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The first memory that he has of the Medicine Seller of Kon is rather simple.
Vivid but simple.
The faint chime of the ceremonial bells that sing throughout the shrine where his sword had been kept, the waver of rustling trees in springtide, each having waved to-and-fro as if to engage in gossip, the creak of those gray stone steps as his new chosen stepped through the torii gates and into the innermost reaches of that lonesome place.
Back then, he had been nothing more than a mere wisp, something crafted into the shape of a man and the latest in the long line of spirits that haunt the Sword of Kon.
Young (nothing more than an inexperienced child in spite of his appearance), uncaring of anything but the duty that had been molded into his being, and uncurious—he had done little more than watch, manifesting upon the moment that his sword had been lifted from its wood casing. A rather plain box for its purposes, the lid had slid open with a solid thunk, penetrating that symphony of bells and whistling wind like a yamabushi’s horagai and soon punctuated by the whisper of a materializing form.
Would they get along well? What kind of man would this one be?
As they had stared at one another, uneven gazes meeting in that sparsely decorated shrine, none of those thoughts crossed his mind. Why would they? As a tool made to slay mononoke, there is no need to falter. To inquire beyond the veil of what is required of a sword.
Even as his newest (his first rather) wielder had reached into his sleeve, gold eyes scrutinizing as they had peered upward to meet that unusual, clear white, Shingi hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flinched.
What use would there in that? For someone to have made it past the wards and gates—to lift the sword itself—they must be worthy. Their lord would not have allowed such a meeting otherwise.
“Here.”
Shingi blinks, his head tilting as his medicine seller—Kon, as the position designated—pulls out a perfectly ripe peach, the aroma of which tickles his nose and carves through the sour pungency of the nearby offerings: green mango, a variety of citrus, all neatly arranged before the altar to Kon. Cradled against those long, delicate fingers, the fruit gives slightly, pinkish red flesh speckled by the sunlight that filters through the windows.
“We do not need to eat.”
“Does that matter?” Kon’s hand remains outstretched, reddish gold peach akin to a flame in a bone lantern. It warms the senses, drawing curiosity. “The need may not exist”—setting the sword down on the altar, he procures a small fruit knife and flicks it open—“but there is a pleasure to the act. It isn’t forbidden.”
At Shingi’s expression, the Medicine Seller of Kon continues, easygoing as always.
“If it would assuage your concerns, think of it as a shinsen to welcome a newly born god into our business.” Kon chuckles, eyes mirthful as they curve into crescents. Accentuated by the kumadori, it resembles the gaze of a cat. “For the one whose trigram represents the stomach, would it not be natural? Our work is difficult. Best to enjoy the small things while the opportunity presents itself.”
Before Shingi can respond, Kon cuts into the fruit, deftly apportioning it before extending a wedge. In the peeking sunlight, it glistens, reddish yellow flesh dribbling juice down the blade.
After a few moments, Shingi complies, starting as the taste fills his mouth.
“How is it?”
“G-good.” His tongue flicks out, lapping up the excess juices. It isn’t particularly godly behavior, but Shingi excuses it. They’re alone at the moment.
“I’m glad.” Dividing off another slice, he pops it into his mouth, chews, and swallows. “My old partner—your predecessor—hated sweet things.” Kon nods toward the nearby offerings. “He preferred tartness.”
Shingi’s ears prick at the mention of his predecessor, though he quickly calms himself, a motion that Kon meets with silent laughter—a faint glow that reminds Shingi of a bonfire, more concept than truly memory. “Why not offer that first then?”
“You are not him.” The response comes sharply, startling Shingi in its starkness. However, that warmth remains unbidden. Much like a mother’s gaze during a chiding, the fondness slips through, a steady oar in that sea of gold. “And is it not better to start with discomfort? Something that may disturb our sensibilities? Life is suffering, but we persist, nonetheless. These moments—these little joys, sudden or otherwise—are what we strive for. We keep living.”
What an odd man!
Just as with his penchant for food, Kon has a number of other strange habits, each of which he attempts to impart onto him.
Really…is a name necessary? Is Shingi not good enough? That is his role. Practical too. Why insist on the choice of one? It isn’t as if his medicine seller goes by any other name.
Just Kon or Medicine Seller.
When questioned, Kon had simply smiled, another cryptic lecture leaving his lips. Just like the Ten Wings where they reside during their off-hours, his manner frequently shifts, turning with the tides and seasons—purposeful yet paradoxically erratic.
“Our role is to slay the mononoke. To understand the truth, reason, and form,” Kon states one morning, catlike eyes flickering toward the pond where a number of koi swim: flashes of whites, oranges, blacks reminiscent of brocade. Under the light of summer and shaded by the engawa, their scales shimmer. “Thus, is it not reasonable to do as they do?”
Between them, a sizable box of assorted daifuku sits on the table, accompanied by two wooden canisters of green tea and a bag of modern-day fish feed. Food a gift from the usually dour Medicine Seller of Ri, the gesture emanates affection, one that Shingi cares not to look into; what other relationships that his partner maintains is of little concern to him. For as long as they could fulfill their role, none of that matters.
“But to this extent?”
And why me as well?
Medicine Sellers are naturally understandable. As the person responsible for unraveling humanity’s passions—the one who would deal first and foremost with people—the Medicine Seller of Kon must be personable. Human. Like the coat of a fox or a beast donning sheep’s wool, they must change with the seasons, fur shed and grown as necessary.
