Sacred Cesium Ground and Isa's Deluge

by Kimura Yūsuke

  “Ahh, it came out. You should have just pushed on the plunger.” Takizawa sounded exasperated. Jun stood there angrily: “What’s the idea of having amateurs administer shots! Where do you get off treating animals this way? Really, you think you can do whatever you want just because they’re animals?”

  Even after being addressed with such hostility Takizawa responded with a cheerful laugh, “Of course I can’t do whatever I want, but we have a field hospital here. One has to respond to conditions on the ground.” He was filling a new syringe with medication while he spoke. Jun glared at Takizawa with a stern expression, abruptly threw down the syringe: “That’s it. I’m done here,” he blurted out. He then added, “All of you, I bet you are all a bunch of damned meat eaters.” With those angry words he climbed over the fencing onto the main passageway and stomped out of the barn. “Wait!” said Mikako before shuffling off after him.

  “Well, I guess they’re gone, aren’t they?” I said, picking up the syringe to hand to Takizawa. He seemed not particularly surprised: “It happens,” he said in response.

  “He’s kind of strange anyway. You think he’s a vegetarian?”

  “Who knows.”

  “At any rate, the problem now is that this work is more than the two of us alone can handle. I mean, it’s not that we can’t do it, but there are many other tasks to do as well.”

  “I see.”

  “Like castrating the bulls and stuff.”

  “Castrating bulls?”

  “Ha, maybe it is too early to be talking to you about that. Anyway, let’s take a break and think this over.”

  We never saw the Matsuos again after that.

  Day three. Odd: I have been here only since the day before yesterday, yet it feels much longer. Maybe because every day has been so densely packed, maybe because this is so completely divorced from my office job and affords me a sense of comfort. My body still reminds me, every time I move, of its aches and pains, but maybe because I applied a dressing to the sore muscles, maybe because I have become used to the tasks, the pain is not as severe as it was earlier.

  Yesterday, when Sendō heard from Takizawa that the Matsuos had gone home already, he had said, simply, “You don’t say? As they wish.” He often repeats this phrase “As you wish” to mean that no one is forced to do these jobs and, further, to make it clear that he does not have it in him to rely on anyone. “I can take care of this myself” seems to be his stance. This may help explain why he doesn’t give directions to any of us while we are working. He seems to assume we will follow his lead and figure out on our own what needs to be done.

  A number of people were on-site today, people who had been working at the Fortress of Hope since the beginning: Mitani, who looked to me to be in his forties and was a reporter for a news service; Kajiyama, who also looked to be in his forties and was webmaster for the Suzuran Farm’s home page; and Itoi, who even though he was only twenty-eight, seemed at home with the trucks and tractors. The three men, being key members of the volunteer team, had shown up today. Apparently we were going to have a visit, before lunch, from the twentysomething celebrity-politician who called herself Mikuni Mari. She wanted to observe goings-on at the farm. These guys had all come as support staff for the visit.

  Handsome Mitani had driven all the way from Nagoya. Bearded Kajiyama, from Tokyo, talked to the cattle with a soothing voice. Itoi, who carried himself like a monk, was on the tractor quietly cleaning up cow piles. He had come up from Kawasaki. This was indeed a gathering spot for “foreign troops.”

  People I had never met before kept appearing; I am usually extremely shy around new people, so this was leaving me feeling rather anxious. But with Sendō and Yasuda up first, followed by the next level of powerful hitters in Takizawa and Sonoda, we began the day’s work with an all-star lineup. But to me, more important than the visit of some apparently famous politician-personality was the feeding of the cattle.

  Bean sprouts and apple cores, and then vegetable scraps. Maybe because we were close to Christmas I could also see grapes and pineapple skins. And pieces of ginger root; it was odd that, given that the cows would eat anything, only the ginger remained uneaten. The troughs would be licked clean of all the other vegetable scraps; ginger alone would remain behind. The entire barn seemed enveloped in a crazy eating frenzy: the clanging and banging of cow horns against the metal fencing, the insistent scraping of cow tongues reaching for the bits of apple that remained in the walkway. The eyes of the cows before which no food had yet appeared seemed fixed on me. I was still some distance removed yet could feel their exhalations in the air. Following the vegetable scraps came the two rolls of hay, one at a time. This hay was quite tightly packed, so there were soon the loud clangings of cattle swinging their heads while tearing off the hay.

