VI
“There’s nothing we can do, is there, Oyoshi?”
The place was a small room deep in the Ueda residence; the time was midnight of the day following Shigeru’s return; the words came from a man of forty-six or forty-seven sitting on his futon with his legs outstretched and leaning on an armrest. Behind him is an alcove containing two swords with gold trim arrayed on a stag antler rack. He turned to look at his wife, who was seated to the side. Her face was even paler than usual.
“So it’s as if he came home to die. Are you saying there’s no way to save him, Takeru?”
“As I have already explained, I would very much like to help, but the Ueda family name hangs in the balance. To have a traitor come from our family is bad enough. For that rebel to escape death in the war and show up here alive, and then we take him in—it’s as if our entire family have become traitors! Just imagine what everyone will think! What’s worse, we harbor him and word gets out—and there’s no way it won’t get out—the people in the village already know. Even if we swear our staff to silence, everyone knows Shigeru is back. Didn’t we just get a message from the Sonobes offering to shelter him there for the time being because it probably is inconvenient for us to keep him here? If it becomes known that we are sheltering Shigeru, he won’t be the only guilty one. The two of you also will be involved. What will you do if the police come and tie up Father in his crippled condition and put Mother in jail and we all have to wear prisoner red? No way can we escape!
“And even if by the remotest chance Shigeru gets off with only a prison sentence, the damage to our good name would be the same. From Nakatsu as many as fifty men ran off with the rebels, and not one came back, so that if Shigeru is here sitting around as if nothing happened, what kind of reputation would that bring? People will certainly say our boy is so precious that even though he ran off with the rebels and then came crawling back alive, we bribed the officials and the police and harbored him.
“If Shigeru faces up to the situation now and takes his medicine like a man, they will say that the Uedas are special after all, that samurai are special, and that even though he joined the rebels, he knows how he has to end it. They will be impressed with Shigeru, yes, but even more so that his parents had the resolve—samurai really are different. And for Shigeru, too, it would be better for him to do the honorable thing—yes, the honorable thing—here in front of his family rather than to be tied up and carted away by police, the laughingstock of the neighborhood. Just think of him as having died in the war; it was inevitable. Don’t you agree, Satoru?”
Satoru was sitting in a heap minding his own business, and so the sudden attention flustered him, but he responded, “Of course, of course. If that idiot lived . . .”
Takeru watched his mother and father as they looked at each other and heaved a deep sigh and then spoke forcefully.
“Are you satisfied with this course of action? Neither of you has any objection, right? If there is no objection, let’s get Shigeru—”
“What? Right now?” His mother trembled, but with a look of contempt, he spoke sharply. “We have no more time. I hear a policeman was talking to some of the villagers earlier. Right, Satoru?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“But . . .”
“Mother, I can’t be responsible if you end up in jail.”
“Oyoshi, it’s inevitable.”
“Yes, Mother, it’s inevitable,” parroted Satoru.
“Then Satoru, since you’re the eldest, go and get Shigeru,” said Takeru, and at his brother’s signal he said, “All right,” and slowly got to his feet and left the room. But in no time he was back.
“Takeru! Takeru!”
“Don’t make so much noise. What is it?”
“Shigeru is fast asleep.”
“Asleep?” Mother’s body shook.
“He is? Well, wake him up, and bring him here, but don’t tell him anything. You got that?”
“Bring him here without telling him anything, right? All right.”
His footsteps gradually receded down the hallway, and then there was silence. The light from the small lamp in their midst seemed to freeze around them, and the only sound was that of water dripping from a bamboo pipe into a pond.
VII
“Shigeru, we have been discussing your situation, and . . . Takeru, you tell him.” The father cleared his throat and turned to Takeru. His hand trembled visibly as he pulled the armrest closer to him.
“Now, Shigeru,” Takeru began officiously. “You sided with the rebels, and . . .”
Shigeru had been looking down, but hearing this he looked up sharply.
