Shipwrecks Read online

  In the evening when they went in to shore, they would transfer the sardines into tubs and carry them back home, where his mother would skewer them and grill them by the fire. The fish were at their succulent best, and each time some fat dripped into the fire the flames would flare up. To Isaku the taste of the hot sardines was delicious beyond compare.

  His mother split some of the fish in half and got his little sister, Kane, to hand them to her as she hung them out on a length of twine to dry.

  The temperature rose and the mountains were blanketed in greenery.

  The men of the village all took their boats out at the same time, but in a slightly different way from the previous year. Normally they would go out at dawn, but some boats could be seen leaving the shore well after the sea was flooded with sunlight. They finished earlier, too, hurrying back around the time the sun started to set. There were men who used physical ailments as excuses not to take their boats out at all.

  ‘Getting slack is the worst thing that can happen to a person,’ his mother muttered as she added some more wood to the fire.

  The men who were no longer taking fishing seriously had been spoiled by the food brought by O-fune-sama. They would use all they caught to feed their families and saw no need for additional catch to barter for grain. Fortunately, this year sardines had come in force, and one could bring in a large catch without having to spend too much time out on the water. They could even take days off.

  Isaku wanted to take it easy, too, but when he thought of what his mother had said, he could not bring himself to do so.

  The sea was calm for days on end and occasionally it drizzled from morning to night. Even on such days Isaku would take Isokichi out in the boat. His mother tilled their little field and planted vegetable seeds. From out on the water he could see the terraced fields carved out of the hillside, and he often watched the sedge hats moving in the field worked by Tami’s family.

  One day in mid-April, a man in a boat near Isaku called to him across the water and pointed to the mountain path. Isaku felt a chill run up his spine. He could just see two men, walking slowly toward the village. They were a long way away and difficult to make out properly, but it seemed as if they were looking at Isaku. He thought they must be the men from the shipping agency. He had heard that they had stopped their search for the ship and gone home, but maybe they had not given up but had simply gone to another village before heading here. Bales of rice and other exotic bounty from O-fune-sama were back in the village; if the agents spotted it, they would know that it had been plundered from a ship.

  Isaku began to shake all over.

  He looked back at the boat next to his. The man was staring at Isaku. He turned his eyes to the mountain but lost sight of the two men as they disappeared behind the trees along the sides of the path.

  Isaku followed the other boats as they turned back toward shore, relieving Isokichi of the oar and rowing with all his might. No time to move the bales of rice back up into the forest, but he thought at least he could try to hide them by throwing some matting on top.

  Boats were reaching the shore one after another as Isaku pulled his out of the water and onto the sand before running back to his house. The women and children, who would normally have been down near the water’s edge, had already disappeared.

  Isaku ran into their house to find his mother covering the bales of rice with straw matting and stacking firewood on top. He helped her carry the jars and tubs of wine, white sugar and soy sauce out of the back door and hide them in a bamboo grove.

  He peeked from behind their house towards the mountain path. The treetops were swaying in the wind as the sun beat down. Only the sound of the waves was heard as a profound stillness spread through the village. Every one of the villagers cowered indoors.

  He could see movement between the treetrunks, and before long the two men appeared at the top of the path. One of them was supporting himself with a long stick, the other was helping him down the path. The man with the stick had had one leg cut off at the knee.

  These men certainly didn’t look anything like Isaku’s idea of people from a shipping agency. Surely they wouldn’t send a crippled man on a job of this kind? Besides, they were poor, their clothes little better than rags.

  The two men came to a halt a short way down the path, alternately staring at the village and casting their eyes out to sea, before crumpling to their knees on the ground, sobbing.

  Isaku’s mother stepped out and walked in their direction; Isaku followed her. Men and women began to emerge from their houses and head towards the mountain path. The wariness he had felt earlier had all but dissolved when he saw a woman run ahead of the crowd and embrace the man with the stick.

  ‘Someone’s back from bondage,’ said his mother, quickening her step.

  Isaku’s father had another year left before his term was up, so it wasn’t him. Isaku followed his mother and the other villagers. The two men were sitting on the ground, their faces a dark reddish colour, their cheeks sunken and hollow. Isaku recognised neither of them; both men seemed in their forties, one completely grey, the other almost bald.

  They had returned after finishing their ten-year indentures. The villagers were surprised to see how much the two had aged, obviously an indication of how hard they had been worked. The man with the stick had gone into the forest to fell trees in deep snow and had fallen from a cliff when hauling the timber out. He was knocked unconscious and saved only because the other men had searched for him. They had found him two days later, buried up to his waist in snow. Though the other injuries he received in the fall had healed, his left foot, which had been under the snow, had turned gangrenous. Because this could lead to death, they had amputated his leg at the knee. Crippled as he was, he was indeed fortunate to have got back to the village alive.

  Isaku’s father was bonded in the same port as these two men, so that evening his mother went to ask how her husband was faring.

  She came back after about an hour, poured herself a cup of wine, and sat down near the fire.

