WARRIORS

by Warriors (retail) (epub)

  “Kiyomizu-dera only I told you!”

  The rickshaw man stopped pedaling, and the others followed suit. He faced Kiyoshi with eyes narrowed on a face of browned, wrinkled skin stretched taut across bone. “Listen then, sir. These Americans are rich. The priest at Thousand Buddhas now gets from Americans anything he asks for the little Buddhas. Twenty times the old price! Believe this: He pays me for every one he sells to the Americans I bring. And to you I will give half of this. Understand? You’ll get more today than the price of dinner even on the black market, maybe two or three dinners. Eh? All this while you sit easy and I do the work.”

  Kiyoshi barked out before he could reconsider, “Straight to Kiyomizu, or I’ll tell them to get other rickshaws. And they’ll do it!”

  “What’s he saying, Willie?” the large American called over.

  “Say Kiyomizu-dera good temple, sir. Say get to Kiyomizu soon.”

  “Fine. Finest kind.”

  Kiyoshi ventured nevertheless. “Thousand Buddha Temple come first, soon, sir. Have good souvenir.”

  “Didn’t you hear us? No thousand damn Buddhas.” Sammy turned to his fellow-officer. “Don’t you just love it, the way they mess up the English language?”

  The Thousand Buddha Temple faced the road with an unremarkable facade. “Pay attention! I meant what I said,” warned Kiyoshi in Japanese, and the rickshaw men continued without stopping.

  They passed a stall with a single steaming pot stirred by a woman. “Hey, John, you hungry?” Sammy called. “What’s that cooking, uh, Willie?”

  Kiyoshi asked, and reported back, “Nooders, sir. With . . . don’t know word, sir—”

  “What’s that? Oh, noodles. Well, what the hell, let’s try whatever it is. Tell our guys to pull over. Want some, Willie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Americans even bought food for the rickshaw drivers. Kiyoshi forced himself to eat slowly, but the rickshaw drivers made no secret of their hunger. The Americans had barely begun before the Japanese, even Kiyoshi clicked chopsticks against the sides of empty bowls. The American named John watched them and said quietly, “Get more, guys. All you want. Go on, uh, Willie, order it for them. For you too.”

  Back on the road, Kiyoshi noticed that all the people they passed continued to be either very old or very young. A single exception was an open place between old wooden buildings filled with people of all ages. They sprawled on the ground. Many lay prone. Smoke rose from small fires, and a chilly wind blew. Few of the people wore anything but thin and ragged clothing. The rickshaw drivers quickened their pace. The way that these people’s eyes followed the three rickshaws made Kiyoshi wary.

  “Who are they?” he asked.

  The driver didn’t answer until he and his fellows had pedaled beyond the cluster and stopped, panting from the extra effort. “Beggars, sir. From towns bombed by the hairy barbarians. And some now also soldiers, already come back. You saw their uniforms—still in uniforms. Soldiers who lost. Betrayed the Emperor. Then why aren’t they dead instead of expecting us to feed them?” He paused for breath and rubbed one eye, which watered and was reddened. “Understand, only reason I took us this way, is it’s the main road. Too far around other way. Those beggars steal, so watch out. That’s why we went fast. Even though we are tired. And still far from Kiyomizu-dera.”

  Some dozen children from the camp, tattered and dirty, started to run after them. “Joe! Joe! Give me candy,” one of them called in a high voice.

  “Didn’t they learn those words fast, though,” Sammy said in good humor.

  “Okay kids,” called John. “Catch!” He threw out two large bars of American chocolate. The rickshaw man muttered urgently and the three drivers started again quickly. Kiyoshi’s gaze followed the candy bars with hungry desire. The children converged on them like birds to feed and began to fight over the pieces. Two of the boys broke from the cluster of children and ran alongside the rickshaws with hands on the rails, looking up. “Give me candy. Give me candy.”

  “That’s all I have, kids,” said John.

  “Look what you started,” said Sammy. “Well now, wait, let’s see what I’ve got.” He felt in his pocket and tossed out a few small coins. “That’s it, fellahs. Now scram.” By now the others had caught up, and they grabbed the coins first. The two boys persisted with cries of “Give me candy, give me candy.” The tug of their hands made the rickshaws wobble. The drivers tried to hiss them off, then pedaled faster, stoically, without turning.

