The Pure Land

by Spence, Alan

  ‘What do you say?’ the master asked, producing a sword. And Glover was dumbstruck, could not say one word, choked and gagged on it, stuck in his throat. Not one word. And he couldn’t move as the master took the boy by the scruff of the neck, like lifting a scraggy cat.

  ‘One word.’

  Nothing.

  And the master set the boy down and with one stroke of the blade cleaved him in two, split him in half and the two halves fell apart.

  And Glover woke up screaming it out.

  ‘No!’

  *

  Tsuru seemed reconciled to the idea of bringing the boy in to the house. She too had wanted a son, a brother for Hana. She had prepared a space for him, divided Hana’s room with a screen, put down a small futon on a wooden base. She had even bought him clothes from the market, a few toys. She was ready.

  The dream had unsettled Glover, but he’d pushed it aside, was preoccupied with the running of the mine and the imminent arrival of the Jho Sho Maru from Aberdeen.

  The mine was thriving. The second shaft was operational and drainage and ventilation had been improved. The shaft was sunk 160 feet, opened onto a seam of coal eight feet high, worked day and night by shifts of labourers. He visited the island every day, marvelled at the swift efficiency of the workforce as the coal was dug, brought to the surface, transported by a human chain, men black with coaldust, passing buckets hand to hand and down into the bunkers of waiting junks and barges.

  Glover stood at the dock, watching the operation, amazed at the speed of it all, the briskness and lack of fuss, amazed too at their seeming good humour. All day they kept up a stream of chatter, laughing and joking. He understood very little of it, barked out in their harsh argot, but he guessed most of it was ribald, obscene, caught the odd lewd gesture and let it pass, laughed it off. The next time Ito was in town he would bring him here, get him to translate. He imagined Ito roaring with laughter.

  Ito would be here for the arrival of the battleship, and Iwasaki would come with him. Already, with Glover’s help, they had bought land on the far side of the bay, started building a bigger slipdock, laying out the Mitsubishi shipyard.

  *

  It was raining on the appointed day, a thin drizzle at first, getting steadily heavier, the sky darkening as he rode out of town, along the narrow road. He had brought in his saddlebag an oilskin cape to wrap round the boy, keep him dry, and at Tsuru’s insistence, a small straw kasa umbrella-hat.

  As he neared the village, the track was churned up, muddy. He stopped outside the shack, tethered the horse, called out.

  ‘Maki! Guraba desu! Gomen kudasai!’

  He waited for the response, the Hai, dozo! But there was no reply, no sound from inside. Nothing.

  The screen door was on a simple wooden latch. He slid it open, looked in. The place was empty. He stepped inside, conscious of the mud on his boots, stooped and untied them, prised them off. The rain battered on the roof, deepened the sense of emptiness, desolation. The damp seeping into the walls overlaid the other smells, added to their rankness, the incense now faint and stale.

  She couldn’t be far away, had perhaps just gone to some market, been caught out by the rain, taken shelter somewhere. He would wait.

  *

  Tsuru answered the door, saw the woman, Maki, standing there with the child, both of them bedraggled, soaked through by the rain. It made no sense, but composing herself she stepped aside, invited them in. Maki shook her head, said she wouldn’t stay, but pushed the boy forward, explained to him everything would be all right.

  Tsuru asked why she was here, Guraba-san had gone to her place. Maki said the boy had been afraid of the horse, she thought it might be difficult, so she had brought him.

  Tsuru said again she must come in, dry herself, have something to eat. Maki said she couldn’t, it was impossible, she had to go.

  Tsuru understood. Maki handed her a canvas bag with a few of the boy’s things, his clothes, sandals. Tsuru took it, nodded. Maki bowed, turned and went.

  *

  Perhaps she had changed her mind, taken the boy and run away. But there was no sense that the place had been abandoned. There were fresh flowers in front of the little shrine; the samisen was there, under its silk cover; cooking pots, tea-bowls had been left upside drown to drain on a wooden rack; the bedding had been rolled up, tidied away.

