One foot after the other lifts until she is sprinting. She has nothing left to fuel her besides adrenaline, and the burn in her muscles threatens to shut her body down. The horse’s hooves pound against the earth in dark, echoing thuds as it swiftly approaches. She is no match for such a magnificent animal, yet even when Morimoto’s hand grabs hold of the collar of her dress, her legs continue cycling, running through air. He drags her up onto the horse, like a sack of grain. She struggles in vain, legs and arms wild and useless against such a captor. Morimoto slows the horse to a halt and then yanks her round to look at him, one fist tangled in her hair.
‘Sakura,’ he says, breathless. ‘You can never leave me.’ His voice is rough like his hands. He drags her off the horse and wrestles her to the ground. She fights beneath him and he strikes her face over and over, until she is still.
‘Don’t you understand yet? … You’re mine.’
A clap of thunder shocks the skies. Electricity crackles through the air. Thunderheads gather above them. He lies on top of her, the length of his body squeezing the breath from her heaving lungs. He whispers the name forced upon her, kissing her neck, gently now; his hands lift her dress.
If she is still struggling, she cannot feel it. Her limbs, numb from exertion, are disconnected from her mind. She turns her face away from his abrasive chin, gazing beyond in search of the sea.
The first drops of rain splash onto her lips, and they are cold like water from her father’s well. She licks the raindrops, greedy for more, but the relief is short-lived. Sharp, burning pain sears through her with each eager thrust, plunging her back into painful memories of soldiers and flesh and mouths – all the images she has failed to escape. The clouds release a flood upon her worn-out body as she lies motionless in the grass.
Hana is lying on the bottom of the ocean, looking upwards at the sunlight shimmering above the surface. The great ocean’s heartbeat pulses against her eardrums. The current caresses her skin. A heaviness on her chest is an old ship’s anchor she has found. She hugs it close to weigh her down. Her body is so small that normally it would naturally float back to the top, but not today; today she wants to remain in the deep until the sun fades into the ocean’s depths. This is her favourite game, one she always wins. She can hold her breath until the other girls give up and swim back to the surface. Her last friend has held on for as long as she can but floats upwards, bubbles streaming after her. Hana watches her go. She has won the game. No one can beat her.
Except him. Morimoto is the anchor keeping her down. She lies beneath him, waiting for him to punish her further or kill her for her betrayal. His heaving body sinks deeper into hers, pressing her ribcage into the muddy earth as he catches his breath.
She can run, she thinks, she can scratch his face and prise him off in one last attempt to survive, but the raw sores on her feet plead for her journey to end in this peaceful place beneath a mountain of heaving flesh. No more pain, she agrees, and stares at the falling sky, waiting.
He lifts himself to look at her. Their eyes meet and she cannot look away.
‘How could you leave me waiting for you by the bridge like a fool?’ His voice seethes with rage. ‘I risked my life to help you escape the brothel, and this is how you repay me? Running away?’ He pauses as though waiting for an apology or an explanation.
When she doesn’t answer, he laughs. The sound is bitter and dark.
‘As if I couldn’t track you down? I know this territory inside and out. You could never hide from me.’
He shakes her, demanding a response, but there is nothing she can say that could speak louder than her attempt to escape him. She lies beneath him wordless, lifeless, a hunter’s fallen quarry. He leans over her, his breath in her face. Now he will kill her. She closes her eyes.
He wraps one hand around her neck; his thumb presses down on her throat. Her gag reflex takes over, and she struggles against her will. His other hand clamps down on her throat, too, and he begins to squeeze. Hana opens her eyes, searching the skies for the sun, but it’s hidden behind the thunderclouds.
‘I will kill you,’ he whispers beside her ear. ‘I will. If you ever make a fool of me again.’ He doesn’t release her. Instead he squeezes even harder, until there is no breath left in her lungs.
Hana is awakened by pain. Her cheek stings as though a thousand hot needles are burning into her skin. Her bottom lip is on fire. She tastes blood.