  “Shoot, kids, let go!” Sammy exclaimed. “Willie! Tell them to scram now.”

  “Get away! It’s over!” Kiyoshi barked in Japanese. The authority in his voice made them let go. They stood still. He watched their frail bodies recede as they scratched themselves—probably from lice. One of them waved.

  At last they entered an uphill road that led to the entrance of the Kiyomizu-dera. The few shops that lined the road displayed an assortment of calligraphy and simple dolls made from husks. The distance had indeed been long. Kiyoshi watched with sympathy as the rickshaw drivers stopped pedaling and walked their vehicles. He himself dismounted and walked. The American named John followed his example.

  “Come on, we’re paying these guys, aren’t we?” Sammy demanded. Then he shrugged. “Okay fellahs,” he called. “Stop the train there.” And he climbed down.

  The sacred Kiyomizu-dera. Kiyoshi stood before the entrance with its guardian mythical beasts and wide stairs leading up to the first of the shrines. The curved pagoda rooftops of the vast temple complex loomed beyond the stairs. He bowed before the sight—several times from the waist—while he regained composure.

  Nothing here had changed. Just as it had been when he stood here a decade before as a smooth youth engrossed in family duties. Happy time. Whatever else was churning in the world back then, times were prosperous for the Tsurifune family—from grandfather to cousins. Father had even visited America to meet with others in the fishing business and to make agreements. Had that journey to Kiyomizu-dera been in 1935 or ’36? The Nation had already occupied Manchukuo—liberated it, so those in power said—and the arming had begun to liberate the rest of Asia from the decadent West. By then the Imperial Presence itself had issued a rescript declaring military fitness to be the dedication of patriotic youth. He himself had been inspired, but Father prevailed and he was excused because of the family’s food-gathering ships. Then, by the time he’d prevailed to serve the Emperor in heroic uniform—on a ship or even in the navy’s airplanes, he’d expected—it was too late to choose and they’d assigned him arbitrarily to army officer training. It was his younger brother Shoji they’d chosen to be a pilot. On the sea or high in the air he’d surely not have been forced to do certain things.

  What terrible things had he not seen? Had he not done? Some of those executions ordered in Java—not all surely—had been unnecessary. What of that prisoner he’d ordered tied upright, then ordered supported with ropes around the middle and force-fed to prolong death? Punishment to make others see and obey. Indeed, none of them tried to steal food or escape after that. Harshness of the times, ordered by directives from Tokyo and endorsed by the Imperial Majesty himself. It had given him no pleasure, as it had surely given others. The time was different. The beliefs different. It was the duty of the time to despise the captured enemy’s weakness and to find ways to make him obey. Kiyoshi glanced at the two Americans he now hoped would give him money and food for his service. What would he have ordered done to them, three years ago?

  At a basin topped by a stone dragon he offered a dipperful of clear water to his Americans. They both declined in good cheer. He himself cupped his hands in the liquid and drank. Then he smoothed a hand over the dragon’s thick scales. Indeed, nothing here had changed.

  With a lighter heart he led the way up the stairs to an urn filled with sand from which incense sticks protruded. A small old woman sat by a bundle of fresh sticks, bobbing her head to temple visitors. In former days he would have been able to produce
money without thought and probably with a degree of condescension. But now, to the Americans: “Good thing, sir. Good luck thing. Make good . . . burning . . . therefore smoke, to spirits. Make good luck . . . therefore.”

  “Well, what the hell?” said the lean American named John.

  “Now hold on,” said the other. “We’re not talking the Lord Jesus or the Holy Virgin, here, but heathen gods. Bad enough all those Buddhas you dragged me to a couple of days ago, but now this mumbo jumbo.”

  “Oh come on, man. It’s the way they do things here, so what difference does it make? Tell you what. Light a stick and make it to Jesus.”

  “This is not a joking matter, John.”

