“I think I found your son’s bones,” she said.
The world spun. The field, Kiri-chan, the Hakujin’s rancid odor, bled together and whirled around the focal point of the girl’s finger- pointing towards the boulders at the corner where the old orchard met Kiyohara’s orchard, bordered by a strip of forest.
Hanako, half-blind, stumbling, ran to the pile of boulders. She stumbled, fell, and bit her lip as she landed badly on her weak left ankle. Before Kiri-chan could embarrass her, Hanako got up, muscles creaking, and wiped the blood from her mouth. Now she could feel it; a faint vibration emanating from a mid-sized stone at the edge of the pile. Hanako pushed away Kiri-chan’s hand and shut her ears to her daughter’s stupid cries.
Matsuo? Mat-chan? Imasu ka? Are you there? The blood on her hand stained the rock with streaks of red. As she scrambled in the tall grass beside the rock, Hanako saw what must have happened. She flinched, her skin blackening into bruises as she felt a barrage of blows from words, then fists, and finally rocks.
Her wild American boy, her Mat-chan. She gulped in air, but her lungs felt empty. Of all her children he had belonged the most to the hakujin world, and they killed him, beat him to death. She scrabbled in the tough grass. As her hand met the cool weight of bone in the dirt, she heard it.
“Okaa-san? Is that you? Look sharp.”
1951
Bobby squatted down, poking through the grass, and came up with another bone.
“Some raccoon must have died here. Creepy,” he said. His voice was higher. He sounded nervous and his hand was shaking. Bella could see a streak of pomade staining his collar. His eyes looked wide and innocent in the moonlight. There was a long silence. Their breath mixed and mingled in the chill air.
“I’m shipping out tomorrow,” he said, looking up at Bella. “The only way out of this town for me, I guess. Either the army or the jailhouse.”
She reached out to wipe the pomade from his collar. Bobby stood up, another slender bone in his hand. Now his eyes narrowed. He let out a ragged breath and turned away for a moment to look through the razed field at Bella’s house. When he faced Bella again, the moonlight made his eyes look wet.
The bone rasped again, a rhythm like a song, and Bella understood it’s gravelly melody, understood it had come from a boy of the Jap family that used to live here in her house before daddy bought it. The bones sang how white boys from the field worker houses killed the boy. They left him to rot here during the war. Animals had scavenged the bones.
Now Bella’s eyes burned. It could just as easily be Bobby’s bones here, if he went to Korea. Some girl might stumble on them one night, and mistake them for a raccoon, or whatever they had in Korea. Maybe no one would ever know that Bobby lived or died.
Bella reached for the bone. Bobby, misunderstanding, let it drop and captured her hand in the circle of his chilly fingers instead. He drew her close and buried his nose in her hair. His jacket was softer than it looked- well worn. Bella guessed it was a hand-me-down from his older brothers. They stood there for a moment, their hearts beating together in accompaniment to the singing bones.
“Could I…” Bobby breathed into her hair, “maybe I could write a letter to you from basic training?”
Bella mm-hmmed against his shoulder. There was a marvelous softness moving through her limbs. The bones rasped even louder, more urgently, but she didn’t heed their warning. Bella knew it was too late. She would answer Bobby’s letters despite everyone’s opinion about their ages. She would lie in bed imagining him thinking about her, and this softness would cover her, filling her at night with warmth against her cool sheets.
And then the letters would stop. At a football game where Bella played piccolo in the marching band, the principal would ask for a moment of silence for the local boys who’d fallen. His name would be somewhere near the end, just far down enough that Bella would start hoping. Bella would cry for him all alone, here in the darkness at the edge of her father’s razed orchard.
And the bones would keep speaking.
1940
Maybe I am already dead. I can’t move. Still, I picture Okaa-san or Otoo-san bursting through the Gravestein trees and finding me. We will get on the bus with the other Japanese farmers going to the Portland Assembly center. Otoo-san will be angry at me for not finishing my chore of nailing the windows shut, but he won’t punish me when he sees the blood.
