The Samurai's Daughter

  And the worst of it was she couldn’t even talk about it. She couldn’t confide her doubts and sadness and fear and anger to anyone. It was only alone on this hilltop that she could let her feelings out. Her shoulders heaved and she sobbed bitterly.

  Why did he not write? Hideous suspicions ran through her mind. Maybe it was not that he didn’t want to be in touch; maybe that was not why she hadn’t heard. Maybe it was because he couldn’t, because something dreadful had happened. Maybe he was wounded or maybe he’d found someone else or maybe, maybe …

  She dared not put her worst fear into words even in her mind, terrified that if she even thought it, it would make it happen. She groaned and pressed her forehead to the cool earth, then slowly sat up and heaved a shuddering sigh. Her whole life stretched ahead of her, bleak and empty. She dried her cheeks with her sleeves and tried to compose her face. She would have to run down the hill back to Madame Kitaoka and her mother and Aunt Kiharu. She had to smile and look cheerful, even though she’d lost everything.

  But now the war was ending. Nobu had said he’d come and find her when it was over and soon – tomorrow – it would be. Then she’d know for sure. Either he would come or he wouldn’t and if he didn’t, she would know he was dead and she’d be able to mourn. Because if he was alive, even if he was dreadfully wounded, he would come, she was sure of that.

  And if he did come back, she thought, he wouldn’t even recognize her. She was no longer the white-skinned young woman he remembered. Instead of full-skirted western gowns or embroidered silk kimonos, she now wore baggy hempen trousers and a wide-sleeved indigo-dyed jacket of coarse cotton, like a peasant. She dug and planted and harvested, she chopped wood and built fires, she could trap rabbits and pigeons and find mushrooms and wild berries and even spread nightsoil. Her soft pretty hands were calloused now and engrained with dirt. But no matter how hard they worked, none of them had enough to eat. When she looked in her mother’s tarnished mirror, she saw a hungry ghost, brown and wiry, all skin and bones and wide staring eyes. She’d become a daughter her father could be proud of, she thought ruefully. Farming was the life he loved.

  The moon was rising huge and round behind Sakurajima, a haze of black ash veiling its white face. Taka tried to make out the rabbit pounding rice cakes on its surface. Two days to go, she thought, before it would be a perfect circle, like the mirror in a Shinto shrine. She remembered how they used to celebrate the harvest moon in Tokyo, admiring its reflection in the pond, writing poems and feasting on fat white yam cakes while musicians played elegant music on flutes and kotos.

  This year there’d be no celebration. Here in their mountain hideout, the only lights were the menacing red dots of the army fires and the only noise was gunfire.

  Booms shook the air and flashes lit up the dark hillside where her father’s camp was. The shooting had started again.

  Then the guns fell silent and in the lull she thought she heard a distant unexpected sound. She held her breath and listened. Nothing. Then she caught it again.

  It couldn’t be – but it was. Far away someone was playing the biwa.

  There was no mistaking now – music, drifting across the valley through the still night, faint but clear. She heard men’s voices singing and picked out the tune – ‘The Autumn Moon’, full of sweet regret for the passing of summer. They used to sing it when her father was in Tokyo. Then she heard the thin pipe of a flute and the rhythm changed to a sword dance, wild and defiant. She leapt to her feet and laughed aloud as she realized.

  It was not the soldiers in the army camp preparing for the final assault, or the people who’d started to move back to their devastated homes, anticipating the end of the war. It was not from the city at all. It was coming from Castle Hill.

  Tripping over stones and roots in her haste, Taka raced back to the small thatch-roofed farmhouse halfway down the hillside. Usually there were voices talking and silhouettes of people moving about inside, but tonight it was strangely silent. Candles flickered behind the paper screens.

  ‘They’re playing music on Castle Hill,’ she called. ‘And dancing!’

  An owl hooted and bats flitted out of the trees. It had been spring when she’d arrived and now the leaves were beginning to turn and flocks of geese had appeared, flying south.