  Isaku thought something was wrong when he saw his mother’s worried expression. Maybe the men had brought bad news about his father. Perhaps his father was already dead. Nervously he moved toward his mother as she started to sip her wine.

  ‘Did he say anything about Father?’

  ‘That he’s well,’ muttered his mother, her eyes fixed on the flames. Isaku felt greatly relieved and sat down by the fire.

  ‘They said he works so hard that the shipping agency people have their eyes on him. Said your father’s a strong man; he encourages other villagers, helps them along. But they said your father’s worried about us, hopes we’re all well …’ His mother took a gulp of wine.

  She must be thinking about Teru. Thinking that she had let little Teru die, and feeling that she had let their father down. She must be miserable over her own powerlessness. The wine was her way of drowning her sorrows.

  Isaku sat silently, staring into the flames. He imagined Teru, far away across the sea, standing under the water, dressed in translucent clothes, a gentle smile on her face. Teru’s death had been beyond his mother’s power to prevent and her short time on this earth must have been what her lifespan was destined to be. Yes, she might have died, but being surrounded by the spirits of their ancestors meant that she was not alone as she rested peacefully out there at the bottom of the sea.

  ‘Father’ll be back next spring. We’ve just got to hold out a little longer,’ Isaku said as he put another piece of wood on the fire.

  His mother said nothing, but slowly handed him the cup of wine. He felt emotion welling up inside him. This was the first time his mother had shown him any affection since his father had gone into bondage. Isaku sensed that his mother now recognised him as someone she could depend on.

  He took a sip of the wine and passed the cup back to his mother.

  Isokichi muttered something in his sleep as he turned over. The cup still in her hand, his mother sat staring at Is
okichi’s face looming pale in the light of the fire.

  The sardine season was over, and they started to catch squid. Each household was busy cutting squid and hanging them out to dry. The idleness that had infected the community since they had been blessed with bounty from O-fune-sama gradually faded away, and the change in seasons seemed to have brought with it a return to normal routine.

  On calm days a string of boats put out onto the water early in the morning, and women and children could be seen on the shore looking for shellfish or seaweed. On days when the sea was high, Isaku spent his time working on his boat. One of the men who had returned from servitude came down to the beach, sat on the sand with his stick at his side, and cast his eyes out to sea. Isaku stopped working and walked over to squat beside the man, whose face brightened when Isaku mentioned his father’s name. ‘You say my father’s doing all right, then …’ said Isaku, looking questioningly at the man.

  ‘He’s fine. Your father’s made of steel; he never even catches a cold.’

  Isaku nodded in reply. ‘I suppose the work must be pretty hard.’

  ‘That it is, my boy. Bond slaves are bought by the masters, you know. They can do what they like with you. The only thing they’re afraid of is that we’ll die on ’em and they’ll lose their money, so they give you plenty to eat.’

  A grimace realigned the wrinkles on the man’s face as he recalled the hardships of the work in the port.

  ‘My dad must worry about us all here.’

  ‘The only time I heard him say anything about you was when we left the port to come back here. Otherwise he didn’t talk about his family. I guess he thinks that kind of family talk would make the others feel bad. He’s doing a really good job looking after the others.’

  The man looked out to sea, his grey hair ruffled by the wind; sand blew up onto what remained of his leg. Ten years as a bond slave had taken its toll.

  ‘Just glad to have come back after O-fune-sama. I’ve had some rice, some wine, and even a puff of some tobacco. The village chief told me to take it easy for a while, but as soon as I feel a bit better I want to get out on the water,’ said the man with a joyful glint in his eye.

  Isaku mused at how happy his father would be if he knew that the village had been blessed by a visit from O-fune-sama. Indeed, not only his father but all the bond slaves would be glad to know that the families they had left behind had been delivered from starvation.

  Several days later the crippled man’s companion on the journey back to the village died. His family found him one morning lying stiff and cold in his straw bedding. Whether it had been the feeling of release from his labours or he gorged himself to death, they would never know, but he must have succumbed quietly during the night.

  The one-legged man’s grief at the wake moved many of the villagers to tears. From the time they had set off from the port, sleeping under the stars for nights on end, until they reached the village, the younger man had looked after his crippled friend, helping him struggle over the mountain passes and through the sheer valleys. No doubt this was fixed in his mind as he clung to the dead body lashed to the funeral post, crying, ‘Why him? Why not me?’

  The next day the body was placed in a coffin and carried to the cemetery. The one-legged man made his way slowly up the hill, steadying himself with his walking-stick. As the coffin was engulfed in flames, he crouched down and wept in front of the pyre.

  The villagers went into mourning, but some found comfort in the thought that the man had died in his own village. Many bond servants died away from home; this man had been fortunate enough at least to set foot in the village again and enjoy some time with his family.

  As the green mantle around the village deepened in colour and the sun’s rays grew stronger by the day, flies swarmed on the lines of dried squid. As was the custom every year, the women went to the neighbouring village to sell the squid, and Isaku’s mother joined them. Two of the village elders accompanied the women to sound out whether their village was still the object of suspicion, but on their return they reported to the chief that they had seen nothing unusual.

