In the silence that followed, an owl hooted, long and low. Everyone sat transfixed then one by one began to clap.
The moon had reached its zenith. The trees loomed over the clearing like shadowy sentinels. Taka felt as if she had lost control of her limbs. She rose to her feet as if lifted by some force more powerful than she. Everyone else was standing up too, forming a circle around the fire. They started to sing and clap, swaying to the left, then to the right, moving faster and faster. Caught up in the rhythm, Taka forgot who and where she was, even the dreadful events that were to come. She moved in a trance, dancing round and round, feeling only the rhythm, her body turning and the heat of the fire.
She had often danced at seasonal festivals, forgetting everything, losing herself in the crowd of sweating, weaving bodies. But this felt more like loosing the bonds of life.
In the firelight their shadows danced too. Anyone watching would have thought they were not human at all but fox spirits who’d taken the shape of women.
The fire blazed higher and the heat grew more intense. Aunt Kiharu threw off her jacket, then her drawstring trousers, and Taka threw hers off too until they were all dancing naked, a circle of whirling skeletons. Samurai, geisha – without clothes there was nothing to show their status, no barriers between them, like people at the bath or at the great naked festivals that filled the streets in summer. Even Uncle Seppo stripped down to his loincloth and joined in. They’d become part of an ancient ritual back at the beginning of time, dancing madly like the Dread Female of Heaven to lure the Sun Goddess out of her cave to bring light back to the world.
39
THE GUNFIRE STOPPED and an eerie silence settled over the clearing. The moon had set and the fire had died down but in the darkness a red dot still glowed on the slopes of Castle Hill. Tiredness descended on Taka like a fog and she was suddenly aware how much her legs hurt. They’d been dancing all night, she hadn’t slept a wink. She dragged herself round in one last twirl then let her arms fall and stumbled to a halt. She stood very still and listened. There was something important she’d forgotten. Feet still churned the charred ground but of the distant music there was not a trace.
One by one the dancers broke off, panting, and looked around for their clothes and pulled them back on. The children had long since left the circle and were huddled under the trees, sleeping. Taka gazed across the valley to the volcano, a vast triangular hulk in the black sky with a plume of fire spurting from the crater, blotting out the stars. She scoured the horizon for traces of light, praying that dawn would never come. She wanted to hold it back, not just for her father but for herself, too.
‘It’s nearly time.’ Madame Kitaoka had been watching the dancing like a priestess at a mysterious rite. She pulled the bundle Taka had brought towards her and untied it. A pile of smooth flat garments gleamed snowy white in the flickering light of the candles. Taka squeezed her fists until her nails dug into her palms and tried to quell the panic that surged in her chest. She felt her heart thumping, her skin prickling with sweat.
She knew what the garments were: burial robes.
‘Our vigil is nearly over,’ said Madame Kitaoka. ‘When the gunfire starts again, it’ll be time.’
Taka’s mother sat up abruptly. ‘Time? For what?’ she demanded, drawing in her breath sharply.
‘For our journey to the other world. It’s what Masa would expect.’
‘Not the Masa I know.’ Fujino’s eyes were huge and her face dark with fury.
‘My dear sister. Please don’t spoil the beauty of the occasion.’ The two glared at each other, then Fujino lowered her eyes. Formidable though she was, Madame Kitaoka was more so.
Starch crackled as Madame Kitaoka unfolded one of the garments, slipped her arms into the wide sleeves and tied the robe in place with a white sash. The two aunts shook the older children awake and they put on robes on top of their clothes, shivering in the pre-dawn chill. Madame Kitaoka glanced enquiringly at Taka. Her eyes bored into her as if she could see right through her and read her innermost thoughts – her shameful desire for an enemy soldier, her cowardly fear of death.
One robe still lay flat and white on the open wrapping cloth. Madame Kitaoka lifted it and held it out to Taka on both hands. It smelt of starch and mildew, as if it had been stored away throughout the hot steamy summer.
