Shipwrecks (19 page)

‘If they go into the mountains, they'll die of starvation. Can they not go to the next village or another village far away?'

‘No. If the blight is taken into another village, smallpox will break out there, too. Our people contracted smallpox from the red clothes brought here off the ship. We can't pass it on to others outside our village,' said Manbei firmly, tears still streaming down his face.

Isaku couldn't bear the thought of parting with his mother and Isokichi, and wanted to go up into the mountains with them. Stifled sobbing could now be heard from the crowd.

Manbei spoke again, his voice faltering.

‘Our revered chief has read the sutras to prepare himself for leaving. Now that he has readied himself … to rid the village of the poison within us, he must leave as quickly as possible and will depart at dawn tomorrow, at the Hour of the Tiger.'

The sobbing increased in intensity.

‘Come into the mountains with me,' said the chief in a childlike voice, before getting to his feet and disappearing into the house. The villagers bowed low.

‘Return to your homes and get ready to leave. You have until the Hour of the Tiger to say your farewells. But remember, no one is to step outside to see anyone off,' said Manbei in a powerful voice.

The villagers feebly got to their feet and trudged, heads down, out of the courtyard and along the path down the gentle slope. Illuminated by the faintest sliver of moon, the night sky was bristling with stars. The sea was calm, with the white ripple of each wave folding onto the shore barely perceptible in the dark of the night.

Their mother was the first to enter the house, walking ahead of her sons as she led Isokichi by the hand. She lit the fire and sat Isokichi beside it, before sitting down in front of the family's ancestral tablet to pray.

Sobbing, Isaku squatted down on the dirt floor. He wanted to go into the mountains with his mother and Isokichi, but he knew that would go against the village decree. He thought he'd rather die than be separated from his mother and Isokichi.

‘Isaku, don't cry,' he heard his mother say calmly.

Isaku sat there, his head in his hands.

His mother stepped down onto the dirt floor, scooped some rice from the open bale, and put it into a pot.

‘The chief is going with us. It'll be all right. Teru's dead, and now Kane, too. I didn't want to be here to see your father come back to this. It's better this way. I feel sorry for Isokichi, though, being so young, but he's carrying the poison, too, so he has to accept it,' she said in a voice little more than a whisper as she put another piece of wood on the fire.

The Hour of the Tiger was not far away, Isaku thought, and his mother and Isokichi were to leave the village. That was now irrevocable. The only thing left was to make the most of the short time they had left.

He got to his feet, stepped onto the matting floor, and sat down by the fire. Reaching out, he grasped Isokichi's hand.
There was no reaction from his brother, who sat there still as a statue.

The grains of rice leaped in the hot water, but before long they, too, quieted down and the rice was ready to eat.

‘I won't be able to cook him much, but I want to help look after the chief for a month or so if I can. And I'll need food to do that.'

Their mother shaped the cooked rice with her hands and wrapped it in seaweed. Then she bundled up some dried sardines in bamboo leaves and scooped five
shō
of rice from the open bale into a cloth bag.

Isaku carefully followed his mother's movements. Strangely, there was no trace of sadness on her pockmarked face. Her eyes were clear and determined, and there was even the hint of a contented smile on her lips.

She picked up the red clothes lying in the corner of the dirt floor and went outside through the back door. Isaku peered out after her. She lit some firewood and spread the clothes on top. Flames rose playfully.

The stars had changed their position in the sky, and by now the moon was hidden behind the treetops. The Hour of the Tiger was approaching.

Back inside the house, their mother paused for a short prayer in front of the ancestral tablet before busying herself with the final preparation for departure. The bag of rice went onto her back, and the cooked rice wrapped in seaweed was lashed with twine onto Isokichi's carrying-frame, along with the dried fish bundled in the bamboo leaves. Lighting a fire brand, she led Isokichi by the hand.

‘Be good to your father,' his mother said, her eyes glistening for the first time. She and Isokichi left the house.

Isaku watched from the doorway as the two walked off by the light of their flaming torches. He traced the lights making their way down the village path until they became indistinguishable from those approaching from the opposite side. The group could be seen moving in the direction of the
village chief's house until they disappeared from sight behind a large rock beside the path.

Isaku stood waiting. Before long the line of torches reappeared at the foot of the path leading into the mountains, swaying its way up the slope. It was a long but ever-shrinking line, as the rearmost lights approached and then disappeared into the forest, taking with it not only his mother and Isokichi but also Tami and his cousin Takichi.

The first signs of daybreak appeared in the starry sky.

Isaku spent the next day not knowing what to do with himself.

Several days later Manbei came to the house and told him to go out fishing. It seemed that Manbei was calling on everyone, worried that the remaining villagers were not attending to their work.

The first time Isaku took his boat out was at the end of March. The rain that had fallen steadily for two days had stopped and the sky was a clear blue, but the wind was gusting, so there was a swell on the sea. No sign of sardines to be hooked, but Isaku didn't care. He just hung the line over the side as he manoeuvred the little boat forward. Occasionally there was a fleeting glimmer of an agitated mass of silver scales below the surface.

Isaku heard a voice behind him and turned to see a man gesturing to the shore. Isaku looked in that direction.

His jaw dropped and he felt himself stiffen. Coming down the mountain path that led to the pass he saw a man; he was just about to disappear behind the trees along the sides of the path down the slope. Judging by his gait and build, there was no doubt it was Isaku's father. No one else was due to come down the mountain path at that time of year.

The man reappeared from the trees. He was walking steadily, without the use of a stick, carrying a small bag in his hand.

Isaku felt overwhelmed. He felt sorry for his father coming home to find their mother gone. The thought of the shock and
pain when his father heard that only Isaku had survived cut the boy to the quick.

He wanted to turn his boat out to sea and let the currents take him away.

The power drained from Isaku's body and his head felt empty. An indescribable groan erupted from his throat. He grasped the oar and turned his boat back towards the shore.

AKIRA YOSHIMURA was born in 1927. He is the prizewinning, best-selling author of twenty novels and collections of short stories. He is the president of Japan's writers' union and a member of International PEN.

MARK EALEY is a senior lecturer in modern Japanese history and Japanese to English translation. He has also translated
Japan
of the East, Japan of the West
by Ambassador Ogura Kazuo.