When Hotaka woke mid-morning, the vision of Takeshi being swallowed by the tsunami was still in his head. It couldn’t be true, he told himself. Takeshi was tough and strong, a fighter. The wave couldn’t have taken his life. He was indestructible.

In physical feats there was almost nothing Takeshi couldn’t do. He was a standout in several martial arts – judo and karate, but especially kendo. He’d only taken up kendo a year ago and was already beating older guys with his swordsmanship. He was a hit king in baseball, and on the soccer field there wasn’t a striker like him. Hotaka was a wing on the same team, and knew that if he could get the ball to Takeshi his friend was bound to score.

Takeshi was such a fighter, too, never giving up. Hotaka recalled the time their team was down two-nil. Takeshi rallied the players at half-time. ‘Never say die,’ he shouted. They ended up winning. Never say die! Takeshi wouldn’t have let the wave beat him.

And then there was his diving. He was fearless. He could actually dive off Eagle Cliff. Dive! A thirty-metre sheer drop into the ocean. The best Hotaka could do was jump, and only then from a ledge about halfway down, never from the very top. Takeshi dived without a thought, spearing into the sea like an owashi, a great eagle. That’s why he couldn’t be gone. He would never have let the ocean take him.

‘He’s still alive,’ Hotaka muttered, leaping up and grabbing some clothes. ‘And I’ll prove it.’ He dressed and pulled on his runners. ‘I will!’

He scrawled a quick note to his mother – telling her not to worry, explaining that there was something he had to do – and climbed out the window.

Hotaka normally loved his walk through the little forest at the back of his house, a winding track beneath a magical canopy of trees. And stepping from the forest onto the side of Monk Head Hill was pure delight, giving a full view of Omori-wan. The town was said to be the prettiest in all of Tōhoku, with its happy mix of quaint and colourful buildings along the harbourfront. The scene always made Hotaka smile.

There was no magic this time, though. A grey, drizzly sky cast gloom over everything. There were tremors, too, chilling reminders of what lurked below. But the worst bit of all was what greeted Hotaka when he emerged from the trees. He gasped. He actually cried out, a shriek of pain as if he’d been physically wounded.

There was no Omori-wan.

An army of giants had ravaged the town, kicked and trampled and smashed it to pieces. Small bits were left – pockets to the north and south – but they were few and far between. Hotaka struggled to pick out any landmarks, anything to convince him that this was Omori-wan. Nature had destroyed his town, leaving a scene of utter devastation.

He wandered across the side of Monk Head Hill in a daze, slowly descending, unable to take in the horror that spread before him, yet unable to look away. He was so absorbed by it all that he tripped over something, almost falling. When he glanced back, what he saw made him break into a cold sweat. A stumpy bush. A length of rope trailing away down the hill. Hotaka threw his hand to his mouth and sank to his knees.

Suddenly it was all there. Yesterday. He and Takeshi and the old people. All as clear as could be, and all in complete silence. Nothing to distract, mute images flashing before him, laying out the harsh reality in undeniable, inescapable detail.

Hotaka watched, spellbound, every scene burning into his being. And yet the very last vision of all – the one of Takeshi being sucked down into the abyss – made him leap up and shake his head.

‘No! You’re wrong. That’s not what happened.’

He shouted at himself, at his own mind, for it was doing this. The last time he saw Takeshi, his friend was still afloat. His head was above the water and he was holding the rope. Exhausted, yes. Struggling, yes. But he was there, alive and fighting. At no point did Hotaka actually see Takeshi sucked under. His mind was playing tricks on him.

‘You’re making it up,’ he yelled. ‘It didn’t happen like that. Takeshi was washed away, that’s all. It doesn’t mean he’s dead.’ Hotaka kicked at the bush. ‘He’s out there,’ he yelled, pointing towards the ruins of Omori-wan. ‘And I’ll find him. I will.’

He strode off, knowing exactly what to do. He’d go to Takeshi’s house, if it was still there. It was on the southern side of Omori-wan, and quite a walk. But it made sense to start there and move on if need be. For all he knew he’d find Takeshi with his mother and father. They’d be miserable, like everyone, and Takeshi would be sore and bruised. But he’d be okay. He would! And as bad as things were, they’d laugh. He and his best friend would make each other laugh. That’s what they always did.

There were times, Hotaka remembered, when his friend made him laugh until he cried. Takeshi had a neighbour he called Mr Grumpy, who hated children and scowled all the time. The man was probably like that because of the tricks Takeshi played on him. Mr Grumpy was totally bald, and whenever Takeshi got a chance he would open fire on that shiny dome with his pea-shooter. Poor Mr G was sure Takeshi was his attacker, but could never catch him.