Taka stared at it, petrified. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hardly breathe. Her instincts had been right. It had been a terrible mistake for all of them – her mother, Aunt Kiharu, Okatsu and her – to throw in their lot with Madame Kitaoka. She belonged to that world of samurai and swords and death that Taka’s father had gone to war to defend. But Taka didn’t. She’d come to West Beppu to find sanctuary, not death. The war was nearly over. Now if ever was the time when – if her prayers had been answered, if the gods chose to be kind – Nobu would come. The last thing she wanted was to die.
There had to be somewhere she could go, something she could say, some argument she could drum up so she wouldn’t have to go through with it. But she couldn’t see any way out. She was like a fox with its foot caught in a trap. Looking around in panic, her eyes went to the red dot on Castle Hill. Her father was there, large and calm. She could feel his presence. He too was facing death.
Suddenly she was filled with shame at allowing such cowardly fears, unbefitting a samurai’s daughter, to enter her mind. She owed it to him to die gladly and with dignity. It would be a small atonement for having betrayed him, for having bound herself in her heart to his deadly enemy, not just a soldier but a member of the Aizu clan.
She saw it all now. This was how it had to end. It was the logical conclusion to the last few months – learning the halberd, getting to know and admire the samurai women, coming to live with Madame Kitaoka. Death was the apotheosis of the samurai way her father was fighting to preserve. She remembered the forty-seven ronin and the way Nobu’s eyes had lit up when he told her their story, and of how they had all gone gladly to their deaths. This was what her father would want and Nobu too – that she should go out in a blaze of glory.
Madame Kitaoka looked at her through narrowed eyes as if to say, ‘I knew you’d do the right thing.’ Taka wriggled one arm, then the other, into the sleeves of the crisp white robe, easing apart the starchy cotton. Her fate was decided, she would accept it with grace. But despite her efforts rebellious thoughts still crowded her mind. There had to be some way she could escape. She took a deep breath. She must not go to her death with her mind in such turmoil.
Taka’s aunts had lit incense sticks. Smoke perfumed with aloe, cloves, camphor and ambergris coiled into the air. It was the heady scent that filled Buddhist temples, the aroma of funerals, of monks sitting in meditation. As she breathed it in, Taka felt her mind becoming calm, her heart pounding less fiercely, the mad whirl of thoughts growing quieter. There was no reason to cling on to life, she could see that now. To die when she was young, when life was before her – surely that would be truly beautiful.
Madame Kitaoka, the two aunts and the three older children knelt in a circle in their white robes. The children scowled proudly like little samurai.
Madame Kitaoka took out her dagger and adjusted the silken cords that bound the hilt. It was an exquisite piece of workmanship with a metal scabbard sheathed in doeskin decorated with a cherry blossom design. As she drew the weapon from its scabbard, the candles sent shards of light glancing off the blade. The hilt was marked with the Kitaoka crest. Taka’s heart surged with pride at being part of such a noble family. Madame Kitaoka’s cheeks were flushed and her face alight, as if she really was eager to take death as her lover. Her thin pinched face looked fuller. She was quite beautiful.
Taka’s mother, Aunt Kiharu and Okatsu were watching with barely concealed horror. Madame Kitaoka turned to them. ‘Fujino, my sister. Kiharu. I have one last request. Please ensure that Masa receives a proper cremation with all due rites. The army will try to stop you but do your best.’
‘It’s to
o soon to speak of last requests,’ Taka’s mother protested. Her voice was shaking and her breath coming in gasps. ‘There’s no need for you to die, no need for anyone to die.’
Madame Kitaoka spoke calmly. ‘The victors will have no mercy on samurai women. They’ll violate us and turn us into slaves. They’ve already arrested some of the rebels’ wives and taken them to Tokyo to work. There’s only one path for us.’
‘The emperor will pardon Masa,’ Fujino wailed.
Madame Kitaoka shook her head and smiled pityingly. ‘You geishas will never understand. He won’t live out his life in prison. He’d rather die.’