“Rebels? You’re calling General Saigō a rebel? The rebels are the government forces. And that scoundrel Okubo. His Majesty the emperor is caught in the middle, while the real leaders . . .”
Takeru looked at him with a sneer. “Are you still talking like that? He was declared an enemy of the state and was put to death, wasn’t he!”
“Might doesn’t always make right!”
“Hold your tongue, Shigeru! You abandoned your ailing father, joined the rebels, sullied the family name, and now you shamelessly return home alive, causing your parents and brothers great hardship. Do you think you can get away with that?”
Shigeru lowered his head without a word.
“Takeru, please . . .”
“Mother!” He shot a withering glance at his mother, and she shrank back.
“Shigeru, cut your belly!”
Startled, Shigeru raised his head. Father said with a sigh, “It is as Takeru has stated. Please do this for us.”
“Shigeru, do this for us,” Satoru blurted out.
Shigeru looked at his father’s face, then at his two brothers, and finally, with tears in his eyes, he gazed imploringly at his mother’s face as she trembled next to her husband. She tried to speak but could not. Her mouth moved two or three times, but there was no sound. Takeru’s eyes flashed with fire as he glared at her. Shaking with emotion, she finally said, “Shigeru, please understand.”
“You, too, Mother?” He lowered his eyes and presently, “I should have died on Mount Kawaigatake!”
He stood up, quickly removed the shorter of the two swords from the alcove, and returned to his seat.
“Forgive me.” The sword flashed in the light, pierced his skin, and crimson drops of blood spattered onto the paper lantern.
VIII
“The Uedas’ Shigeru has come home.” “Master Shigeru has returned to the Ueda mansion.” The village was abuzz with rumors, which soon were replaced with competing stories that Shigeru had committed ritual suicide, and then, no, he had been stabbed to death. There was even one clever one suggesting that those rumors were spread around so they could keep him under wraps some place far away. But not long thereafter, the funeral was held quietly, and finally the talk stopped.
No matter where they are, malcontents are always saying, “The rich are lucky. Even if they get involved in a conspiracy, they can come back and the authorities will look the other way.” Then before long, their whispers change to, “I hate the rich. Even though their child returns, they don’t know how to save him, so they make him commit suicide and just take care of themselves. I would rather be a beggar’s child than a rich man’s.” These irrepressible feelings of ill will in the village gradually enshrouded the Ueda mansion like a fog.
Sensing what was happening, Takeru talked to his father and arranged to take him to his usual hot spring. Only his mother, brother, and the servants were left in the big house. The village people stayed away of their own accord. The mother grieved constantly and spent all her time in her inner room, and Satoru went fishing almost every day. No one spoke above a whisper. “A large house is best for evenings in autumn”—it seemed as though autumn had collected all the sadness and brought it into this house.
On October 18 the morning sky burned brightly in the east, and it was oddly hot and humid. The people in the village thought it strange
that even at midday, it was so still that not even a leaf moved. Then, after noon, perhaps close to 3:00, suddenly a sound arose in the sky that was like the flapping of wings of a thousand or more huge eagles taking flight. The rice sheaves piled in the nearby paddies were blown across the fields, and in the blink of an eye the wind took on a gale force. It continued to blow, and as night came on, the intensity only increased, and the servants up at the mansion huddled together in the kitchen, throwing lots of wood on the fire, and chattering to keep up their spirits.
“Oh, what a wind! Otsugi, take a look outside! It’s black out there. What a terrible night!” exclaimed one of the men, sharpening his sickle. Otsugi was peeling persimmons next to the fire, “Speaking of scary, imagine this. A little while ago when I took a lantern to the back room, Mrs. Ueda looked up at me with that ghostly pale face and said, ‘Otsugi, won’t you stay here with me for a while?’ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, ‘I’ll come as soon as I finish my chores’ and got out of there as fast as I could. Ochiki, won’t you go?”
