Shipwrecks Page 9

  The earthen floor of the entrance to the village chief’s house thronged with people talking in restrained voices, but there was no doubting the gleam in their eyes and the gaiety in their voices. At the back of the room the village elders were busy laying out hemp stalks on the floor to use for their calculations. It had been decided that the rice would be distributed first.

  The men bent over the sticks on the floor looked up as one of them got down on all fours and spoke to the village chief. The chief nodded again and again. When the trusted elder sitting beside the chief stood up, the noise of talk died away.

  ‘There were three hundred and twenty-three bales of rice on board O-fune-sama,’ he said. The crowd seemed to sway as one in reaction to his words. Isaku’s heart almost missed a beat at the news of such incredible riches.

  ‘Each adult man and woman will receive three bales and each child one bale. The remaining forty-nine bales will be stored as the village chief’s share.’

  On hearing this, the villagers struggled to hold back their excitement, and a hubbub of voices broke from the floor again as people bowed deeply toward the village chief.

  Smiles appeared on the faces of the village chief and the elder, and Isaku saw his mother and others around him weeping. Those ten years old and above were judged to be adults, so both Isaku and his mother qualified for the adult quota. Isaku counted up their allotment on his fingers, working out that their family was entitled to eight bales of rice.

  ‘We’ll get eight bales!’ he blurted excitedly to his mother.

  ‘Eight bales!’ she cried, looking down at her son. Tears continued to well up in her eyes and flow down her cheeks. From the look on her face, she seemed to be fighting to stop herself from breaking down and sobbing.

  When people returned to the village from indentured service, the chief would supply them with their share of rice from what was stored away. When Isaku’s father returned in the spring the year after next, he would receive an allotment, too, and the family would benefit even more.

  The village chief got to his feet, as did the elder. The villagers followed them to the area behind the house. There were too many bales to fit in the storeroom, so they had been stacked up outside on straw matting. Isaku peered over people’s shoulders at the bales of rice as though he were looking at an incredible treasure.

  On the elder’s instructions the men started sharing out the bales of rice. Using hemp stalks, they counted the number of bales. When the elder called Isaku’s name, eight bales of rice were laid on the ground with two long sticks, and two short ones signifying his brother and sister’s allocation. He thought that if his sister Teru had not died, another short stick would have been placed there.

  When the allocation was finished, the villagers prostrated themselves in front of the chief and uttered words of gratitude. Many pressed their hands together in prayer.

  The elder raised his voice to be heard.

  ‘Eat the rice a little at a time. We don’t know when O-fune-sama will be back again. It might not be for years. People who get too used to the taste of rice will reap the consequences. You men must keep yourselves busy fishing, and the women must still scour the shore for shellfish.’

  The villagers bowed deeply once more.

  They all got to their feet and stood in front of their respective allotments of rice, sixteen portions in all. Household heads took to the village path with their share.

  ‘You’ll never be able to carry that,’ said his mother. Isaku grabbed the rope on the bale and tried to lift it onto his shoulder, but could get it no further than his waist. It was much heavier than he had expected.

  ‘Sissy!’ barked his mother, but the smile on her face betrayed her happiness. She took hold of the bale and worked it onto her shoulder, her hips wobbling a little as she set off along the path.

  Isaku blushed with embarrassment, miserable to think that he, the supposed provider of the family, was unable to lift a bale of rice onto his shoulder; what was more, his newfound fishing skills obviously counted for nothing when judging manhood, a humbling fact.

  His mother made several trips between the village chief’s house and their home, where they stacked up the bales on top of some planking on the earthen floor area. After carrying back the last bale, she took a drink of water, wiped the sweat from her brow, and sat down to have a rest before scooping a little bowlful of rice from one of the bales and placing it as an offering in front of the ihai, the ancestral tablet. The children copied their mother as she knelt in prayer.

  In the evening his mother put the rice from the offering into a pot and started to boil it. The smell drifted up and brought to mind his last memories of rice; he stared at the seething white mass in the pot where the swollen grains jumped up and down. His mother served him some of the rice gruel. He was overwhelmed as soon as he put it to his lips: a rich and elegant taste. He felt as though he were being filled with strength. His little brother and sister ate speechlessly, but there was no mistaking the astonished look in their eyes.

  Kura’s father came to meet Isaku’s mother and accompanied her to Takichi’s house. Because Kura had played her role so successfully in the O-fune-sama ritual, she was now lauded in the village. A celebration was held in her honour at Takichi’s house.

  A while later Isaku’s mother returned home in high spirits.

  ‘She did well. The village chief sent three bales of rice and some wine. He said that her kicking over that table so well was what brought O-fune-sama in.’ His mother had obviously been drinking, for she took a deep breath after gulping down some water from the jug.

  The roar from crashing waves was oppressive to the ear, but it could not dampen the gaiety that prevailed throughout the village.

  Isaku lay down to sleep beside Isokichi.

  The distribution of goods continued the next day. Rapeseed oil, soy sauce, vinegar and wine were apportioned according to the size of each family, and the people carried away their shares in jars and tubs. The wax and half the tea were to be kept at the village chief’s house, which also functioned as the village meeting-house. The tatami matting, too, was stored away.