Fujino’s eyes flashed. She was trembling. She looked as if she was going to explode. ‘We are modern people,’ she shouted. ‘We eat beef, we wear western clothes. We don’t kill ourselves. You expect us to sit and watch while you perform this barbaric ritual?’ She grabbed Taka’s sleeve. ‘You’re not dying,’ she said, gripping her arm. ‘You’re not a samurai, you’re my daughter.’
‘She belongs to her father’s house,’ Madame Kitaoka said quietly.
Taka hesitated. She didn’t have to do this, she realized. No one was forcing her. It was up to her whether she took part in this drama. She was mortified at her mother’s behaviour. Fujino was braver than anyone. She’d seen the Kyoto streets running with blood, she’d faced up to the shogun’s police, and the greatest samurai of them all – Taka’s father – was her lover. She knew men killed themselves rather than be captured. But their life of luxury in Tokyo had made her forget all that.
Taka shook off her hand and joined the circle. ‘I’ll make my own decision, Mother,’ she said. She took out her dagger, feeling the silken binding of the hilt against her palm. The cool metal reconnected her with something she’d lost touch with, something ancient and real and powerful.
Of course she didn’t want to die; no one did. But being a samurai meant being prepared to do things you didn’t want to do. She would die willingly and proudly. Her rank required it and she would go through with it with dignity.
Her father was not afraid of death and neither would she be. She too would embrace it like a lover.
Sakurajima loomed into view, black against the first flush of dawn. Streaks of pink and orange spread across the horizon and a ribbon of ash streamed from the crater’s mouth. Tears sprang to Taka’s eyes. She couldn’t think of anything more perfect than to die with this glorious sight before her.
Suddenly the rattle of rifle fire broke out, like beans popping in a pan. It was louder, more concentrated, more intense than ever before. Flashes like lightning sparked across the dark flanks of Castle Hill, shooting towards the place where the red dot should have been.
‘It’s started,’ said Madame Kitaoka. Her words hung in the air.
Taka fingered her dagger. How could she ever have thought of betraying her father by not dying with him? She’d had a good life, she’d known love and happiness. Now was her chance to have a good death too.
Voices echoed from the past. She remembered her childhood in Kyoto, the narrow streets of dark wooden houses, the bamboo blinds over the upper floors flapping and clattering in the breeze, her mother bewitching everyone with her dancing, her father rising ponderously to his feet and dancing too, the games, the laughter, the tiny old geisha who played the shamisen cackling and rubbing her gnarled hands. Then she thought of the fighting, the heads on poles along the riverside, the shogun’s police marching stern-faced, shoulder to shoulder, hands on their sword hilts.
Then she was in their Tokyo house, sitting quietly in one of the huge breezy rooms, reading or sewing. She saw Nobu’s face, remembered those innocent days, walking in their beautiful gardens, leaning against him as they sat in their secret place in the woods, picking wild vegetables, writing on the veranda. She smiled to herself as she remembered their secret meetings last summer and then in the spring, and thought of his touch, of being close to him. She wished they could have died together, that would have been the perfect way to consummate their love. But it was not to be.
She felt as if she was floating, already on her way to the western paradise. The roar of gunfire grew faint. There was a silence around her. The world was beginning to fade. A halo of light swam before her eyes, growing brighter, summoning her. She could almost see Amida Buddha smile as he held out his hand to greet her.
She put her fingers to her throat and felt for the throbbing vein just under her ear, then raised her dagger and drew back her hand, concentrating with all her might. She took a breath. She would only have one chance. She must stab hard and true.
Suddenly, above the gunfire, she heard a shout. ‘Stop!’ A shadowy figure was charging out of the woods at the top of the hill, racing towards them. She glimpsed a uniform, a thin body and spiky hair and her heart leapt.
Nobu! Of course. Who else could it be? Who else would go to the trouble of finding them, if not him?
The spell was broken. The dagger fell from her fingers.
The volcano was framed in light. Taka gasped for breath, so flooded with joy she thought she would faint. The hilltop and shadowy trees and sky growing brighter by the moment tilted crazily around her and she closed her eyes and put her hands over her face. There was a roaring in her ears. A field lark began to sing and she felt the first warmth of the day touch the back of her hands. She smelt bush clover and carnations and gentians and heard a cricket chirrup.