  After so many months the wooden walls and cramped rooms, the rickety sliding door and earthen-floored kitchen area had come to feel like home. She no longer noticed the woodsmoke that permeated their hair and bodies and clothes, or the hardness of the floor where they laid reed mats to sleep. She’d almost forgotten she’d ever lived anywhere else. Apart from the old watchman, they never saw a soul, as if everyone in the whole wide world had perished and they were the only ones left. They squabbled, they bickered, but they knew they needed each other to survive.

  She burst through the trees and ran around to the front of the house. They were all standing outside, eight adults and seven children, their faces rapt. Taka’s half-brothers and sister – Madame Kitaoka’s three youngsters – and the children of Taka’s two aunts frowned solemnly, their small heads tilted, cupping their ears.

  ‘I hear music, I hear it!’ shouted Kentaro, Aunt Kiyo’s son, a four-year-old with huge eyes and a thatch of thick black hair, jumping up and down in excitement.

  In the moonlight they looked like a gathering of ghosts. Madame Kitaoka’s skin was stretched tight over her gaunt cheeks and Aunt Fuchi and Aunt Kiyo, the wives of Taka’s father’s brothers, were bony skeletons while Uncle Seppo, the elderly calligrapher who had lived at the Bamboo House and came with them to the farm, was as bent as a dried-up old stick. Okatsu had lost her pretty plumpness and Aunt Kiharu had shrunk so much that Taka could hardly see her. Taka’s mother’s full white flesh hung loosely on her arms and belly. No one would ever guess she’d once been the famous Princess Pig, celebrated across Kyoto for her glorious round body.

  Fujino had told Taka what happened when she, Aunt Kiharu and Okatsu first arrived at the Bamboo House. They’d sold the few kimonos they’d managed to bring with them from Tokyo to send the money to the Satsuma army and were all three modestly dressed, but it was perfectly obvious none the less exactly what they were – two ladies from the Kyoto pleasure quarters and their maid.

  Nervous about how she’d be received, Fujino had knelt when Madame Kitaoka came out. ‘So sorry to intrude,’ she’d begun, putting her hands on the ground and bowing as low as she could. ‘I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard mention of this humble person, my worthless self. Your honourable husband once graciously …’

  Madame Kitaoka seemed entirely unsurprised to see her. She bowed briskly and held up her hand. ‘Of course. You’re welcome, Sister. We are alone here, my husband has gone, all the men have gone. I’m glad to see you. You bring brightness into my life.’

  That same day she’d dismissed the servants. They’d wept and begged to go along with her to the farm but she’d told them they should return home, that they’d be in danger if they stayed. Then they’d all – Madame Kitaoka, the two aunts, Uncle Seppo, Fujino, Aunt Kiharu, Okatsu and the seven children – set off for West Beppu.

  Taka had arrived later that evening. The watchman had pushed open the gate and taken her to the door and she’d stood on the threshold feeling angry and resentful and utterly defeated. She’d sworn she would never come here, never meet Madame Kitaoka and now she had, only because she had nowhere else to go.

  But Madame Kitaoka had received her graciously and she’d felt unexpectedly at peace, no longer trapped in the tiny geisha house but part of this big family with children running around. They all had the same fears, waited anxiously for the watchman to come and tell them what was happening, realized they had to work really hard just to survive. They’d buckled down at once.

  Grudgingly Taka had to admit that her mother had coped better than anyone. In Kyoto and Tokyo Fujino had always behaved as if she was entirely spoilt and helpless, but the moment she’d arrived at the farm she’d taken a quick look ar
ound, seen what needed doing, tied her sleeves back and got down to work. Madame Kitaoka was the head of the house and everyone deferred to her, but Fujino made sure everything ran smoothly – precisely the division of roles one would expect of a man’s wife and his geisha.

  And every day Taka climbed to the clearing at the top of the hill. She saw the smoke of battle and heard the gunfire as the rebels took the city and then as the army drove them out again. After that there had been silence, with just the wreckage of the city shimmering beneath them all through the long hot summer.

  A burst of gunfire drowned the distant music. In the silence that followed they heard the defiant piping of the flute again, floating across the hills. Madame Kitaoka drew herself up. She was probably the same age as Taka’s mother but her greying hair pulled back in a severe knot made her look older. Over the months Taka had come to admire her, even to like her. She was not easy to get close to, but she had a pride, an iron in her, a refusal to be beaten down that Taka envied.