  That night the fires under the salt cauldrons were lit again, because the village chief wanted to encourage his people to return to their daily routine, lest their windfall make them succumb to indolence. Even so, they hoped they might be blessed with yet another O-fune-sama.

  The men started to go out fishing again on calm days, exchanging cheery glances across the water. Some even waved or smiled at Isaku without any special reason.

  Isaku took Isokichi out on the water, but the thought of the bales of rice and the other luxuries piled up at home made him slacken. There were times when he pulled the line only to find that the bait had been taken. With enough food to last them a long time, Isaku lost the hunger needed to fish for small fry.

  Even the women foraging for shellfish and seaweed on the shore seemed to spend more time chatting than working. Their cackling laughter could occasionally be heard out on the water.

  Isaku’s turn came to tend the fires on the beach. He had thought that O-fune-sama had always been little more than a pipe dream for the villagers, but now that he had experienced it at first hand, he felt the importance of the work on the cauldron fires and wanted nothing more than to see O-fune-sama out there when he was on duty.

  The year ended, and New Year’s Day came. Isaku turned eleven years of age.

  As was the custom, during the New Year holiday villagers stayed at home. Isaku spent his time in silence with his family. The sea was rough, and each day saw another snow squall. Their return to work on the sixth day of the New Year was marked by clear skies with little wind, but the sea was still running high. His mother put a generous amount of rice into the pot to boil. Pieces of dried squid grilled slowly on the fire. There was also a plateful of pickled octopus.

  Isaku sipped his gruel with its ample measure of rice and nibbled away at the dried squid. This was the first time he had partaken of
a breakfast befitting New Year.

  After the meal, they all went to pay their respects at the graves of their ancestors. So much snow had fallen that it came up to his hips. His mother had his little sister strapped to her back as she made her way with the other villagers to the cemetery. They brushed the snow off the graves, placed several grains of rice on each stone, and prayed.

  They trudged back through the snow along the path to the village chief’s house. The sky was blue and the glare off the snow was dazzling.

  On stepping into the village chief’s house they saw three of the more prominent members of the community sitting around, drinking wine. Isaku and his family bowed as they uttered New Year’s greetings to the chief, who smiled back and nodded in recognition.

  When they got home, his mother poured Isaku some wine from a jar. He put it to his lips and felt its warmth spread through his mouth.

  His mother took a sip. ‘It’s good stuff. I’ve never had anything like this before. Wine made from rice is so different,’ she said, shaking her head in wonder. The full-bodied wine not only made Isaku feel hot all over but also put him in a buoyant mood.

  ‘Next spring Father’ll be back. I hope he comes back fit and well,’ said Isaku to his mother, who quickly turned round.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid! Of course he’ll come back fit and well. Your father’s a cut above any normal man. He’s not the sort who gets ill,’ she said angrily.

  Isaku held a sip of wine in his mouth. Thoughts of how he wanted to become a good fisherman before his father came back to the village passed through his mind. Also strong enough to lift one of those bales of rice easily.

  The wine started to go to his head, and everything seemed to sway. Drinking the rest of his wine in one gulp, he staggered over to his straw bedding and lay down. He was asleep in no time at all.

  When he woke up, the room was almost in darkness. The smell of rice gruel cooking hung in the air, and he could see his little brother and sister sitting beside the fire.

  His mother stepped over to the ancestral table and lit the wick protruding from a dish containing some oil. His brother and sister stood up and moved over to the little platter, their eyes glued to the light. It was luminous. Isaku raised himself and gazed at the light; a thin plume of smoke drifted from its flickering flame.

  The gay atmosphere in the village continued beyond New Year. Wine in hand, the men visited each other’s houses for drinking parties, while the women indulged in chatting over tea. There was even talk of an old man who had said he would happily meet his maker now that he had tasted white sugar.

  Every time his mother heard that other families were steaming their rice and eating it, she would shake her head and frown.

  ‘These things don’t last for ever. Those who aren’t strong-minded in fortunate times will be the ones crying in the end,’ she muttered, as though telling herself as much as anyone else. In their house the rice was used sparingly, and only in gruel.

  Even on calm days they saw fewer ships passing. Most of the rice shipments would be made before the end of the year, and it was rare now for a ship to set sail and risk stormy seas. Not too long after New Year they sighted a large vessel, clearly a clan ship from its crest in the middle of the sail, as it tossed and pitched its way across the horizon before disappearing behind the cape.

  At the end of January, Kura gave birth to a girl. Takichi had wanted a boy, and at first seemed disappointed. But he soon came around when the village chief not only gave them a gift of rice and wine but named the baby Tama, or Jewel.

  Isaku went with his mother to Takichi’s house; she carried a bowl containing a handful of rice. There was a sacred straw festoon hanging in the doorway, and the baby lay asleep beside Kura on the tatami matting lent to them by the village chief. Isaku’s mother put the bowl down in front of the baby, where several other offerings had been placed, and then pressed her hands together in prayer. It was said that the souls of dead ancestors would return from across the sea to take shelter in the wombs of pregnant women in the village. Kura’s newborn was therefore the reincarnation of such an ancestor: hence the relatives gathering to give offerings.