  As equitably as possible. So that all might be able to eat. With the large numbers of helpers today each person’s tasks were significantly lighter. I found I could observe what was going on around me. That’s one of the results of having sufficient help. One cow tried to squeeze between the others to get to the hay and was repulsed; when I saw it hanging in the back, forlorn, I threw an armload of hay in its direction. Even though it then landed on top of the compressed manure, it stretched its neck to begin eating the hay that had landed under its nose. Other cows that could be seen languishing even further back would be drawn forward, toward these clumps of hay on the ground.

  When the pace of work had slowed a bit one could hear that sound reverberating through the cow barn. It reminded me of how water echoes in a large public bath—the sound of the hay chewed between their teeth, the sound of intent mastication: kappoh … kappoh … kappuu … kappoh …

  The air was filled with sound, yet I sensed serenity; it was a wondrous moment. I enjoyed listening to these sounds that followed the moments of frenzy. Enveloped by those sounds, for just a little, I felt calmed.

  It was just before lunch when I realized that Sendō, Takizawa, and Mitani had all disappeared. Near the farm entrance I could see ten cars parked, maybe more. Apparently Mikuni Mari had arrived. I knew very little about this woman who was known to her fans as Miku Mari. According to Mitani she had cut her teeth singing with a popular girl group; she was now the first politician who had been put on the public stage by a producer, a guy known for promoting bands. She had diligently studied and mastered all there was to know about being a politician, and now, the gallant figure she cut as she expounded, through tears, the future of the country had gained her the support of demographics that are usually indifferent to politics. Her power to influence the swing vote was not to be underestimated, apparently.

  After feeding the animals in barn number 2 we moved on to barn number 1; after those tasks were finished our chores were largely complete. With a politician in the way we couldn’t freely go about our work, nor could we begin making lunch. I was feeling hungry and thus a little irritable. I asked Yasuda, “What did they come here for, anyway?” She just cocked her head and said, “Have to wonder …” After a pause, she continued, “She came here once before too. That seemed motivated mostly by an antinuclear stance, but she is also quite passionate about animal protection too, so maybe that has something to do with it.”

  “I guess better that she comes than not,” added Sonoda, sounding exasperated.

  “Well, maybe, but if that’s the case I wish she didn’t drag all these people along who have no interest in the farm. I mean, if she’s gonna come, the least she could do would be to help feed the animals. I mean, really.”

  Kajiyama smirked: “I bet she will be taking pictures with Fuku-chan again, don’t you think? The sacrificial calf, amputated at the knees, a sacrifice to nuclear power, with the pop-star politician. It would make a pretty picture, no? But you watch, she won’t do a damn thing in the end.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. This is only for her own image making. The farm might show up as background, but get this farm recognition by the country and the government? Work
to drum up support so we can continue? None of that.”

  “You’re kidding. So that’s what it’s about?”

  “She may be a pretty face, but in substance she is no different from all the other opposition politicians, no sympathy for the weak, preaching self-help and self-reliance. So, all the young people behind her are getting behind someone who is only going to abandon them.”

  While we were talking, Itoi was at work between the two barns. He was on the tractor cleaning up the cow piles and loading them on the back of the dump truck. The cows, now finished eating, stood motionless at the end of the lane, reflecting the sun’s rays; they looked like bronze statues.

  Miku Mari was driven into the center of things, only three cars in her entourage. There was not enough space to park all their cars near the barns, so the rest, who couldn’t get a ride, had to walk. The cows that had been forced off to the side of the narrow road seemed confused by the line of people streaming past. There must have been thirty people. I expected them to all be over the top in white hazmat suits, but they simply wore winter jackets.