‘Wake up,’ he says, and hits her other cheek with his open hand. He yanks her to her feet, but she cannot stand on them and sinks to the sodden earth.
‘You’re useless,’ he mutters under his breath, and lifts her off the ground as though she is nothing.
A horse snorts in the distance. Its hooves stamp into the ground. Hana has never seen a horse this close. It is black with white spots scattered like dust around its ankles.
Morimoto whistles, and the horse comes nearer. He leans Hana against the animal as he reaches into a satchel behind the saddle and retrieves a canteen. He opens the lid and pours water into the small cap. He holds it to her lips. Hana gulps the water, but it’s not enough to quench her thirst. She wants to ask for more but resists. Morimoto smiles as though he knows, and then he very slowly screws the cap back on. His eyes never leave hers. Hana says nothing, but she cannot stop licking her lips.
He grabs her by the waist and lifts her up so she can climb onto the horse. Hana’s mind is still clouded with exhaustion and thirst, and she struggles with the task. She can’t understand why her arms are not obeying her.
‘Get up,’ he orders, and shoves her.
She manages to grab the saddle and then realises what is wrong. He has bound her hands together with rope. He shoves her again, thrusting her into the saddle. He pushes her leg over the horse’s neck so that she is sitting astride it. He loops another rope around her waist and takes it with the reins in his hands.
‘Don’t think about making this horse run off.’ He shows her the rope leading to her waist. ‘I will yank you down so fast … and then we will both be walking,’ he warns, touching the wounds on the sole of her foot for emphasis.
She winces at his touch. He stares at her, his gaze so intense she cannot look away. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square of cloth. It is the bundle she stashed in her knickers. She reaches for it but nearly slips off the horse. She grabs the saddle and steadies herself.
‘I found this beneath you,’ he says as he unwraps it, revealing the contents. ‘Such lovely trinkets.’
Hana wants to reach for them again, but she will not give him the satisfaction of seeing her suffer. She looks straight ahead and focuses on the horizon.
‘I should be jealous you kept these,’ he says, and she begins to worry. He sifts through them one at a time, inspecting them as though searching for a sign. ‘Were these all from one soldier in particular? Does he have a name?’
Hana shakes her head. His tone is dangerous. He stares at her, his eyes boring holes into her skull as though trying to read the truth inside. He looks back at the items and seems to think about it awhile before grinning up at her.
‘You have no need of such things, now that you are with me.’
He tilts his hand and they fall, one by one, to the ground. Then he grinds them into the dirt with the heel of his boot. She turns to see the gold ring, necklace, coins and hair comb disappear into the earth. She has nothing left.
Morimoto looks pleased with himself, like a child who has won an award. She is the war prize he has claimed for himself. She wants to kick the horse in the side so hard that it will rear up and stomp him into the ground along with her lost belongings, but she is too weak even to frighten a horse.
‘But this,’ Morimoto says as though it’s just an afterthought. ‘This, I will treasure.’
He holds up the photograph of her, and the rush of anger surprises her. She wants to yank it out of his hands. She cannot stand his touching the photograph. It was taken before the line of soldiers visited her;
Keiko hadn’t yet cut her hair in the yard, she had not yet learned to lie still until they were done – she was still Hana in that photograph. It belongs to her.
Hana stops herself from giving him the reaction he so desperately desires, even though every fibre within her is itching to leap off the horse and knock him to the ground. It takes every ounce of restraint she can muster to leave the last piece of her old self in his possession. Hana slowly turns away and stares straight ahead. She can feel his satisfaction as he slips the photograph into his breast pocket.
The moment is over, and Morimoto clicks his tongue, urging the horse forward. He leads the horse, walking in front of it, and Hana turns her eyes away from him, refusing to stare at the man who will never let her go.
The thunderstorm intensifies, and they travel in silence. Hana opens her mouth to the rain as lightning cracks above their heads. She doesn’t care that she might be struck: it would be a welcome end. He is sticking to his plan. They are going north to Mongolia, trudging through the pouring rain as though that was always what they were meant to do.