  ‘They’re saying goodbye,’ Madame Kitaoka said quietly. ‘They’re celebrating their last night on earth.’ A smile flitted across her pinched cheeks, the first Taka had seen in all these months. She was usually silent and self-contained but the music had brought her to life. ‘We’ll have a glorious last night too. We’ll build a fire on the hilltop, a huge bonfire, so they can see it across the valley. Masa knows where the farmhouse is. He’ll know it’s us.’

  Taka stared at her in shock. Madame Kitaoka was supposed to be the sober, thoughtful leader of the group, yet here she was coming out with the most outrageous, ill-considered idea she’d ever heard. They were in hiding. If they lit a beacon on top of the hill, it would be a signal to the army – to everyone – that they were there. She wasn’t even sure her father would see it. How would he know they were all at West Beppu? And if he did, would he think it was a good idea to light a beacon and summon the army? She felt a great spasm of loneliness. She missed him so much. She wished he were there to tell them what to do and, looking around at the hollow faces, she could see that everyone else did too. His absence was palpable.

  Besides, they didn’t have any firewood to spare. They needed it all for cooking.

  She twisted her fingers in frustration and turned to her mother, silently begging her to intervene. She was young still. It was not her place to speak. But Fujino was beaming with excitement.

  ‘We’ll sing so loudly they’ll hear it right across the valley,’ she cried, clapping her hands. They were no longer smooth and plump but brown and bony, with broken nails, like Taka’s.

  ‘If it’s the end for them, it’s the end for us!’ declared Aunt Fuchi, her thin, pretty face alight. Taka admired her aunts. They must be only a few years older than her, they hadn’t been married for long, and they couldn’t have expected to lose their husbands so soon. They hadn’t seen them for more than half a year, they had no idea what had become of them, but they never revealed a hint of despair. They were proud of them. They worked hard, quiet and uncomplaining, always ready with a smile.

  ‘We’ll mark the occasion,’ added Aunt Kiyo, nodding. Of the two she was the more aware of her rank. She was as weather-beaten as a farmer’s wife but she still carried herself proudly like a samurai.

  Taka couldn’t believe she was the only one who saw the folly of it. She glanced desperately at Uncle Seppo but he was leaning on his stick, his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, as if to shut out the women’s shrill voices.

  ‘We must start right away,’ urged Madame Kitaoka. They all – women, children, even Uncle Seppo – lined up at the woodpile at the side of the house and picked up as much firewood as they could carry. Okatsu staggered under a huge bundle, Uncle Seppo carried a few sticks, and even the children, laughing as if it was a game, dragged branches manfully up the slope.

  ‘Okatsu, Taka, take that log up,’ said Madame Kitaoka. ‘It’ll burn for a good while.’ It was as big as a small tree trunk. The two of them found stubs of branches at the sides to take hold of, gritted their teeth and heaved it to the bottom of the path then dragged it up the hill together. Their hands were raw and torn by the time they got it to the top.

  Taka ran back down to the farmhouse. Madame Kitaoka was holding a large shapeless bundle. ‘Taka, carry this up for me.’ Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. Taka took it in both arms. It was soft and bulky and heavy, as if it contained clothes of some sort.

  It was many journeys before the precious firewood they’d collected with such effort was piled at the top of the hill. They gathered brushwood for kindling and heaped it into a huge pyre.

  Madame Kitaoka went to the edge of the clearing and stood, a thin commanding figure against the black sky, gazing across to the dot of light on Castle Hill that was blazing out like a beacon. ‘Our men.’ Her voice was choked. ‘Our brave men.’ She lowered her head and Taka heard her swallow.

  Gunfire shook the air. Taka buried her face in her hands. They were on a boat spinning along a roaring river, rushing towards the rapids, disaster coming up to hit them, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. Hoping and praying made no difference. The gods were indifferent to their fates.

  When she looked up Madame Kitaoka was still gazing across to the distant hill. The wind blew her hair and rippled her baggy trousers. Clouds rushed by as the world revolved beneath them.

