The Samurai's Daughter (25 page)

‘And Kenjiro, your brother, how is he?’

‘He’s well, he’s well,’ said Yasu. It was another half-truth. ‘Studying, as always. Reading, writing. You know what he’s like.’

‘No job yet, then?’

‘We all get by.’

Nobu was scrambling to his feet when he felt Yasu’s eyes on him, reminding him that he had a duty to discharge. The urn weighed heavy on his back.

‘Is there any news of … Kumazo?’ He could hardly bring himself to say the name.

‘They took care of our land all the years we were away, he and Otaké,’ said Father, his face brightening. ‘They take care of us still. They’re here.’

There was a footstep behind Nobu and a big man with a few wispy hairs on his head appeared, ducking under the lintel of the second hut.

Kumazo’s name meant Bear. When Nobu was a child he’d towered over him like a huge black bear, carrying him on his shoulders or tossing him in the air. Nobu had always been a bit afraid of him with his rough voice and booming laugh. Kumazo had been the chief stable master, adept at taming runaway horses, and his kind wife Otaké had been the head maid. They’d lived with the family as part of the household and it had seemed entirely natural for Jubei, their son, to become Yasu’s trusted retainer.

Jubei had told Nobu that when the samurai refugees started pouring out of the burning city, Kumazo ferried them across the river to safety in a leaky boat which threatened to sink under the weight. Jubei’s brother had fought in the clan army. He’d been captured and never returned and his sister had disappeared too. The last thing Jubei had heard of his parents was that they’d fled to the countryside.

Otaké, a tiny shadow of a woman, hobbled a few steps behind her husband. Her hips were so bent that her face nearly brushed the ground, but when she looked up she was beaming.

The two knelt painfully before the brothers. ‘Welcome back, young masters, welcome back.’

Nobu wanted to abase himself, to bang his head on the ground in penance, but that would have shocked them beyond belief. He
took
off his pack and fumbled for the urn. It was of lacquerware, not much bigger than a tea caddy. He’d spent all his earnings and bought the best he could afford. He brought out the tiny jar of ash, all that was left of big Jubei with his rambunctious laugh and fierce loyalty, and held it out to them in both hands.

‘Jubei …’ he said, fighting back tears. ‘It was my fault, a stupid adventure. Forgive me.’

Yasutaro butted in. ‘Your son died a hero, battling the Satsuma. Rest assured, you can be proud of him.’

Nobu placed the urn containing Jubei’s ashes in Kumazo’s gnarled hands. The old man took it and raised it to his forehead in a gesture of prayer, blinking as if he was just beginning to understand that this last son of his was dead. A tear ran down his furrowed face.

Otaké whispered, ‘You don’t need our forgiveness, young master. We would never blame you. Jubei was always the wild one. I was sure he’d get himself killed one of these days. We’ll always be grateful to you, young master. You took good care of him.’

‘It was him that took care of us,’ said Yasu fiercely. ‘He saved my life many times. He wasn’t a servant, he was my friend and I miss him. I always will. Tell them what happened, Nobu.’

Nobu hung his head. ‘We were attacked by Satsuma. We were out together in Tokyo,’ he muttered. He couldn’t bring himself to continue the lie. He shook his head, whispering, ‘It should have been me that died.’

18

‘SO YOU’RE A
soldier now, young Nobu,’ said his father, nodding gravely. A couple of candles lit the hut along with the embers flickering in the hearth, sending shadows dancing on the wooden walls, but at least it was more spacious than their miserable quarters in Tonami had been, Nobu thought. He could hear the clatter of pots and pans outside as Yuki prepared the meal.

‘The southern clans are growing restless, Father,’ said Yasu. ‘Some of them are preparing to take up arms, we hear. The new government hasn’t given them what they were hoping for. There’ve been several uprisings. There was one a couple of years ago.’

‘So I heard. Led by one of Kitaoka’s henchmen. The news made it all the way to the salt flats of Tonami.’

‘There’s rumours there may be another soon. If trouble breaks out down south we’ll be the first to join up. They’ll need all the recruits they can find for the army.’

‘And the police force too. I’m glad to hear it.’ Father’s back had straightened and he looked more like the proud warrior Nobu remembered. There was a gleam in his eye. ‘And that treacherous snake Kitaoka. What of him?’

