‘I’m sorry. I looked everywhere and asked everyone I thought may be able to help, but I couldn’t find anything about Kuroki Hisakichi.’
Isla looked up at Keiichirō from where she was bent over a bucketful of water, washing the bowls and chopsticks they had used for dinner. ‘You checked for me? I didn’t expect you to do that.’
Keiichirō had spent a long time going through school ledgers. He’d asked as many teachers as he could about the man Isla was seeking, but there was nobody called Kuroki at the school. He had drawn a blank; it was as if a man with the name of Kuroki had never existed. ‘Why are you interested in him? Do you think he will help you find your way home?’ he asked, not wholly convinced he wanted to know Isla’s answers to these questions.
‘Not exactly, but I would like to find him before I go home. If I can get home, that is.’
‘You mustn’t feel trapped here, Isla,’ said Keiichirō quietly. ‘You’re not a prisoner. I don’t care if the others are suspicious, I believe you are not a spy.’
Isla didn’t say anything as she patted her hands dry on a towel and brushed an errant lock of hair from her face. Her emotions, so easy to read, thought Keiichirō again, flickered between wistful and touched.
‘Tell me about your home. Tell me about Scotland.’ Keiichirō helped her dry the bowls, neatly wipe off the chopsticks and set them on a tray.
He listened to her talk, and once she began she barely paused for breath.
After a matter of weeks, Isla was speaking Japanese with more confidence and fluidity, and not tripping up on the syllables so much. She described mountains and rivers and waterfalls, and men wearing a garment she called a kilt.
Keiichirō couldn’t imagine much of what she said, but he liked listening to her, the music in her voice. They sat on the grass overlooking the river.
‘I have to ask,’ Keiichirō said, ‘this Kuroki Hisakichi . . .’
She glanced over at him, her warm brown eyes darting between his. Her gaze travelled over his face, landing on his lips for the briefest of breath-stealing moments before she looked back over at the river. When she said nothing, he finished his sentence. ‘Does he mean something to you? Is he a friend?’
‘No, he’s not a friend. I’ve never even met him.’ Isla sighed, her head leaning back as she put her weight on her hands behind her. ‘He’s an acquaintance of my family.’
‘Your family?’ Trepidation trod on the warm feeling that had settled on Keiichirō like a blanket at sitting here with Isla. ‘You have a husband?’
A laugh burst from Isla’s lips. ‘No, no husband.’
But although this was what he’d hoped to hear, Keiichirō couldn’t avoid noticing a sad look in Isla’s eyes. She remained as much of a mystery to him as she had been on the very first day they had met, a person who had more of what she was trying to conceal exposed with every question of his that she answered. Deep in thought, he stared at the riverbank across from them.
‘Is everything all right, Kei?’ she asked.
‘Kei?’
‘Easier to say than Keiichirō.’
He smiled. It’s what his mother had called him.
* * *
The next day, Isla was out working with the women, and was straightening out a crick in her back when something wonderful happened.
Rain began to fall.
Everyone cried out as a great torrent fell in moments, soaking the ground and drenching their clothes.
But while the others looked unhappy at their unexpected dousing, Isla laughed up at the bleak sky, raindrops that tasted faintly of ash splashing her face. Her hair stuck to her scalp, the rain falling in what felt a beautiful downpour, and her fingers were crossed for the wind to pick up. Today was the day; suddenly she was sure. The day when the white torii gate would reappear and, with a bit of luck, she would escape this bad dream.
Kirino-san called to the women to pack up the supplies. But the moment her back was turned, Isla slunk away, and then ran off as fast as she could when she was sure no one was watching.
She had to be quick.
For all she knew, this might be her only chance to reach the shrine. She wasn’t going to miss a moment of opportunity if she could help it.
Keiichirō’s face crossed her mind, but she couldn’t entertain any thoughts about him. No matter the spark she sensed between them, her place was not here. And so she pushed Keiichirō from her thoughts. She needed to get back to her time, to her family. She had not found Hisakichi Kuroki, but that no longer mattered. Whatever the cost to her or anybody else, she just needed to get home.
She hurried past people rushing to cover their stalls or their wheelbarrows, shouting to each other. No one tried to stop the foreign girl, moving awkwardly through the puddles in sandalled feet, half-blind in the heavy rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance and her heart lifted even more. If luck were on her side, soon she’d be back to normality, to her own time, to showers and air conditioning and all the food she missed, to her parents, to her brother Douglas and their darling border collie, Whisky, telling them of her wild adventure.
She reached the edge of town and searched for the bamboo trees and the forest beside it. The rain fell in a musical patter, and Isla thought it the most wonderful sound she had ever heard. In a gust of icy air, she pushed into the woods and stepped on soggy leaves and twigs, keeping an eye out for pitfall traps.
As she headed in the direction of the shrine, she didn’t care that every part of her was slick with rain. Her hakama trousers flew behind her as she brushed hair from her eyes. There it was, the shrine. All she had to do was find the white gate and she’d be home.
Rain fell on the shrine building, the statues and the unlit lanterns. She ran through the grounds, seeking the pale gate, waiting for the thick mist to descend like it had before.
