Isla knew nothing of the coming battles, only that the army would never make it out of the Kyushu region and the last of them would die at Takamori Saigō’s side. It would happen on Mount Shiroyama, back in Satsuma, back where it had all begun.
Spring had finally come, the air mild as cherry blossoms flourished, seas of pale pink and white and then a flurry of petals drifting to the ground like snow.
Isla grew numb to the screams of the dying, to the blood, to the men who fiercely wiped away their tears when a friend or brother fell. She watched from a hill, a bloodstained haori draped around her shoulders. From here, the grounds of Kumamoto Castle spread before her like a painting. The ant-sized men ran around the ramparts, firing rifles at the samurai, who huddled in their trenches. For every man who died, no matter what side they were on, another piece of her soul slipped away.
Was Isla only here to ensure Nene and Hisakichi escaped alive? She looked at her hands, as though expecting to see herself fading. Her palms were calloused, nails dirty, fingertips marred with a faint dark stain no amount of scrubbing in the river had yet managed to wash away.
It was agony to wait. Isla had never been patient. But to run down the hill to try to find Keiichirō would be suicide. A stupid way to die.
She busied herself by counting the trees, collecting firewood, and singing songs she knew beneath her breath. It made her think of modern-day Japan, of her life as an international student in Tokyo. She and the other students had gone to karaoke together one evening.
A smile spread on her cracked lips at the memory of one of the students’ horrible singing. He had given a drunken performance so full of enthusiasm everyone had clapped and whooped like he was a superstar.
Was all of that real? Had it all really happened? Or had Isla always been here, staring at death, powerless to stop it?
Keiichirō would come to her as the sun set, spilling golden light over the hills. His hair was tousled, new bruises and cuts on his arms and neck, his haori jacket more ragged than ever, but he was whole and alive.
Isla pulled him close each time.
One evening he said, ‘I bring news. The enemy has seized one of our supply points near the town of Oe.’ He stiffened, gripping her wrists. ‘They forced us out of the way. We can do nothing to stop them. Nothing.’
‘Saigō-sama will flee back to Satsuma eventually, I promise,’ she whispered, cupping his face, ‘and you must stay alive until he decides to leave.’ Bristles on his cheeks scratched her palms as his light-brown eyes met hers. Some of the light in them had vanished.
They huddled together between some trees.
It was a rainless night, fires from the castle illuminating the ground below. A smoke-scented breeze played with Keiichirō’s long hair, released from its topknot, as they enjoyed a moment of peace.
Keiichirō’s lips found hers, a burning kiss that set her aflame. Her mouth opened eagerly to his, letting him taste her. A trace of shōchū, something masculine, a gentle but hungry caress that sent heat down to her core. They broke apart, their foreheads touching, their breaths hot and heavy.
It was the first time they had kissed.
‘Oi wa omansa ga wazze sujja,’ he whispered.
I adore you, MacKenzie Isla.
* * *
In mid-April, all endeavour to take Kumamoto Castle was abandoned. Kirino Toshiaki finally called for retreat so they wouldn’t all be massacred. It was all exactly as Isla had foretold.
Keiichirō kept Isla close as they walked away from the castle. He had to protect her. She had tried to warn them and none of them had listened. Saigō-sama, as wise as he was, had vastly underestimated the might of the imperial army and the men who had defended Kumamoto Castle. Although they were conscripts, picked off farms and given uniforms and arms, they had superior firearms and an endless number of soldiers ready to replace those who had fallen. Not even the fact that many of them were from Kyushu had saved the Satsuma rebels.
But samurai were not ones to cower and go home after a defeat. Keiichirō caressed the handle of his wakizashi sword. He would die by the blade, either his enemy’s or his own.
But for now, he had to look after Isla with every fibre of his being. She was no warrior. Kirino-san had put him in charge of the foreign girl when she had first arrived. But she was . . . from the future. That still made his head ache.
He glanced at her. She walked with her head down, the straw hat hiding her fiery locks. He only saw the tip of her nose as she walked. He had memorised the way she moved, and he could spot her in a crowd of a hundred. Perhaps she was his curse but, in the silent moments they could steal together, it felt as if she were his blessing.
They headed towards the town of Hitoyoshi. At least now there was no snow. Tree-covered hills surrounded them as they marched south. The cherry blossoms had already died, though some pale, dead petals lay on the ground, squashed into the mud by the samurai’s wrapped, sandalled feet.
It took seven days to reach Hitoyoshi; they kept having to stop and fight the pockets of imperial soldiers that tried to decimate their numbers further. The samurai army dug in to wait for an imperial army offensive and built a campsite. Keiichirō assisted in chopping wood and hunting, and at night everyone swapped stories and memories of loved ones. On the nights they had caught wild boar or deer, the mood touched on jovial.
