Epilogue: Iya Valley

Iya Valley, Shikoku

Five Years Later - Spring, 1606

The terraced fields clung to the mountainside like steps carved by giants, each narrow strip of earth wrested from the steep slopes through backbreaking labor. Buckwheat swayed in the mountain breeze, its white flowers catching the morning sun. Below, in the deep gorge, the Iya River churned over ancient rocks, its voice a constant companion to those who lived in this hidden valley.

Kiku straightened from her work, wiping sweat from her brow, and looked down at the small house they’d built. Smoke rose from the cooking fire. She could hear Hatsu singing—some old song from her childhood in Kyoto, back when she’d been a princess. Now she was just Hatsu, a farmer’s wife, and the song sounded happier for it.

The First Two Years - Building a Life

They’d arrived in Iya Valley in late autumn, three travel-worn women on exhausted horses, carrying everything they owned in saddlebags. The journey from Kyoto had taken weeks—riding south to the coast, then by boat to Shikoku, then up into the mountains on winding paths that seemed to lead nowhere.

The valley lived up to its reputation as one of Japan’s hidden regions. Steep gorges, narrow roads, isolated hamlets clinging to mountainsides. A place where refugees had hidden for generations. A place where three women running from the law could disappear.

They’d introduced themselves to the handful of families in the nearest hamlet as sisters—or sometimes as widows of the recent wars, depending on who asked. Most people in Iya Valley didn’t ask many questions. Everyone here was running from something or hiding from someone. That was the unspoken understanding.

With their gold, they’d bought a small plot of land on the terraced slopes above the hamlet. The previous owner, an old farmer whose children had left for easier lives in the lowlands, had been happy to sell and move in with his daughter.

Then came the work.

The house was barely standing—a small wooden structure with a thatched roof that leaked and walls that let in the wind. They’d spent the first winter huddled together for warmth, wrapped in every blanket they owned, learning just how cold mountain nights could be.

But they rebuilt.

Kiku, with her warrior’s strength, did the heavy work—cutting timber, hauling stones, climbing onto the roof to replace thatch. Hatsu and Yuki worked alongside her, learning as they went. None of them had been farmers before. Hatsu had been a princess. Yuki a handmaiden. Kiku a weapon.

Now they were builders. Planters. Cultivators.

The neighbors watched them with cautious curiosity. Three women, living together, doing men’s work. It was unusual, but Iya Valley was full of unusual people. And the three women were respectful, hardworking, and kept to themselves.

Slowly, over months, they were accepted.

When Kiku helped old farmer Tanaka repair his collapsed terrace wall, asking nothing in return, people noticed.

When Hatsu brought soup to the widow Keiko during a hard winter illness, people noticed.

When Yuki shared seeds from their small harvest with families who’d had poor yields, people noticed.

By the end of the first year, they were no longer strangers. They were neighbors. Part of the community.

By the end of the second year, they were trusted.

The Arrangement - Year Two

It was Hatsu who first raised the subject, lying in bed one night between Kiku and Yuki, all three of them exhausted from a day of planting.

“I want children,” she said quietly into the darkness.

Kiku’s hand found hers. “I know.”

“I do too,” Yuki admitted. “I never thought I would—servants aren’t supposed to think about such things—but now that we’re free...”

“Now that we’re building a life,” Hatsu continued, “I want it to continue. I want to raise children who know they’re loved. Who know they have choices. Who can be whatever they want to be.”

“We’ll need a man,” Kiku said pragmatically. “None of us can give you that part.”

“I know.” Hatsu squeezed her hand. “But the children would be ours. All three of ours. The man would just be ... necessary.”

They were quiet for a while, considering.

“There’s that widower,” Yuki said finally. “Hiroshi. The one with the small farm up the valley. He lost his wife years ago.”

“Never had children,” Hatsu added. “I’ve heard him talking to Tanaka about it. How his biggest regret is that his line ends with him.”

Kiku thought about this. She’d noticed Hiroshi—a man in his forties, quiet, hardworking, respected by the community. He kept to himself mostly, still grieving his wife even years later.

“We’d have to be very careful,” Kiku said. “We can’t let anyone know the real arrangement. And he’d have to understand—the children would be ours, not his. He could never claim them, never have a say in their upbringing.”

“But he’d have descendants,” Hatsu said. “His blood would continue. That might be enough.”

“Should I approach him?” Kiku asked. “I’m better at ... negotiations.”

“We all go,” Hatsu decided. “This affects all of us. We do this together.”

They chose a quiet evening a week later and walked to Hiroshi’s farm.

He was surprised to see them—three women at his door as sunset painted the mountains orange and gold. But he invited them in with careful courtesy, offered tea, and waited to hear what they wanted.

Kiku took the lead, as was natural for her.

“Hiroshi-san, we have a proposal for you. It’s unusual, and you’re free to refuse. But we hope you’ll at least hear us out.”

He nodded, his weathered face neutral.

“My wives and I—” Kiku gestured to Hatsu and Yuki, using the word deliberately, watching for his reaction. He blinked but said nothing. “—want to have children. To build a family. But we need help to do that.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. “You want me to father children.”

“Yes,” Hatsu said. “But with clear terms. You would father the children, but they would be ours to raise. You could never claim them publicly, never have a say in how they’re raised, never acknowledge them as yours.”

“But they would be yours,” Yuki added softly. “Your blood. Your line would continue through them.”

Hiroshi was quiet for a long time, staring into his tea.

“You lost your wife,” Kiku said gently. “You never had children. We know that weighs on you. This would give you descendants—secretly, privately, but real nonetheless. And we would pay you well for your help.”