Ishimaru

by Louis Rosas

  “You must stay focused if you wish to live. Think of something better,” she whispered.

  “You’re right,” replied Connors as he sat up in bed.

  He looked around the Zen-like a white bedroom with nothing more than the white linen of the bed and the matching black lacquer wood bed stands. Connors could not recall if this was in the now or merely a dream born of his many recollections. Connors looked about the room scrutinizing every detail as if entering the room for the first time. He could see Aya laying back on the bed as she pulled the soft linen sheets to cover her from the night chill of the early Autumn air. A slight breeze and the sounds of wind chimes beckoned him to walk towards the glow of neon lights looming outside the balcony. Connors slowly stepped towards the sliding glass door. The door was partially left open. With his hand, he opened the door wider to allow him to step through and stepped out onto the balcony. His sensations recalled the surreal of it all so familiar and yet so alien.

  As Connors looked down over the balcony’s edge, he could see the hustle & bustle of the city down below him alit with streetlights and vehicle traffic. If he stood there long enough he could almost smell faint wisps of aromas from the Ramen vendors down below to a degree he did not recall before. Furthermore, Connors had noticed his peripheral vision seemed enhanced which he knew could not be true yet for the time being he could accept. It was almost like he could see what was around the corner. Of course, he really couldn’t but in his mind’s eye, he could catch a glimpse of the famed Osaka Castle perched atop what appeared to be an oasis of culture from Japan’s past amidst the urban squall of the modern city that stood over what was once the Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s former seat of power.

  ‘Oh, the old upstart Samurai Lord would think if he could see it now. Strange, how I can,’ he thought.

  Connors remained still as he closed his eyes once more. It seemed like he was consciously aware that he was in two places at once. His concussion had become worse or perhaps his dwindling oxygen combined with his injuries to enhance his state of perceived events happening all around him. Whatever the case, Connors was going to let this ride to see it through. And then all his sensations and thoughts running through his head became silent. The alien ‘hunting party’ moved on and could be heard no more. Just before he opened his eyes, he could smell the unmistakable smell of cigar smoke. Connors turned his head to find MSgt. Evans in his olive green utility uniform and combat boots leaning over the balcony enjoying the view as he puffed on his cigar.

  ‘What the hell? How is this possible?’ wondered Connors.

  “Boy, I have to tell you, that’s some view you got here. Outstanding! Looks like you did good after the service,” said MSgt. Evans.

  “Actually that was my wife’s family who helped us get in here. I sure couldn’t afford the rents or the down payment up here,” replied Connors.

  “No, I suppose not,” guessed MSgt. Evans.

  Connors remained dumbfounded by the surreal appearance of MSgt. Evans standing there smoking a cigar from his high rise balcony. He had never interacted with him outside of the military much less in Osaka yet there he was. Realizing this, Connors tried to get a handle on the moment, but before he could, Evans looked him in the eyes and offered him some friendly advice:

  “Now before you get all worked up over the particulars you best listen to your old Master Sergeant. Your lovely wife is right. You best think of something better and remember what I taught you in training, and you’ll get through this. I guarantee,” assured MSgt. Evans.

  “I can say this with confidence; you’ve come this far. Keep it up flyboy and keep the mind focused. Achieve this one objective, and you’ll go all the way.”

  “No shit?” asked Connors.

  “I shit you not flyboy. I believe you have what it takes.”

  CHAPTER V

  ONE’S OWN SEKIGAHARA

  Time was running out for Connors. Injured and alone, he lay there atop the black sands of Eros 3117 contemplating what could have been as his warning light indicator revealed the critical state of his dwindling oxygen supply. Days had reduced to hours with minutes fast approaching in his ever-weakening state.

  ‘Oh, I just had to venture out,’ he thought.

  Aya was not very enthusiastic about him taking this three-month contract with a crew he didn’t know and a ship based in Alaska. The contract position would take him far away from Earth to the edges of explored space for rewards which given his current state he would easily trade for in return for one last moment with his wife. And perhaps in time to see her give birth.

  Thoughts of not being there for Aya when she needed him most burdened him with guilt. The failure of his mission further sank his dwindling morale and hopes of being rescued. The blame was his own and one he could not endure without further remorse. It would have been easy to just give up. But the memory of the Rear Admiral extending his hand to help him up out of his miserable state encouraged him to fight on. He could almost imagine Master Sergeant Evans howling away at the challenge as the wind whipped his hair right before he jumped out on a high altitude insertion drop.

  ‘No fear for that crazy ginger man!’ he thought.

  This was precisely why Paratroopers take the lead to inspire those who follow. Connors needed to concentrate if he was to see this through. With three hours of life left in his LSS suit, Connors was in the greatest battle of his life. A battle for survival and one where the odds were increasingly against him.

  “Sir,” said Hopkins.

  “Yeah?” acknowledged Connors.

  “I must advise you that you are now under the three-hour critical factor. Please conserve your breathing and movements,” advised Hopkins.

  “Roger that,” replied Connors.

