Natsumi

Chapter 1: The Stream

The trees whispered calmly as the fog delicately played through the leaves. A blur of green zoomed by as I peddled my silver bicycle in a great flurry of freedom and ecstasy. I was in no particular hurry, but the feeling of the fall wind rushing across my face and long raven hair gave a feeling nothing other could, a limitless sensation that made reality seem so beautiful. Even at eleven years old I knew this, as the green fields fell before the jade mountains, acting as the background to my personal symphony. The wind and cool country air served as my orchestra.
I was born in the small countryside town of Uchiko, and knew nothing other than its historical streets and forested surroundings. It breathes in the heart of the Ehime prefecture, in the Shikoku region of Japan. Humble as it was, it's forests weaved in with civilization held ancient mysteries and unknown secrets that teased every bit of the town with taunting whispers. I learned to accept their mysteries, as it was the only thing one could do. The forest was always listening while the grey sky kept silent watch.
Today the sky and trees would watch me ride along the green fields lined with old houses of farmers and merchants, then follow the curve of the road, still along the houses, then make a right turn at a small pathway meant only for bikes or pedestrians. I road along this pathway, houses to my right, trees and a small stone wall to my left, until the stone wall cut off and the houses ended. From here all that was before me was thick, green, forest, with the pathway still continuing on. The only sign of civilization from here on out was the thin telephone poles that lined the path for a mile or so ahead. I continued riding, breathing in the now denser air that filled my lungs with an earthy smell only the forest provided. I rode my bike for about 200 more feet, then pushed the left pedal back to break, and climbed off, pushing the kickstand with my foot to keep the bike standing. I re-slung my navy blue backpack over my small shoulders and took a breath before making my way to the left, off the path, leaving my bike to quietly wait for my eventual return. I knew if I just went a few feet off the path I'd find a small stream between the trees and bushes. I had been on this little journey of mine several times, beginning about a year ago when I found it by accident when looking for a house on my delivery route. I delivered milk bread made by my mother every day after school, and the days when I finished my delivery route early I would treat myself to a trip to the calm spring; a shared secret between only me and the forest.
Today was one of those lucky days that my delivery route was finished early. I made my way through the thick trees and finally came to the little spring, which greeted me with the sound of its cool rushing along it's pebbled bottom. My blue tennis shoes crunched the drying leaves that made the forest floor as I walked over to a familiar rock, where I had even carved the kanji characters for my name; "Natsumi" I slung off my backpack and set it on the large rock, then took off my shoes and my ankle high white socks, laying them against the rock. I walked a few steps barefoot to the stream, then dipped my toe in to test the water, or more so to let the stream know I had returned. Like greeting a cat, it had to be done slow and gentle. The water had to sniff you back and purr it's greetings before you were able to fully step in. My tan shorts came just above my knees, so they avoided the water by only a few inches as I made my way in. Last year the water definitely reached my knees, I noted. The cool water tickled my legs, playfully welcoming my return. I lifted my head up to the green leafy ceiling, grey sky peeking through, omniscient and watchful. What secrets did they know? I wondered. How many others have came across this stream? Who has greeted the water, carefully or not so much? Which lives have embedded themselves in the everlasting green to feel the forests watchful presence throughout time and space?
My eleven year old mind was quite a bit different, I suppose, than most other children at that age. Advanced, maybe, but I think I was just observant. I always had been. But who's to say that every eleven year old cannot be observant or wondering or contemplative? Perhaps those grown just don't listen carefully enough, too far removed from those times of adolescent imagination. But my mind played in peculiar ways, I had learned. The earliest incident of this I can remember was when I was seven years old, entering grade one of elementary school.