Somewhere close by, Eijiro and the officer were arguing but all he could hear was the blood thundering in his ears as the rock walls closed in around him. He slumped forward, gasping for breath. The heat was unbearable. An image floated into his mind – a dingy upstairs room, afternoon sunshine on a spring day in Kagoshima, her soft skin and slender waist, the taste of her lips, her long black hair hanging loose in tangled strands, her musky perfume. If this officer, if he …
The thought was more than he could bear. He wished Eijiro would cut his throat right then and put an end to the clamour in his head. But no, first he would have his revenge. He braced himself, ready to spring on the man with his bare hands and grip him round the throat, no matter that he’d be beaten to death before he could do any damage.
A hand grabbed his hair and pulled him to his knees and Eijiro’s swarthy face swam into view. ‘Nobu, old friend,’ he said with exaggerated politeness. ‘Will you do us the honour of preceding us to the western paradise and sweep the path for our arrival?’
Nobu wanted to spit in his face but his mouth was dry. Eijiro raised his dagger, grinning, and pulled his head back. Nobu struggled fiercely. He was not ready to die.
Suddenly Kuninosuké’s hand gripped Eijiro’s wrist. His thin face was dark with fury.
‘Enough,’ he bellowed. ‘We’re not executioners. We kill in combat, not cold blood. Let’s see what your father has to say.’
The foot of the cliff had been hollowed into caves, each large enough for a couple of men to sleep in. Some looked natural, others as if they’d been carved out of the rough rock. Injured men lay in the shade, staring around, eyes glittering with fever. A musician sat on a large stone, strumming a biwa, and a few men were bent over games of go, using stones as pieces. A large fire was burning where the rebels smelted down metal for bullets. In the glare of the flames the ragged men and overhanging branches cast long shadows that flickered across the rock wall. Dogs roamed about, turning to snarl at the new arrivals.
Vines dangled in front of the largest cave, forming a curtain. Eijiro pushed them aside and went in. Nobu could hear his drawl and another, lower voice answering. Then the vines parted and a man came out.
Nobu’s ribs and shins were so bruised he could hardly stand, but he also felt an unexpected surge of awe. He dropped to his knees. The voices echoing around the cliff fell silent as one by one men turned and bowed.
So this was Taka’s father, the famous General Kitaoka. He towered over Eijiro like a tree over a lowly shrub. He was not just tall, he was huge. His chest, as big as a barrel of sake, bulged through the thin cotton of his striped kimono, his belly swelled over his low-slung obi and his massive calves were clad in blue leggings. It was strange, rather incongruous to see this imposing personage in the garb of a humble peasant. His eyes sparkled like black diamonds. He was a man who was not afraid of anything.
He looked at Nobu as if he could see into his soul. He had a long-stemmed pipe in one hand. He tapped it out slowly against a rock, as if he had all the time in the world, then cleared his throat. ‘My son tells me they caught you climbing around the hillside, spying.’ Nobu stared at the dusty ground, expecting a blow or to hear an order for his execution. Instead there was a soft chuckle. He raised his head, startled. The general had a kindly, almost fatherly look in his eyes. ‘Brave fellow. Too bad you’re not on our side. We could do with men like you.’
Eijiro was turning his dagger over and over in his hand. ‘Shall I interrogate him, Father?’
‘What could he possibly tell us? That we’re foxes in a trap, that we have no further to run? That the army’s encamped at the bottom of the hill, determined to starve us out? We know all that already.’
‘Shall I kill him?’
‘Leave him be. He’s just doing his job.’
‘He’s an Aizu, Father. He’s our enemy. He’d kill us if he could.’
‘He feels loyalty towards his clan, just as we do towards ours.’ He turned to Nobu. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
Nobu licked his lips. ‘Nobuyuki Yoshida, sir.’ His voice was a croak.
‘Give this lad a drink.’ The tall officer appeared beside Nobu and put a flask in his hands. He took a swig, thinking it was water, and choked as fiery liquor coursed down his throat. He coughed convulsively.
‘You’re not used to our local brew, I see. We don’t have any water, I’m afraid, only shochu.’ The general laughed. ‘I understand you have a message for me.’