  She could not have gone far. He pulled on his boots again, turned up his coat collar against the rain and stepped out, swung himself up into the saddle. He began by riding round the village, crossed a bridge over a river, running high because of the heavy rain. He asked one or two women, scurrying to get out of the rain, if they’d seen her. They waved him away, kept their heads down.

  She might have gone to visit Yumi, and if not, Yumi might know where she was.

  But no, Yumi hadn’t seen her all week. The last time she’d come she’d been quiet, sad.

  He was suddenly fearful. It came to him with awful clarity. She had thrown herself in the river. He saw it, vivid as a dream, saw her floating in the water, face down, the sleeves of her kimono spread out like wings. He shook himself. This was madness. Perhaps she had just been confused about the day, had gone into town to the market, taken the boy with her.

  It would serve no purpose riding back and forth along this road, in the rain. He thanked Yumi. He would go home, come back in the morning, early.

  *

  Tsuru had peeled off the boy’s wet clothes, scrubbed him clean, rinsed him with buckets of warm water poured over his head, wrapped him in a towel while she ran hot water into the bath. Then she’d lifted him up, this little creature, frail and naked, eased him into the tub, let him soak in it. And all the while the boy said nothing, looked around him dazed, in a dream. He stared straight ahead as she lifted him out of the bath, rubbed him dry, dressed him in his new clothes, a navy blue sailor suit she had bought for him. She introduced him to Hana, said she was his sister and this was his new home. She gave him toys, a bright-coloured ball, a carved wooden horse, said they were his to play with, to keep. He looked at them, his eyes dull.

  *

  When Glover came home, soaked through, the boy looked up at him, startled, unsure.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Glover. Then he looked around. ‘Maki?’

  ‘She leave the boy and go,’ said Tsuru.

  He turned towards the door again, for a moment was about to go back out, into the night. But he stopped himself. He was being ridiculous. Maki could look after herself, would have taken a rickshaw, be back home or at Yumi’s. He would go and talk to her in the morning. That was time enough. In the morning. He was weary.

  Tsuru filled the tub for him, almost too hot to bear, but he tholed it, lay back, let the blood thud in his head, light flash behind his eyes. He drifted, again saw Maki, kimono-wings spread, flying. No, she was swimming. No, the garment was wet, heavy, pulling her down. She was drowning.

  He thrashed, surfaced, again called out, ‘No!’

  His voice boomed, echoed. Coils of steam, condensation, filled the room. He gasped, gulped in warm air. Tsuru hurried in, anxious.

  He came to himself; he was here now in this place, his home, soaking in the hot tub.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he heard himself say. ‘Just a daft dream.’

  He climbed out, dripping. Tsuru brought him a towel and he dried himself, put on a yukata and a thicker cotton robe.

  The boy still sat, looked lost. But Tsuru had made food and the smell of it filled the room, ginger and sesame, onions and fish, a smoky tang. The boy must be hungry. He stood up and came to the table, stared. The solid oak table, the dining room chairs, were too high. Hana had a little table of her own where she kneeled. Tsuru had put another bowl there for the boy, laid out chopsticks. She dolloped out a serving for him, noodles in broth.

  ‘Dozo.’

  He set to, shovelling with the chopsticks, his face almost in the broth, slurped it all down, intent and greedy as a young animal. Then with perfect civility he piped
in his wee reed of a voice, ‘Itadakimasu.’

  Tsuru refilled his bowl. Glover brought his own food and kneeled down at the low table beside the boy and Hana. Tsuru did the same. Hana clapped her hands, laughed; the boy looked at her and smiled, uncertain.

  ‘This is your home now,’ said Glover. ‘Katei desu. And this is your family.’

  ‘Kazoku desu,’ said Tsuru.

  She explained to him he would have a new name for his new life. They would call him Tomisaburo. That would be shortened to Tomi. And his second name would be Guraba. So he would be Tomi Guraba, like his father, Tom Glover.

  The boy looked around him, at the faces of these strangers. He asked for his mother. He didn’t understand.