Ikeda Uhei didn’t say much, but sipped shōchū as he stared into the fire, the nervous chortles bouncing off him. Keiichirō did not know him well, it was Toramasa the older man had spoken to the most, but he could tell something had vanished within Ikeda. A flame snuffed out when Toramasa had died.
It was a relief not to struggle to get warm. At night, they counted the stars and told stories of its constellations.
The days began to crawl by, monotonous when peace reigned, yet quick and bloody when they were attacked. If anyone wanted to go home, they didn’t mention it. Their orders were that they had to wait for further instructions. For them, the war wasn’t over. There was only one way this could end: when the rebellion was squashed and Saigō-sama lay dead.
The men tended to their wounds and took turns keeping watch. The days stretched on, and the samurai passed their time playing shogi, a board game that used twenty pieces, which the men fashioned from pebbles and a flat river stone. It helped, but only a little.
Isla and Keiichirō stuck together, sleeping near each other, and Keiichirō encouraged Isla to hide, but she whispered to him one night that she hated waiting, listening to the nauseating shouts and screams of pain and slashing and steel, wondering if he would ever return to her hiding place to get her or if she would find his corpse on the battlefield.
‘Your Japanese is improving,’ he said one night, and a smile flickered on Isla’s face in the moonlight.
‘I haven’t spoken English aloud since I met the Dutch traders.’
‘Teach me some of your language,’ he asked.
She giggled, a sound that warmed his heart. ‘All right.’
The moon passed over them, blurred by the occasional cloud.
An hour later, Keiichirō had mastered several phrases, including ‘aye’, ‘wee’ as in small, and ‘bonnie lass’, the last of which made Isla dissolve into peals of delighted laughter. She had to bury her face in her hands to stifle the noise. Her mirth was like music. Keiichirō thought it a spark of hope in the darkness.
‘You are a treasure.’ Keiichirō pulled her close.
Sunlight flooded the camp the next morning, and shouts jolted them awake. Isla pulled away from his arms and looked around. By instinct, she rammed the straw hat onto her head as Keiichirō rose, blinking the sleep from his eyes and snatching up his swords.
‘Intruders!’ a samurai hollered.
Blood-chilling gunshots filled the air as Isla flattened onto her stomach.
‘Be careful!’ she cried after Keiichirō as he ran to the edge of the camp. Bushes and trees surrounded them, so he shinned up the nearest tree and took in what was happening.
Imperial soldiers were running riot through the camp.
Ikeda felled a soldier nearby and snatched up the gun he dropped. From his vantage point Keiichirō saw Taguchi, hiding behind a tree with his sword before him, square jaw set. An imperial soldier, sneaking forward on his polished boots, didn’t see the samurai until he was upon him. Taguchi gave a shout and a hard swing. The young soldier’s head spun from his shoulders. It rolled in the grass as his body crumpled.
Keiichirō dropped from the tree and ran to Ikeda, who was firing at soldiers. When the gun was empty, he threw it to the side and ripped out his sword. Keiichirō fought at his back. He felt Ikeda’s laboured breaths against his own spine as he fought off an incoming soldier.
A shot rang through the air. Taguchi fell beside Keiichirō, his eyes wide open and a gaping hole in his belly. And although Keiichirō hated Taguchi, he sought the culprit; a thin-faced man with a beard. Before the enemy could reload his cumbersome rifle, the samurai darted to him and smacked him in the face with the pommel of his sword, breaking his nose with a sickening crack. Then Keiichirō sliced open the soldier’s chest with his shorter wakizashi blade. The conscript collapsed, choking on blood.
Taguchi’s eyes widened as his very life bled out of the gunshot wound in his belly. He grabbed Keiichirō’s robe. His eyes beseeched, begging Keiichirō to believe his brother had not raped Kana.
Keiichirō began to doubt his sister for the first time as Taguchi shuddered into death, letting out a final, bloody cough before slumping, his sword slipping from his fingers.
For a samurai didn’t lie, and especially on the point of his extinction. Keiichirō had seen no deception in Taguchi’s eyes, even when facing the cold, permanent beckoning of death. He closed Taguchi’s eyes. It was what anyone would do.
A cheer rang out as the attackers ran for the hills, leaving dropped rifles behind.
Keiichirō did not join their celebration, even when Isla ran over, relief on her face to find him alive.
If Keiichirō were to die in this war, he wanted to know the truth about his sister, to know whether his father’s death had been in vain.
They had lost only three of their own in the attack: Taguchi and two farmers Keiichirō didn’t know. They buried them all by the treeline.
‘Let’s go to Satsuma,’ he said to Isla after the appropriate words had been said for the dead men. ‘There’s something there I need to do.’
Isla looked at him, her warm eyes softening. ‘The fight will go to Satsuma eventually,’ she said. ‘Let’s head back before that happens. We’ve been here six weeks and it’s time for us to move.’
