I was sitting on a three-legged stool, next to that glazed raccoon dog on the hovel’s doorstep. I couldn’t recall how I got here.
I peered in all four directions.
The ocean. Nothing. Nothing. The hovel. And that was it—a realm so darned mundane, I believed I might scream.
‘You know, given the state of the place I was ejected from when I was shot in the noggin, I never thought I would admit this—but I yearn for city life. I miss the amenities, the wining and dining, the twenty-four-hour convenience.’
‘Those things mean a lot to you?’ Kohana asked from where she sat on a large, flat rock in the yard, sketching impressionistic cats with elongated necks. They reminded me of the cats my mother used to draw for me when I was a child, and looked like bottles lined up to fall. ‘You miss Melbourne that much?’
‘I can’t say I’ve mentioned Melbourne to you before. Have I?’
‘I don’t know. You shouldn’t expect a centenarian to have the best memory.’
The girl was shading one of her drawings green. A curious colour for a cat.
‘Did you ever visit Melbourne?’
Kohana sniffed and wiped her nose. ‘Visit?’ Then she looked right at me. ‘I lived there half my life. Deshō?’
Being caught off-balance by this infuriating woman was turning out to be a commonplace experience, but this time the disclosure was perfectly reasonable, in light of recent world events—or at least the recent ones, before I expired.
‘I assumed,’ I said, ‘well, I meant to say…’
‘You assumed I lived and died in my country? I wasn’t through-and-through Japanese by the time I kicked the bucket. I’d spent several decades living abroad—most of that in Australia.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘This changes everything!’ I was suddenly delighted.
‘How?’
‘Well, if you were born in 1929 and died when you were a hundred, that would have meant you did so—’
‘In your brave new world.’
I checked myself. ‘Oh.’
‘I died there not long before you pulled up stumps—well, that’s not especially true. A few years before. Enough time to get acquainted here.’ Kohana sharpened a pencil. ‘So I knew about Wolram E. Deaps when we were both alive and kicking. Couldn’t really help it—you were a famous man.’
She stood up and dusted down her backside.
‘I feel grimy. I think I’ll take a bath. How about you?’
‘What, together?’ I chuckled to myself, having dared so brazen a quip. Somewhere, sight unseen at the back of my mind, I etched a few notches. Wolram—3, Kohana—0.
‘That’s what I presumed. Why is it amusing?’
Those notches were straight away erased. ‘No, no, to the contrary, I assure you,’ I panicked. ‘Not funny at all.’
‘Then why are you acting so weird about the idea?’
‘Weird? What’s weird? It’s not weird.’
‘More weird. Right. Good. Come with me, then.’
‘Now?’
Kohana frowned. ‘No, tomorrow. What do you think? Come on, buster.’
I grudgingly followed Kohana on a dusty path around the hovel, skirting the herb garden and the scarecrow. At the back of the building, in the open, with no roofing or sense of discretion, was a cast-iron contraption that looked like a barrel in which you’d usually press grapes.
This was not intended for making wine. It was a bathtub, and beneath it smouldered a wood-burning stove.
‘Now you get to take off your clothes,’ Kohana announced as she turned around to look at me, with a cheeky beam. ‘Kohana—3, Wolram—0.’
The Devil she knew. ‘What, all of them? Now?’
‘Whenever you’re ready.’
‘In front of you?’
‘All right, all right. I’ll turn around. Unbelievable.’
As she did so, the girl slid off her cotton dress and an under-garment, and before I could think to avert my eyes, I saw a large tattoo on her back—a winding dragon with eight heads, stretching from her neck to her naked buttocks, cavorting right down to the left thigh.
I twisted away. I was staring at the back wall of the hovel, a side of the place I’d not seen before. No wonder. It bored me senseless.
‘Come on,’ I heard Kohana urge.
I swallowed my slaphappy pride, took off the smoking jacket and folded it neatly, swept the residual gunk off a banana lounge, and placed it there. Then, I removed my slacks, shirt and cravat. I was stark naked, aside from pirate underwear—which I attempted to disguise with my hands, when I slowly turned back to the woman.
Kohana stood there with no clothes and no shame. I stared at her face, refusing to look an inch beneath the chin. The girl had no such qualms. She ran her eyes over me, and then guffawed.
‘Oh dear. Why on earth are you wearing such silly short-pants—those are Jolly Roger flags! How old are you again?’
‘Laugh all you want, my dear. Modesty prevents removal. May I point out, I’m an elderly gent?’
‘Gent? That’s questionable. And don’t you don’t think I’ve seen an old rump, or three, in my time? I lived to be one hundred.’
‘I don’t know how you lived the remainder of your years—you may well have become a nun, so far as I’m concerned.’
‘Do I look like a nun?’
The tattoo sizzled in my mind.
