—That and this must have both been fate.
At an evening hour, a wake was to be performed at each of the two houses.
Hotara folk were thoroughly used to preparing funerals, which had become frequent even to the point of boredom during the past few years, but two on the same day—one being that of Jirā, the son-in-law of the nīmutu house—complicated the procedures so much that slow-moving old people ended up in a state of confusion, with much tōrumāru, moving left and right, and amahai kumahai running this way and that.
Folks related to the nakanuyā and sumunuyā, center and lower residences, gathered at Jirā’s place, and those related to the uinuyā, upper residence, gathered at Tarā’s place for Kanimega. Throughout the night at both places, they cheerfully gossiped about the dead, sputtered words at one another, poured each other sake, and when excited, sang humorously and danced ex tempore as they pleased, causing such uproar that the decaying houses nearly collapsed. This seems to have been the best memorial service on Hotara, if not elsewhere.
Before dawn on the following day, the group of people carrying the coffins appeared from both areas on the bumpy path of the island, which was beginning to be covered in a violet haze. The folks following each coffin proceeded down to the Niraipama shore. Now that Kanimega had died, the procession included the entire Hotara population, except the residents of the Niraikanai Home; in other words, this meant that it was just pitifully listless ikiganchā, men.
The ikiganchā dragged their feet, backs bent, walking sticks in hand, and were supported by those who were still in good health. Some, still drunk, had trouble holding up their chiburu, heads, and muttered words intelligible only to themselves, as they very slowly proceeded toward the shore, looking like the sideway crawl of a crab whose claws were broken off.
The moment the leading group carrying Kanimega reached the shore, the wail of a conch resounded high into the sky.
—Vu-u-bo-o-o-o o-o-o-oh.
At the tip of the rocky place that protruded in the shape of a male organ toward the sea was the dark shadow, obscured by the fog, of someone standing as stiffly as a wooden stick. He blew the conch toward the sea. This was the signal to the spirits of ancestors living in the waters of the sea to ask for permission for the deceased to join them or the prayer for an eternal communion with water so that the spirit of the body now being sent off would not get caught by the wind and lose its way while floating on the water. Seeming to resonate with the rhythm of the surf, the conch was slowly and loudly played without pause until the last person in the procession totteringly reached the beach—vu-bo-o-oh, vu-bo-o-oh.
First, the two bodies were carried to the edge of the water. They were laid to rest, naked, on something that looked like thin veneer boards. While alive, no interactions between Kanimega and Jirā ever came up in yuntaku stories, but due to their fate of being sent off to the water on the same day, they lay side by side, amicably in the nude, exposed to the chilly predawn wind from the sea and the eyes of the other folk.
Kanimega revealed her breast, belly, and thighs, which were rather plump for her age, thanks to her son’s attentive care. A few black strands were still mixed in her neatly trimmed hair. The usual stiffness of her stubborn expression was all gone in death. Her body, short and round, hinted at a young woman’s charm, and this added to Tarā’s sorrow. Because the sensible manner of Hotara memorial services dictated that not even the son of the deceased show his tears, Tarā kept his eyes averted from Kanimega, who looked almost ready to rise up and crawl away.
Jirā was a light-skinned man. His long body, white enough to blend into the sand, faintly emitted light at the water’s edge, dim in the early dawn. It was still, just like a body should be. The ichimotsu, male thing, between his thighs was wilted and as innocent as that of a young child, the pubic hair all white. His hands, just skin and bones, were simply at his sides instead of being joined on his chest. Even so, somehow, this good-natured, nonkā, carefree man, who had been popular with women, overwhelmed his surroundings with a divine serenity and seemed to give off an unshaken brilliance. This was probably because of the dignity of the dead.
In these forms, the bare bodies of Kanimega and Jirā were starkly exposed on the early-dawn sand in the cool wind from the sea. Apparently, they reminded some people there of stage performers in the spotlight.
The ritual of wrapping the bodies with bougainvillea was now to be performed.
There was no particular order for proceeding with the ritual. This was because there was no consciousness of vertical position, status, or rank in the basic structure of Hotara society. Whatever the occasion, after performing the roles assigned in accordance to each person’s skills and desires, all islanders returned to being plain Hotara folks, and this was the case even with kaminchu, sacred priestesses, who ruled others with absolute power at rituals.
Thus, without making any distinctions, everyone picked as many vines as corresponded to his or her thoughts for the deceased, approached the body, and wrapped its head, neck, limbs, and torso. They paid minute attention so as not to let the vines unravel before the seventh day after death and so as not to leave a spot that would allow the spirit of the dead to become tainted from contact with the dawn air. In the end, the body turned into a large, fluffy ball that smelled like green grass.
Bougainvillea vines were believed to have the power to make the spirit of the dead commune with water and, at the same time, to keep it from dispersing into the air. They grow, covering trees, in the island’s sanctuary, called Niraiyama, a distant mountain. In the season of the Hotara-upunaka festival, small, button-like flowers the color of ripe persimmons bloom on cascading vines. During the festival, when the mountain is closed to men, in the eyes of the ikiga who anxiously view the interior of the area from outside, the place itself might have looked like the womb.