“Not on your life. Both the master and Takeru are away, so the back part of the house is deserted. Of course, Satoru is there, but . . . he’s asleep, snoring away, and in this storm. It is amazing how different brothers can be—there is Takeru, and then there’s Shigeru . . . may he rest in peace . . . today is already seventeen days, isn’t it? Poor soul—in the name of Buddha, may he rest in peace.”
“I feel sorry about Shigeru, but you have to feel sorry for Okiku, too,” added an older man who was pounding straw.
“That’s right. You know, yesterday Jinbei was saying that since Okiku heard the news, she has been acting very strange. The day before yesterday she tried to cut her throat, so her mother is staying with her day and night, I hear.”
“That’s right. That’s right. Here he turned up alive after we thought he was dead, and then that happened. It’s strange! And Takeru . . . Oh, the wind died down.—No, it started up again.”
IX
The earth and sky became calm, a stillness that seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation, and then suddenly the violent wind returned with a blast, making the whole house shake, rattling the doors and windows. The banging of pebbles and leaves hurled against the wooden shutters and the clatter of roof tiles being blown off joined with the shrieks of branches being ripped off the old camphor trees, giving rise to a fear that at any moment the world might come to an end.
In an inner room, where a gust of wind coming in through a crack made the flame in the small lamp flicker, grow weak and nearly go out, and then revive and become bright again, Oyoshi sat alone with her needlework. Suddenly she stopped and listened. She stood up, trimmed the wick, slid open the door to the next room, and looked around. She quickly closed it again, sat back down, and resumed her needlework. After about five minutes she called, “Otsugi? Otsugi? Satoru—are you there?”
Her voice merely echoed inside the room. There was no answer, and no one appeared. The only sound she heard was the rattling of the windows and doors.
“What could be the matter?—Oh, what a terrible wind.—Hello, who is that in the other room? Is that you, Otsugi?”
Trembling, she picked up her measuring stick and stood up. Once again she slid back the door, only to slam it shut again with a bang. She fixed the wick once more and was sitting down when her eyes fell on the lamp. She leaned closer and stared and reached out a finger to touch a dark spot on the paper covering.
“Ah, that’s just an oil spot. Of course, they put new paper on the lamp, so it couldn’t possibly be left over from before. It’s so dark—what a feeble lamp this is.”
For the third time she stood up and trimmed the wick.
“Oh, what a terrible wind. Who is that near the window? Oh, it’s just my own shadow.” She laughed hysterically. “Who’s that? Who laughed just now? Otsugi. Otsugi. Satoru. Someone come help me! Hurry! Hurry! Please somebody come here!”
She thought she was calling in a loud voice, but in fact only her lips moved, soundlessly. With no sign of anyone coming, her eyes darted here and there, and she was beside herself with fear. She didn’t know what to do.
“Oh, someone is over there on the other side of the lamp. Is it Otsugi? Satoru? Oh my, it’s Shigeru. Shigeru, Shigeru, please understand. Please . . .”
She jumped up and ran this way and that around the lamp as if fleeing from something.
“It’s my fault. I was wrong, Shigeru. Please understand. Shigeru. Shigeru. Don’t look at me like that. Oh, I’m afraid. I’m afraid. What? What? Did you say, ‘You, too, Mother?’ Oh, ‘You, too, Mother?’ ‘You, too, Mother?’ You are right! It was my fault. Mother was wrong. It was all my fault. Oh, it’s so dark. Dark. Dark. Shigeru is coming toward me. Help. Help!”
She screamed and dashed here and there. As she jumped around, her sleeve caught the lamp and knocked it over. The flame grew quickly and spread to the paper on the windows. The crimson tongues licked the white paper and, in an instant, spread throughout the room. The mother watched, entranced, for a bit and began to clap her hands.