Sheets of grey cover the land, hiding them even from themselves. Hana gulps the rainwater tumbling from the skies. Her stomach begins to bloat, but she cannot stop. With her face lifted upwards, she drinks her fill. When her stomach is nearly bursting, she hangs her head, too exhausted to hold it up any longer. Morimoto holds the reins tighter and yanks the beast onwards.
As they march across the steppe, Hana’s face and feet are chilled from the cold rain and no longer throb. She thinks she might be able to run again with a day’s rest, but she has no idea how long the journey to Mongolia will be. She doesn’t know if he will be meeting someone, an accomplice perhaps, Mongolian or Soviet, one or many. He could even have made arrangements with the Chinese.
Fear sets in as she imagines their joining a group of faceless, nationless men. What has he promised them? Is she part of the bargain? Hana stares at the back of his head. Would he force her to service them all? Images of barbarians ripping at her ragged dress overwhelm her. She bows her head, but even with her eyes closed she sees him arriving late at night after the other men have all had their fill.
She doubles over and vomits the contents of her waterlogged stomach. Her frail shoulders shudder as she heaves the rainwater from her churning stomach. Before she realises it, her body slides from the horse. Her hands are bound, and she cannot soften her landing. She hits the ground on her right shoulder. Sudden, shocking pain knocks the air from her lungs. The horse rears up, but Morimoto quickly gets it under control. He sees her huddled form on the ground and rushes to her side.
‘What are you doing?’ he demands.
Gingerly, he turns her onto her back. Rain pours onto her face. She cannot breathe from the pain, the invading wetness, and the vision of her future with him. He grabs her by the shoulders to lift her to her feet, but her right arm collapses and she cries out in pain. He releases her, and it subsides. She winces as he presses around her shoulder. His fingers investigate the flesh and quickly find the source of her injury.
‘It’s dislocated. I have to push it back in.’
His voice is tender, concerned. She doesn’t care. She stares straight ahead into grey nothingness. He loosens the rope around her wrists; it unravels and slips to the ground. He lifts her up until she is seated. The horse turns its head to the side as if watching the scene with one great black eye. Morimoto massages her bicep, gently kneading the muscles, and then he massages the top of her shoulder. His hand is assured, practised. She feels little pain.
‘Shrug your shoulders, slowly,’ he tells her.
She does as he instructs and feels her arm sink back into place within the socket. Using the rope that once bound her wrists, he ties a sling around her arm to support her shoulder.
‘You must be more careful. You could have landed on your neck and broken it. Then where would we be?’ He shakes his head, as if resigned to the fact that she is bound to disappoint him.
‘We?’ she says, her voice thick with non-use.
‘It’s you and me now,’ he says.
She stares at him, dumbfounded.
He ties the final knot and smiles, staring at her through the rain. He seems to be waiting for an expression of thanks from her. Hana recalls the first time he declared his intention to help her. He said he would leave the side door unlocked so she could escape. She did her best not to let her body give away her nervousness. She stopped her heart from beating too fast by slowing its rhythm as she would after a fast swim back to shore. She kept her hands from trembling by chanting to herself over and over, He lies, he lies, he lies, until her body believed her. His words were empty, and in the morning, she knew she would wake up, still a captive in that prison, and a line of depraved soldiers would be waiting.
‘You don’t seem pleased at the chance I’ve offered you to escape this place. Is there someone else who keeps you here, another soldier, perhaps?’ His question startled her. He lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. The room was silent except for their breaths, his calm and steady, hers threatening to take flight. ‘Have you finally picked a favourite?’
Morimoto’s jealousy sickened her. He had brought her to the brothel to be repeatedly raped by soldiers, and yet suddenly he was angry that some of them would show her gratitude before marching to their deaths? But he had mentioned escape. The possibility that he could aid her in what she sought more than anything else helped her hold her tongue.