Nobu felt himself coming back to life as the liquor reached his empty stomach and radiated out to his fingertips. He fumbled inside his jacket and found the letter, crumpled but intact. He half rose and put it into Kitaoka’s hands.
The general smoothed it out and held it away from his eyes. He scowled, squinted, held it a little closer then slowly read it. ‘Do you know what it says, young Yoshida?’ Nobu bowed respectfully. Of course he didn’t.
‘“Aritomo Yamagata, your intimate friend, humbly addresses this communiqué to his honoured comrade, Masahiro Kitaoka,”’ he read. He looked at Nobu with his large black eyes. ‘It’s true, Yamagata and I are old friends. We fought in the northern wars and served in the government together. I doubt if he wanted to lead the army against me but he’s a man who knows his duty. This is what he writes. “How worthy of compassion your position is! I grieve over your misfortune all the more intensely because I have a sympathetic understanding of you.”’ He read out the rolling phrases in sonorous tones.
‘He couldn’t have written this himself. He had a good education, our Yamagata, but he was never a stylist. This is the work of a professional.’ He turned to the letter again. ‘“For several months we have been embroiled in warfare; both sides daily suffer many hundreds of casualties; friend kills friend, kinsman is pitted against kinsman yet the soldiers fight without malice. The imperial troops are carrying out their military obligation while the Satsuma men loyally fight for Kitaoka.” This is all true. “An end to all this is in your hands only. I beg you to take all necessary measures to end the fighting, both to show that the present situation is not of your making and to bring an end to casualties on both sides as quickly as possible.” ’
He paused, frowning. ‘“Take all necessary measures to end the fighting …” What do you think that means, young Yoshida? He’s far too cunning to say it in so many words but he’s giving me a chance to surrender with honour, is he not? Tell me, what would you do? Would you surrender?’
With every mouthful of shochu, Nobu was growing bolder. He looked at the general. With his frank eyes and all-knowing gaze, it was hard to imagine such a man being anyone’s enemy, let alone condoning the violence and bloodshed of the last months – and yet he had. Nobu could see how men could worship him like a god, follow him blindly, do whatever he ordered. But he also saw that he was human. Maybe other men had lit the flame that had set these dreadful events in train, maybe he’d been caught up in them and been unable to stop them.
There was only one answer that any self-respecting samurai could give to the general’s question: ‘No, sir, no surrender. To surrender is dishonour. There’s no such thing as surrender with honour.’ But to say that would condemn these men to their deaths. Maybe General Yamagata really did want to give his old friend a last chance to save all their lives.
Nobu stared at the ground. ‘There’s no loss of honour, sir, if you surrender now,’ he muttered. There was a long silence. He quailed. At this moment, he knew, he was in more danger of losing his head than he had ever been.
‘My life’s worth nothing,’ Kitaoka growled. ‘My men have not fought their way across Kyushu to lose their heads like common criminals. They deserve to die on the battlefield. We fought to uphold the samurai way of life and we failed. But we can still show the world how samurai die.’
‘Is that your answer, sir?’
Eijiro gave a snort. Nobu heard the scrape of metal on rock. He was honing his dagger. The odds of making it safely back to the bottom of the hill were slight if E
ijiro had anything to do with it.
‘No need for an answer,’ the general said. ‘Stay a while. Relax, cross your legs, enjoy the view.’ It was true. They could see the volcano from here. ‘I’m sorry we can’t give you proper hospitality befitting the envoy of my old friend General Yamagata. We’d offer you food but we don’t have any. But share some shochu with me before you go. I can see you’re a drinking man.’
The general sat down on the ground opposite Nobu and crossed his large legs. The tall officer with the amulet hanging from his belt brought a tray of chipped glasses. Kitaoka took the flask and filled Nobu’s glass, then handed the flask to Nobu to fill his. They clinked glasses.
Eijiro squatted by his father’s side, his swarthy face sullen. He twisted his dagger in the ground. ‘Don’t let him worm his way into your confidence, Father.’
‘My obstinate son sees death looking him in the face. You must excuse his behaviour. Eijiro, my boy. So you know this lad?’
