The Samurai's Daughter

by Lesley Downer

  The brothers glanced warily at the policemen patrolling in peaked caps and boots – Aizu men, by their faces, and not much older than Nobu; the only job any northerner could get in this southern-run world was in the army or the police force. At least they had warm clothes to wear, though their greatcoats were threadbare.

  Yet for all the crowds it was eerily quiet. Then Nobu realized what else was missing. There was no bang and clatter of wheels and warning yells from the rickshaw drivers, no rickshaws careering by, sending pedestrians running – just the clop of clogs on stone and the low chatter of voices and occasionally a broken-down nag snorting as it shuffled along in straw horseshoes, bent under an enormous load.

  For fifteen years northerners and southerners had confronted each other, first on the streets of Kyoto, where the Aizu were the shogun’s police, then on the battlefield, where they’d fought for control of the country. In the end the southerners had toppled the shogun and taken power in the name of the teenage emperor, their figurehead. Not content with that, they’d marched north, to wipe out the last shred of resistance and destroy their old enemy – the Aizu.

  Nobu felt anger sparking in his belly. He thought of the Ginza with its gas lamps, its carriages, its rickshaw stands and its restaurants filled with plump, self-satisfied men and women tricked out in fancy western suits and gowns. All that prosperity, and not a grain had made its way up here. The victors lived in luxury, while the defeated had barely enough to eat.

  He kicked savagely at a stone, slamming it into a ditch, and clenched his fists, ready to hack down the southerners who’d brought such ruin on them. Then another memory formed in his mind, of the most luxurious mansion of all, with bevies of servants and rickshaws lined up at the gate, and he saw Taka, with her pale oval face, kneeling in the shadows on the veranda. For a moment he felt a familiar nagging ache, wishing she was here, that he could talk to her, explain to her.

  He thumped his fist against his head. All this time he’d managed to keep her out of his mind, to keep his thoughts on his work and his studies, and now, here in this ruined city, destroyed by her people, he was overcome by weakness. She’d bewitched him, made him forget his duty. The thought of her had wormed its way inside him like a maggot in a fruit. Treacherous, foolish, shameful, he thought. And he dared call himself a soldier?

  Furious at himself and at her, he looked around. In the past it had been impossible to glimpse the countryside through all the buildings but now he could see right across the valley to the distant mountains. He caught sight of a wooded hill, blazing in autumn reds and yellows, rising above the tumbled city walls.

  ‘Look! Isn’t that … Heron Hill?’

  Heron Hill, where they’d had their country house and where he’d been that fateful day that the enemy attacked, when – foolish, innocent child that he’d been – he’d gone off mushroom hunting, not knowing that he was leaving his family to their deaths. He groaned at the memory.

  Pacing out the route from the castle, Yasutaro had worked out where their house ought to be. There was no name board, just a broken wall covered in brambles and a gaping hole where the gate should have been. Roof tiles lay in heaps, fused into clumps from the heat of the blaze. Nobu stared about him in dismay. There was nothing there that looked remotely like the home he remembered.

  They stepped around fallen beams, crunching across gravel, tiles and broken stones, through piles of mouldering leaves. The huge oak and chestnut trees that used to tower over the house had burnt down, though in eight years saplings had begun to grow back, and the landscaped gardens and ornamental lake had disappeared under a mass of moss, vines and ferns. The place was overgrown with bamboo, as tall and dense as a jungle.

  Some of the bushes and trees had been hacked down and there were a couple of makeshift huts at the edge of the expanse of blackened earth where the house must have been. Yasu squared his shoulders, his large face pinched and drawn. He seemed to have shrunk into himself. Like Nobu, he was afraid of what they would find. He hesitated, then took a breath and called out.

  There was a long silence, then a door creaked open and a man stepped out, blinking. He had the bony frame and pinched, wind-parched face of a peasant and big, work-stained hands. A smile spread across his face.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t … Father, they’re here! Yasutaro and Nobu, here!’

  ‘Gosaburo!’ It was Yasu’s voice.