He was here now. Everything would be all right. No one would die.
She could hardly wait to be alone with him. There was so much she had to tell him. She wondered what he would feel when he saw her. She’d changed so much. Would he still feel the same? She couldn’t believe she’d doubted he would come. She should have had more faith in him.
For now she would have to hold herself back, stop herself from looking up, from shouting and laughing with joy, running to him and throwing her arms around his neck. She would have to sit, very calm and quiet, somehow hiding her feelings from her mother’s and Madame Kitaoka’s hawk-like gaze.
Yet he was here, he was here. He had come at last. The thought was unbearably sweet and poignant and wonderful.
She couldn’t restrain herself any longer. Trembling, she peeked through her fingers.
Above the firing she heard scuffling and Madame Kitaoka’s voice. ‘Get away from me. Get your hands off, I order you. Toyoda-sama. Kuninosuké!’
Kuninosuké …?
Taka crumpled, breathing out hard, as if someone had hit her with all their might, knocked the wind out of her. The rosy flush had faded and in the dawn light she saw a tall pale man with coarse black hair and a straggle of beard gripping Madame Kitaoka’s arm. It looked as if he was attacking her but then he grabbed her hand and wrestled her dagger away. He turned and looked at Taka, his eyes wild, and she noticed something swinging on his belt, a small red bag with threads of gold that caught the first pale rays of light.
Everything seemed to crumble around her. It all made terrible sense. She’d set up a karmic chain that could never be broken. The gods were punishing her – for allowing him to get close to her, for opening her heart to him, for giving him the precious amulet, her only link to Nobu. She’d lost everything and it was all her own fault. Despair swept over her and she closed her eyes and slumped forward, letting her head fall on the ashy ground, too overcome even to cry. Her shoulders heaved and dry sobs shook her body. All she wanted was to be left alone to slip away into nothingness.
‘No deaths, Master’s orders. Put away your daggers,’ the man barked. ‘Thank the gods I got here in time.’ His voice was shaking. Taka shuddered. It was the voice she had heard that winter’s evening in Kagoshima, the night before her father left.
‘You … you’ve ruined everything, everything,’ Madame Kitaoka screeched. She gave a howl of despair that sounded as if it couldn’t have come from a human throat. A boom from across the valley shook the air and birds flapped out of the trees, cawing.
Slowly Taka raised her head. An acrid smell s
tung her nostrils. Mounds of ash and charred lumps of wood filled the clearing. The rocks and stones were blackened and the grass burnt to nothing. Even the trees were scorched.
The two aunts, Uncle Seppo and the older children were still in a circle in their white robes, staring blankly at their daggers. Taka knew she must look as crazed as they did. They had all been halfway to the other world, seen things they could never forget. Madame Kitaoka’s hair hung in strands around her shoulders. Her face was sagging and her eyes dull as if she’d already left this world, as if it was agony to be forced to return. There was a trickle of blood where she had touched her blade to her throat. A moment later and it would have been too late.
Kuninosuké was looking around at them all, his eyes wide. He was panting. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said brusquely. Beneath the scraggly beard his face was thinner than before and there were dark hollows around his eyes and under his cheekbones. He had rags wrapped around his feet, Taka noticed, with tattered straw sandals tied on top. His voice softened. ‘The master orders you not to kill yourselves. He doesn’t want you to die. He begs you not to accompany him to the other world.’
Madame Kitaoka was visibly struggling to compose herself. ‘Not accompany him to the other world?’ she repeated as if she didn’t know what she was saying. Her teeth were chattering. ‘How can that be what the master wants? Why should he tear me away from death? Why should I want a life of dishonour? Why are you still alive, Kuninosuké, after all these months away? You should be on Castle Hill with your master, facing death, not arguing like a woman.’ Words tumbled from her lips but there was no spirit behind them. Taka felt just as empty. Suddenly her life stretched before her again and she too could see no purpose to it at all. Aunt Fuchi started crying in great convulsive sobs.
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