Because the vine cutting needed for the water-sending ritual was ikiga’s work, the sanctuary was open, except the unā, sacred garden, in its center. Vines had been cut in the middle of the night and piled on Niraipama Beach.
The ritual called arikuri nu ningai, assorted wishes, in which thoughts for the dead are expressed as prayers, was conducted while the body was being wrapped with vines. Participants were expected to recall and confess, in concise and witty words, everything about their relationship with the deceased while he or she had been alive, including their disapproval, indignation, hatred, sorrow, and joy, as accurately and faithfully as possible. By doing so, all the complaints of the living against the dead were thought to pass into oblivion, while the spirit of the dead was purified through the processes of recollection and talk. The living also found it a rewarding ritual, for their own words brought them salvation. Thus, folks made their best efforts to be honest and spin as many words as possible that the naked deceased evoked.
The island boss, Toraju, crouched before Kanimega for a particularly long time. Sanrā, who was on the other side, winding his third vine around her right arm, overheard Toraju’s whisper:
—… There’s something I haven’t understood until this very moment. If I don’t speak up, I won’t feel settled. Let me speak. Please listen, Kanimega.
With this introduction, he started talking about their nights over forty years ago. She seemed to have visited his rear room for a few years in a row. When her emotions peaked, he claimed, she shamelessly called another man’s name. It happened not just once but four or five times, Toraju complained, his speech strained, without much of the wit expected in a farewell speech. It was not that he still felt jealous, but instead he angrily criticized her lack of female thoughtfulness for a man.
This was personal talk that Sanrā could hardly bear to hear, but unable to leave the spot, he had no choice but to feign innocence and listen to Toraju’s rambling speech. Sanrā was worried about Tarā hearing this story about the distant-past relations between Toraju and Kanimega, the latter old enough to be the former’s mother. Fortunately, Tarā was sitting in a daze on the sand a short dist
ance away. He was watching his mother’s corpse gradually being covered with green vines. Unaware of Sanrā’s gaze, he wore the tōrubaru, lost facial expression of the sorrow of one now alone after his mother’s death.
Toraju got loud and excited at some points, but eventually his voice became low and teary.
—What happened, Kanimega? I thought I wouldn’t accept it no matter what.
I had much pain inside of me, but I forgive you now, Kanimega. With my forgiveness, go to the other side. Don’t worry, feel at peace. I’ll forget it, today being the last day.
To Sanrā, Kanimega was just the mother of a yuntaku friend. With a simple farewell greeting, he left when he finished with the vines. Toraju was still muttering like a sore loser, wagging his rear, shaking his head, and making fists. His life’s complaints, which would not clear up unless he spewed them out now, had probably been deeply nested in his mind.
Sanrā felt that he had said all he needed to Jirā during the long yuntaku hintaku, chitchat, the day before, in which just about all their thoughts had streamed out. No words for Jirā came to his lips. He wound dozens of strong-looking bougainvillea vines around Jirā’s calves and stomach and kept his palms joined in prayer for some time. This alone made Sanrā feel cheerfully peaceful, filled with Jirā’s praise of life, demonstrated by his 117 carefree years. He heard a few people who crouched near him muttering words of complaint and envy toward Jirā, who had been popular with inagu, but every such speech sounded rather formal, more suggestive of halfhearted prayers than of real confessions.
Soon the sky began to look faintly white above the horizon. The morning fog lifted, and a transparent, pale-purple layer of air brought briskness to the surroundings. The tall pile of bougainvillea vines on the beach had all been used. Two fluffy, ball-like forms, one large and the other small, had been made. Those round, green forms glistened, sprayed by the pounding waves. They were so fresh looking that it seemed as if grass had sprouted all at once from the bodies.
Originally, at this point in the ritual, it had been customary for sacred women from throughout the island, all in shiny shirujin, white garments, to display an imposing array at the water’s edge, seated in a row, competing against the sound of the waves with their eloquent prayers. But this ritual was discontinued when the last female priestess to run it died over a dozen years ago, becoming the one to be sent to the water. In Hotara society, with its emphasis on female lines, only certain inagu communed with the gods, and words uttered by them alone were believed to be able to divine the destination of the spirits of the people of Hotara. None of the surviving ikiganchā, men, could substitute for them. Although poorly simplified for this reason, the water-sending ritual was now the largest and most important event on the island.
The two blue-green balls slowly drifted away, riding the heaving waves at full tide.
After working hard all night, the old folks were completely exhausted, but none had deserted. None had dozed off, had gone blank, or was tōrubaru, in a daze. All the Hotara folk who could walk, now one person short of one hundred in number, were present, scattered across the beach. They sat, crouched, or tōntacchī, kneeled, as they gazed with bleary eyes at the distance beyond the horizon in the first light of dawn. Where the two spirits were going was on their minds, but, their prayers exhausted, everyone seemed to direct their eyes toward their own tomorrow.