  Looking at his brother, Nobu felt dismay washing over him again. Gosaburo had been the handsomest of the brothers and a fine swordsman. The third son, he was older than Nobu and younger than Yasu and Kenjiro. But he’d given up any hopes or ambitions he might have had to stay and take care of their father when his three brothers set off for Tokyo.

  It was six years since Nobu had seen his father and third brother. The new government – the victorious southerners – had confiscated the Aizu lands and forced the Aizu samurai to live in a new homeland far to the north. But none of them knew when they set out on the long trek to Tonami that it was a fearful place of salt flats and grey volcanic ash where nothing grew, buried deep under snow for half the year.

  Nobu had never known cold as bone-chilling as that. With no clogs or straw sandals, he’d had to run around just to stop his bare feet sticking to the icy ground. At night he’d slept huddled close to his father and brothers with only a cotton kimono and straw sacking for warmth. Being samurai, they’d had no idea how to farm, and when their rice allocation ran out they’d ended up grubbing for wild plants and roots. The local people had shied away and muttered ‘Aizu caterpillars’ when they saw them in the street. Many of the families that had gone north with them starved to death that first winter. Nobu dared not think how many had died since then.

  A shadow appeared on the threshold. The old man who stood there was thin as a pole and his hair was nearly white. Instead of the stern warrior Nobu remembered, there was a stoop to his father’s shoulders and a querulous frown on his face, but he held himself with pride. Nobu dropped to his knees.

  ‘Yasu. Is that you, my son? And this must be young Nobu. Let me look at you, my boy. My, my, you’ve turned into a man.’

  Nobu bowed, trying to hide his dismay at the changes that time and hardship had wrought in his father. He’d lost his fierce arrogance and intimidating scowl; he seemed to have shrunk like a dog beaten into submission.

  He remembered his last meeting with him. He’d been on his knees, head to the ground. The cold stones pressed against his shins and there was a smell of earth under his nose. He’d looked up and spoken the words Yasutaro had taught him, loud and clear: ‘Father, I will not come back until I’ve made something of myself.’ And here he was, back again, but he’d made nothing of himself. Yasu had had to intervene with his superior officer and beg extra time off school for him so he could come north on this sad mission.

  ‘Father, we return after long absence.’ Yasu uttered the formal words of greeting. ‘We are glad to find you in good health.’

  A woman had followed their father out, twisting her hands – Yuki, Yasu’s wife. She had been a girl when Nobu last saw her, and since then she’d faded and grown bony. She and Yasu had just been married and hardly knew each other when he’d left for Tokyo. Yasu barely acknowledged her, as was to be expected while his father and brothers were present, but Nobu could tell by the way his eyes strayed towards her that he was glad to see her.

  ‘You come with the falling of the leaves,’ said Father, his eyes darting back and forth, encased within folds of skin. He had the tremulous voice of an old man. ‘I give thanks to the gods and our ancestors that we are alive and here together again, back on our own land.’ He smiled ruefully and waved a thin hand towards the overgrown grounds. ‘You’ll be wanting to go to the family grave. But first you must eat. You’ve come a long way. Yuki, prepare rice.’

  Nobu remembered his father in Tonami, sitting by the river with his fishing rod, staring into the distance. He wanted to hear how his life had been, how the family had got back to Aizu, and t
o tell him that he, his youngest son, was in the army now. He knew that would gladden his heart. The family had sacrificed so much to send him and Yasu and Kenjiro to Tokyo, he wanted them to know he’d made a success of himself, even if it wasn’t entirely true. He dared not tell them that Yasu just did odd jobs and that in the holidays he himself was an errand boy.

  ‘And Kenjiro, your brother, how is he?’

  ‘He’s well, he’s well,’ said Yasu. It was another half-truth. ‘Studying, as always. Reading, writing. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘No job yet, then?’

  ‘We all get by.’

  Nobu was scrambling to his feet when he felt Yasu’s eyes on him, reminding him that he had a duty to discharge. The urn weighed heavy on his back.

  ‘Is there any news of … Kumazo?’ He could hardly bring himself to say the name.

  ‘They took care of our land all the years we were away, he and Otaké,’ said Father, his face brightening. ‘They take care of us still. They’re here.’

