Isla awoke to the sounds of a stringed instrument.
It was a haunting sound she knew from Japanese theatres and TV shows. Not quite music, it involved strummed notes that made Isla think of legends and mysteries of the untamed countryside, forgotten battles and the changing of seasons.
She rose and went to see what was going on, her skin pimpling with gooseflesh. Keiichirō was on the porch of the house, a cool wind blowing his kimono, his hair loose and flowing to the middle of his back. It was just before dawn, the sky with a milky whiteness creeping across from the east. He gripped a mulberry wood instrument that resembled a lute, a pick poised on the strings. It was a biwa lute. Isla had seen one in the museum.
Each pluck of the strings brought another poignant twang. It was as if Keiichirō was trying to pierce the spirit world, and Isla thought she could feel magic flowing over her with each haunting note.
She didn’t want to disturb him, so she sat where she was and allowed the notes to wash over her. The music mingled with everything that surrounded them, things she had not taken the time to notice before. Dry leaves blowing along the dirt road, the creak of the sloping roof above their heads, the faint rushing of the river.
The spell shattered when two men appeared around the corner, both young and wearing kimonos and hakama trousers, long hair in topknots. Keiichirō glanced up, his hand falling from the biwa lute. The music ended. Isla returned to reality, her bottom numb from sitting on the wooden porch, a shiver trembling across her body.
‘Kei-chan, ohayou.’ The stockier man gave Keiichirō a wave.
‘Good morning, Tacchan, Mori.’ Keiichirō placed the lute beside him. ‘How’s my cousin?’
‘Learning to fight.’ The man puffed out his chest proudly. ‘My Jin is a menace.’
‘Tatsuzō was just telling me about another dream he had,’ said Mori. He gave the briefest of nods to Isla, who nervously nodded back. Not a hair was out of place, and there was an almost feminine beauty to him. Of course; he was the third man who had found her in the pitfall trap. She squashed the flush of embarrassment at the memory and straightened her back.
‘They’re almost daily now,’ said Tatsuzō. ‘Well, nightly, I suppose.’
‘And what did you dream this time?’ Keiichirō asked.
‘Another battle. Lots of blood,’ Tatsuzō said.
‘Isla-san,’ Keiichirō called as Isla was about to slip back into her room. ‘This is my cousin, Maeda Tatsuzō. And this is Mori Toramasa, the bane of my existence.’
Toramasa playfully smacked Keiichirō around the head, knocking his topknot. ‘And here I thought you were starting to enjoy my company.’
‘Isla-san, was it?’ said the larger man, Tatsuzō. The only resemblance between Tatsuzō and Keiichirō that Isla could see was the widow’s-peak hairline. Where Keiichirō was serious-looking, Tatsuzō’s face held a hint of humour. He had a wide, large mouth and a thick neck.
‘Kirino-san will be here soon. She said she had some work for you to do,’ said Tatsuzō with a nod at Isla to show he was speaking to her.
‘I understand,’ she replied.
Keiichirō turned to face her. ‘Is your ankle all right?’ he asked, and she nodded.
As the three walked away, Toramasa Mori said something that made Keiichirō shove him with a barking laugh.
A stern-looking woman appeared a moment later.
Hisa Kirino was athletic and slim, and had a no-nonsense air about her. Though she was perhaps only in her thirties, she walked with the air of an older, wise woman. And after Isla had dressed and breakfasted, Kirino-san bustled her out of the house a bit like she would shoo a chicken, saying she was taking her to where the unmarried women spent their days.
They walked in silence to a different part of the village, where many young women washed clothes and carried water. Some, to Isla’s surprise, sparred with wooden sticks, wearing wide trousers similar to those she had seen men wearing. Isla watched with fascination and then awe at the skill with which these women fought, grunting and skin glistening with perspiration.
The rest of the women murmured to each other, some glancing over to stare at Isla. She wished they wouldn’t, but she could understand their curiosity.
Kirino-san beckoned over a round-faced young woman, who came to stand on Isla’s other side, holding a bundle of clothes in her arms.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Hello,’ said Isla.