‘I don’t know. What does a nun look like? The last one I saw was when I was five years old—a middle-aged lady of Greek origin that I saw on a tram, with a black habit and black moustache. Apparently, I pointed out the facial hair to my mother, in a very loud voice, causing embarrassment all round. She never allowed me to live it down.’
‘Well, you don’t have to worry about the occupation or the facial hair, in my case. Your legs are so skinny. Did you eat at all before you died?’
‘Like a goat, only better. I do appreciate my gourmet grub.’
‘Such as plastic sushi?’
‘They looked right enough.’
‘They have brothers in the fridge.’ Kohana stared at my boxer shorts. ‘You’re going to have to take them off. They hurt my eyes. No clothing is worn in Japanese baths—and relax, I’m not going to take advantage of you.’
‘Look away then.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
She did as requested, and after much ado I kicked off the underpants—but kept my hands down there, to cover up.
‘We have to rinse first,’ Kohana said, now all business-like.
The woman grabbed a wooden bucket and washed herself with water from a tap, and then passed it over to me. I filled it up, poured it over my head—and shouted. The water was bitterly cold. As she climbed into the tub, Kohana sang something.
I was trying to keep my teeth from chattering. ‘Might I inquire what the song is?’
‘It’s “Tsugaru Kaikyō Fuyugeshiki”, “Winter Scene of Tsugaru Strait”, an old enka standard by Ishikawa Sayuri—sorry, Sayuri Ishikawa. A favourite of mine that I used to sing at karaoke. When I say it’s “old”, however, I lie—she released the song in 1977, when I was already forty-seven. It was conjured up by lyricist Yu Aku, with composer Takashi Miki, aka Tadashi Watanabe, who was also responsible for the insanely catchy “Anpanman no March” theme song for the kids’ anime series Anpanman.’
‘I have no idea what you are rattling on about.’
‘Come on in. You’ll freeze to death standing out there.’
Surprisingly, I didn’t need to be asked twice.
With great difficulty, and much shame, I scaled the wall of the tub in a backwards manoeuvre, my private parts turned away from the woman. Of course I fell in. Once immersed, I felt like I’d been scalded.
‘This is too bloody hot!’ I objected.
‘It’s supposed to be. Almost the same temperature as the saké.’
‘If you dare say deshō, I’ll whack you one.’
‘Never crossed my mind.’ Kohana smiled.
So, we crouched there in the water, inches from one another—and silence ensued. I had no idea what to say. After a few minutes, I became accustomed to the heat, and in fact could feel my muscles relaxing. That was something.
‘Would you mind giving me a shoulder massage?’ Kohana asked.
Cue: muscle tension. ‘Why on earth would I do that?’
‘Go on, W. I have sore shoulders. No hidden agenda—nothing you could pin to your Harris Tweed jacket. Jeez.’
I scrutinized her face. ‘A quick question, and if you can answer it, I’ll grant you the massage. What colour was my favourite Harris Tweed?’
Kohana was gazing at the black, empty sky. No stars shone. ‘There’s a toughie. Let me see—grey-green, with subtle flecks of camel?’
‘All right. Certainly. Turn yourself around.’
When she did as told, I came face to face with that multi-headed dragon. All the eyes scowled, and I wondered where I had misplaced my white flag.
‘Any time you’re ready.’
‘Not a problem. I used to do this all the time.’
‘I bet.’
‘I did, you know. I massaged my daughter’s leg every morning of every day. It was part of her therapy. I did that for two years.’
After hesitating some more, I placed my hands on the woman’s shoulders, between the heads, and began to knead.
‘Say—not bad. I thought you’d complain of arthritic fingers or some such nonsense, just to wriggle out of it. Thank you. I feel so tense.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘And so formal too,’ she sighed.
‘I have to ask, since these brutes are staring straight at me—they’re not very friendly chaps. What’s the story with the tattoo?’
‘Yamata no Orochi? A story within a story.’
‘There’s an opaque answer if ever I’ve heard one.’
‘Well, he does relate to our earlier diatribe about saké. There’s a Japanese myth that adds depth to the drink. Would you care to hear it?’
‘If it eventually leads to why you have him on your back.’
‘Eventually.’ I heard her snigger. ‘This is a well-known Japanese fable that starts out with some parental hand-wringing. The eight daughters of an elderly couple are being devoured, on consecutive years, by a dragon named Yamata no Orochi. This roughly translates as Eight-Branched Great Snake, or Eight-Forked Serpent.’
‘So—dragon or snake?’
‘The difference gets lost in the translation.’
‘Another tragedy.’
‘Let’s call him a beastie, to keep it simple.’
‘This works for me.’
‘Good. Ow!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Your hands are stronger than they look. Anyway, this annually ravenous beastie flaunts eight heads and eight tails, and size-wise stretches out over eight hills and eight valleys. While this may play havoc with the Japanese notion that eight is a lucky number, things straighten out just prior to the consumption of daughter Number Eight, named Kushinadahime—Rice Paddy Princess.’