‘Stormed off to Kyushu and hasn’t been seen since. It seems he’s at the heart of the trouble. The Satsuma are massing around him. Not a single Satsuma student went back to school after the holidays. Isn’t that right, Nobu?’

Nobu grunted assent. He knew both too much and too little of Kitaoka. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

‘We’ve had news too.’ Their father’s voice had grown sombre. ‘Your uncle Juémon turned up.’

‘Uncle Juémon?’

Uncle Juémon had been a legend when Nobu was growing up. Their father’s dashing younger brother, he’d been a famous swordsman, and when he was not away at war he used to go outside the city walls at night and pick fights with strangers just to keep in practice, so people said. As a child Nobu used to laugh at the thought of the corpses littering the ground in the morning and dreamed of growing up to be just like him.

Juémon was adept with modern weapons too. He’d fought in many campaigns, then, when the castle was besieged, led a platoon that made daring forays against the enemy positions. When the castle surrendered, the southerners came in search of his head but he’d disappeared. No one knew what had become of him, or if they did, they didn’t say. He hadn’t been among the prisoners who were marched down to Tokyo and didn’t end up in exile in the frozen wastes of Tonami. People said he’d gone into hiding or been killed or was incarcerated somewhere. Then the years passed and no one spoke of him any more.

He’d been Nobu’s favourite uncle. He told tall stories, played tricks and taught him how to fight. The last he’d seen of him had been the day his mother sent him to Heron Hill to pick mushrooms. Uncle Juémon had just got back from the front. He’d dropped in and waved goodbye as Nobu had gone off with his aunt.

His return was thrilling news. Yet Father seemed strangely downcast. Nobu frowned, trying to see his face in the gloom.

‘So he’s alive?’

‘What would you expect of a man like that? He went into hiding in the mountains. When he heard we were back in Aizu he came down to see us.’

‘Into the hornets’ nest.’

‘He’s got a new name now and cut his topknot off and he’s brawnier than he was. You wouldn’t know him.’

‘Except for the crazy look in his eye,’ said Yasu, unable to restrain a smile.

‘He was on his way to Tokyo. You might see him there.’ Father reached for the poker and stirred the embers in the hearth till they sparked to life, then leaned forward, holding his hands to the flames. ‘He had something he wanted to tell me,’ he added. His voice had grown so quiet Nobu had to listen hard to catch his words.

There was silence except for the fire crackling and candles sputtering. The smell of cooking rice wafted in from outside. The two sons waited respectfully for their father to go on.

‘About your mother and grandmother and sisters. What became of them.’

Nobu found himself staring stubbornly into the fire. He wanted to put his hands over his ears. He knew enough already about what had happened, he didn’t need to know any more.

‘We men were all away fighting at the front,’ said Father slowly. ‘None of us was here when the city was attacked. But we all heard what happened. When the fire bell rang, the samurai families were supposed to take refuge in the castle. But many chose to die.’ It was as if the words were being dragged out of him. ‘Mother – your dear mother – was a fine warrior. She was fearless and skilled with the halberd. There’s no doubt that she’d have joined the women’s battalion if she could have, and gone into battle. Or she’d have been in the castle, preparing food for the defenders, bandaging the wounded, throwing wet mats over the cannonballs as they landed to stop them exploding. But she had dependants – my elderly mother, your grandmother, and your two young sisters. She had to think of them.

‘Uncle Juémon had gone to warn them that the enemy troops had entered the city when the fire bell started ringing. “Go to the castle, straight away,” he told them.’

Their father’s quavering voice stopped abruptly and he bowed his head. Yasu reached for the kettle that was hanging over the hearth, filled the teapot and poured him a cup. Father took a
mouthful
and cleared his throat. When he spoke again his voice faltered so much it was hard to hear.

‘“Please don’t waste time trying to persuade us,” Mother said. She was utterly calm. “You know perfectly well we’d be unable to help at White Crane Castle. We’d only get in the way of the defence and consume precious food and water. We’ve seen the southern armies outside the city walls. It’s all over for us. War is not a tea ceremony. They’re bound to take the city and when they do they’ll have no mercy. We’ve heard how they’ve treated the farmers round about. They’ll rape us or kill us or sell us as slaves. We know what we have to do, we’ve already discussed it, and we’re ready.” Juémon never forgot her words. I’ve repeated them exactly as he told me.