  There was a footstep behind Nobu and a big man with a few wispy hairs on his head appeared, ducking under the lintel of the second hut.

  Kumazo’s name meant Bear. When Nobu was a child he’d towered over him like a huge black bear, carrying him on his shoulders or tossing him in the air. Nobu had always been a bit afraid of him with his rough voice and booming laugh. Kumazo had been the chief stable master, adept at taming runaway horses, and his kind wife Otaké had been the head maid. They’d lived with the family as part of the household and it had seemed entirely natural for Jubei, their son, to become Yasu’s trusted retainer.

  Jubei had told Nobu that when the samurai refugees started pouring out of the burning city, Kumazo ferried them across the river to safety in a leaky boat which threatened to sink under the weight. Jubei’s brother had fought in the clan army. He’d been captured and never returned and his sister had disappeared too. The last thing Jubei had heard of his parents was that they’d fled to the countryside.

  Otaké, a tiny shadow of a woman, hobbled a few steps behind her husband. Her hips were so bent that her face nearly brushed the ground, but when she looked up she was beaming.

  The two knelt painfully before the brothers. ‘Welcome back, young masters, welcome back.’

  Nobu wanted to abase himself, to bang his head on the ground in penance, but that would have shocked them beyond belief. He took off his pack and fumbled for the urn. It was of lacquerware, not much bigger than a tea caddy. He’d spent all his earnings and bought the best he could afford. He brought out the tiny jar of ash, all that was left of big Jubei with his rambunctious laugh and fierce loyalty, and held it out to them in both hands.

  ‘Jubei …’ he said, fighting back tears. ‘It was my fault, a stupid adventure. Forgive me.’

  Yasutaro butted in. ‘Your son died a hero, battling the Satsuma. Rest assured, you can be proud of him.’

  Nobu placed the urn containing Jubei’s ashes in Kumazo’s gnarled hands. The old man took it and raised it to his forehead in a gesture of prayer, blinking as if he was just beginning to understand that this last son of his was dead. A tear ran down his furrowed face.

  Otaké whispered, ‘You don’t need our forgiveness, young master. We would never blame you. Jubei was always the wild one. I was sure he’d get himself killed one of these days. We’ll always be grateful to you, young master. You took good care of him.’

  ‘It was him that took care of us,’ said Yasu fiercely. ‘He saved my life many times. He wasn’t a servant, he was my friend and I miss him. I always will. Tell them what happened, Nobu.’

  Nobu hung his head. ‘We were attacked by Satsuma. We were out together in Tokyo,’ he muttered. He couldn’t bring himself to continue the lie. He shook his head, whispering, ‘It should have been me that died.’

  18

  ‘SO YOU’RE A soldier now, young Nobu,’ said his father, nodding gravely. A couple of candles lit the hut along with the embers flickering in the hearth, sending shadows dancing on the wooden walls, but at least it was more spacious than their miserable quarters in Tonami had been, Nobu thought. He could hear the clatter of pots and pans outside as Yuki prepared the meal.

  ‘The southern clans are growing restless, Father,’ said Yasu. ‘Some of them are preparing to take up arms, we hear. The new government hasn’t given them what they were hoping for. There’ve been several uprisings. There was one a couple of years ago.’

  ‘So I heard. Led by one of Kitaoka’s henchmen. The news made it all the way to the salt flats of Tonami.’

  ‘There’s rumours there may be another soon. If trouble breaks out down south we’ll be the first to join up. They’ll need all the recruits they can find for the army.’

  ‘And the police force too. I’m glad to hear it.’ Father’s back had straightened and he looked more like the proud warrior Nobu remembered. There was a gleam in his eye. ‘And that treacherous snake Kitaoka. What of him?’

  ‘Stormed off to Kyushu and hasn’t been seen since. It seems he’s at the heart of the trouble. The Satsuma are massing around him. Not a single Satsuma student went back to school after the holidays. Isn’t that right, Nobu?’

  Nobu grunted assent. He knew both too much and too little of Kitaoka. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

  ‘We’ve had news too.’ Their father’s voice had grown sombre. ‘Your uncle Juémon turned up.’