  John punched his arm playfully. “Now don’t get me wrong, Sammy. I respect all that Southern Baptist stuff you come from, but this is Jap-land. Okay, okay, you stand back now while I light one of these things. Then you won’t get burned if a thunderbolt hits me.”

  “I still think it might be blasphemy. Except as you say this is Jap-land.” Sammy turned cheerful again. “You go ahead. Since we’re buddies, I’ll just stand by you and take the consequences. But what my pastor back home wouldn’t say!”

  John slipped a bill from his wallet and handed it to Kiyoshi. “Get ones for yourself and these drivers too if you want.”

  The old woman squinted as she turned the money over and over. “How can I make change for this? It’s over a hundred times the cost of my incense. Enough for days of white rice—even on the black market.” Her fingers lingered over the note before she returned it.

  Kiyoshi’s fingers rubbed the note also before he handed it back to John and explained.

  The American considered, then shrugged. “Buck or two of play money? Tell her to keep the change for good luck.”

  The woman rose, brushed creases from her patched skirt, and bowed and bowed.

  “You’ll spoil ’em,” observed Sammy.

  “Aw, what the hell . . .”

  “You don’t need to use that word all the time now, John.”

  “Sorry, buddy. I like to see you jump.”

  The two Americans followed Kiyoshi into the temple grounds. He led then through a wide plaza, giving as wide a berth as possible to a loft where Buddhist priests waited to write blessings for a donation. He also avoided the room with a wide altar at which women knelt and bowed to the floor to become pregnant—the subject of his own youthful mockery when, long ago, he could boast to friends that he had a better way to give women children. After all, what could he show the Americans to make their trip worthwhile—to make them generous with all that money—if there were so many things they didn’t like?

  They continued through the courtyards of the temple complex and down steep stairs to a forest path that stretched far below the main hillside structures. There it was, just as in his youth: the main fountain of sacred water. The clearest drops spouted from a pipe set into the vertical rocks, splashing freely into a wide stone basin. Despite the trees overhead, the fountain seemed to sparkle. A few Japanese men and women had gathered around to smooth it on their faces and to drink reverently.

  “Mizu, mizu. Main-place good water of Kiyomizu-dera,” Kiyoshi said. He drank some himself to demonstrate. Clean, pure, cold was the sacred water, straight from the rocks of the earth. He closed his eyes and felt the entrance of a friendly spirit into his body.

  “That’s fine, Willie. You drink for us, too. My guess is you’ve already caught all the Jap diseases in there.” When he translated to himself what Sammy had said, Kiyoshi stared hard at the ground until he could recover from his resentment.

  Further along the forest path stood other, lesser structures, and they wended their way slowly toward them. At last the American named John said mildly, “Guess we might as well go back if this is it . . . uh . . . Willie.”

  Back at the spring Kiyoshi excused himself and sipped another dipperful. When might he ever return, whatever the Americans thought of it? From the fountain they could look up to the temple complex high above them. Only pieces of the structures could be seen through the yellowing foliage and still-green vines—a carved post with its painted spirit figures faded from reds and blacks, the tiles—some of them broken—of a gracefully curved roof.

  “Very old, sir. Very . . .” Kiyoshi searched for an English word to express ancient beauty and settled for: “Very . . . excellent.”

  “Sure needs repair,” observed Sammy. “Bet that ol’ roof leaks a bucket when it rains.”

  “Yup. Nice. Good. Very good,” added John. He pointed to a long horizontal rail, partly obscured. “Now what’s that?”

  “For standing, sir. Good for look. Look down, down far.” Kiyoshi had no English word for “auspicious.” He settled for another, “Very good to standing on, sir.”

  “Well, hell then, let’s go ‘standing on’ and look down down. Maybe we’ll see something, uh, good.”

  So, back up they climbed to the great balcony terrace of the Kiyomizu-dera. Blue-hazed mountains ranged beyond the treetops. Kiyoshi leaned over the rail and peered. Just as he remembered, the drop went far below the level of the path and fountain and into an obscurity of trunks and vines. He started to explain to the Americans the traditional meaning of the drop. How, when starting a risky venture, the Japanese termed it “a jump off the stage at Kiyomizu.” They listened, but failed to understand.