She was probably around Isla’s age and she bowed stiffly, which made Isla wonder if she had been tasked with showing the new girl the ropes and was unhappy about it. But she passed the clothes she was holding to Isla, indicating that she should put them on.
Isla thanked her, and the girl helped her dress in the wide trousers and a short kimono-like robe that folded across her chest – left over right – and a warm haori jacket that bore the same white vertical cross inside a circle. Isla’s finger traced the stitching.
‘It’s the crest of the Shimazu clan. And I am Nakamura Nene.’
‘MacKenzie Isla.’
Isla decided that Nene was reserved but not unfriendly.
‘They say you’re from across the ocean,’ Nene said later as they carried baskets of linens to the river, which rushed fast and cold that morning. ‘From Scotland. Where is that?’
Isla swallowed the laugh that crawled up her throat. The world was a lot bigger before planes and phones. She gasped as they dumped the clothes into the river. It was like plunging her hands into ice.
She explained to the best of her ability, not helped by being unable to remember if Scotland was part of Europe in the nineteenth century. ‘It’s a country north of England, part of what is called the British Isles.’
‘There was a war here between the British and our people a couple of years ago.’
Isla groaned inwardly. Of course there was, and this might be part of why she was being treated generally with such suspicion. ‘Some Scots don’t think much of being termed as British,’ she replied in a way she hoped would help Nene understand that Isla didn’t personally have a grudge against Japan.
‘We were only children at the time,’ Nene said as she grabbed a man’s kimono and thrust it into the running water, perhaps splashing more roughly than necessary. She didn’t say anything else for a while, and so Isla copied her and the other women as best she could, as her fingers quickly lost all feeling.
After a while she looked up. The sky was cloudless now, without a chance of another typhoon anytime soon.
The more she thought about it, the more she was sure the storm had been the key that connected the present – Isla’s time – and the past. She was away from her home and her family, and longed for what she knew and could take for certain.
She turned to where Mount Sakurajima lay on the horizon. A thin trail of smoke drifted from the volcano, and Isla could smell the scent of ash on the air.
‘That’s Mount Sakurajima, and sometimes ash coats the town,’ Nene said, and Isla didn’t feel she could tell her that she already knew this. She glanced at Nene, who gave Isla a tiny smile. The shadow of a dimple appeared on her cheek. ‘Does your country have volcanoes?’ Nene asked.
Thinking of Scotland brought an ache. Isla described the scars of volcanoes that erupted many hundreds of years earlier, and the striking, untamed landscapes and dramatic cliffs, the fields of heather that bloomed in summertime and the scent of burning peat and dog hair and the sea.
As she spoke, Isla realised that when she had been back in Scotland (and not too occupied with Will in her heady first days of being in love), she had been so engrossed in thoughts of her third-great-grandfather, Hisakichi Kuroki, after her beloved grandfather Tom had died, that when she and Will broke up she hadn’t been able to wait to come to Japan. But now she was here, she felt homesick.
As Nene stopped washing the clothes to listen, Isla looked around as she spoke. Nothing marred the forget-me-not blue of the sky above them as, void of aircraft and their contrails, the sky looked empty. And Isla wondered what her home country would be like at this time. There was a strange comfort in knowing that, whatever was going on across the sea in 1870s Scotland, its mountains and cliffs would be unchanged.
When the washing was done, Kirino-san let everybody, other than Isla, spar with wooden sticks. Kirino-san barked orders and instructions, reminding Isla of a bossy older sister. Grunts and the clacking of sticks filled the air and Isla watched for a while until, to her surprise, she was invited to join in.
A tall young woman said something Isla couldn’t catch, making the others laugh, although Kirino shot them a glance worthy of a mother disciplining a rowdy toddler, and instantly they all became serious.
Isla was paired with a nervous-looking young woman, both of them holding thick bokken sticks.
‘Remember, girls, not all fighters are men,’ said Kirino-san. ‘And everyone has the right to protect their families.’
Isla didn’t have a clue what to do, and simply tried to keep up with the others.
The nervous girl’s face hardened in a way Isla didn’t like. She seemed much less nervous now as she swung her training stick, long sleeves flying. It landed hard on Isla’s shoulder, sending a thrill of pain along her collarbone.
