider it brave; most would call it foolish.
“This village has consistently paid the tax for many years,” the collector said as he kicked the young man once more, “which is why you probably don’t understand the system too well. When we arrive for one koku of rice, we leave with one koku. If there is none available, we take whatever we see as an acceptable equivalent. After all, it’s for the sake of your nation.”
The man had no expression in his eyes. He had no remorse or sympathy. He had nothing against the village or the people in it, but if he returned without the required amount, it would be on him. It was nothing personal, and Oscar knew that.
“Please,” Oscar pleaded. “Quite honestly, whether we gave you the tax or not, we would starve regardless. Which is why I have an alternative. Let me discuss terms with you where you can get more than the tax while also keeping the village alive to pay the tax for future years to come.”
Everyone stood silently, awaiting a response. It was a gamble; the collectors had no remorse for collecting the tax, yet the man considered Oscar’s plea.
“You’re one of the villagers?”
“That’s right.”
The man looked Oscar up and down, noticing the look in his eyes. This man was no mere villager; at the very least he was intriguing.
“Come with me and I’ll listen, but if the terms don’t satisfy the tax requirement, we’ll be taking any viable men along with any supplies for our travels.”
Oscar exhaled in relief. “Of course, thank you.”
He turned and looked at the worried faces of the villagers, at Okame as tears fell from her cheeks. They were relying on him. No matter what, he had to convince them. He walked away from the villagers and went to the collectors.
“First,” Oscar began, “what is your authority in Japan’s government?”
“Why does that matter? If you’re here to make demands then this conversation is over.”
“No — please! I ask because my offer requires someone of a high rank to accept.”
The man looked at Oscar questioningly. He didn’t quite understand where Oscar was going with this, but curiosity overrode duty for a moment, and he answered.
“My name is Ichiro. I am a close retainer for the feudal lord that rules this prefecture, Asahi Botan. Is that a high enough rank?”
Oscar made sure not to display his relief, but he was pleased by the revelation. After all, he now had leverage.
“What’s a man like you collecting villagers’ taxes?” Oscar asked.
“Do you plan on making a point anytime soon or will you wait for me to burn the whole village down?!” Ichiro barked.
“Asahi Botan is considered one of the most ruthless daimyo in Japan,” Oscar replied. “He rules with an iron fist and rarely shows mercy. However, rumor has it he’s been having issues lately with other feudal lords in the area.”
Ichiro looked at Oscar quietly. “Rumor has it?”
A mere villager shouldn’t know the intricacies of lordship, but Oscar had not lived his whole life in the village. He had learned early to understand the matters of whatever state he resided in, because one’s whole way of life could change in an instant with a shift in leadership. That’s why he often traveled to the city and traded rumors: this man argued with another, this woman cheated her husband, this child ran away, this lord disgraced another…
“Your point?” Ichiro asked.
“Asahi Botan has grown powerful, but if the other feudal lords joined together to band against him, he wouldn’t stand a chance. There have even been rumors that they’re planning to kill him.”
Oscar paused and smiled. Ichiro furrowed his brow and yelled, enraged. “Watch your tone! You disrespect the feudal lord and mention his assassination so easily?! Rather than letting this village off easy, you’ve just got them all killed with your stupidity!”
“That’s fine,” Oscar replied calmly. “You can kill me and everyone in the village and be done with it. Then later this year your lord could be killed by the others — and probably you along with him. My offer is simple. It’s been a long time, but in exchange for enough rice to survive the year and sparing the lives of any villagers, I’ll—”