  ‘Uncle Juémon?’

  Uncle Juémon had been a legend when Nobu was growing up. Their father’s dashing younger brother, he’d been a famous swordsman, and when he was not away at war he used to go outside the city walls at night and pick fights with strangers just to keep in practice, so people said. As a child Nobu used to laugh at the thought of the corpses littering the ground in the morning and dreamed of growing up to be just like him.

  Juémon was adept with modern weapons too. He’d fought in many campaigns, then, when the castle was besieged, led a platoon that made daring forays against the enemy positions. When the castle surrendered, the southerners came in search of his head but he’d disappeared. No one knew what had become of him, or if they did, they didn’t say. He hadn’t been among the prisoners who were marched down to Tokyo and didn’t end up in exile in the frozen wastes of Tonami. People said he’d gone into hiding or been killed or was incarcerated somewhere. Then the years passed and no one spoke of him any more.

  He’d been Nobu’s favourite uncle. He told tall stories, played tricks and taught him how to fight. The last he’d seen of him had been the day his mother sent him to Heron Hill to pick mushrooms. Uncle Juémon had just got back from the front. He’d dropped in and waved goodbye as Nobu had gone off with his aunt.

  His return was thrilling news. Yet Father seemed strangely downcast. Nobu frowned, trying to see his face in the gloom.

  ‘So he’s alive?’

  ‘What would you expect of a man like that? He went into hiding in the mountains. When he heard we were back in Aizu he came down to see us.’

  ‘Into the hornets’ nest.’

  ‘He’s got a new name now and cut his topknot off and he’s brawnier than he was. You wouldn’t know him.’

  ‘Except for the crazy look in his eye,’ said Yasu, unable to restrain a smile.

  ‘He was on his way to Tokyo. You might see him there.’ Father reached for the poker and stirred the embers in the hearth till they sparked to life, then leaned forward, holding his hands to the flames. ‘He had something he wanted to tell me,’ he added. His voice had grown so quiet Nobu had to listen hard to catch his words.

  There was silence except for the fire crackling and candles sputtering. The smell of cooking rice wafted in from outside. The two sons waited respectfully for their father to go on.

  ‘About your mother and grandmother and sisters. What became of them.’

  Nobu found himself staring stubbornly into the fire. He wanted to put his hands over his ears. He knew enough already about what had happened, he didn’t need to know any m
ore.

  ‘We men were all away fighting at the front,’ said Father slowly. ‘None of us was here when the city was attacked. But we all heard what happened. When the fire bell rang, the samurai families were supposed to take refuge in the castle. But many chose to die.’ It was as if the words were being dragged out of him. ‘Mother – your dear mother – was a fine warrior. She was fearless and skilled with the halberd. There’s no doubt that she’d have joined the women’s battalion if she could have, and gone into battle. Or she’d have been in the castle, preparing food for the defenders, bandaging the wounded, throwing wet mats over the cannonballs as they landed to stop them exploding. But she had dependants – my elderly mother, your grandmother, and your two young sisters. She had to think of them.

  ‘Uncle Juémon had gone to warn them that the enemy troops had entered the city when the fire bell started ringing. “Go to the castle, straight away,” he told them.’

  Their father’s quavering voice stopped abruptly and he bowed his head. Yasu reached for the kettle that was hanging over the hearth, filled the teapot and poured him a cup. Father took a mouthful and cleared his throat. When he spoke again his voice faltered so much it was hard to hear.

  ‘“Please don’t waste time trying to persuade us,” Mother said. She was utterly calm. “You know perfectly well we’d be unable to help at White Crane Castle. We’d only get in the way of the defence and consume precious food and water. We’ve seen the southern armies outside the city walls. It’s all over for us. War is not a tea ceremony. They’re bound to take the city and when they do they’ll have no mercy. We’ve heard how they’ve treated the farmers round about. They’ll rape us or kill us or sell us as slaves. We know what we have to do, we’ve already discussed it, and we’re ready.” Juémon never forgot her words. I’ve repeated them exactly as he told me.