  *

  Maki got back to her house, such as it was, shivering, miserable. The long walk, both ways, had exhausted her. She had asked a jinrikisha driver to bring her, but the rain was so heavy, the journey so far, he’d refused, even though she’d offered to pay double.

  She slid open the door, collapsed inside, lay huddled on the floor. She should heat up some water, fill the tub. She should make herself eat something. But she couldn’t, she could do nothing, just lay curled in a ball.

  She lay a long time. The light was fading. She sat up, stiff and aching, thought about lighting the lamp, didn’t. She couldn’t bear to look at the room, see it empty.

  In the corner was something angular, blue in the half-light. She couldn’t get it to take shape, make sense; she stirred herself to look closer, saw it was the boy’s paper kite. She picked it up, felt the sharp pang of familiarity, loss. She set it down again, gently, kneeled in front of her shrine, tried to offer a prayer to Amida. But she felt only numbness, the words heavy and meaningless in her mouth, just empty sounds, breaking the silence to no purpose.

  Her hand rested on the samisen and she pulled back its silk cover, plucked the taut strings and they jangled, harsh and out of tune, no resonance, no yo-in.

  By the door was an axe she used for chopping wood. Before she knew it the axe was in her hand and she was hacking, smashing the samisen, splintering the wood, the gut strings giving out a last strangled screech, a dying pang. In a dream, watching herself, she dropped the axe, pulled open the screen door and stumbled outside.

  The rain was still heavy. She’d forgotten that. It didn’t matter. She had come out barefoot. She didn’t care. Her clothes were still heavy and wet from before. She felt the chill as they stuck to her. The rain battered her bare head. Her bare feet slid in the mud. She half staggered to the edge of the village, onto the wooden bridge over the river. She stopped halfway across, looked down.

  The river was high because of the rain, flowed in full spate. The water was cloudy, discoloured, thick with mud and silt. She’d thought she would see her own reflection in it, one last time, but she didn’t. Guraba-san, Tom, had said it in English, a gaijin expression. Water under the bridge.

  So.

  She climbed onto the wooden handrail, let herself fall.

  Namu Amida Butsu.

  The cold was pain. The weight of her clothes dragged her under. She gulped and choked as her lungs filled up. The water closed over her head.

  *

  The Jho Sho Maru had made an arduous journey since its launch in Aberdeen. News of its progress had been sent by telegraph as far as Shanghai and conveyed by steamer to Glover in Nagasaki. Its launch from the Hall Russell yard had been a triumph, confounding critics who thought at 1500 tons and 200 feet long it was simply too big, would plough into the opposite bank of the Dee. But the massive chains had held, the ship had stayed afloat. Glover could picture it, massive bulk righting itself in the grey waters. Now those same critics would see; Aberdeen could compete with the bigger yards further south, on the Clyde and the Tyne.

  After fitting out at Victoria Dock, testing its 1000-horsepower engines, the ship left the harbour, watched by cheering crowds. It sailed first to Ireland to pick up some of the ninety-strong crew and a handful of skilled engineers. From there it headed south to the Cape where it narrowly missed being wrecked in thick fog. Loading up with coal at Cape Town, it continued to Shanghai, surviving storms in the Indian Ocean. Now, five months after setting out, it was steaming into Nagasaki harbour, and half the town had turned out to see it. They cheered, waved banners, and a brass band struck up a march.

  Glover was at the front of the crowd, in a section cordoned off for guests of honour, among them Ito and Iwasaki. Beside him was the boy, dressed in his sailor suit. Glover introduced him formally to both men. His son, Tomisaburo.

  His son.

  It had been a month since the boy had moved in and he was still confused, awed, still asked for his mother, asked when he would be going home. There were times when he would forget, lose himself in playing, making his own world, completing some small task. Then he would suddenly look round again, lost, waking from a dream.