  This, of course, was easier said than done. He knew from his military training that in his situation he had to remain alert and remain calm. A sense of panic would raise his heart rate and hasten his breathing which would further accelerate the clock working against him. He had to try to think of anything but his dwindling oxygen supply.

  Within a blink of an eye, the skies returned back to light. Connors was no longer in his LSS suit. In fact, he was somewhere else. Not dead, at least not yet but somewhere reliving a memory of entering Aya’s home for the first time admiring its subtle details. On one side there was a small Washitsu styled section with earth tone painted walls, tatami mats, and hanging scrolls next to a small flowered alcove. On the other side was completely modern with tiled flooring and a sliding glass door leading out to a balcony. The centerpiece of the room was an old black Yamaha grand piano. It looked like it had been restored from fire yet remarkably playable. Connors could not resist the temptation to play one of its keys. He curiously walked right up to it and played one key just to hear how it sounded. It was then he noticed an old framed black & white photo of a woman in a kimono. She bore a striking resemblance to Aya as if she took the photo yesterday and had it professionally aged.

  “Who was she?” he asked.

  Aya appeared from the room in a modern black sleeveless form-fitting dress as she walked up to the piano. Aya gently picked up the framed photo and looked sighed with sadness. “She looks like you,” observed Connors.

  “Yes. She was my great-great Obachan (grandmother) Masami Matsumura. This was her piano,” revealed Aya.

  “She was very beautiful,” remarked Connors.

  Aya nods her head in agreement as she sat down on the black piano bench and began to play.

  “What is that? I have heard that before. It sounds so familiar. Beethoven?” guessed Connors.

  “Yes. It is Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. It is the last thing she played the night she died.”

  Connors sighed deeply at the thought of this woman playing on until her last moment on Earth. Treading carefully as to the sensitive nature of wars past, he joined Aya on the piano bench as she continued to play on.

  “She died March 9th, 1945,” revealed Aya.

  That sinking feeli
ng in Connors' stomach hit him as Aya played the somber piano keys. He was quite versed in history and knew very well that she was approaching the topic delicately. The subject of World War II made people uncomfortable for this was the one, and only time Japan and the United States were at war with each other that ended in Japan’s catastrophic defeat. Connors would listen but would have to tread this cultural landmine lightly.

  As Aya continued to play, she began to tell the tragic tale of her beloved ancestor.

  “My family descended from a Samurai Clan. Everyone even to this day learns Martial Arts. I, myself, had to learn Naginatajutsu and Kendo when I was in school. It is a tradition of martial discipline to always finish what you start. Masami believed the same thing,” said Aya as she continued to play.

  “I was told Masami had an English teacher who taught her how to play the piano before the war broke out. She had not completed her lessons when her teacher disappeared. Undaunted, she continued to practice and learn on her own. By March of 1945, we had lost many family members in the war. On the night of the great air raid, Masami was to give her first public recital at the family home. She wore her best kimono to play before a packed house of friends and war-weary neighbors. She had been melancholy since she had sent her three children to live with her aunt in the countryside. The chance to perform before her family and friends gave her a further sense of purpose beyond her job in the munitions assembly bunkers. It was her one and only performance she would see through to the end no matter what the cost. She must have thought of this as she bowed before her audience and sat on this very bench. No sooner than she began to play the Moonlight Sonata, the air raid sirens started. Everyone got up from their seats and began to rush for the air raid shelters down the street but not Masami. The Samurai discipline long taught in our family prevalent at the time made her play on.”

  As her story continued, Aya began to weep as she recalled the tragic tale of her ancestor Masami Matsumura.

  “They said the droning sounds of the approaching B-29 bombers were so loud they could look up and see they filled the early evening skies as the air raid sirens blared and flak exploded in the searchlights overhead. Her younger brother Takeru urged Masami to flee but she could not until she finished playing. Both her older brothers have shot down a month apart over the Solomon Islands, and her father died at his post aboard the Superbattleship Musashi before it was sent to the bottom of the sea. In their memory, she felt honor bound to stay at her post and play on. Takeru tried to force Masami off this bench and make for the shelter, but she refused to leave until she had finished the Sonata. Frustrated, Takeru tried to leave, but as the bombs rained down on our street, his escape path was cut off.”

  “What happened next?” asked Connors.

  “Takeru tried to run back to the house, but an explosion blocked his path nearly killing him. Amidst the explosions, flames, and clouds of black smoke, he could still hear his sister playing on until the last note. It was the most beautiful and surreal rendition he had ever heard. No sooner than she played the final ending key the house next door was bombed. The explosion leveled our house with still Masami inside. When they found her, she was still alive. She smiled and was no more. She died happy knowing she finished what she started. The Matsumura family that survived the war salvaged Masami’s piano so it could be handed down as a family heirloom. Moonlight Sonata was her song.”

  “And what is yours?” asked Connors.

  “I like to play Claire de Lune,” she replied.

  ‘Such a beautifully tragic tale,’ he thought.