“Ooh, bright, bright. Shigeru, Shigeru, Shigeru. Do you understand now? What? Did you say, ‘You, too, Mother?’ again? No, no, please understand. Here—here is my breast, just like when you were a little boy. Bright, bright. Shigeru, let’s play firecrackers. Come on, let’s play.”
She began to pick up things and throw them—anything nearby—her sewing, paper, thread, and she clapped her hands and laughed hysterically. The storm outside continued to rage, rocking the house, tearing off shutters, scattering sparks, and spreading the flames, until everything—floors, ceilings walls—every last piece went up in flames.
X
Just at this time, a horse came galloping this way at top speed, braving the wind. Takeru had been with his father at the hot spring, but pressing business called him back, so he took to the road on his favorite horse a little after noon. However, because of the storm, the road was out in places, so when night fell he found himself still several miles from his destination. The storm was becoming more intense. It was not possible to carry a lantern on horseback, but the horse knew the way unerringly even at night, so the rider did not give into the wind but urged his struggling steed faster. When he glanced at the sky up ahead, he could clearly make out a yellowish glow near the mountain against the dark sky. “Hey, what’s that over by the mountain?” He called to a shadowy figure who had suddenly emerged from a shack beside the road. The voice was that of an old man—“Hmm, maybe a fire. My eyes aren’t so good . . .” and the rest of his words were lost in the violent wind.
“A fire?” he muttered as he rode on, keeping his eyes glued on the glow by the mountain. After a while the yellowish light wavered faintly and seemed about to disappear when suddenly it flared up brilliant red.
“Sure enough, it’s a fire. Some fool started a fire—what kind of foolishness—in this wind!” he muttered to himself as he rode on. When he rounded the foot of the mountain and came into the village, the light from the fire became clearer. In the middle of the road four or five people were standing, bent against the wind, gazing at the fire.
“Wow, that’s really something in this wind.”
“For sure. At this rate it will burn down.”
“It’s the mountain all right. I can see the lone pine tree of Inariyama over to the right, so it must be—”
Takeru only half listened to their conversation as he urged his horse faster. In another mile or so, the road entered a bamboo grove where the wind was howling like waves on a choppy sea. Beyond that there was just the road through the rice fields. He could see that the fire appeared to be not far off, and he caught glimpses of the light through the bamboo trees. Hearing people’s screaming voices through the noise of the storm, he pushed his horse even more, so when he emerged from the bamboo grove he was startled by what he saw.
“Oh, no!” At the same time voices came from all directions. “Fire, Fire. The Ueda mansion is on fire. The mansion is burning up!”
they cried, running through the storm.
“Oh, no!” He clenched his teeth and dug his heels in to go faster. When he got to within half a mile, the road was lit as if by torches, and in front of him he could see clearly the dark sky transformed by a blazing inferno.
“Oh, no!” he screamed for the third time, and holding on with his left hand to the mane of his horse, whose legs were by now understandably spent, and brandishing the whip with his right hand, forced it to keep going as fast as it could. With each step the fire grew hotter against his face, and sparks flew through the air in all directions, striking him and burning the horse’s mane, but Takeru did not notice.
Again he cried, “Oh, no!” By the time he got to within a hundred yards, the entire compound—the main house, the storehouses, and all the outbuildings—were in flames. The frame of the main house had not yet collapsed, and he could see what looked like pillars of coral and roof tiles of gold glittering amid the purplish flames, scarlet flowers blowing in the wind, golden raindrops falling, all fusing together in an eerily beautiful spectacle that resembled a jeweled palace inside a roaring furnace. Three storehouses were ablaze, and through the multicolored flames, glimpses of roof tiles that still were black came and went. At momentary lulls in the wind, the fire divided into five separate columns, but every time the blast returned, the fires again merged with a dreadful roar, swirling around and shooting up crazily. The flames were blown even to the bamboo grove, where a thousand trees exploded, scorching in turn the leaves of the aged camphor tree, and the trunk oozed oil that gave off a powerful smell of camphor and burned like a fiery serpent.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 45