  Sure enough, just as Kajiyama had predicted, the group—which included the small-statured Miku Mari, a bunch of people who looked to be TV crew and cameramen—went straight to Fuku-chan’s stall and began taking pictures. She looked like a high school girl, from what could be seen above the dust mask, with pink coveralls and yellow boots with a white water-droplet pattern. Apparently she had hand sewn cloth booties and was now putting them on Fuku-chan’s amputated legs. She began to shriek, “Oh my gawd, look how cute; this is just too cute!” They all laughed exaggeratedly, these sycophants, the hair and makeup crew, and then the old guys probably from the prefectural government offices. And then the incessant sound of camera shutters; they made a mess of the peace of the cowshed.

  I couldn’t stand it anymore and started walking down toward the pasture. As I made my way down the slope, the muscles of my back, and thighs, and calves screamed in loud protest. I had to proceed with clumsy steps. Halfway down the hill I recalled Kazumasa’s email from this morning: “This is all my fault! I’m so sorry! I will never do that again! I promise! I’ll be better! So please come back! I beg of you! I’m such a mess!! I can’t do a thing without you!!”

  It all felt very strange. Between what was written there and the current me: it just didn’t feel real that these two were connected. Kazumasa had called me twenty times and sent seven messages over yesterday and the day before. The threatening and abusive words in the early messages gave way to servile groveling and petitioning. So, after raking me over the coals, it was as if he had changed into another person, someone contrite and kind. It was always like that. I didn’t get it. Why did I accept that change each and every time? I knew I was going to be betrayed yet again in future. What was I hanging on to?

  The pasture was shaped like a large bowl; I made my way to the bottom. Even though it was a pasture—perhaps because of the season, or because the grass was eaten as soon as it sprouted—there were only a few thin tufts of grass. I removed my tight mask and my gloves and stuffed them into the pockets of the windbreaker. Partly because this was to be my last volunteer day, I had in hand the sticklike Geiger counter. When I turned it on it started beeping furiously.

  It was a machine that would emit a sound whenever it encountered radiation; it was going off constantly. Even though it was designed for home use it was sufficient to give a sense of the radiation levels in this area. I felt it, every time it went off, as if radioactive waves were, at that moment, striking the device. It was registering close to twenty-two times higher than the official level that would require Decontamination Implementation Protocols. Some places thirty times more. Compared with the measurements I took at home in Nakano, one hundred times more.

  My body registered nothing. No particular tingling sensations. I did feel a light restlessness in my feet. Something insistent was pushing on me, in the region of my stomach, just below my navel. And the invisible items that made the Geiger counter sing would also be striking what was enveloped deep within me, right now. And if that’s the case, how do I justify having rashly put myself in this place? So then, if I am thinking like this, now, I guess I have not completely escaped from the thinking that Kazumasa called “a waste.”

  Four head of cattle, small enough to be calves, were eating grass nearby. I stopped to take in this scene of innocence. I was reminded of something that I had heard Sendō express earlier, in his book or maybe in one of the articles about him. He had said that the cattle here, which can no longer be transported out of the area, are not pets, nor are they animals in a zoo. So, he asked, what does that make them? So now I wondered, looking at the cows standing in front of me, “What does that make you?” I got no answer. They continued, silent, heads down, searching with the tips of their noses for the scant grass at their feet.

  A large craggy crevice cut a zigzag through the pasture, close to where the cows stood, exposing pale-brown earth. When I first saw this from the top of the hill I assumed it was an earthquake crevice. But Sonoda told me it was formed by water runoff and that over time it had grown to the size of a river. A tree spread bare branches in the deepest part of the ravine. Two cows were at the bottom, looking up this way. It appeared they had gone down to drink from the water gathered there; they stood, not moving, in the muddy, cloudy water. The slope was steep but probably not impossible to climb; I saw no reason to alert Yasuda and the others about them.

  … Bi bip … Bi bi bip … Bip. Bi bip. Bi bip … Bi bip … Bip. Bip. Bip. Bip. Bi bip … Bi bip bip bip. Bi bip … Bip … Bip … Bip bip bi bip … Bip …

  The Geiger counter was going off again.