  After the upheaval of the boy’s arrival, a week had passed before Glover had gone to find Maki again, talk to her. Again her house was empty, but this time it felt abandoned, uninhabited. The screen door was bolted shut. Two women from the village passed by, perhaps the ones he’d seen before. He called out to them, asked if they knew where Maki had gone, but they hurried away as if fleeing from the evil eye. He went round behind the house, saw where a paper screen window was torn. He peered in, could see little in the dimness, but the overriding smell was damp – mildew and rot; no cooking smells, no incense. Further back was an overgrown gully where household rubbish had been tipped, and in amongst it he saw what looked like the smashed fragments of a samisen.

  The band were playing another march and Ito straightened up, asked if he recognised it. To his ear it was just a cacophony, a din, blared by an out-of-tune oompah band. But Ito stood to attention, said it was their rebel marching song and it was glorious. He saluted to the boy, who looked even more bemused. Glover picked him up to reassure him and to give him a better view. He saw a moment, in the boy’s eyes, something of his mother.

  He had gone from Maki’s desolate shack to Yumi’s house. Her husband had been there, all deference and civility, but in behind the formality, hostile, suspicious, smiling with the mouth and not the eyes. Yumi had been uncomfortable, not looking at him, said simply that Maki had gone, she would not be coming back. He knew there was more to the story, something she wasn’t telling him. He also knew that asking was useless. He thanked her, bowed to the husband, took his leave, rode back slowly to his home, his life.

  The ship pulled into the dock, towered over them. Now they could see how massive it was.

  Its bow was decorated with a sunburst, the same rising sun design that flew on the masthead, the Imperial banner.

  Ito was grinning. ‘Emperor himself will come on board. This will be flagship of Imperial Japanese Navy.’

  The crowd roared. The band played the national anthem. Ito and Iwasaki saluted. Glover lifted his son up higher, let the boy sit on his shoulders.

  ‘Look, Tomisaburo!’ he said. ‘Look and see!’

  14

  HOT GINGER AND DYNAMITE

  Tokyo, 1911

  ‘This old man Glover has nothing to tell you.’

  That was how he had begun the interview, seated in his old leather armchair, in the living room of his spacious house in Tokyo.

  The young journalist, Lawrence, had thought at first the old man was serious, that his journey through the cold and snow had been a wasted one. Then he’d caught the twinkle in the old man’s eye.

  Two hours later he had scribbled down pages of notes, struggling to keep up as Glover told the story of his first ten years in Japan. The old man’s style was terse, direct, only occasionally boastful.

  ‘Say what you like, son,’ he’d told him. ‘I was the greatest rebel. Without me the new Japan would not exist. It’s as simple as that.’

  And the story he told was indeed remarkable, a ripping yarn, a tale of derring-do. From his arrival as a callow twenty-year-old, in a land intensely hostile to
outsiders, he had gained an unparalleled pre-eminence, established himself as one of the most powerful men in the country, and all by the age of thirty. It was the stuff of fiction, romance.

  ‘You certainly burned bright,’ said the young man.

  ‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘I was a bit of a firebrand right enough. Now, can I offer you some tea?’

  The tray was brought by a young Japanese maid. She caught Lawrence’s eye, smiled that way, poured the tea into two delicate china cups.

  ‘Miruku?’ she asked.

  ‘Milk,’ he said. ‘Sure, thanks, arigato.’

  She smiled again, amused at his accent, bowed and took her leave.

  ‘I see you too are susceptible to their charms,’ said Glover.

  ‘She’s exquisite,’ said Lawrence.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Glover. ‘Yuko-san is a treasure.’ He stirred his tea. ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘The rebels triumphant,’ said Lawrence. ‘The Shogun overthrown, the Emperor restored, Ito-san established as Prime Minister, the new, industrialised Japan on the march, with the three-diamond banner of Mitsubishi in the vanguard.’

  ‘Glorious.’ Glover seemed to wince a moment, in pain. But it passed and he composed himself, motioned to Lawrence to continue.

  ‘You’re sure you’re well enough?’

  ‘I’m not in the best of health. Now, what else do you want to know?’

  Perhaps it was just the effort of talking for two hours that had exhausted the old man. But Lawrence felt it was more than that. In telling his tale, he’d been reliving those ten years, the years when he’d been fully, vividly alive. Now a light had gone out.