Pushed back, flowing onward, the two green balls were slowly carried away. Soon they began to roll comfortably, up and down. Heedless of the observers’ concerns, they moved lightly, seeming ready to say they were finally freed, and they gradually drifted further from the beach, tossing and swaying at the mercy of the waves.
Then an especially loud blaring of the conch came from the tip of the rocky projection, signaling that every part of the funeral had been completed.
At that moment, several dozen people fell to the ground, their strings of tension snapping. Some fell asleep right there. Those unable to rise, if not falling asleep, began rolling about on the sand. They huffed and puffed and sighed, in a mixture of snorts and groans. Those still healthy, who should have called out to them and extended a helping hand, had neither the physical nor mental strength left and instead turned their backs. Looking down, hanging their heads, dragging their feet, bending their backs, shaking their heads—everyone started to hobble and totter up Niraipama Beach.
The sun had long risen high.
The people’s bare soles on the sand felt a faint heat. Grayish-brown rocks jetting out to the sea, pointed driftwood pieces stuck in the sand, leftover green vines scattering on the sand, torn pieces of cloth and paper—mingled with these things was the unseemly sight of people lying ama kuma, here and there, in the brightening sunlight. Along with this wreckage after the ritual, if one looked carefully, the blinding sight of bones, whiter than the grains of sand scattered all over the shore, could be seen spreading behind the people hobbling and tottering uphill.
If one looked even more carefully across a distant area of beach, one could discern the masses of flesh that returned to the island after the water send-off and still retained signs of being human, washed ashore near the rocky area. Even if these caught someone’s eye, there was no one left who would regard the cruel sight mindfully and think of what the dead had been like in their lives.
This aside, with what nuance has the name Hotara been pronounced? Even Hotara folks who long called the island by this name did not know its origin. There is not a single oral tradition about it.
At a yuntaku gathering, the date of which is now uncertain, an old man, while talking of his complicated thoughts about the island that would eventually disappear, offered a far-fetched interpretation in a halfhearted, self-ridiculing manner:
Our island is named Hotara, perhaps because it’s “hottara”—neglected by the world.
The island has had no choice but to follow a fate thus defined by its name.
That the three felicitous kanji—maintain (保), plenitude (多), and good (良)—were selected to match the pronunciation of the name must have been because of the islanders’ impassioned, deep wishes for their island.
No matter how many words have been spent, after all, Hotara is nothing more than Hotara. Hotara ikiga, who have lived long devoid of energy, sip tea, spit, and fondly remember the long-gone inagu as they reappear in some folds of obscure memory and exert themselves in yuntaku hintaku, chitchats, which have become the only things that give their lives meaning. Such scenes of daily life still exist today.
Notes
1. According to Japanese customs, ancestors are remembered through rituals held on the seventh, forty-ninth, and one hundredth days after their deaths. Additional ceremonies are held on the anniversary of their deaths in the first, third, seventh, thirteenth, seventeenth, twenty-third, twenty-seventh, thirty-third, fiftieth, and one hundredth years.
2. “Bub-bon dance” translates the pun of awaodori, the dance of the bubbles, on Awaodori, a kind of “bon” dance to celebrate and remember ancestors in the summer Obon season in Tokushima Prefecture, the former Awa Province.
3. On’na Nabe, popular name Nabī, was a semi-legendary poet of the On’na village in Kunigami on the main island. Her verse “Subside, the voices of waves / subside, the voices of winds / may the Shuri King’s honorable / face be worshipped” is said to celebrate the occasion when King Shō Kei (r. 1713–1752) visited the village during his tour across the island.
POETRY
BACKBONE (2005)
Tōma Hiroko
Translated by Victoria Young
Your back’s hunched like a cat
Said the man from the city
I had forgotten
That my back is hunched like a cat
Until that day one year ago I had forgotten
What dangers lie just beyond the wire fence
Does everyone on your island hunch their backs like cats? The man blows smoke with his words
Don’t be so absurd
&
nbsp; Yet as the words leave my mouth
My heart whispers, it might be so
Black smoke, blackened walls, black-burnt trees
The campus that day was not Japan
In a flash before our eyes it had become America
An island too small to see on a world map
Its island words can no longer be heard
Camouflaged forms roaming too freely
Since the time of katakashira1 to the present day
Forced down, unable to speak
The weight of chagrin borne heavily upon its shoulders
Across the sea from my island I cry out
Age of Yamato, land battle, Age of America, wire fence, fighter jets
The man closes his ears and grins
Blue skies, white beaches, burnt orange roof tiles, tropical lemon-limes, red hibiscus
Brilliant hues trying to scratch out the black
The weight of sorrow saddled heavily upon its back
The streets bright with neon are the man’s playground
My playground is a would-be place where the wire fence is swept away
I just want to stand up tall and stride through my backyard
Notes
1. A hairstyle worn by young men during the time of the Ryukyu Kingdom upon coming of age. The center of the head was shaved, and the hair around it was cut very short. The remaining hair was then tied up on top of the scalp into a slightly egg-shaped bun measuring approximately three centimeters in diameter and three to four centimeters in height. [This explanation of katakashira is a translation of Tōma’s own description, which follows the published poem.]
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