They left that night, sneaking out of the camp. As they walked, Keiichirō felt stronger with Isla at his side.
At night, he held her to him, inhaling her scent and nuzzling into her soft hair. His heart was heavy with the burden of his question, but he felt better with Isla in his arms.
He longed to do more with her. To kiss her and touch her; but for them to do more out in the wilds like this would be foolish. It didn’t stop his desire, however, and he held her from behind one night, his aching need pressing into her plump backside.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, fighting to rein in his desire.
There was a smile to her voice. ‘Don’t be.’
She turned her head to him, her lips finding his. Heat rushed through him at her silk-soft touch, and his mouth opened at her invitation. A shudder of lust ran through him as her tongue traced over his, her feminine scent wreathing him like perfume. She faced him, her warm hands tracing his torso, running lightly over his robe. Their breaths quickened, warmth between them, as she slid his robe off his shoulder. She kissed his neck, her lips leaving a burning trail down to his chest.
He wanted her so much. Wanted to touch her, let her touch him, to fill this aching longing. His fingers traced her neck and found her breasts, warm and soft and inviting. One tug, and the robe would fall away, exposing her beauty.
A rustle startled them both.
Keiichirō sat up, his robe hanging off his shoulder. They had settled down for the night beneath some trees in case of rain.
The branches above them barely moved, no wind tonight. Yet Keiichirō was convinced he’d heard the snapping of a twig. That there was something here. Something alive.
An enemy.
‘What is it?’ Isla whispered.
Keiichirō laid a hand on her arm to silence her.
Then he saw it. A pair of cold yellowish eyes, irises catching the moonlight, staring at them from the brush.
Keiichirō snatched up his sword, which was never far away. The hairs on his neck stood on end. How many surrounded them?
A low growl erupted from the beast’s throat, sending icy fear through him. He remained silent and still, focused on those eyes.
His words were barely a breath. ‘Stay here.’
The wolf emerged from the brush. It was slight and thin, lips drawn back in a snarl.
Keiichirō let out a loud yell, jumping to his feet in a rush of cloth. Perhaps he could frighten the creature away. He brandished his sword, slits of moonlight from the branches above catching silver in the steel. Judging by the matted fur and skinny limbs, it was a runt. But even the meekest of wolves could be deadly.
‘Oi!’ he bellowed again as he rushed at the creature, hoping it would run.
The wolf challenged him, paws smacking the dirt. It snapped at his leg. He whipped his calf out of the snarling jaws’ reach and slashed his sword at the creature. It whined and backed off, saliva dripping onto the soil. Keiichirō’s heart hammered. He had never fought a wolf before.
The beast darted forward again as Isla screamed. Keiichirō slashed upwards, hoping to catch the beast mid-jump, but he mistimed it.
Pain pierced his shoulder as the wolf tackled him to the ground, its teeth digging into his collarbone. Snarls and growls rang in his ear. It stank of fur and filth.
Keiichirō struggled to push the beast away, his shoulder in agony as the wolf angled its jaws towards him. It shook and snarled, its weight heavy on his chest, seconds from tearing out his throat.
Isla sprang forward with a stone in her hand, which she brought down on its head as hard as she could. Keiichirō pulled out his wakizashi blade and stabbed the wolf in its side, his blade meeting meaty flesh and matted fur.
Keiichirō needed to find its neck, and he found the space between its ear and its shoulder and sank his blade into the fur with all his strength, giving a growl of his own through clenched teeth.
Blade met bone again and again, as Isla and Keiichirō both kept up their attacks and the beast squealed, relentless. The wolf gave a high-pitched whine and, finally, its jaw slackened. Keiichirō tossed its body aside. But Isla was not finished; she hit the creature over and over, its blood spraying her.
‘Isla,’ Keiichirō panted, trying to focus as black spots filled his vision. ‘It’s all right. It’s dead.’
He collapsed.
‘Kei!’ She rushed to him and pressed her hand against his bleeding shoulder to staunch the blood, and he forced away the dizzy blackness. ‘Did it get your neck?’ she asked.
‘Just my shoulder, I think.’ Keiichirō clenched his jaw against the pain pulsing against Isla’s palm. Isla was pale as she stood and looked around, still holding the blood-splattered rock with her free hand.
‘It was alone,’ Keiichirō managed to say as he sat up. ‘But let’s move, just in case.’
The wolf, its skull broken, lay with its jaws open in a silent snarl, pink tongue hanging out, mouth stained with Keiichirō’s blood. They gathered their satchels and made their way slowly along the road.
Once they were a distance away, Isla used her obi belt to wrap his shoulder. ‘Are you going to be okay?’ Her voice was anxious.
‘I’ve been hurt worse on the battlefield. It’s barely a scratch.’
‘Are you sure?’ Isla had seen the puncture marks in his shoulder.
‘I am sure, bonnie lass.’ He took her hand. ‘I never lie.’