Eijiro growled, ‘He worked for us in Tokyo.’
‘Tokyo.’ Kitaoka heaved a sigh and gazed into the distance, his big eyes wistful. ‘So you knew our Tokyo house. You knew my Tokyo family – my geisha, Fujino, whom they called Princess Pig. She was the most beautiful woman in all Kyoto, the home of beautiful women, and in Tokyo she was supreme. Did you know that, young Yoshida?’ Nobu was amazed to see that the general had tears in his eyes. ‘Women, that’s what I miss most. Women, to make life sweet, to bring beauty and tenderness. My wife is a good woman. I wear the obi she made for me. But when I wanted to ease my heart I went to Fujino. You’ve brought good memories, Yoshida. I’m happy to have such memories the day before I die.’
Men had gathered around them and sat silently cross-legged. Kuninosuké handed around glasses and they poured each other shochu. The shadows were getting longer. The sun was about to disappear behind the crags.
The general emptied his glass. ‘A lot has happened since then,’ he said. ‘Too much. Nothing matters now except to die well. I’ve written my death poem, Yoshida. Before you leave, let me tell you it.’
He adjusted his legs and took a breath, as if he were in a Zen monastery, preparing to meditate. The setting sun lit his heavy-jowled face. He fixed his eyes on the stony ground and said the words softly, as if to himself:
‘If I were a drop of dew, I could take shelter on a leaf tip,
But being a man I have no place in this whole world.’
A shudder ran down Nobu’s spine. It was eerie, sitting with these men who all expected to die. It was like being at a convocation of ghosts. Eijiro’s hatred, even Kuninosuké and his amulet – none of it mattered in the all-consuming face of death.
He nodded. There was nothing to say in answer to such a poem, at such a time. Kitaoka raised a large hand. ‘We’re all dead men here, Yoshida, except you – you and your friend there.’ The general gestured towards Sakurai, squatting morosely against the cliff face, cradling a glass of shochu. ‘You belong in the land of the living. It’s not often that men visit the western paradise and are permitted to leave again – but you will.’ Somewhere an owl hooted, a long-drawn-out melancholy cry, and branches snapped as a monkey swung through the trees. ‘I wasn’t expecting a visitor but now that you’re here, I have a message for you to take back; but not to Yamagata. You’re an Aizu man. I didn’t see the fall of Aizu – I wasn’t there – but I heard about your women, how bravely they fought and died.’
Nobu flinched, but time had softened the pain.
Kitaoka’s voice was a rumble. ‘This is my request. Find my family – my wife, my geisha whom you worked for in Tokyo, and my daughter. Give them this.’ He took a fan from his obi. Kuninosuké was at his elbow with a brush and a flat stone with a drop of black ink on it. The general unfurled the fan, wrote a few words on it, waved it in the air to dry, then furled it and held it out to Nobu. ‘Tell them that you saw me and I was in good spirits. Tell them we died bravely.’ He paused again and looked at Nobu. ‘I fear that if we die, my womenfolk will kill themselves too. They may have done so already.’
The rocky cliff with its dense covering of trees and bamboo and lichen and vines swayed as if it was about to topple on Nobu’s head. The ragged bearded men with their glasses full of colourless liquor swam in and out of focus. There was a roaring in his ears as if the ground was about to open beneath him and swallow him up. He stared at the general, blinking hard. He couldn’t have heard correctly. Surely it was the shochu befuddling his mind.
Kitaoka had spoken of his own death lightly but now his face was drawn and ghastly. His eyes were huge as if he was already searching the underworld, looking for his women. His words hung in the air. ‘They may have done so already …’
Nobu took a shuddering breath. His mother and sisters and grandmother had all killed themselves rather than be dishonoured by the victorious Satsuma. Surely it couldn’t happen again. Surely the Kitaoka women wouldn’t do the same. But they were as proud and fierce as the women of his family had been. And if they did kill themselves, if they had killed themselves, that meant Taka … Taka …
‘I thought there was nothing I could do but now I see there is. Save them, Yoshida. There’s no one else who can. Try and find them, try and stop them.’ The general’s voice was urgent, pleading. ‘If they’re dead, please make sure they are cremated with the proper rites. We men may feed the crows but I want my women to rest in peace.’
