The River's Strange Referee

Everyone in the village knew about the kappa. Everyone knew: Don't go to the river after dark. Don't go alone. Don't be rude to the water. And if you see a small green creature with a bowl of water on its head and webbed feet and the smell of river mud and very strong opinions about cucumbers — bow politely and do exactly what it says.

Kenji was ten years old. Kenji knew all of this. Kenji went to the river anyway.

Not after dark. Not alone exactly — his dog Kumo was there which counted in Kenji's view if not in anyone else's. And not to be rude to the water. He went because his cucumber had won the village growing contest three years in a row and he wanted to see if it was big enough to break the river's surface when he threw it in. This was science. Probably.

The cucumber was: Enormous. Green. The specific smugness of a vegetable that knows it is exceptional.

Kenji stood at the river's edge. Kumo sat behind him with the expression of a dog who had concerns but had learned they would be ignored.

Kenji threw the cucumber.

It hit the water with a satisfying SPLOSH.

Then a hand came up from the river and caught it.

Kenji looked at the hand. The hand was green. Webbed. Attached to an arm that was attached to a small green creature sitting on a rock in the middle of the river that Kenji was fairly certain had not been there a moment ago.

Bowl of water on its head. Webbed feet. Shell on its back. Eyes like two river stones that had seen everything twice and found it mostly irritating.

The kappa looked at the cucumber. Then at Kenji.

"Yours?" said the kappa. Its voice was like water going over rocks — smooth in some places and bumpy in others.

"Yes," said Kenji. "Good cucumber," said the kappa. "I know," said Kenji. The kappa looked at him. "Contest," said the kappa.

Kenji looked at the kappa. He had heard about this. Everyone had heard about this. The kappa's cucumber contest. The one no child had ever won. The one that had been happening since before the oldest person in the village was born.

"What are the rules?" said Kenji.

The kappa held up the cucumber. "Three throws each. Furthest throw wins. Winner keeps the cucumber. Loser —" The kappa smiled. Kappas smile in a way that is technically a smile and also makes you want to take several steps back. "— loser answers one question honestly."

Kenji looked at the cucumber. His cucumber. Three years of growing. The best cucumber in the village. Possibly the best cucumber in the prefecture.

"Fine," said Kenji.

The kappa threw first. The cucumber left its hand like it had been waiting its whole life to be thrown by a kappa — spinning perfectly end over end — and landed far. Very far. The kind of far that made Kenji's stomach do something unpleasant.

Kenji threw. His cucumber landed considerably less far.

"Two more," said the kappa.

Second throw: The kappa threw further. Kenji threw — also further than before. Not further than the kappa.

Third throw: The kappa picked up the cucumber. Looked at Kenji. Threw it so far it landed on the other bank which was not even in the contest area and showed a considerable lack of restraint.

Kenji threw. His cucumber landed in the river. Which was at least in the right direction.

The kappa retrieved all the cucumbers with the ease of something that had been doing this for several hundred years.

"You lose," said the kappa. "I know," said Kenji. "One question. Answer honestly."

Kenji straightened up. "Fine," he said.

The kappa looked at Kenji with the river stone eyes.

"Why did you come to the river today?"

Kenji opened his mouth. To say: to test the cucumber. Which was true.

But the kappa was looking at him the way the river looks at the bank — patient and certain that eventually everything gives way.

Kenji closed his mouth. Thought about it.

He had come to the river because the cucumber had won three years running and this year he had grown it alone — without Ojii-san who had taught him to grow cucumbers and who was gone now since the spring — and he had wanted to bring it to the place Ojii-san had loved and show it to the water which was the closest thing to showing it to Ojii-san he could think of.

He hadn't told anyone this. He hadn't told himself this exactly. But standing at the river's edge with the kappa's river stone eyes on him — it was simply true.

"I wanted to show my grandfather," said Kenji. "The cucumber. He taught me to grow them. He's gone. The river was —" He stopped. "The river was the next best thing."

The kappa was quiet. The river moved around the rock. The bowl of water on the kappa's head caught the light.

The kappa held out the cucumber.

Kenji looked at it. "I lost," he said. "You answered honestly," said the kappa. "That was the contest."

Kenji took the cucumber.

The kappa slid back into the river. Almost gone. Then: "Your grandfather," said the kappa, from the water. "He used to bring cucumbers here too."

Kenji looked at the river. The kappa was gone. Just water. Moving. The way it had always moved.

Kenji stood there for a long time.

Then he placed the cucumber at the river's edge. Not throwing it. Just — leaving it. For the water. For the kappa. For Ojii-san who had stood in this exact spot with his own cucumbers and his own reasons for coming to the river.

Kumo came and sat next to Kenji.

They stayed until the light went gold and the river turned the colour of something that had been carrying things for a very long time and was in no hurry to put them down.

Then they went home.

The cucumber was gone when Kenji looked back.

He hadn't heard a splash.