‘There is no man in the whole of the emperor’s army who could take your place in my heart,’ she replied. In truth, she hated no man more than she hated him. He would always occupy a space within her heart as the most vile of the men who visited her room.
Hana escaped from the brothel, but she didn’t escape from him. He’s still waiting for her gratitude for bandaging her arm. She turns away, pulling from his grasp, and lies back down on the saturated earth, her face half submerged in a puddle. The muddy water tastes heavy and dark, like the marrow of the dying ox, like a grave. Morimoto lifts her from the mud and turns her face back to his.
‘When we reach Mongolia, we will start a new life. Together. I will make you my wife.’
He searches her eyes as though waiting for her to smile, but his plan for the future turns her stomach. He is so certain that she would want that life. She is desperate to throw his words back in his face, to hurt him. The only way to reach him is through his pride.
‘It doesn’t matter what you do. You will never be more than a Japanese soldier to me,’ she whispers into his ear in Korean, as he so often has whispered into hers.
He pulls away in shock, and she spits rainwater into his face. His hand tightens its grip on her injured shoulder. Hana refuses to cry out. She bites her lip and tastes fresh blood. He squeezes even tighter, and she holds her breath, nearly fainting from the pain. When he finally releases her, bright spots dance in front of her eyes.
‘One day, you’ll understand,’ he says, lifting her from the ground and forcing her onto the horse.
I will never understand you. The words trace outlines across her tongue as she bites down to keep from saying them aloud. The horse moves, trudging towards a future she cannot possibly endure as Morimoto leads on foot. Hana droops forward against the horse’s neck, watching the terrain pass beneath her. Its heady animal scent fills her nostrils, and she drifts in and out of consciousness, as if her life is a dream she wishes to awaken from.
Hana opens her eyes when they cross a railway track. Hoof on wood, a distinct break in the monotony of sodden earth, rouses her from her fevered slumber. The rain has settled into a light drizzle, and sunlight threatens to break through in patches across the grey clouds. She lifts her face up to the sky. The horse stalls at her movement, alerting Morimoto she is awake. He brings the horse to a standstill, pats its nose, and feeds it a handful of something from his coat pocket. His footsteps stop beside her.
He pulls her down from the horse, and at first her legs won’t take her weight
. He holds her close, and the familiarity of his scent frightens her. She doesn’t want to recognise him in any way, and yet she smells tobacco and sweat and grass and salt and rain. She turns away and breathes from her mouth.
‘We’re making good progress,’ he says.
Hana says nothing. She wants to know more, where they are headed to – is it a town or encampment or another military base? – and what will happen when they reach it. Her legs feel like themselves again, and she stands on her own, taking a step away from him. She breathes in the late-afternoon air, cleansing her nose of his odour. She rests her forehead on the horse’s thick neck. It stamps the ground with its front hoof but doesn’t nudge her away. She wishes she could lean on the strength of this creature forever.
‘Here,’ he says, turning her to face him. He hands her an apple. She stares at it as though it is a figment of her imagination. The bloody redness contrasts with the muted grey covering the land. ‘Take it,’ he commands.
Slowly, she reaches for the apple with her good arm. When her fingertips touch it, she understands it indeed is real and snatches it from him, devouring it, core and all. He watches her with greedy eyes. She doesn’t care. He can’t do anything more to her than he has already done. She licks her fingertips and her lips. She stares at his hand as he reaches deep into his coat pocket. Like a magic trick, it appears in front of her with another bright red apple. Her eyes follow the apple as he takes a bite. She cannot stop the drool dripping from her lips. She doesn’t care enough to try. Instead, she watches him take another bite.
She steps towards him. A hint of a smile touches one corner of his mouth. She leans into him, her lips nearing the apple, but he moves it slowly towards his lips, leading her back to him. She follows his lead, letting her lips touch his. He kisses her. His tongue is alive in her mouth. She lets him have his fill, but her eyes never leave the apple.
White Chrysanthemum Page 17
