The Plum Blooms in Winter

by Linda Thompson

  She spoke quickly to Akira-san, confident the gaijin wouldn’t understand. “It's wonderful to see you. I’m so relieved. But tell me the truth, ah? Why is he here?”

  Akira-san responded slowly, enunciating each syllable, clearly for Delham’s benefit. “Reverend Delham asked to come. He has something he wants to say to you.”

  “To me?”

  Akira-san gave the gaijin a slight bow.

  She sat straight, lifted her chin, and looked Delham in the eye. She might be a prisoner but that didn’t mean she’d yield.

  Delham leaned toward her, his broad forehead gathering into furrows. “I for—”

  The guard half stood, brows knit. “Japanese!”

  “Sorry—uh, sumimasen.” Delham started again. “Wata...ah...Watashi ha anata...woyurusu.”

  I forgive you. At least she thought that was what he was trying to say. His Japanese was barely comprehensible. But something in his hazel eyes caught her—a soft light she didn’t expect. And this from the enemy she’d done everything in her power to bury a knife in.

  A wave of warmth rose to her cheeks.

  Delham turned to Akira-san. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shot a glance at Zugaikotsu and closed it. “Please,” he said to Akira-san, and extended a hand in her direction.

  Akira-san nodded. “Here’s what Reverend Delham came to say. I can perhaps express it better in our language. It’s true he piloted the plane that bombed the Sumitomo Aircraft Factory. But he is broken-hearted about”—he closed his eyes for an instant, making a visible effort to swallow—“little Hiro-chan. Sometimes bombs kill the innocents.” He looked into her eyes, his own glistening. “Reverend Delham wants you to know that’s not anything he wanted.”

  She stared at him. Sometimes bombs kill the innocents. He had no picture at all. Those long nights of furious orange rain, followed by days spent filing past rows of blackened corpses, looking for anything she could identify. The sickly-sweet smell of charred flesh that stayed on her for a week.

  “Ten thousand dead, Akira-san. Ten thousand, here in Osaka. One hundred thousand in Tokyo. I walked and walked, day after day. Never found them. Not Mama-san. Not our grandparents.” She fixed her eyes on a stain on the counter, trying to push the unspeakable memories from her head.

  Delham stood and bowed, low enough to grace a baroness. “Watashi o yurushite, kudasai.” Please forgive me. To her surprise, moisture glistened on the missionary’s lashes. “Senso wa warui kotodesu.” War is a bad thing.

  She bowed in her chair but said nothing. What could be said? One could forgive a child for breaking a plate. Or accept a friend’s apology if her words offended. But this man had taken the life of her little brother, before he’d even had one. Other than a death for a death, nothing could atone for that.

  “Mi-chan,” Akira-san’s voice was soft. “I don’t know what those firestorms were like.” He took a wry glance at his scarred hand. “I’ve had my own experiences with American bombing, but I don’t know what anything was like here. I forgive you for anything you had to do. And I hope you can forgive me for not coming home.”

  The silence grew heavy.

  “You know some of my story. I know so little of yours.”

  “Really?” Irony blistered her reply. “I was sure Captain Oda would tell you all about it.”

  Akira-san winced. “Hai. He told me a few things, but here’s the important one—you’ve been taking care of Papa-san ever since the war. Alone.” He leaned toward the glass.

  She managed to bring her eyes to his face. It was taut with regret.

  He gave her a faint smile. “Here’s a lesson I’ve learned, Mi-chan. Hatred is a prison. Forgiveness is God’s gift that frees you from it.”

  Zugaikotsu’s expression hardened with suspicion. “Foreign religion. Not approved topic.”

  She looked back and forth between her visitors, trying to decide how to feel. Her brother forgave her—that was wonderful news. But what did some foreign deity have to do with that?

  As for Delham. Was an enemy’s forgiveness supposed to mean something?

  “We’ve all been through so much, sister,” Akira-san flexed his scarred hand, probably not realizing he did it. “Many wounds. Deep wounds. But now it’s time for healing.”