‘Ow!’ Isla rubbed the spot and scowled. ‘Wait, wait, do that again. More slowly.’
An hour later, sweat-soaked, every bit of her aching, and with fresh bruises on her shoulders and forearms, Isla sat down to eat lunch by the river with the young women, who were all wearing the same sort of loose trousers that she was.
It felt otherworldly to sit eating sweet potato and fish with chipped chopsticks, with no one checking their make-up or tapping in a text on their mobile phone.
Was it better? Isla couldn’t quite decide. It was certainly different. Simpler. And companionable, somehow. She let their chatter wash over her for a while.
‘Excuse me.’
The young woman who had screamed when she saw Isla in the forest that night was crouching beside her, offering a lacquered bowl of steaming soup. ‘Dōzo,’ she whispered, shy.
Isla smiled at her and took it with thanks. A moment passed between them and then Nene said, ‘This is Hirayama Aiko. Aiko, meet MacKenzie Isla.’
Isla returned the bow and greeting and took a sip of soup. It was salty and tasty, with wakame seaweed and cubes of soft tofu floating in the hot broth. ‘Thank you, it’s delicious.’
‘I’m sorry I called you a yōkai,’ Aiko said. ‘It was rude.’
Isla laughed. ‘It’s really all right. It didn’t seem that way at all.’
Villagers murmured about the foreign girl as they passed. If the others noticed, they said nothing about it. Isla didn’t understand most of what they said. The Satsuma dialect was unfamiliar, words or whole sentences different to what she was used to. It made her head ache. She hadn’t heard English aloud in what felt like ages.
The sound of a biwa lute travelled on the wind, its haunting notes giving Isla goosebumps that had nothing to do with the chill.
‘Everyone has a lute in their home,’ said Nene. ‘You should listen to Nakahara-san. His playing is wonderful, but he doesn’t let me listen much. He said people might think it’s strange to see us together because we aren’t courting.’
Isla had no idea who Nakahara-san was, but she decided that Nene was a natural chatterbox who didn’t seem to need more from Isla at this moment than vague nods and the occasional grunt.
But Nene’s mention of courting turned Isla’s thoughts towards Keiichirō and she wondered what he was doing right at that moment at Takamori Saigō’s shi-gakkō school. Perhaps Chinese studies or swordplay training.
The sun was well towards the horizon when the women carried their bundles away from the river and towards the hillside.
‘We’ve got your towel, MacKenzie-san,’ said Aiko.
‘Where are we going?’
‘The onsen. The hot springs. Do you have those in your country?’
Isla could tell Aiko was making polite conversation, but she wished they wouldn’t make her feel like such a foreigner. However, courteously she replied, ‘Maybe we did once, but none of the volcanoes are alive any more.’ She didn’t know how to say ‘active’. Aiko giggled at what was sure to be a mistake, but Isla found she didn’t mind.
They passed shopkeepers shouting for passers-by to look at their wares. These were older workers with towels tied around their heads and they turned to stare at Isla’s hair. There were a few women, holding woven baskets or bags in their arms as they spoke with friends. Isla eyed their modest kimono robes and their silver-streaked hair.
Their clothing and hairstyles were a relatively rare sight in modern-day Japan, but Isla liked seeing that gossiping wasn’t new at all. People weren’t all that different, even across eras.
Isla was about to ask Nene how much farther they had to go when they arrived at a private onsen that smelled faintly of sulphur. Everyone took off their robes and folded them carefully, and Isla made sure she did likewise.
The prospect of a dip in a bath was wonderful after the hard day they’d had, and Isla wasn’t going to draw further attention to herself by acting shy. Staying behind Aiko and Nene when she could, she wriggled out of the borrowed hakama trousers and the robe underneath. The steam from the natural hot spring looked so tempting that Isla could barely wait to slip into the hot water and soak herself. She went to the edge of the spring and dipped her toe into the water.
‘MacKenzie-san!’ Aiko’s voice was shocked.