It’s no good. The dream blows away like the clouds. They are gone. I was supposed to follow with Ben on his motorcyle after I finished shutting up with house. Maybe he is still waiting for me on the outskirts of town.
Time passes and no one comes. I feel light, as if I might drift off into the sky. Cigarette smoke fills my nostrils. My vision is fragmenting at the edges, only the pale blue sky and the brilliance of the sun are still clear. For a moment, I think I hear a girl’s voice. She is crying. Don’t be sad. My whole body yearns to touch her. The grass is prickly and bugs, maybe ants, are climbing up my pants leg. My body resonates to the buzz of a cricket, and I can feel the vibration deep in my bones.
Now I am cold. There is only darkness. Okaa-san. Come find me. Look sharp.
Ebb and Flow
Ekaterina Sedia
I sit in my underwater palace, looking through the window at the schools of bright silent fish drifting in the crystal water, I listen to the sweet music played by jellyfish and seahorses, and I remember. After the love is gone and all the tears are cried out, what else is left to do?
This story does not have a happy ending; they almost never do. The only happy stories you will ever hear are told by men—they spin their lies, trying to convince themselves that they cause no devastation, and that the hearts they break were never worth much to begin with. But I am the one who lives under the sea, keeping it full and salty. I, the daughter of the Sea kami Watatsumi. I, who once had a sister and a husband.
I wouldn’t have met my husband Hoori no mikoto if it weren’t for his foolishness. Back on land, he was a ruler of Central Land of Reed Plains, but still he loved to hunt. His brother, Hoderi no mikoto, was the best fisherman their young country had ever known. But Hoori was not content with what he had. He talked his brother into trading their jobs for a day.
Hoderi could not use his brother’s bow and arrows, and found no game. Hoori was even less successful: not only did he fail to catch any fish, he also lost the fishhook his brother prized above every other possession. Hoderi was upset at the loss, and Hoori swore that he would find it.
He spent days searching the beaches, digging through the mounds of withered kelp, looking under the weightless pieces of driftwood, pale like the moon, turning over every stone, round and polished by the sea into the brightest azure shine. But he didn’t find the hook.
He went home and looked at his favorite sword for a long time. It was a katana of the highest craftsmanship, worth more than half of all Japan. Hoori always talked about his weapon with tears in his eyes, as if it were a child or a dear friend. And yet, his love for his brother was stronger than his love for his weapon. He shattered the katana into a thousand pieces, and molded each into a sharp fishing hook, shining in the sun and strong enough to hook a whale.
But Hoderi was not consoled. No matter what Hoori did and how much he pleaded, Hoderi remained firm: he wanted his hook, and no other.
Hoori grew despondent, and spent his days wandering along the shore. The soft susurrus of the waves calmed his troubled heart as they lay themselves by his feet, lapping at his shoes like tame foxes.
He noticed an old man sitting on the beach, throwing pebble after pebble into the pale green waters. Hoori recognized the old man as Shiotsuchi no kami, the God of Tides.
“Why are you so sad?” the old kami asked.
“I lost my brother’s fishhook,” Hoori said. “And he would neither talk to me, nor look me in the eye.”
Shiotsuchi nodded, and snapped his fingers at the waves. Obedient to his will, they brought him many stems of pliable green bamboo. Fascin
ated, Hoori watched as the waves reared and spun, shaping the bamboo stems into a giant basket with their watery fingers.
When the bamboo basket was ready, Shiotsuchi helped Hoori into it. “I’ll command the tides to carry you to the palace of the Sea God, Watatsumi no kami. There is a well by the palace, and a katsura tree growing there. Climb into the tree, and you will be taken to Watatsumi no kami. He will be able to help you find the hook, for he is the ruler of all sea creatures.”
Hoori thanked the kami and settled into the basket. It carried him along with the tides, and the small round waves tossed his bamboo vessel about, playfully but gently.