  Isaku sat beside his mother with the other relatives around the fire. They exchanged celebratory greetings and filled each other’s cups with wine. Isaku’s mother seemed to be thinking of Teru, who had died a year earlier, as she cast her eyes toward the baby. It was said that many years were needed before reincarnation could come about, so no doubt Teru would now still be in the tranquillity offered by death.

  The relatives talked about how Kura’s performance in the ritual was the reason for the village’s having been blessed with O-fune-sama and how joyous an occasion it was to have the village chief naming the baby.

  ‘Tama’s certainly lucky to be born when we’ve got rice from O-fune-sama. If she eats rice, she won’t get ill; she’ll grow up healthy,’ said one of the relatives, to nods of agreement from those listening. Kura looked contented as she lay resting on her side.

  The salt-making continued, and Isaku took his turn, spending the night tending the fires on the beach in the middle of a snowstorm. In the morning, after he had put out the fires under the cauldrons, some women came down to the shore carrying wooden tubs. Tami was among them.

  Isaku watched as the women scooped the salt from the cauldrons into the tubs. His eyes naturally focused on Tami’s body. Her face had become long and thin, and it seemed she had grown a little taller. She was slender now but more solid around the hips, and had suddenly taken on a more womanly air.

  A painful, stifling feeling came over him. Isaku knew that Takichi had had relations with Kura when they had happened to meet in the forest, and he longed to approach Tami in the same way. But he could not imagine being able to get near Tami, let alone speak to her if the opportunity did arise.

  Tami attached two tubs full of salt to her bucket yoke and walked off through the snow towards the village chief’s house. Isaku put out the fire in the little hut and made his way up the path from the beach.

  With no more ships passing, salt-making lost its meaning. The village was buried in deep snow. At times Isaku and his family would try to warm themselves against the freezing cold by sitting with their backs to the fire. A straw mat hung in the entranceway; by morning it would be as stiff as a board and frozen to the doorposts, so they would have to beat it with a stick to get it free.

  Once February came the cold became a little less severe and the sea was calm for several days at a time. When the first sightings of plum blossom were made up in the mountains, the village chief ordered the salt-making stopped. The season for O-fune-sama had come to an end.

  6

  The first signs of spring grew more pronounced as the days passed and the snow covering the village started to melt. The houses shuddered as snow slid off the roofs. Steam floated up from the wet straw of the thatched roofs.

  With the coming of spring people became more lively. As the temperature rose the fish came nearer to shore, too, and shellfish started to appear among the rocks. Each household’s stock of rice meant that there was no shortage of grain, and with the fruits of the sea also ripe for picking, the villagers could eat well indeed.

  Isaku noticed the change in people’s faces. A look of contentment replaced the stern expression in their eyes. Some men sat in the sun in front of their houses smoking, while others lay idly on the shore.

  Isaku heard that some of the villagers were secretly talking about a trip to sell salt to neighbouring villages. A middle-aged man Isaku met on the path looked dolefully up towards the mountain path and muttered, ‘I wonder if we have to go and sell salt this year, too?’

  Every year, at the end of February, the salt made during the winter would be carried to the next village and exchanged for grain. But with bales of rice stacked up in each household, there was no need to go selling salt for a measly amount of grain.

  The salt was heavy, and carrying it up the mountain path and over the pass was an
unenviable task. People had slipped and broken their legs, and, even walking from sunrise to sunset, it took a full three days to reach the next village.

  Isaku’s mother would be the one to go from his family, and even she frowned silently when Isaku said, ‘Seems quite a few people say they don’t want to sell salt.’

  One day when the sea was running high, Isaku made his way to the village chief’s house, where a meeting was to be held. The earthen floor area was full of men and women. The chief was sitting at the fireside, and beside him was the elder, who rose to his feet and stood in front of them.

  ‘Those chosen to sell salt will leave at dawn tomorrow. I hear, though, that some of you don’t want to go. Do you realise how stupid that would be? We go every year. What would the people in the next village think if we didn’t this year? No doubt they’d think we’d got hold of something that meant we didn’t need any grain. It’d soon be known that O-fune-sama had blessed us with her bounty. Didn’t that occur to you?’ The old man’s voice bristled with rage.

  The faces of those assembled took on an ashen look and they nodded solemnly.

  The elder silently surveyed the villagers before saying, ‘You’ll leave tomorrow morning. The only food you’ll take with you will be millet dumplings and dried fish. Not one grain of rice! Don’t do anything to suggest that we’re not on the brink of starvation.’ The old man’s eyes again took on a steely glint as he returned to his position by the fire.

  The villagers dispersed and Isaku headed home. He told his mother about the elder’s speech and then said, ‘I’ll go this year.’

  ‘A weakling like you carry salt?’ his mother snapped.

  The humiliation Isaku had felt when he was unable to lift the bale of rice returned. His mother had laughed when she called him a sissy, but this time he could sense contempt and annoyance in the word ‘weakling’.