  Looking back up to the edge of the bowl I could see cow barn number 1 and number 2, now backlit by the sun. The sky stretched out above, deep blue and expansive, with brilliantly white floating clouds. A small bird cut across the sky. A single flap of wings midair and it would glide, like a spindle-shaped shadow; another flap as it began to lose speed, and off it went again. Rays of white-gold sun burst through gaps in the clouds, and the wide expanse of the pasture, out to the trees on the border, was suddenly bathed in light. There was a light breeze, but the day was not that cold.

  This was tranquility itself. All things peaceful and safe. Such words came to mind. The instrument in my hand alone knew that things in this land were not normal and was conveying this to me without letup. If this instrument is to be believed, right now, every single thing, is being struck by this “invisible something.” Cesium ground, cesium grass, cesium trees, cesium water, cesium air, cesium cows. And, of course: cesium me.

  I climbed back to the top. Miku Mari and her crew were still at it in the barns; it didn’t look like they were going to leave anytime soon. Over in the corner Yasuda was taking pictures of the cow called Gaga-chan with her smartphone, which I assumed would soon get uploaded to Suzuran Farm’s Facebook page. I had long been following Suzuran Farm on Facebook. Her posts included pictures of the cows, of course, but also the dogs and cats, and all the animals of the farm, in ways that conveyed the deep care she felt for them. Sendō is right in his insistence that these are not pets, but through her compassionate eyes I felt a closeness to the farm and its animals.

  Gaga was a large cow, entirely cream colored, with small black spots scattered across her coat. I assumed she was a Holstein too, same as Ichigo. I wasn’t sure exactly where the name came from, but someone had said it is because her face resembles that of Lady Gaga. During yesterday’s feeding time she had planted herself in the passageway. I had called to her to move and get out of the way, but she had completely ignored me. I put my arms around her neck to guide her to the side, but she abruptly swung her head and tried to hit me. I just barely caught her with my two hands, but she had delivered a powerful, thudding attack. Haughty beast; feels no need to follow orders from humans. From that point I decided that a different name was in order for this cow. I decided on Geronimo.

  “That’s one strong cow,�
� I said; Yasuda just laughed when I told her about it. “Actually, no. It may look that way, but compared with all the other cows she’s quite weak.” I was doubtful, but she continued, “Sometimes she is unable to get anything to eat inside the barns, and then she is also pushed away from the hay rolls set up outside. Sometimes she’s just standing there all by herself.” Hearing this, I had a change of heart toward Gaga-chan.

  “Yasuda-san, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I would like to see the cow graveyard. Where is it?”

  “I can show you.”

  According to the books I had read there was an area where the cows were deposited after they died. I had to wonder if, for a farm so committed to keeping cows alive, it might make sense to hide the corpses of dead cows, so I was hesitant to ask. But Yasuda agreed without resistance.

  We walked down the slight slope in front of Sonoda’s house toward an old cowshed. I had assumed that the thick black mud in that area was an accumulation of manure. It was muddy but extremely sticky; with each step I feared it would pull off my boots. Radiation may be “a thing unseen,” but this manure was “a thing seen” and oppressively so. Yasuda, right next to me, was also struggling with her footing.

  A two-story wooden cowshed stood to the right. All the paint had peeled off, exposing the dried, weather-beaten planking. A cow stood next to a faded, antique-looking tractor that looked to have been parked there for years.

  “Is that the old cattle barn?”

  “It is.”

  “And that’s where Fuku-chan was found?”

  “It is. No one ever comes over here, no vehicles either, and you see how hard it is to walk here. But maybe because it’s so quiet, the cows often come in here.”

  This was no longer sticky muddy ground but more like a deep marshy area. With colors of faint green and ocher, the ground was spongy and soft, perhaps because of the water flowing through it. In places it was as deep as the top of our Wellington boots. And this mud, compared with before, really stank. Like some mix of shit and old oil, it had an awful stench. One step after the other, concentrating fully: I was not about to tumble into this.