  A tranquil mood came over the village. Occasionally ships sailed by, but the villagers were no longer worried and merely watched them fade into the distance.

  As the squid catch started to fall away, the rainy season came, at times with heavy cloudbursts. One day when the sea was rough, Isaku set off early in the morning with Isokichi into the forest behind the village. The sun shone through a slit in the otherwise thickly clouded sky, casting a swathe of bright sunlight on the mountain path. Once they got deeper into the forest they started stripping the bark from linden trees. As there had been no cloth on board O-fune-sama, all the families in the village were resorting to collecting bark. Isaku’s mother had finished making a jacket for his father by early spring that year, and now it seemed she wanted to make something for the children.

  Isaku bundled up most of the bark and lashed it to his own carrying-frame before loading the rest onto Isokichi’s back. They stepped out of the forest and set off down the mountain path. The twittering of birds filled the air, and high above them they could hear the song of a nightingale. The sun was still on its ascent, so Isaku felt satisfied that, with Isokichi’s help, he had managed to finish earlier than expected.

  Feeling thirsty, he thought they should rest on the bank of a nearby stream. He called out to Isokichi, set his load on the path and made his way down the slope, stepping from rock to rock. Before long they heard the sound of swiftly flowing water and saw the stream itself glistening through the trees.

  Isaku stopped. He noticed someone by the water’s edge. Isokichi had noticed, too, and was peering between the trees. Two people were squatting on the bank facing the stream, a girl with her hair tied up in a knot and next to her a little boy. Isaku felt himself flush. From the look of the girl, it could only be Tami. Isaku could hardly turn back, so he headed down the slope. Tami turned around, as did the little boy; Isaku recognised him as Tami’s four-year-old brother. Seeing the distrustful look in the girl’s eyes, Isaku forced a smile as he approached. Tami’s little brother smiled back, but Tami’s steely glare was unchanged. There were two baskets on the ground beside them, full of slender bamboo shoots they had collected.

  Isaku squatted down by the stream a short distance away and scooped some water into his mouth. He was so preoccupied with Tami’s presence that the water didn’t feel cold at all. Isokichi walked over to Tami and her brother and talked with them. Isaku wet the cloth he had hanging from his belt and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  ‘She’s ripped a toenail off,’ said Isokichi. Isaku looked at Tami and saw her trying to cool one foot by dipping it in the stream. He ran back up the slope; in a flat area to the left of the path he saw some bushes; he had been there before with his father collecting otogirisō, and he stepped between the bushes, picking leaves as he went. Scampering back to the stream, Isaku handed the herb to Isokichi. ‘Tell her to rub this between her hands,’ he said, ‘then into the wound. It’ll stop the bleeding.’ Isokichi nodded and took it to Tami. She glanced at Isaku but turned her attention at once to the otogirisō, rubbing it in her hands, then applying it to her toe. Isaku had looked away.

  He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the flow of the water, but at the same time he was keenly aware that Tami and her brother were making their way up the slope.

  Isokichi drank some water from his cupped hands, then sat on a rock and dipped his feet into the stream. Isaku wet the cloth once more and roughly washed his face.

  That night Isaku lay wide awake in his bed. He kept thinking of his chance meeting with Tami, how he had given her the otogirisō to stop her foot bleeding, and wondered how she had felt. That she had rubbed the herb on the wound must mean that she had accepted his gesture as well-meant. That was enough for him. If they had happened to meet with no one else around, in all likelihood she would have taken fright and run away. He thought how each of them having their younger brother with them had
provided him with the opportunity to show goodwill to Tami. Indeed, she had been receptive to his kindness.

  Isaku had noticed that Tami’s figure was becoming increasingly feminine. Although he was only a year younger, she seemed to be maturing at a faster rate. He had dreams of making her his wife, but held little hope of realising them. His eyes glistened wide open in the dark as he sighed again and again.

  With the rain showing no signs of abating, the inside of the house felt increasingly damp. His mother made the most of sunny spells and spread their supplies of grain and fish out on a straw mat to dry.

  One evening when Isaku returned home, his mother pointed to a new sedge hat lying on the floor. ‘Tami brought it for you. She said it’s for something you did for her.’ Isaku stared at the hat. No doubt it was for the help he had given her by the stream. He felt himself going red at the thought that Tami was grateful to him.

  Embarrassed by the thought of his mother seeing him blushing, Isaku put down his fishing-tackle in the corner of the dirt floor and slipped out the back door. Once outside he stepped over to the tiny stream behind their house and washed his hands and feet. He mused that, in that short time up in the mountains, Tami must have noticed that his hat was battered and torn. Normally the villagers made sedge hats indoors when the snow was thick on the ground, but Tami must have made this one since they had met by the stream.

  Without questioning Isaku as to why Tami should be giving him such a gift, his mother busied herself sorting the linden bark, boiling the inner layers and putting it to soak in a stream of water flowing down from the hills. Turning her spinning-wheel, she transformed it into thread, then sat down in front of the loom.