  Healing. “Your neck, Onii-san. Where I stabbed you. Does it hurt much?”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “It hurts a lot, little sister. But bodies mend.”

  Of course. Bodies could mend or die. But honor—honor transcended death. Duty to family transcended death. She choked back those words. “Please forgive me, Akira-san.”

  His smile was like sunlight beaming through the dingy room. “I forgive you. I told you that.”

  “Arigato.” She bowed, still not sure how to feel. She had so much more to ask him. And they had to be running out of time. “Did you see Papa-san? How is he?”

  And how did he react to his not-so-glorious, not-so-dead son?

  Akira-san’s back went stiff and his smile dissolved. “Captain Oda told me the doctor felt seeing me would be too great a shock for Papa-san in his current state.”

  “I am sorry,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m sure that was painful to hear. But Captain Oda does know Papa-san well.”

  “I hope I can see him soon. I hope he can find some forgiveness in his heart for me.”

  She snorted. “He found none for me.”

  Akira-san turned to the American. “Kudasai?” He gestured at the door.

  “Hai.” Delham gave her another genteel bow. “Sayanara, Matsuura-san.”

  The guard let the American out. Akira-san waited until the door had closed. “You can’t do it, ah?”

  “Do what?”

  “Grant him your forgiveness.”

  “Of course not. What would it even mean?” Irony wormed its way back into her tone. “But apparently you can.”

  “I couldn’t have, five years ago. But when—” He glanced at Zugaikotsu. “Let’s just say I see a lot of things differently now.”

  Clearly.

  “In the hospital, and in the prison camp, I heard things and saw things that gave me a great deal to think about. There’s strength and discipline in the Yamato ways, Mi-chan. But there’s also a very real power our way doesn’t teach us. A real freedom.”

  “And you’re learning this power? From your Delham?”

  “Hai. You think you can honor Hiro-chan’s death through another death?”

  “Approved subjects,” Zugaikotsu growled. “I won’t warn you again.”

  Akira-san made a quick bow in the guard’s direction. “Forgive me.” He looked into Miyako’s eyes. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “How does it work, then?” She lifted her chin. “You and your new friend are wiser than Confucius, ah?”

  “There’s been a death already. It’s paid for already. Iesu’s death, Mi-chan.”

  Zugaikotsu glowered. “Enough. Approved subjects only. The visit is done. Horyo, come.”

  She heaved a sigh of exasperation. Iesu again. And he’d gotten their visit cut short over this madness.

  “Mi-chan.” Akira-san clenched his hand into a fist and rested it on the glass between them. “You know I loved Hiro-chan, too.”

  She rested her palm on the glass over his fist, tears hot behind her eyelids again. “I know.”

  Zugaikotsu grabbed her wrist. “Horyo. Come.” He yanked her off the chair and propelled her toward the door.

  Akira-san’s voice echoed behind her. “I love you, sister. And I’ll find you a lawyer.”

  She stared at him over her shoulder until the detention center swallowed her.

  Chapter Forty

  Wednesday, January 5, 1949, Osaka, Japan

  Third Day in Police Custody

  Zugaikotsu delivered her to her cell. He watched her for a moment, eyes aflame, tongue snaking over his lower lip. “Thought you were the forty-eighth ronin, ah? Little girls shouldn’t play with knives. Or they wind up worthless horyo.”
He gave her bars a shake, then walked off.

  She slumped onto the floor and lay still. A wave of revulsion washed over her. Worthless horyo. Worthless whore had been bad enough.

  After a long moment, she pulled her aching legs beneath her and pushed herself painfully up into seiza, eyes on the bars. A dingy light from the small window behind her filtered through them. It stamped a pattern on the squalid wall across the hall. A rectangle of dim light striped with—what else?—vertical bars. Nothing to do but mark its slow progress down the wall and try to stave off sleep.

  Nothing left for me but a lot of empty years.

  Her mind drifted to Akira-san. One soul in all the world had shown some interest in what happened to her. What did he mean by these words? There’s been a death—already. It’s paid for—already. What did a foreigner’s death centuries ago have to do with their brother?