‘What?’ she hissed back through clenched teeth. It wasn’t fun being naked, and Aiko’s call had turned several heads in their direction.
Nene came to the rescue, saying, ‘You have to wash yourself first.’
Crap! ‘Ah,’ said Isla, and meekly went to where Nene and Aiko were scrubbing themselves with cloths and well water. Isla’s cheeks burned. She hadn’t washed before she had sunk herself into the hot spring near Keiichirō’s house when she first arrived. Had she left a bunch of dirt and grime in the hot water there? Kana must think her such an idiot.
She followed Nene and Aiko into the steaming water. Though Isla would have preferred to be alone in the natural spring, after a few minutes she couldn’t deny there was something nice about sitting in the hot water with a dozen other women, their limbs wiry and toned from their physical work, faces and hands browned by the sun. They now took little notice of Isla as they spoke with each other, though she caught one or two of them glancing with interest at her breasts.
Resisting the urge to cover herself, Isla sat with Nene and Aiko at the edge closest to where they had laid the towels.
‘Onsen in winter are wonderful, ne?’ Aiko let out a relaxed sigh, leaning her head back. Her cheeks were pinking from the hot water. ‘Satsuma has the best hot springs in Japan, I’m sure. MacKenzie-san, you’ve met Mori Toramasa, haven’t you?’
‘Briefly,’ said Isla, thinking of the time with the pitfall trap and their formal introduction just this morning.
‘Has he said anything about me?’ Aiko tried but failed to make her voice sound casual.
Isla saw Nene hiding a smile.
‘Not yet. But I’ve hardly spoken to him,’ Isla replied.
Aiko looked disappointed, and the trio sat in silence for a while.
Isla hadn’t been to a public bath in Tokyo, and so had made the embarrassing mistake of forgetting to wash first. Now she was surrounded by people who regarded her as an outsider at best and an enemy at worst. The water was wonderfully warming, and, though Isla had a sense of anxiety that would never quite go away, it was wonderful to be cosy right down to her toes. She didn’t much want to return to the house, where Kana would give her strange looks, and of course wandering off on her own was now no longer an option.
As they carried their damp towels back to the town, which was now aglow with lanterns, Kirino-san called Isla to her side.
‘For your work.’ She pressed a bag into Isla’s hands. Inside were two sweet potatoes, several apples, some meat wrapped carefully in cloth, and a ceramic bottle of what Isla supposed was a spirit.
‘Thank you.’ Isla bowed, hoping that being able to bring home some food for Keiichirō’s family would make Kana think more kindly of her. Trying not to think about her embarrassing cultural mistake, she kept her head down and found her way back to the Maeda household, all too aware of the talk that resumed when her back was turned.
Kana was immensely pleased with the food Isla gave her, and waved Isla away and told her to rest while she got on with preparing their evening meal.
Isla kept hold of the ceramic bottle and went to her room. But away from whispers and curious eyes, she was surprised to find herself breaking down, and giving in to a volley of sobs.
Desperation wrapped around her heart. She had tried her hardest to stay strong, but misery swamped her. She had been here for days, and her parents would be frantic. And to make things worse, today marked four years since her grandfather, the reason she had come to Japan in the first place, had passed away. Tears slid down Isla’s cheeks, hot and fast, and she covered her face, unable to quell the flood of despair.
She didn’t hear the door slide open, didn’t notice Keiichirō’s presence until he asked, ‘Did someone hurt you?’
‘My grandfather died four years ago today,’ Isla said, unable to explain the rest of it. ‘And I miss him.’
Keiichirō crouched before her, and she told him that this was the first year she hadn’t been able to put flowers on his grave. Not that she would have been able to do it this year anyway, but it hurt to know his grave didn’t even exist here. There was nothing of Yoshitomo Kuroki yet, nothing except an ancestor she was nowhere close to finding out about.
‘We can make a shrine for him in the morning.’ Keiichirō rose to his feet. ‘We’ll make do with what we have. And it will mean you have something of your grandfather here.’
Unable to think of what to say to this kindness, Isla stood up too and passed Keiichirō the ceramic bottle. Its top was still sealed with wax.