Even if that guise falters—too uncanny, too beautiful (too much like the mimicry of an artificial shape rather than natural-born)—they must persevere. Over and over and over. How many times has he watched his partner try and fail? Seen that faint glimmer of dissatisfaction that swiftly dissipates after a rejection?
Seen that desire to be human? It isn’t as if the Medicine Seller of Kon could fully understand; his mishaps are rather well-known: the numerous faux pas, the clinical manner in which he observes, head tilting inquisitively as if he were peering down upon an anthill and not a bustling wave of people, the confusion that he quickly hides behind that painted face and blasé smile.
It is one thing to pretend within reason, but to want? Foolish.
For a sword—for those in their positions really—there would be no need, not to the level that his partner wishes for anyhow. Year after year, decade after decade, since their first meeting, the Medicine Seller of Kon should understand this already.
Kon hums, taking a moment to scatter a handful of pellets, movement and sustenance eliciting a flurry of color and splashing bodies.
“Memories,” he answers, tossing another handful into the pond. A voracious bunch, the koi eagerly devour every morsel. “Those are important as well. That is how we learn and grow. It is what makes this life worthwhile.”
How nondescript! Trite!
At Shingi’s expression, Kon laughs, a deep rumble that emanates from the diaphragm.
“Do you not enjoy it as well?” Kon smiles, eyes curving into that overly obnoxious expression of mirth. “Why…if this were the you from our first meeting, you would have simply nodded along. No opinion of your own!” Upon those words, Kon pushes the half-empty box of daifuku toward Shingi. “And these! You have a preference for the strawberry and melon, do you not?”
Shingi scowls. “It is only habit.”
Bottomless as the Medicine Seller of Kon’s stomach may seemingly be, there are still limits, and would it not be a waste to throw them out?
The Medicine Seller of Ri likes to bestow upon his partner a variety of gifts after all. From speciality sweets to foreign delicacies and a number of other gourmet items, anything of this nature finds itself carefully placed on the work table located in Kon’s room—a memento from an oft-absent lover, a consequence of work as it were. In turn, that man, surprisingly vain as he is, receives a plethora of hair ornaments and jewelry: bright gemstones that reminds his partner of him, precious metals the hue of his hair, anything and everything that evokes recollection.
“Still…isn’t that something? You used to turn your nose at anything that I offered. Fruits, teas, even a simple rest and game of shōgi.” The Medicine Seller of Kon sighs, a quiet noise that briefly mingles with the chirping of birds and the gossiping breeze. In the summer glow, that pale white hair flutters, tousled by an unseen caress. “That is no way to live. Enjoy the present. Make some memories.” He tilts his head, eyes flitting aside to glance at Shingi’s face. “Our work is harsh. Who knows how long we’ll remain together?”
Shingi bristles. Though, Kon’s expression remains nonplussed.
“It is what it is. Sometimes we fail: a loose thread unwittingly left unwound, an unruly crowd which we fail to placate, a misstep which leads to the loss of life”—that mellifluous voice wavers for a moment, near-indiscernible if it were not for their time together—“whether our own or others. And other times still…why there is nothing to blame but simple misfortune. Bad luck.”
Kon breathes another sigh. “Be less hard on yourself, my other half. Cherish your humanity. A blade is only as good as the sentiments etched into it.”
“Then what of the people?” Shingi retorts. “Will they accept such an excuse? A shirking of responsibility?”
“It isn’t shirking.” The pond stirs as a series of plops excite the fish. “Our role is to quell human passion. To understand it and take it within ourselves: the joys, the sorrows, everything that makes humanity what it is—that despicable, admirable bunch.” Kon shifts, smile widening in that ever-knowing manner that chiding adults seem prone to. “And why…do you not enjoy our time together? You would not entertain these conversations otherwise. It is not in your nature to. The steady earth rarely yields.”
Even as Shingi’s scowl deepens, Kon merely leans over, hand coming to pat the space next to the box of daifuku.
“It is true, isn’t it?”
“Why go through the motions?”
“Oh?”
Shingi turns to face the Medicine Seller. “Your behavior goes far beyond what is necessary.”
“How so?”
“You eat. You sleep. You follow as they do: laughter, tears, anger…reveling in a world that you do not belong.”
And the offerings…he could understand piety, but to that extent? Cleaning the altar, offerings of food and drink and incense, speaking (recounting) his life as if it were a living being—a human—rather than a long-gone god. For his predecessor, the previous spirit that inhabited the sword, Kon acts in a manner unbefitting of his standing.
Too frivolous. Mockingly human.
Why cry for a broken tool?
Despite his accusation, however, Kon merely hums, picking up one of the peach-filled daifuku in-between his index and thumb.
“Is that so wrong?” Kon places the confection onto his own plate. “It is natural to be influenced by one’s experiences, and well…” Kon chuckles, irritatingly unbothered as usual. “Old men are prone to regrets, aren’t they? Little habits that they’ve failed to surrender. You’re young still, my other half. Perhaps you’ll understand my viewpoint one day. Now eat. We have a long week ahead of us.”
Kon gently pushes the box toward him, strawberry and melon flavored sweets left entirely untouched by his hands.
Irksome man…incomprehensible.
That is what Shingi believes anyhow, a steady disdain that, in due course, melts on the turn of the season, grief a downpour comparable to heavy autumnal rains when he, gravely wounded and faint, returns alone, unaccompanied by that imitation of a man yet followed still (now and forever more) by the scent of ripe peaches.