  With slow deliberate movements, as if performing a tea ceremony rather than lighting a fire, Madame Kitaoka knelt beside the pile of wood and struck a flint. It took a few attempts before one branch, then another smouldered and took light until the whole pyre was ablaze. Taka wondered if her father on Castle Hill was looking across and seeing it too.

  ‘Let it spread,’ said Madame Kitaoka. ‘It will make it brighter.’

  She brought out the last flasks of shochu. When they drank in the evenings, Taka’s mother and Aunt Kiharu always led the singing and dancing. They were geishas, experts at making people laugh and forget their troubles. But tonight Madame Kitaoka led the revels.

  Taka’s mother and Aunt Kiharu covertly tipped their drink on the ground and Taka did the same. Their men were going to die and nothing they could do would stop it. Rather than bewailing their fates, it was better by far to see them off in style. Nevertheless there was something about the reckless burning of the firewood that made her uneasy. She wanted to keep her wits about her.

  The seven women, seven children and Uncle Seppo raised their cups. ‘To victory! To Masa, our beloved master! To the beautiful land of Satsuma!’

  ‘To Father,’ Taka whispered.

  ‘To the next world,’ Madame Kitaoka added softly.

  ‘The next world!’

  A chill ran down Taka’s spine. She wished there was somewhere she could run but she couldn’t think of anywhere. She could hardly remember the world outside their little hill any more, but she knew there was no help to be found there. She thought of Nobu and wished he would come. But if he was alive at all he was with the enemy forces, preparing to close in on her father. She shuddered. There was nothing for it but to stay and go through with whatever Madame Kitaoka had planned for them.

  Soon the roaring and crackling of the flames and the spitting and banging as the wood split drowned the distant music and even the bursts of gunfire. The heat grew more intense and they moved further and further back until they were pressed up around the edges of the clearing. The firelight sent shadows flickering across their faces, carving dark hollows around their eyes and sharpening their cheekbones, transforming them into demons.

  Madame Kitaoka refilled everyone’s cups. ‘Sister,’ she said. ‘Will you dance?’

  ‘It’s our last night,’ the aunts pleaded. They meant it was their last night at West Beppu, not their last night on earth, Taka told herself. She mustn’t let her imagination run away with her. ‘Won’t you do “Dojoji”?’ they chorused. Taka’s mother bowed gracefully and rose to her feet.

  ‘Musume Dojoji’ was the most beautiful and dramatic of all the dances in the
geisha repertoire and the dance her mother was famous for. Fujino smiled and in the firelight Taka could see the contours of the face her father had loved so much. ‘I’m out of practice,’ she murmured. ‘It’s years since I’ve performed. I don’t have my wide-brimmed scarlet and gold hat or my nine kimonos and snake-scale robe, so you’ll have to imagine them all. We don’t even have a shamisen; but at least we have a biwa.’

  Kiharu folded her tiny legs under her, picked up the biwa and plucked out a melody. Her plaintive warble filled the still air. Fujino was in baggy trousers and a coarse hempen jacket but as she began to move, tilting her head and moving her hands with spellbinding precision, everyone forgot the shapeless clothes. All they saw was a beautiful maiden in love with a temple acolyte.

  Kiharu’s voice, soft and seductive, grew strong and dramatic, breaking with emotion as, spurned by the priest, the maiden’s thwarted passion transforms her into a fire-breathing serpent. Fujino’s dance grew wilder and wilder and Taka could almost see her throwing off her nine kimonos one by one, like a serpent shedding its nine skins.

  Taka had seen her mother perform ‘Dojoji’ many times but never as she danced it that night. She was on fire, whirling and turning, throwing her hands high. She was not dancing for them but for her lover, Taka’s father, imagining him watching from the distant hill. It was her gift to him, the last thing he would see before he died.

  At the end of the dance the terrified priest has hidden under a bronze temple bell. The vengeful maiden, now fully transformed into a serpent, coils around it and breathes fire on it, melting it and incinerating him.

  As Fujino struck the last dramatic pose, poised atop the imaginary bell, Kiharu took two sticks and beat them on a rock in a drum roll. Taka was startled to see a look of pain cross Madame Kitaoka’s face, as if it was the first time she’d realized the depths of emotion that bound Fujino and her husband.