I’m descended from samurai.
It sounded like the coolest thing in the world, not that Isla MacKenzie would ever say so aloud.
Finally, after months of planning, she was in Kagoshima. The bustling Japanese city nestled among thick forests and craggy hills, in the shadow of the great active volcano, Mount Sakurajima. A dry winter breeze washed over her, smelling of soil and stone and the river. She inhaled, a smile spreading on her face.
Isla’s third-great-grandfather had walked these lands nearly a hundred and thirty years ago. The MacKenzie family lore had it that perhaps he was one of the warriors who had fought alongside Takamori Saigō, the rebel samurai leader who fought to his death against the emperor’s army in 1877. He would have been a brave warrior, and maybe even a great hero. Isla liked to think of his blood beating still in her own veins.
She gazed in the direction of the great mountain concealed by winter rain. Mist hid the peak that belched frequent plumes of smoke and rained ash on the city. Today, the volcano remained subdued.
Takamori Saigō was everywhere, even in the tiny airport welcoming guests to the city of Kagoshima. His face, round and cartoonish with his signature thick, black eyebrows, could be found on posters, signs, advertisements, and every piece of merchandise in the souvenir shops. Ironic, since in life he had never let anyone take his photograph.
Isla MacKenzie wandered along the river’s edge, where loose grass floated lazily down the stream, the surface dancing with scatters of rainfall. She was here on a mission: to find her third-great-grandfather’s history. Her grandfather, may he rest in peace, had begun his own research, hoping to discover Hisakichi Kuroki’s story, but he had never returned to Japan after his parents shunned him for marrying a foreigner. And with this breaking of ties, any family knowledge concerning the details of the life of his own great-grandfather had faded into obscurity.
The mere memory of her grandad brought an ache that settled into Isla’s chest, heavy like a stone. She stopped at the riverbank to unfold his photograph, the centre fold creased to white, lost in memories of sitting on his lap, his scent of vanilla and coffee, and his contagious laugh that would always send anyone in the room into helpless fits of giggles.
‘Eye, eye, eye-la,’ he would say, tapping her eyebrows and then her nose with each syllable.
‘Tom, Tom, Tomo,’ she’d giggle back, flicking his ears, then his nose. Isla’s grandfather’s name had been Yoshitomo, but everyone in Scotland had called him Tom.
I will finish what you started, Grandad.
She would find the truth about Hisakichi Kuroki. Was he a samurai or a lowly peasant? Had he fought alongside one of the most famous Japanese historical figures of all time? Grandad would never know, but Isla would. Part of her wanted to vow she wouldn’t return to her university accommodation in Tokyo until she knew for sure. The thought summoned Mum’s stern face to her mind. Maybe it would be better to just work fast.
Though she was a quarter Japanese, Isla had inherited the bright red hair of her Scottish father’s side, and her fiery locks, feathered into layers, barely brushed her shoulders. She tucked a stray strand behind her ear, checking the time on her flip phone. It was a new Motorola Razr, a gift from Dad just before she started her study-abroad year in Japan. Not that she could do much with it here except take pictures. Isla noted the battery was getting low, and she told herself to remember to charge it once she had made it to the hotel.
Wandering alone along the riverside was peaceful, stones crunching beneath her trainers and the wind cold on her skin. It was healing to be here, away from the drama of home. A sharp pain that had nothing to do with her grandfather joined the melancholy in her heart. Maybe, now she had some time away, she could learn to forget about him. Isla scowled and looked out at the faint outline of the city landscape. She would not let her ex-boyfriend ruin this special time for her.
Isla drew close to the Museum of the Meiji Restoration, a modest and unassuming building that was nothing like the towering skyscrapers of Tokyo. Perhaps she would find answers here. Along the way were signposts displaying snippets of the past and details on historical figures. There was even a traditional samurai house of wooden floors, a slate roof and sliding washi paper doors, and Isla took a quick look inside.
A bird flitted past and landed on the skeletal branch of a tree, chirping. Though it was a weekend, it was quiet here, away from Tenmonkan Street where people wandered to cafés and walked their dogs among the scent of ramen noodles and sweet rice cakes. January was a perfect time to travel. After the excitement and holidays in the New Year, barely anyone was around. The crowds of Tokyo often made her impatient; everyone moved too slowly for her liking.
Visiting the museum to find information on an obscure person from the past was a long shot, Isla knew. She had found nothing in textbooks or newspaper archives that mentioned her third-great-grandfather. Only the most famous and influential samurai had been mentioned. But it felt important for her to be here, to taste the history, to walk the lands her ancestors had. Grandad’s wishes aside, Isla was more than a little curious herself about where she had come from.
She read everything she could in the museum, even struggling through the long passages of Japanese and wishing for the thousandth time she was more practised in kanji, the more complicated alphabet.