‘An engaging name.’
‘Are you being facetious? Do you want to hear this story?’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘I’d prefer you to be all hands.’
‘I’m trying. This is highly embarrassing.’
‘Why? There’s nobody around to watch.’
‘Still.’
‘I don’t know. Imagine if your old mates could see you now—naked in a tub, a seventy-one-year-old massaging the shoulders of a fifteen-year-old. Just don’t let on I’m old enough to be your mother.’
‘Stop it. Get back to your ho hum story.’
‘Okay. Things do get more interesting, fear not. It transpires that our grandstanding hero here is Susanoo no Mikoto, the banished Shintō summer storm god.’
‘Very Thor-like.’
‘I suppose. I don’t know who Thor is. I remember Toshiro Mifune played Susanoo in the 1959 movie. Having met the old couple, Susanoo gets the hots for Kushinada-hime and offers his assistance—in return for the daughter’s hand. There’s always a catch in these tales. Both parents accept, since I don’t think they have much choice, and Susanoo swings a magic trick that transforms Kushinada-hime into a comb he hides in his hair.’
‘So he moonlighted as a magician?’
‘I think all gods can do the comb trick. He then ordered a barrier built around the house, in which there were eight gates. At each gate, a cavernous tub is placed upon a bench, and the eight tubs are filled with eight-times-filtered saké.’
I noticed that one of the beastie’s heads, on Kohana’s right shoulder, was split in two, with a raised scar of about four centimetres between the eyes. I stopped massaging and, with care, touched the area.
‘What happened here?’
‘A story for another day,’ Kohana said.
‘You and your secrets.’
‘A girl has to keep some things under the cuff.’
‘I have grave reservations about that.’ My fingers were aching, but I said nothing. I doubted she’d let me off the hook.
‘Fair enough. So, as I was about to tell you, when the beastie makes his lumbering eight mountain/eight valley arrival, he finds his path blocked and, after much huffing and puffing—like the wolf in the three little pigs story, really—Orochi finds that he can’t breach the barrier.’
‘Baffling.’
‘Very. To make matters worse, Orochi’s acute sense of smell takes in the saké, which the polycephalic dragon loves—like you, really. So, the eight heads entertain a dilemma: they desperately want to guzzle the delicious saké that calls out to them, much like the Sirens from Homer’s Odyssey, yet the fence obstructs their path, blocking any easy access to reach the precious booze.’
She stopped, and groaned.
‘Too hard?’ I ceased with my pressing.
‘No, no, perfect. Don’t stop.’
‘Could you keep the groaning to a minimum?’
‘Oh you.’
‘Story.’
‘Well, when one head suggested they simply smash the barrier down, the consensus was that this would knock over and waste the saké.’
‘I don’t think it needs a consensus to work that one out.’
‘He is a beastie, remember. When another head proposes they combine their fiery breath and burn the fence into ash, they agree that the nihonshu would potentially be evaporated.’
‘What was the temperature of the saké?’
‘Not part of the tale—deshō? As Orochi looks closer, he finds that the gates are actually unbarred and, pining for the saké on the other side, his heads are keen to stick their necks through to go guzzle it. But here the eighth one, which is the smartest, warns his cranial brethren of the folly of such action—then volunteers to head through first to make sure the coast is clear.’
‘I’m not sure if that’s brave, selfish, or downright stupid.’ My thumbs, smarting as they were, found a knot, and I focused on that.
‘Ouch! No, no, don’t stop. Good pain. Of course, it’s a cruel trap, as Susanoo skulks in some shadow, hiding, and allows that single head to drink the alcohol in safety. The head, buzzing by now with the carefree abandon that saké imparts, reports back to the others that there is no danger. With a “Whoopee!”, all eight noggins plunge through a different hatch, greedily skulling every last drop in the vats, and then revel in the effects of the drink.’
‘That, I can imagine.’
‘I’m sure you can. Alas, it has a sad finale. As the heads reel, Susanoo launches his attack. Drunk from slurping too much saké so quickly, the great serpent is no match for the wily, tee-totalling hero, who decapitates each dazed crown in turn and thereby slays him—a fitting lesson for all eight-headed beasties out there with a taste for the hard stuff.’
‘Was this hero of ours wielding a sickle, or a sword?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘Sounds like Orochi could’ve done with some lessons from the Lernaean Hydra. Eight heads are not so useful if they don’t grow back.’
I took my hands off Kohana’s shoulders, and leaned back.
‘There. Penance paid for my stupidity with the Harris Tweed. Are you going to tell me why you got the tattoo of an under-achiever like this?’
‘I felt for his loss.’
That answer fizzled. I felt somewhat cheated. ‘Righto.’