They carried him all the way to the palace made of fish scales. My home, my life, where my sister and I sang and played under the watchful eye of our father, where all the creatures were our playmates, and even rays would never hurt us but let us ride on their shining backs. Seahorses tangled in our hair, and jellyfish subserviently let us pummel their bells as if they were drums. We dressed in finest silks and sealskin, and never knew a worry in the world.
We didn’t know that he was coming.
On that fateful day, you did as you were told. My maid came to the well to fetch me a cup of water—even under the sea we need sweet water to drink. She saw your reflection in the well, and she ran, fearful of strangers, but not before you tore a piece of your jade necklace and dropped it into the cup she carried.
She brought the cup to me, and told me about the stranger in the well. I barely listened as I tilted my cup this way and that, watching the sun play across its golden sides, reflecting from the sparkling jade through the transparent water. It was green and beautiful, and I smiled as the reflected sun dappled my face, warming it. Surely, no evil can come from someone who had a stone like that, I thought.
I called my sister, Tamayoribime, and showed her the stone.
She beamed. “Where did it come from, Toyotamabime?” she asked me.
I told her of what my maid told me, and we went to investigate, our arms twined about each other’s waists. We found you in the branches of the katsura tree, the spicy fragrance of its leaves giving you the aura of danger and excitement. You smiled at us and spoke as if you were our equal.
“Come down from that tree,” Tamayoribime said.
You did as she told you, although the smile wilted on your face, and your forehead wrinkled in consternation. I guessed that you were not used to being ordered about.
“Please, honored guest,” I said. “Come with us so we may introduce you to our father, Watatsumi no kami.”
You nodded, and looked at me with affection. I lowered my gaze before yours, and you smiled.
We led you through our palace and you grinned in wonderment, tilting your head up to see the cupping roof of the palace, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and decorated with fine drawings done in the octopus ink. You gaped at the tall posts of sandstone and whale ivory holding up the roof, at the twining kelp around them, at the bright lionfish that guarded access to my father’s throne room. The guardian let us through, and you stood in astonishment in my father’s awesome presence.
He was a great kami, and he lay coiled atop of sealskin and silk tatami, his skin shining bronze and green, his great bearded head, larger than your entire body, resting on a mound of silk pillows and red and blue jellyfish. A jade incense burner exhaled great clouds of pungent smoke, masking the strong salty smell of my father.
“Come in, Land Prince,” my father boomed, his voice shaking the intricate panels of fishbone decorating the walls. “Come in and sit down on my fine tatami, and tell me what brings you here.”
But you kept silent, your mouth half-open in fascinated attention. My father winked at me, and I called in our entertainers—singing fish, dancing crocodiles, and squid who did magic tricks. Flying fish, tuna and octopus put on a play for you, and two eels played koto and shamisen by twining their flexible bodies around the instruments’ necks and plucking the strings with their tails. You clapped your hands in time with music and laughed like a child. Then your eyes met mine, and you blushed.
My father, who never missed anything that occurred in his palace, sent Tamayoribime and me out with a flick of his tail. He wanted to talk to you kami to mikoto, I guessed, and obeyed. We left the palace and ran through the forest of kelp, shouting for all the fish to come out and chase us on a pretend hunt. It was dark when we came back, and my father announced that I was to become your wife.
I looked into the marble floor studded with starfish, and did not answer. I never argued with my father; I did not know how.
And so we were married, and I came to love Hoori. I showed him all the secret places my sister and I loved: a grotto of pink stone, with a white sand floor, adored by pearly yellow and blue snails that dotted the walls, gleaming like precious stones; I showed him a large smooth rock where octopi wrote their secret letters in black ink, their tentacles as skillful as the finest brushes; and a dark cave that went down into the bottom of the ocean for miles, gilded with shining algae and populated by phosphorescent moray eels. For our amusement, seahorses staged battles and races, and squid swam in formation, shooting giant ink clouds shaped as flowers to celebrate our love.