He smiled, and said, ‘You must have worked hard, Isla. This is shōchū, a spirit made from sweet potatoes. We’ll drink some tomorrow in memory of your grandfather.’
And so the next afternoon, Isla and Keiichirō gathered river stones outside and built a shrine by its banks. It was nothing special really, but Isla was touched by the way Keiichirō insisted they find similar-looking stones and a pleasant place by the river.
‘What did you call him?’ Keiichirō asked.
‘Tom.’
‘Then Tom-san shall be remembered here.’ Keiichirō placed the stone with careful precision on top of two others. They cleared the dry dirt around it and gathered some sticks. It was not like a grave or shrine Isla had ever seen, but something warm blossomed in her chest to see him work, not minding that the dirt got under his fingernails or on his hakama trousers.
‘This is perfect,’ he said, sounding pleased, when they found a longer slab of stone. He placed it in the middle of the others. ‘Usually we’d write something here, but I don’t have the tools.’ He sucked his lip, looking so worried it made Isla giggle.
‘It’s enough,’ she assured him. There was something sweet about that fact that, although her grandfather technically hadn’t lived here yet, his grave was here, beside the river. It was a peaceful place.
Once Keiichirō had left her, Isla found another stone, on which she used a small chalky pebble she had found to scratch in wobbly letters KUROKI in Japanese, the kanji character for black and the kanji character for tree. Then she stood in contemplation for a few minutes, finally saying, ‘I hope you think this is a good spot. And I will get back home to Scotland, Grandad, I promise.’
Back in the house, Keiichirō was waiting with the bottle of shōchū. ‘This was my father’s favourite cup.’ He held up a small and delicate ceramic cup. ‘See how the dark blue fades to white? It’s supposed to look like the early morning sky. He always drank from it.’ Keiichirō held the cup as carefully as though it were a baby bird. He must have loved his father very much.
Carefully Isla poured some shōchū into the blue cup. ‘Is that enough?’
‘A little more. Make sure it’s nearly full. Sou, sou. That’s right.’
Keiichirō filled another cup with the clear spirit for her, and, as Isla watched the sleeve of his robe rise above his wrist, she felt that them each pouring the other’s drinks was peculiarly intimate. ‘Let’s drink to both Tom and your father,’ she offered.
‘Kanpai.’ And so they toasted and drank to a man who hadn’t been born yet.
* * *
Weeks passed, and every day Keiichirō grew more used to the foreign girl living in his home.
Isla made sure to work hard to give Kana any vegetables and wrapped meat Kirino-san gave for her toil. Kana still regarded the visitor with disdain, and worked with pursed lips, her expression sour when Isla was in her vicinity. Isla took care always to eat in her room and to try to be as unobtrusive as possible in the household.
Under Murata-san’s instruction, Keiichirō watched for Isla sending letters, just in case she really was a spy. But although Isla spent nearly all the time at his house in her room, Keiichirō never heard her request ink or paper.
‘I have asked the traders to spread word of the MacKenzie girl,’ Kirino-san assured him one chilly morning at the shi-gakkō school. ‘And of course you will let me know if she does anything suspicious?’
‘Hai, Kirino-san.’
An hour later, a breeze ruffled against Keiichirō’s hair as he watched Toramasa swing his sword, a fine katana passed down through his father’s family. The blades clashed with a ring that echoed around the field and the sparring partners grunted with each swing. Toramasa’s opponent, the quiet and fierce Nakahara Hisao, fought with a ferocity Keiichirō hadn’t before seen in training. They usually trained with bokken sticks, but today Nakahara had insisted on trying with real blades.
‘Why?’ Keiichirō had asked when the soft-spoken older man had asked to practise with katanas. ‘The bokken ensure we don’t injure each other.’
‘I’ll do it. I’m not scared,’ Toramasa said, and stood with a swagger as he unsheathed his katana. ‘You’re right, Nakahara-san. We need to know how to use blades, too.’
As he watched them, every clash of steel made Keiichirō flinch, not that he allowed anyone to see. Toramasa stepped and pivoted as he had been taught, while Keiichirō and their swordplay senior, Ikeda Uhei, watched from the sidelines. Though Keiichirō was supposed to watch and study his friend’s footwork, his mind wandered to the redheaded girl.