  “Looks like you’d just get lost in that stuff—get all scratched,” observed Sammy. “And who’d ever fish you out? So how would you do business after that?”

  “Good way to kill yourself,” John noted.

  Kiyoshi noticed a man in a tattered soldier’s uniform, lingering alone at the far end of the terrace. His smudged face remained a mask as he clutched at the rail, looked down, and walked away. But he quickly returned to lean farther out, as if he were testing. The worn soldier moved with effort, head down and shoulders slumped. When another person wandered to his part of the rail, he eased into the shadow of the overhanging roof, pressing against a wall until he was once more alone.

  Kiyoshi understood. But what concern was it of his if the man wanted to jump? Yet, with a sudden urge, he called out harshly: “You’ll hit rotten tree trunks before you reach the rocks you hope might kill you. It’ll just leave you to squirm, and who’s going to care for a cripple? But that’s not my business.”

  He felt a rush of excited energy. Perhaps it came from the Kiyomizu water! One thing was certain. Suicide no longer offered his own release.

  4

  HOME

  At the Tokyo station, Kiyoshi Tsurifune needed to change trains in order to continue north. By now the Americans John and Sammy had long forgotten him and returned to the comfort of their special car. But they had been liberal with their money and had even spared a few cigarettes. Past haggard people squatting knee-to-knee on the floor, Kiyoshi picked his way toward the entrance and the fresh air. An occasional hand pulled at his leg. At the doorway, a voice barked, “Step aside!” Kiyoshi obeyed, as ragged men carried two bodies out on a single stretcher. An arm swayed from the stretcher like a pendulum. He’d seen enough corpses not to care.

  But at sight of the landscape Kiyoshi gasped. The sights on coming into the city should have prepared him. Those viewed through the train window, seen around shoulders that had managed to maneuver close to the glass, had included a few scattered houses. Before him now stretched fields of ashes. Everything was flattened. Only a few charred tree trunks with stubbed off branches and, far away, a cluster of scorched concrete buildings interrupted the barren landscape.

  A breeze swirled black dust into his nostrils and made him cough. Embers of burnt wood still smoked. Poking up within the level gray mass were random pieces of twisted metal, broken crockery, and green, stone-like mounds of—what? Melted glass? Here and there protruded block-like objects. He recognized some typical household strong boxes made of brick and cement, built to survive fire, as well as three bulky little safes with their doors pried open—probably from shops that had ot
herwise been obliterated. So this had been—yes, he remembered from other times passing through Tokyo and taken for granted—a whole community of homes. And the people in them.

  Only a series of concrete troughs made lines through the debris. He’d seen some of these from the train, when someone had wryly volunteered that these had been hastily constructed for the water used to fight the fires. Although what good had they been in the firestorms that raged from barbarian planes through streets of wooden houses? The troughs now provided footholds for masses of scavengers in clothes the color of ash.

  A few people walked slowly along the remnants of a street, kicking gray clouds around their legs. Old, all of them. Stooped and looking down. Not a youth or a girl among them. The few women were poorly groomed, with uncombed hair flying loose. Could his tired mind be showing him ghosts?

  “Please, sir,” an elderly man said, bowing. The tops of his cloth shoes were torn, he wore a ragged jacket, and his eyes seemed expressionless, but he carried himself with a tired dignity. “You’ve come on a train with Americans, haven’t you? Can you tell me, so that I can better help my family, how it is you escaped their harm?”

  Kiyoshi bowed in return. “Nobody tried to hurt me, sir.”

  “Ah. Undoubtedly they’re waiting to strike, then, after more of them have arrived.”

  His tone made Kiyoshi uneasy. “What information do you have, sir?”

  “Where have you been hiding? Over and over we’ve been informed, in newspapers, on wireless, in leaflets from the authorities, who know. The conquerors have a plan. Rape all women. Abduct all children. Behead all former soldiers, and beat the rest of us—perhaps to death. Our young women and children, of course, are hiding. What comes will come whatever we do, so therefore we must prepare to accept it. But some will surely survive, don’t you think, after the American devils grow tired of committing their atrocities?