  The Americans called it Operation Meetinghouse. Some 100,000 people perished over the course of two nights as Tokyo was completely engulfed in flames. Connors could just imagine what it must have been like flying aboard one of those bombers in the early evening skies. They could spot their target by all the searchlights and anti-aircraft guns firing flak at them. He could imagine the view from the small bomb bay window looking down to the burning city below as the bombs left their carriage screaming away down to the souls they would take. Connors could not begin to fathom how it must have been for Takeru to look up and see the massive fleet of B-29’s flying overhead. For a moment he could see himself in that position looking up to the night skies in horror.

  Connors closed his eyes and replayed Aya’s rendition of her Moonlight Sonata and imagined the bombers were coming to kill him. Somehow, the B-29’s transformed into a wave of the massive black reflective vessels that had been hunting him earlier on. It occurred to Connors that he was no longer on Earth but back on Eros 3117 with an uncertain perception of reality in his rapidly degrading state of crisis.

  Out of nowhere, the English butler Hopkins reappeared with a clear sense of urgency in his expression. While Connor’s was aware that there was no real Hopkins, he had come to think of him as more of a loyal companion looking out for him rather than a mere manservant.

  “Sir, I’ve re-engaged your digital defensive screen for your protection. I highly suggest that you remain perfectly still, so they do not notice you,” advised Hopkins.

  He had not considered that if these things were real or if the possibility existed that their sensors may be motion based. Connors hadn’t the luxury of debate to disregard his own safety ignoring the potential threat that loomed overhead. With that in mind, Connors sat perfectly still using every ounce of his dwindling ability to concentrate and sense of calm under pressure to think of something pleasant. Something, anything that could take his mind off the darkness he fathomed. Anything at all like the sight of Aya’s hands gracefully stroking the keys of the Yamaha Grand Piano playing Masami’s final tune.

  Like Takeru Matsumura before him, Connors watched in awe of the strange black reflective vessels. Aya’s playing comforted him adding to the surreal sense of it all. There was no way to know what was real or imagined as time was running out. The worst thing he could do was succumb to panic or despair.

  “Sir, may I suggest happier thoughts,” whispered Hopkins.

  And therein an instant, Connors was back on Earth.

  Connors stood at six feet tall. He was dressed in a black Martial Arts hakama and white keogi standing about a white sand beach with overcast skies. He could smell the salt in the ocean once again as he smiled before the crashing waves. Oh, how he loved the sea! A slight ocean breeze moved his brown hair back as he further dug his feet into the sands and let the cold Pacific Ocean immerse his feet. To his left was Aya with her long raven black hair tied back wearing an identical set of Japanese Martial Arts training attire holding two bamboo shinai swords.

  “Take this,” said Aya.

  Connors looked at the bamboo Shinai sword in his hands.

  “Am I dreaming?” he asked.

  “No, I am preparing you for this fight,” she replied.

  ‘The fight for survival?’ he wondered.

  “No Mike-san. This is a challenge to show your sincerity. You must do this if you are to win my hand. Everything reveals its true nature under crisis,” she said.

  It would take Connors a moment to decipher what exactly she meant by Sincerity when it suddenly occurred to him what was really taking place. Somehow he was reliving his days of training with Aya to prepare him for a match against her elder brother Capt. Matsumura. From what he understood, he didn’t have to beat him. No, that would have been impossible with his fencing skills. All he had to do was to stand his ground and in doing so honor the family to whom he had to prove himself to before being allowed to marry Aya.

  “Seriously? Why is this necessary? He is a Third Dan, and I’m just a mere novice. What could this possibly prove?” argued Connors.

  “Because they don’t believe you are serious enough to see this through. Mixed marriages in Japan often end badly, especially if there are children involved. You don’t have to prove anything to me but if you want to prove to them you that have what it takes then you must consider their logic. Think of it as a test. Your objective is not to win, but to endure,” explained A
ya.

  On one level this all seemed archaic. But once Connors took in the cultural considerations, the anachronistic notions of Samurai nobility and honor made perfect sense to him. With that in mind, he donned his helmet and tied its long cords securing it’s open back to his head before stepping forward to the challenge before him.

  In all his time fencing, the steel protective cage of the fencing helmet never bothered him before. The helmet known as the “Men” in Kendo was nearly identical to the European fencing helmet he wore before in high school. But it’s noted difference comes in the addition of two shoulder flaps used to protect the fighter’s neck which was something he would not need in the fencing he was accustomed to. Yet, the view from within the grill of the helmet seemed rather claustrophobic. Aya stood in front of him wearing her full white Kendo armor to adjust his chest plate armor assuring him once more.

  “Bear in mind, my elder brother Hiroshi bears you no malice. This is just an old Samurai family custom. Remember, remain focused, and you shall do fine,” she assured.

  “That we shall see!” he replied.

  Connors cautiously stood up in his dark blue Kendo armor gripping his bamboo shinai sword and slowly walked to the marked circle where he was to challenge Hiroshi Matsumura. Aya’s elder father Shintaro Matsumura himself a Sixth Dan would preside over the match. It seemed dread followed each step yet he remained calm as he reached the edge of the circle. Connors stopped and bowed before the elder Matsumura who himself was wearing proper Kendo attire and armor.

  “Onegaishimasu!” shouted Connors before bowing.