Nobu stumbled blindly to his feet, his mind reeling. He’d forgotten the beating, he no longer felt any pain. There was only one thing that mattered now. Taka.
‘I must go,’ he gasped, his voice a thin whimper of horror. ‘I must go immediately.’
‘Kuninosuké,’ said the general. ‘Escort these two back to their own lines. Remember, if any harm comes to them you answer to me.’
But Nobu hardly heard as he plunged down the hill. Branches reached out to block his path, roots and stones rose up to trip him, but nothing could slow his pace. His mind seemed to fly ahead, leaving his body behind. He was gripped by a deadly certainty that squeezed his heart till he could hardly breathe and turned the blood in his veins to ice. He dared not even frame the thought. If the gods had any mercy, let him find her in time. Let it not be too late.
38
THE SUN HAD already set and it was nearly dark. Behind the trees a deep red glow streaked the sky as Taka scrambled up the stony path to the clearing at the top of the hill. She stood on tiptoe and pushed aside branches and ferns and clumps of swaying plume grass. The city lay below her, though it could hardly be called a city any more – an uninhabited plain of rubble, with nothing to indicate it was once a human habitation, dotted with lights and cooking fires marking the army camps.
A dark crag rose alongside it – Castle Hill. There were fiery dots there too, blazing bravely halfway up the slope. A little while earlier the watchman from the Bamboo House had come hobbling up the trail to their farmhouse at West Beppu to break the news that at dawn next day the army would attack her father and his rebel band and wipe them out. Maybe they’d fail, perhaps he’d drive them off, but none of them really believed that. At most there were only a couple of hundred rebels left and thousands upon thousands of soldiers, all armed to the teeth with the latest weapons.
Taka had rushed out straight away and climbed up to the clearing to gaze across at the hill where his camp was. It was strange and terrible to know her father was so close, yet so far away. She narrowed her eyes, imagining she might be able to see him if she peered hard enough. Gunfire rumbled like thunder through the valley, sending a jolt of fear through her with every explosion, and flashes lit the distant slopes. Then for a while it stopped. Bats squeaked and foxes rustled through the undergrowth and leaves shivered in the breeze.
She stared dry-eyed into the night and tried to picture her father, large and imposing, the twinkle in his eye, the ponderous way he used to speak, weighing every word. She remembered him in Tokyo, pacing the grounds with his beloved dogs, talking to the great men
who gathered to pay their respects and ask his opinion, on his knees in his study in his kimono, working. Even when he’d gone to see the emperor he’d dressed like a farmer in kimono and leggings and straw sandals that he wove himself. Then she thought back to that last night, when he’d come to their house in the geisha district.
Everyone loved and respected him. He was the greatest, most principled, most honest and true man in the entire country. The emperor too had loved him. How could they send troops to kill such a man?
Every day all of them – she and her mother and everyone in the farmhouse at West Beppu – struggled to be cheerful, to keep each other’s spirits up. But there was another grief eating away inside her that she couldn’t share with anyone.
She gazed up at the sky, arching vast and mysterious above her. It was nearly dark now and the stars were beginning to twinkle. The River of Heaven swirled from one side to the other, a myriad pinpricks of light. She picked out a bright star on one side of it, then a second on the other. Every night she looked for those stars and tonight they were particularly clear – the tragic lovers, the weaver princess and the cowherd, doomed to be apart for ever except on that one day of the year, Tanabata, the seventh day of the seventh month, when the magpies built their bridge.
Nobu. She thought of him every moment of every day and every night, when she saw those stars, she prayed to the gods to keep him safe and bring him back to her. Perhaps she hadn’t prayed hard enough. Perhaps if she prayed more fervently they would listen.
She pictured his aristocratic nose, his sudden sweet smile, the intense way he looked at her. Tears sprang to her eyes and she fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands. Ever since he had left her standing alone at the gate of the Bamboo House, there had been silence. She’d waited and waited and heard nothing. He hadn’t written, he hadn’t sent a message. Every time the watchman came she thought he might have a letter for her, but he never did.
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