Hotaka smiled to himself as he marched down the hill, full of determination. But the closer he drew to town, the worse he felt. By the time he’d reached the harbour his heart had sunk completely.

The beautiful old wharves, once the pride of Omori-wan, were gone, planks and pylons heaped up against the harbourfront, everything smashed and broken. The cobblestone road that ran the length of the old town had been ripped up and washed away. There was mud everywhere, mud mixed with seaweed, wharf decking, pylons, lobster pots, buoys, cars, bikes, trucks, and…and no doubt people. Hotaka shuddered. A large trawler lay on its side, a car crushed beneath it. An even bigger trawler sat perched on top of a three-storey building, one of the very few that hadn’t been swept away.

Heavy machinery crunched and growled along the harbourfront – bulldozers and graders, backhoes and excavators, cranes and tractors. Their fumes filled the air, their noise relentless. Hotaka picked his way along the front, dodging machinery, searching for an opening to take him across town. It wasn’t easy, for there were no longer streets or roads as such. The old part of Omori-wan had been famous for its narrow alleys, lanes and tree-lined streets, but they were all gone, torn up and buried beneath rubble and debris. Graders and bulldozers were creating new routes, carving them from the chaos.

He eventually found an opening and turned into it. The path was wide enough for traffic in both directions, but there weren’t many vehicles, mainly trucks carting rubbish. There were quite a few people, however, some rummaging through the debris. Some had actually found their homes, though how they could possibly recognise anything was beyond Hotaka. He began to have doubts about finding Takeshi’s place if that part of town was as badly destroyed as this, but he kept going.

What a scene of suffering and misery, Hotaka thought as he walked, accompanied by a chorus of weeping and moaning. On one corner an old lady addressed a small crowd. Many of them were as old as she was, and they looked frightened and confused. Hotaka had seen the woman before, wandering the streets of Omori-wan. Some said she was a Kitsune, a Fox Woman. Others called her Shaman Lady. Whatever the case, she was supposed to have special powers. Perhaps this was true, for her audience hung on her every word.

‘The god Kashima must be angry,’ she shouted. ‘He has let Namazu whip up the waves of death that have washed our world away.’ Some in the crowd nodded earnestly, others wept and wailed. Hotaka shook his head and kept moving.

People wandered aimlessly – lost, dazed, devastated. A woman sat hugging her baby, holding up a photograph: ‘Has anyone seen my husband Ichiro?’ A man knelt before a pile of debris that must have been his home, head in hands. A staircase rose out of rubble, leading nowhere. A door frame opened onto open air. A cat meowed somewhere. A woman stumbled by with crazed eyes, clutching a doll to her chest. An old man passed. ‘Sixty feet,’ he shouted like a town crier. ‘That’s how high the wave was!’ He laughed uncontrollably, as if it was all a huge joke. ‘Sixty feet!’

Closer to where Takeshi lived, damage from the tsunami was not as bad. There was still a great deal of rubble and debris, and houses had been washed away, but not as many as nearer the harbour. Hotaka was even able to find Takeshi’s street; its sign had been bent to the ground by the wave. And to Hotaka’s relief, his friend’s house was still standing. It had been submerged – the water mark above window height showed that. But it was still standing. Hotaka couldn’t help smiling; at least there was hope.

It didn’t look as though anyone was there, but he knocked nonetheless, then peered through one of the broken windows and called out. There was no reply. He waited, wondering if there was some way he could leave a note.

‘They’d be at the morgue,’ someone called from the other side of the street.

Hotaka turned to see Mr Grumpy. ‘Where did you say?’

‘The morgue, where the bodies are.’ Mr Grumpy crossed the street, picking up a shoe that lay in the gutter. ‘Well, it’s really the gym near the school, but it’s been turned into a morgue. Somewhere big enough to lay out all the bodies so people can identify them. They’d be looking for their boy.’ He peered at Hotaka. ‘You’re his friend, aren’t you?’

‘Takeshi?’ Hotaka shouted. ‘What makes you say they’d be looking for him there?’

‘Well, he didn’t come home yesterday, did he? And he wasn’t there this morning. Just his parents, and they were crying.’ Mr Grumpy almost tossed the shoe onto a nearby pile of rubble, but then thought better of it. ‘He’d be gone,’ he said, staring down at the shoe, a tremble in his voice.

‘You don’t know that,’ Hotaka snapped. ‘He could be lost, he could be hurt. He–he could be anything.’

‘Okay.’ Mr Grumpy backed away, glancing warily at Hotaka. ‘I suppose he could. But—’

‘Don’t say it,’ Hotaka yelled, turning his back and rushing away. ‘You’re wrong!’