She learned about how the samurai tried and failed to take Kumamoto Castle, how they spent months fighting imperial soldiers, and how it all kicked off after the army sent a warship to Kagoshima City – of the Satsuma province, as it was called back then – at the end of that January to confiscate their weapons and ammunition. Someone caught them and raised the alarm, unleashing the rage of Takamori Saigō’s samurai. It was an arresting idea, hundreds of angry samurai armed with whatever they could find, chasing off the emperor’s soldiers until they fled to the open sea.
The museum displayed the dialect of old Satsuma, which sounded nothing like standard Japanese. Isla’s understanding was fractured. Grandad and Mum’s help as well as two years studying Japanese at the University of Edinburgh had not prepared her for cultural nuances. A little cartoon of Takamori Saigō and his dog gave the standard form and the Satsuma form, written both in Japanese and in Roman letters. A wee smile played on Isla’s lips as she wondered how this historical figure would feel if he knew there were so many goofy cartoon versions of him.
‘Watashi wa anata no koto ga daisuki desu.’ The board gave the standard Japanese of the phrase ‘I like you a lot’, and then provided the Satsuma version, ‘Oi wa omansa ga wazze sujja.’
Isla studied the script, writing the phrases in her notebook. Her language skills were decent enough, but clearly she still had a long way to go. Her half-Japanese mum would be so proud if she managed to find information on Hisakichi Kuroki.
In a glass case sat a biwa lute, a teardrop-shaped instrument made from mulberry wood, with four silk strings and an intricate carved samurai helmet and sword decorating its centre. Near this display was a sumo game, where you pushed as hard as you could against a cartoonish wrestler painted on the wall. Isla was rather proud of her score of forty-two kilograms.
Things became sombre further along the museum. There was a 3-D model of Saigō kneeling on a mountain, surrounded by his remaining friends, all sitting with their heads bent. Their fists were clenched and their faces bleak. Even while immortalising the moment, the artist had captured the quiet acceptance of their fates. They knew they were about to die.
Isla peered closely at the little figurines. Had Hisakichi Kuroki been among them, knowing the long, gruelling war had come to an end and he would soon draw his last breath? Or did he die early on, in the battle for Kumamoto Castle, perhaps, or one of the many guerrilla attacks that followed?
The only thing Grandad knew about Hisakichi Kuroki was his name and that he was from Kagoshima. Hisakichi Kuroki’s wife’s name and when he had died were a mystery. Isla wished she had more to go on, something like the birthday of Hisakichi Kuroki’s son – Isla’s great-great-grandfather – as this would have indicated whether he had died during the Satsuma Rebellion.
Many Japanese people thought of the war’s end as romantic. The samurai, battle-worn and half-starved, had run down the mountainside in the morning sun, katana swords in hands, facing their certain deaths with the fearless courage they’d learned and breathed from childhood.
She read about the schools for young boys where they trained in literature and language and martial arts, having their morals set firmly in stone. Thanks to Takamori Saigō, young samurai had places to go to learn and train. Figures of small boys wrestled in their loincloths or sat in rapt attention as they listened to their sensei.
Their mantra was on the information board: Do not lie. Do not mistreat the weak. And never be defeated.
Isla thought this a good way to live.
* * *
A wild boar snuffled on the hillside, snout pushing aside dirt and twigs in the search for food. Hunger made the boar oblivious to two young men crouching nearby.
Maeda Keiichirō and Mori Toramasa squatted low, hidden among the bushes. An icy gust blew, the air dry and carrying the scent of soil and grass.
An ache formed in Keiichirō’s back, but he didn’t move. The wide, flowing legs of his hakama trousers fluttered in the wind as he remained still, watching the boar as it foraged.
‘Steady,’ best friend Toramasa whispered, his long fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. The narrow pit trap they had laid for the boar still stood two metres to its left, and the tusked creature didn’t show any interest in the bait they had set inside.
Keiichirō’s mouth filled with saliva. There was enough meat on that thing to last for days.
The stocky inoshishi boar trotted across the forest clearing, its snout quivering. For a moment it seemed it might finally go for the bait. But as the wind washed over them from behind, the boar caught the scent of the hunters. It glanced up and its beady eyes looked straight in their direction.
Before Keiichirō could grab him, Toramasa sprang up. His tall stature cast a shadow onto the boar’s back and, with one pull, his katana sword was free. The sun glinted off the blade, a flash of brilliance, before he plunged it into the beast. Crimson spurted onto Toramasa’s leg.
But instead of falling dead, the boar squealed and took off, racing through the bush and out of sight, drops of blood marking the twigs and dead leaves.
‘Bakamono,’ Keiichirō admonished, straightening. ‘Your first strike must always kill. We should have brought guns.’
‘And warned the farmer?’ Toramasa snorted. He gave the sword a sharp flick to shake the worst of the blood from the blade, then wiped it on the grass. He slipped it back into his belt beside his shorter wakizashi sword.
Keiichirō looked him in the eyes. ‘The farmer?’
Toramasa gave a cheeky smile. It was a look Keiichirō knew only too well. ‘You wouldn’t have agreed to come.’