Tamayoribime, my sister, rarely joined us on these excursions. Although still young, she understood that the bond the land prince and I shared was not for her to enjoy. She smiled every time she saw me, but I could see the sorrow of her hunched shoulders as she fled to the kelp forest, alone, with only fish for company. My heart ached for her loss, and I wished that gaining a husband did not mean losing my sister. Hoori and I were inseparable, and she grew more distant from me every day, her face close but unreachable, as if it were hidden behind a pane of glass. Hoori had severed the only bond I’ve ever known, and thus increased my attachment to him; all the love I used to lavish upon my sister was his now.
Days passed, and before we knew it three years had passed since Hoori first entered our palace. I realized that I was pregnant, and told Hoori that he was soon to become a father. He was jubilant at first, but as my belly grew so did the unease in his eyes. He sighed often, and one day I asked what was wrong.
He told me that he missed the land, and was thinking about returning home. “Only,” he added, “I still haven’t found my brother’s fishhook. I cannot go back without it.”
“Is this why you came to my father’s palace?” I asked.
He bowed his head. “Yes. Only the time here was so delightful that I have forgotten my purpose. Please, Toyotamabime, talk to your father on my behalf.”
I obeyed his wishes, as I always did; he was the pearl of my heart, my beloved, so how could I refuse him, even though he wanted nothing more than to return home and leave me behind? I cried as I told my father of Hoori’s plea.
His great fins fanned slowly, as he listened to my words. “Well,” he said. “I will find that hook for him.”
My father’s great roar summoned forth all the sea creatures, and Hoori watched with delight as they swam and slithered into the palace, filling it almost to bursting. Fins, tentacles, scales and claws in every imaginable color shimmered and moved everywhere. My father surveyed this living tapestry, and asked everyone in turn whether they’ve seen the hook.
The fish swore that they haven’t, and the crabs and shrimps and scallops promised to sieve through the ocean sand, grain by grain, and to find the hook. Only the sea bream remained silent, although his mouth opened and closed as he strained to speak.
“What’s wrong with him?” my father asked the tuna and the ocean perch.
“He hasn’t spoken in a while,” they said. “Something’s been caught in his throat for a long time, and he can neither eat nor speak.”
My father extended one of his great but slender claws into the bream’s obediently opened wide mouth, and soon it emerged with a shining hook caught in it. The bream breathed a sigh of relief, and apologized for his mistake. But Hoori was so delighted to have recovered his brother’s treasure that he paid no mind to the
bream’s mumbling.
“Thank you, O great Watatsumi no kami,” Hoori said to my father. “Now I can return home.”
I turned away, biting my lip, cradling my bulging belly in my arms. I would not argue, I thought, I would not beg. If the kelp forests and hidden underwater caves were not enough to keep him, what could I do? If the music and singing of the perches and moray eels did not bind him to our palace, what would my feeble voice achieve?
He took my hands, and looked into me eyes. “Toyotamabime, my beloved,” he told me. “Will you follow me to the land?”
I’d never been on land before, and the thought filled me with fearful apprehension. Moreover, that would mean breaking away from my father and my sister, from my entire life. But what was I to do? “Let me wait here until it is time for our child to be born,” I begged. “Then, build me a parturition hut thatched with cormorant feathers on the beach. I will come there to give birth.”
“I’ll do as you ask,” he said.
“Just promise one thing,” I said. “Promise that you will not look into the hut when I am giving birth. Promise me.”
His face reflected surprise, but he agreed. “I will send a maid to attend to you,” he said.
I shook my head. “My sister will attend to me.”
“As you wish,” he said, already turning away from me to face my father. “Will you help me get back home?”
“But of course,” my father boomed. “One of my fastest wani will carry you home. But before you go, please accept this gift from me.” With these words, my father produced two jewels, the size of a bream’s head, one green, and one pink.
Hoori accepted the gifts with tremulous hands.
My father explained. “The green one is a tide-raising jewel Shiomitsu-Tama, and the other is the tide-lowering jewel Shiohuru-Tama. Use them if you need them.”
Japanese Dreams Page 2