Lake Chuzenji lies in a bowl of mountains high above Nikko, and on the fourth of January it is a hard place to stand still.

A small group assembles at the shrine on its shore — priests, and archers from the prefecture's kyudo association, in white robes and lacquered hats. They perform a rite indoors, then walk out to a bridge at the edge of the grounds.

Across the water, and well beyond it, is Mount Akagi, in the next province.

The account goes that the god of this mountain and the god of that one went to war over the land between them — the lakes, the marshes, the hot springs — and that the matter was settled when a famous archer took this mountain's side and put an arrow through the eye of the other god, who had taken the form of an enormous centipede.

The chief priest raises his bow, shouts, and looses the first arrow toward Akagi. The others follow. The shout is a single syllable, and everyone present makes it at the same moment.

Wind comes across the lake. Your ears hurt within a minute. Breath is visible the instant it leaves you.

The arrows come down in snow at the water's edge, and afterward people walk out and pick them up, because an arrow from this particular morning is a good thing to have in the house.

Then everyone goes to get warm, and the mountain keeps whatever it won.