‘Who’s there?’ a voice roared from the trees. ‘Who’s poaching?’
Keiichirō cursed.
The grass whipped their sandals as they ran, Keiichirō clutching his own swords against his left hip. Branches scratched his face and hair as the two of them crashed through the woods.
The bark of a dog sounded behind, and echoed as if there were a dozen hounds among the trees.
‘You didn’t mention this land belonged to a farmer,’ Keiichirō panted, ‘or that he had a dog.’
They left the trees and sprinted across scrub, laughing. The dog burst from the foliage, yapping and snarling.
‘Run!’ Keiichirō shouted.
They didn’t stop until they had slipped between the low-roofed buildings of the town and reached a familiar neighbourhood.
On the horizon sat Mount Sakurajima, the mighty volcano on the island for which it was named. On this day, no mist crowned its peak. A thin trail of smoke floated from it to mingle with the clouds.
‘Is the dog still there?’ Keiichirō imagined snarling jaws snapping at his ankles.
‘I don’t think so. But still, in here.’
They slipped through an alley between wooden homes, sandals slapping now upon a dirt road. Soon they were passing soba noodle shops and the scent of soy sauce and green onions, noren curtains fluttering over the entrances that had speciality dishes painted on them in white or gold.
At last, they came to the riverside.
Toramasa anxiously patted his hair and Keiichirō snorted a laugh.
Women knelt by the water, washing silk kimonos and beating futon mattresses, obi belts tied around their waists to form large bows at their backs. A few glanced up and some of the older ones exchanged looks.
Keiichirō saw why Toramasa had been so eager to smooth his hair.
Ikeda Uhei, an older student of the great Saigō-sama’s schools for samurai, which they attended, came towards them, confident and at ease. He had always favoured Toramasa, with his clear, alabaster skin and delicate cheekbones. Girls had always giggled over Toramasa’s good looks.
Toramasa swallowed, glancing at Keiichirō as though asking for support, as they bowed low to their senior.
‘Good afternoon, Ikeda-san,’ said Keiichirō as the silence stretched between the trio.
Ikeda Uhei had the demeanour of an older man, despite only being twenty-six. He regarded the younger students with a small bow of his own, a few strays from his straight hair blowing in the breeze. The corners of his mouth turned upward in a smile that was hard to read. His voice was silk. ‘Maeda-san. Mori-san. Not causing mischief, I trust?’
‘Not at all, Ikeda-san,’ Toramasa squeaked.
Ikeda’s gaze lingered for a shade longer before he sauntered away, leaving behind the cool scent of pine needles.
Toramasa let out a long breath as if the encounter had winded him.
‘What do we do now?’ Keiichirō asked. With an effort, he avoided glancing behind for the pursuing farmer and the dog, even though the back of his neck still prickled. They hadn’t made a kill, and now the farmer would know someone was poaching from his land. Keiichirō had been a fool for blindly following Toramasa. Since they were boys, his best friend had always got him into trouble, and he should have known better. ‘We still haven’t any food. Kana won’t be pleased.’
‘She’ll be right to be upset. Let’s go fishing, then.’ Toramasa stopped gawping after Ikeda-san and grinned at his friend. ‘There’s always a way.’
‘One that usually gets us into trouble,’ Keiichirō muttered, but he went after his friend all the same.
As the sun sank beneath the horizon, sapping the day of the last of its warmth, and the first of the stars pinpricked in a sky the colour of spilled ink, goosebumps stippled Keiichirō’s hands and neck as they headed home, three fish in his bag, his spirits high. He, Kana and Yura would eat tonight, and, with the current state of things, this was a blessing. Japan was at war, rice was scarce, and even samurai had to sometimes resort to poaching to feed their families.
A small boy sniffled as he and Toramasa passed, the youngster clutching a fishing rod and an empty bag. He scuffed his feet along the ground, skinny shoulders slumped. He gave a start and then bowed low as they approached, murmuring a greeting.
‘Best get home, little one. It’s getting dark,’ said Toramasa cheerfully, barely sparing the child a glance.
‘Here.’ Keiichirō took out one of his fish and offered it to the boy.
‘I can’t.’ The child backed away. Something between anxiety and alarm crossed his face as he clenched the bag to his stomach like it embarrassed him.
‘Yes, you can.’ Keiichirō knelt before the child. ‘How old are you?’
‘Seven.’
‘You received your wakizashi sword already,’ said Toramasa, nodding to the blade at the boy’s hip.
‘H-hai. I just got it last week.’ The boy’s shyness gave way to pride.
‘That’s deserving of a reward.’ Keiichirō took the boy’s bag and deposited the fish inside. ‘There. You need to eat to be strong and protect your family, ne?’
The boy bowed and ran off into the darkness with his prize.
‘You’ll be hungry tonight,’ said Toramasa.
‘Yes,’ Keiichirō agreed. ‘But he won’t.’