Few trusted her, but somehow he did even though he was at a loss to explain why. He decided there was a sweetness and fragility about her that needed protection. That wasn’t to say Isla didn’t have an inner strength that set her apart from other women he knew. The way she had run off during his foolish fight with Taguchi and her honesty when asked her thoughts or opinions testified to this. It was so un-Japanese, yet he sensed in Isla a determination that mirrored his own, a strength of mind that mirrored that of the samurai spirit.
He had felt her presence when she had watched him practise on his grandfather’s lute. Her breath, her scent of pine and earth, the way she watched him.
The way the pulse in her wrist had fluttered beneath his fingertips.
Toramasa gasped and blood spurted from his hand. He stumbled back, gripping his wrist, the katana falling to the grass with a soft thud.
‘Enough,’ said Ikeda. A cut had severed Toramasa’s skin, a line of red dripping onto the grass at their feet.
‘Bakamono,’ Keiichirō muttered, and thought he heard Ikeda stifle a laugh. ‘You all right, Mori?’ Keiichirō asked Toramasa, who straightened and bowed to his opponent.
‘Nakahara-san, you fought well, but with your emotions. This is not good even though you bested your opponent this time.’ Ikeda, regal and elegant, stepped forward, his hakama trousers rustling about his ankles. ‘Are you angry with Mori-san?’
‘I’m not angry,’ Nakahara insisted. Everyone looked at the blood on Toramasa’s hand.
You let your guard down, thought Keiichirō. As I would have. If I had been sparring with a sword while thinking about Isla, I’d have lost my whole hand.
‘If I fought better, I would have avoided getting my hand cut,’ said Toramasa, and he bowed low to Nakahara. ‘I’m glad you are on our side, Nakahara-san. Thank you for this lesson.’
For a moment, Nakahara looked confused. He was a pinch-faced man, his hair brushing his shoulders. He was perhaps a few years older than Ikeda, with a darkness behind his eyes Keiichirō couldn’t read. Nakahara finally bowed back, his movements stiff, and strode across the grass past the other sparring pairs.
‘Where are you going?’ Toramasa called after him, perhaps stung. ‘Off to write? You’re always writing.’
Nakahara ignored him, back straight as he headed back to the shi-gakkō school.
Ikeda took Toramasa’s wrist in his long, delicate fingers. The younger man’s cheeks blazed plum-blossom-red. ‘You were distracted. Do you see what happens when you don’t fight as well as you should?’
Embarrassment flushed through Keiichirō on his best friend’s behalf. He watched as Toramasa met Ikeda’s eyes, and the older man said, ‘Concentrate more next time. But for now, go and get that wound dressed. Keiichirō, your sister can tend to him, yes?’
‘Hai.’
Keiichirō headed home with Toramasa at his side. He had expected that his friend would find a reason to stay with Ikeda so he could spar with someone else. But Ikeda was correct to teach them the lesson that wounds to the hands were dangerous. They could affect fighting skills, as well as the ability to work. And the cut on Toramasa’s left hand was deeper than it had first looked.
‘Do you think Nakahara Hisao fights with too much emotion?’ Toramasa asked as they crossed a stone bridge over the river.
‘Perhaps. Or you don’t fight with enough skill.’ Keiichirō laughed and had to dodge a swipe from Toramasa’s uninjured hand. ‘Kana will see your injury won’t affect you getting revenge on Nakahara. Did he seek to cut you, do you think?’
Toramasa looked skyward, sighing. ‘Who knows. Anyway, isn’t it time you married? Then you’ll have a wife to take care of your injuries. Mine, too.’ He chuckled.
Keiichirō gave him a scalding look. ‘You’re one to speak. You’re not married, either, and we’re the same age.’
‘Doomed to die alone if we don’t take a wife each before next summer. Alas’ – Toramasa gripped his jacket as if to clutch at his heart – ‘I’m yet to find a woman who is worthy of Mori Toramasa.’
Keiichirō snorted and smacked his best friend around the head.