‘Your grandmother and sisters were also calm, entirely calm and resolved. They were true samurai, all of them. There was no time to dress for death but they all wrote their death poems and entrusted them to Juémon. Mother cut off a lock of her hair and asked him to ensure it was put in the family grave. Then she asked him to administer the last blow and one by one they … they cut their throats.’ His voice was shaking. He swallowed hard and was silent. Then he spoke again. ‘Even little Sato didn’t hesitate, though she was only seven. She put the dagger to her throat with great courage and determination. You would both have been proud if you’d been here.

‘Your mother was the last, of course. Juémon helped them to die, as they’d requested. He cut off their heads, then set fire to the house.

‘So you see, they weren’t dishonoured. They weren’t killed by the enemy, they didn’t burn to death in the flames. They died like samurai by their own hands. They were fine women, all of them, fine brave women. I am proud of them and I miss them.’ The last words were more like a sob.

Nobu knew he should be proud they’d died with such dignity. It was what every samurai hoped for, an honourable death. But all he could feel was horror and terrible pain. He’d known they
were
dead, he’d lived with that knowledge and come to terms with it, but he’d never before had to think about how they’d died. The old wound had been reopened. It was too forceful a reminder of their loss. Groaning, he put his head on his knees and clapped his hands over his ears.

The hut seemed too small. Stifled by the smoke, he leapt to his feet and rushed outside. But as he dropped to his knees, gulping down the cool autumn air in great convulsive breaths, he realized that this was the very spot, this blackened expanse of scorched earth. This was where they’d died. The ground was drenched with their blood.

There was a hand on his shoulder. Yasu had followed him out. ‘This is no way to behave. Our mother and grandmother and sisters behaved with courage and we should too.’ His voice softened. ‘You’re young still. When you’ve seen war, when you’ve seen your comrades cut down like rice under the scythe, even then is not the time to weep. We have to learn to be dry-eyed, like little Sato. Many Aizu families lost their womenfolk in the same way. We have to help Father. His suffering is the greatest.’

‘I wish I’d died myself,’ Nobu said. ‘It would have been easier to bear.’

It was hard to eat the meal that Yuki had prepared but in the end, sitting with his family around the fire, Nobu began to feel a sort of peace. Father took a mouthful of tea and said, ‘Your dear mother must have thought Uncle Juémon would be killed and nothing would be left. After all, who would have guessed any of us would survive – except you, young Nobu; you were meant to survive. Juémon did his best but somewhere along the way the scrolls with our family’s death poems were lost. But he gave me this.’

He reached up to the simple altar on the wall of the hut and took down a relic bag. He opened it and tipped something into his hand. Nobu stared at it in the darkness. It was a lock of dark hair. Father held it out to Yasu, who shook his head.

‘“If I took it in my hands it would melt”,’ he murmured.

‘Of course. The ninth month,’ said Father, swallowing. ‘The very same month that Basho returned to his family in Iga.’

‘“At the beginning of the ninth month I returned to my native place.” Isn’t that how it begins, that passage?’ said Yasu.

Nobu hung his head, wondering how they could talk of Basho at a time like this. But then he began to get an inkling. Perhaps in some way it made it easier to bear. Perhaps Basho’s words helped them come to terms with their pain.

Father nodded and began to recite. ‘“At the beginning of the ninth month I returned to my native place. The miscanthus in the north chamber had withered away with the frost and there was nothing left of it. Everything was changed from old times. My brother’s hair was white, his brows wrinkled. He said only, ‘We are alive.’ Without a word he opened his relic bag. ‘Do reverence to Mother’s white hairs. This is Urashima’s magic box. You too have turned into an old man.’”’

He placed the lock of hair in Nobu’s open hands. Nobu let it rest there, light as down, feeling the silky softness. His mother’s scent lingered. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her lap and her fingers smoothing his hair and her soft voice as she told him the story he’d loved to hear, of Urashima, the handsome young fisherman.

It was long long ago, she always began. Urashima was setting out with his nets one day when he saw some children beating a turtle. He rescued it and put it gently back in the ocean.

The very next day he was out again when he heard a voice calling, ‘Urashima! Urashima!’ A gigantic turtle was swimming towards the shore, its huge flippers parting the waves. In gravelly tones it told him it was the chief retainer of the dragon king. The turtle Urashima had saved was the dragon king’s daughter and she wanted to see him and thank him in person. So Urashima clambered on to the turtle’s broad back and held tight to its scaly neck as it dived under the water.