  He rejected their need for kataki-uchi—for blood to pay for Hiro-chan’s blood. She was in prison for nothing, according to him. And this Delham was teaching him a better path.

  The temperature dropped, and the light faded as she mulled this over. She went back to studying the peeling paint and imagining herself at the Oasis. The coals would glow in the brazier. There’d be that bowl of apples, and she’d sit with a newspaper. It would be lovely to have something to read.

  Something to read. Delham’s brochure. It might hold the key to Akira-san’s madness. She brought it to mind as clearly as she could.

  Solitary confinement. Hunger and weariness. Anger and fear.

  It all hit close to home.

  In stories of spiritual awakening she’d heard, release from the turbulence of life came through meditation. Obliterate self. Become empty. Oh, she’d tried all that.

  Delham’s story didn’t seem to involve any of it. Only a simple plea for forgiveness to this Iesu.

  She supposed she could try that. She’d prayed to the ancestors and to many kami-sama—Shinto gods. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so different. It did feel like a betrayal, though. Certainly Papa-san would think so. But she felt an unexpected little lift at the realization that Akira-san would be pleased.

  She prostrated herself to the floor. “Iesu, kami-sama my brother speaks of. If you can hear me, help me. If you please.” She stayed there a long moment, forehead on the floor and eyes closed, waiting to see if anything would happen. Weariness swelled. Thoughts faded.

  Spiritual awakening required patience.

  An indeterminate period of time passed, and something did happen—boots echoed on the floorboards. She jerked into her best seiza, spine bamboo straight.

  Not Zogaikotsu, please. An involuntary shudder rippled over her shoulders.

  The guard came into view. Not Zogaikotsu, but one of the others, the stolid one with the square head. He paced to the center of her barred panel and stopped. He glanced up and down the hallway, tension written across his face.

  What was he up to? Her stomach soured. He turned his focus to her, and she dropped her eyes to the floor.

  “Horyo.” The word came in a stage whisper.

  Che. What did he want?

  She looked up to see him holding an apple between the bars. Plump and lovely, its rich red skin dappled with soft gold.

  “Come.” He took another furtive glance up the hall. “Quick.”

  He was taunting her. A sick joke. He’d pull it away when she reached for it. Or worse. Club her for leaving her seiza posture.

  But the lure of the apple was too strong. She stood and took a hesitant step toward him. To her amazement, he held the fruit steady until she grasped it. It was firm and round in her hand, its dappled skin unblemished.

  “Seiza, please. And eat fast.” He bobbed a hasty bow and was gone.

  She stood, frozen. “Arigato,” she said, too late.

  She got into seiza and held the apple to her nostrils. The fragrance it gave out was as tender a promise as a betrothal vow. Eat fast. She sank her teeth into it. It came apart with a satisfying crunch. Her mouth filled with what must have been the sweetest juice she’d ever experienced. She stripped it of every morsel of edible flesh and dropped the bare core into the latrine. The fruit’s delicate scent lingered on her fingers, carrying images of soft spring skies and blossom-laden branches.

  Stolid had taken a real risk to do this for her—a prisoner. Why?

  A realization hit with such force that she gasped. The guard’s bold act of kindness. Toward her, a mere horyo.

  She’d prayed, and something had happened that looked like an answer.

  Help me, Iesu? Perhaps you did.

  It proved nothing. There’d been times she’d prayed to Kannon or the ancestors and things had gone her way. She smiled a little, remembering Yamada-san’s face when she turned up the three cherry cards.

  Shu Iesu, if you truly hear me, please show me.

  Her eyes drifted closed. She wrenched them open. The succession of sleepless nights had worn on her. She had to keep herself awake, somehow, or risk another beating.

  There’d been more in Delham’s brochure—a few lines of their Christian writings. Perhaps she could work at remembering those. She bent all her powers of concentration to the task. She dug the words out of the murk at the base of her memory in hard-won snatches.

  ...mata nanji kokoro...What’s more, with your heart.

  ...yomigaerashishi...Back from the spirit world.

  ...shinzeba...Believe.

  That was it. Nothing else.

  Fading again. She shifted her weight and tried to think of a peppy song she could hum to stay awake. She picked up a tune, but it trailed off.

  Drifting... Had to...stop...drifting...

  Your eyes. Open them. Miyako did, with a start.

  Nothing new to see. Bars of solid steel in front of her, bars of shifting light and shadow on the wall beyond them. The box of light had traveled down the wall a bit. It rested now on the spot where her imagination kept conjuring a horse. On his mane.

  And all at once she saw that mane, a fringe of pale gold against his rich chestnut coat. He tossed his head and the fringe flipped. He snorted, looked up at her with great liquid eyes and pawed the ground.

  She stood, full of wonder, and he came to her, nickering. He nuzzled her ribs and burrowed his nose into the leather at the side of her breastplate.

  Breastplate?

  Hai. The filthy skirt and sweater she’d worn since Sunday were nowhere to be seen. She was dressed in armor as splendid as one of her ancient ancestors arrayed for battle. Silk flowed beneath it, in all the hues of spring.

  She stroked the stallion’s neck. Felt the power of his muscles beneath the warm velvet of his coat. She mounted him with a fluid motion.

  He pranced and reared. Flung that pale gold mane.

  Elation broke over her and she laughed out loud. Conforming her body to his motion felt like the most natural thing she’d ever done. She knew, somehow, he was eager to take her on a grand adventure.

  But those bars. They blocked the path forward, stretching into the clouds as high as she could see. The bars surrounded them, confining them to a space he could cross in three paces.

  Trapped. The stallion neighed, snorted, and arched his neck.

  Their barred enclosure stood on a tiny island. Craggy cliffs fell away into roiling surf on every side. Forbidding precipices confronted them from across a broad chasm.

  Pray. Ask.

  It was a faint impression before, but now the words came full and distinct—a real voice. A man’s voice, except that it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

  The voice echoed again. What is it you need?

  “Please. We need to get out, sir.”

  A half-dozen bars melted away. The stallion capered, pranced through the opening and stood, breathtakingly close to the point where the cliff plunged. She stared down the granite face at the thin rocky strand, the churning water.

  What is it you need, Daughter?

  Daughter?

  Ask.

 
; It wasn’t Papa-san’s voice. And the feeling that enveloped her at its sound was something she’d never experienced in Papa-san’s presence. A sense of being absolutely known, yet completely accepted.

  “Please. A bridge, sir.”

  A bridge appeared. But not like any she’d seen. A perfectly smooth rectangular surface. No arch. No guardrails.

  But how could it bear their weight? No support—no piers, no cable.

  The place-less voice. Shinzeba.

  The sense of being known—and loved—to the very essence flooded her again. “Believe? Please, sir. Believe what?”

  A jarring noise thundered from somewhere in the distance. A clanging sound, like the clash of weapons. She jerked—

  Awake.

  Cheek against worn tatami mat. Body sticky with filth—reeking. Belly screaming for something substantial.

  Zugaikotsu loomed over her. Eyes aflame above sepulchral cheeks, he pushed at her ribs with his baton. “No sleeping, horyo.” He delivered a kick to her diaphragm.

  Pain exploded through her torso. She folded and sucked at the air in a vain effort to fill her lungs.

  “Seiza.” He towered over her, pounded his baton into his other hand.

  She managed to take a breath. Blinked back unwelcome tears, stifled a moan, and pushed herself into the requisite kneel. Straightened the stained sweater that had taken the place of her silk finery.

  He stood with his unnerving leer and watched her collect herself. “Come.”

  Out into the dingy corridor again. Miyako wheezed for breath. Her eyes anchored on the peeled-paint steed. But he remained flat and motionless, all the color leeched from his pale gold mane.

  For an instant, she let herself drift into the bright world of her dream. Pictured herself free, thundering along on the stallion’s broad chestnut back over brilliant green meadows starred with tiny pink flowers. The weight of a firm, fragrant apple in her hand.

  Zogaikotsu’s baton struck her spine. A pang of loss squeezed her chest. It was only a dream, and a lie. This squalid hallway was her brutal truth.