Eventually Isla had to slow, her heart racing. She shivered. Her excitement faltered as she looked around. The bell rang, wind chimes singing to her. It seemed like last time, but . . .
Something was wrong.
‘No!’ Isla yelled, refusing to believe what she saw before her, searching the shrine again and again, ever more frantically. She checked every corner, ran her fingers along the slick walls, and even stepped into the shrine building itself in case the gate had somehow manifested itself inside.
But there was no sign of it.
‘No!’ she screamed as the rain began to lessen, the downpour turning softer and the sky lighter. She stopped in the centre of the shrine grounds, her head whipping about as she looked. There was the forest, the tree she had crouched beneath, the shrine building, the regular red torii gate. She even ran through it, hoping beyond hope she would find her prize on the other side.
Nothing happened. And there was no prize.
As Isla let out a final shriek of frustration, the rain stopped.
She was left freezing cold, and with her clothes soaked through. Worst of all, she was still stuck in 1877.
‘What am I doing wrong?’ she sobbed, sinking to her knees.
As a weak sun burst through a gap in the heavy clouds, there wasn’t even the tiniest answer from a ringing bell.
If Isla had thought previously she had plumbed the pits of despair, it was nothing to the wretchedness she felt now.
* * *
The racket of gunfire made Keiichirō’s skull rattle. He stood on the dusty ground of the training ring, a square of dirt surrounded by wooden walls and sliding doors. Before him and his fellow samurai were a dozen targets made of hay, littered with holes. The air smelled unpleasantly of gunpowder and sweat.
He aimed the rifle at a target and fired, standing firm to stop the recoil from throwing him off his feet. An explosion and the strong scent of gunpowder assaulted his nose. On his left his cousin Tatsuzō was swearing beneath his breath at having taken such a poor shot. ‘Your father always said guns were dishonourable,’ he muttered to Keiichirō.
‘We can’t deny that guns have won many battles,’ Keiichirō said as he reloaded, not that the artillery practice was his favourite part of shi-gakkō classes.
The irony was not lost on Keiichirō that the warriors of Japan had benefited from weapons imported from overseas. Many Japanese people rejected the shinseifu government’s new policies of sharing more with the West, while simultaneously enjoying the positive side of trading with foreigners.
His jaw set, Keiichirō lifted the heavy gun back onto his shoulder and aimed at the target.
Nakahara Hisao, the student who’d cut Toramasa’s hand, came in with a bow and an apology to the sensei for being late. He flexed ink-stained fingers and hurried to snatch up his own rifle, bidding a hasty good morning to his classmates. Taguchi stood at the far end, as far away from Keiichirō as possible. They had avoided each other since their embarrassing brawl, and Keiichirō was just fine with that.
Keiichirō’s finger pressed the trigger as a shape appeared at the door to their right. He braced for the brain-shaking explosion, then glanced over.
‘Maeda,’ called the man at the door. Kirino Toshiaki stood waiting.
Keiichirō and Tatsuzō looked at each other, unsure who was being referred to by their mutual family name.
Kirino-san’s cologne reached Keiichirō’s nose long before he did. ‘Yes, the both of you will do,’ Kirino-san said, and then he asked Tatsuzō, ‘You have met the foreigner?’
‘Yes. Briefly, Kirino-san,’ said Tatsuzō, taken aback.
Keiichirō’s stomach plummeted. He had not reported back on anything to do with Isla to Murata-san and the others who claimed an interest in her.
They left behind the gunshots and went through the shi-gakkō and outside into the cold air. It was already past noon. The sloping walls outside the school were still dripping with water as they trudged across the wet grass. The gunfire had been so loud that Keiichirō hadn’t noticed the rain.
‘I need to talk to you both about the foreigner.’
‘MacKenzie Isla,’ said Keiichirō. He owed it to Isla to make it clear she had a name.
Kirino-san gave a sharp nod. ‘Hai. You must know her best, Maeda-san.’ His piercing gaze, eyes surrounded by crow’s feet and holding a mountain’s worth of wisdom, bored into Keiichirō’s. ‘Tell me, has this MacKenzie written letters that you know of?’
‘Foreign women can read and write?’ Tatsuzō seemed surprised.
Keiichirō ignored him. ‘Not a single letter, Kirino-san. She hasn’t asked me or my sister for a brush or paper.’
‘I see,’ said Kirino-san.
They walked along the shi-gakkō walls, where the grunts of younger students practising martial arts could be heard. The damp grass smelled sharp and fresh; drops of water fell from nearby trees. ‘Good. My wife says she has been working hard with the others, but we can’t help but wonder why she is here. Her family must surely be searching for her.’
‘Everything suggests that she came alone, and that nobody knows she is here,’ said Keiichirō.
‘A woman, sailing to Japan without even an escort?’ Kirino-san snorted in disbelief. Even Tatsuzō chuckled.
Keiichirō didn’t want to believe Isla had lied to him. She always seemed so lost and unmoored. If she were an actor, then she was convincing. Every day, she was here exactly as she should be, sometimes playing with Yura, or helping Nakamura Nene and the others, or being quietly by herself. It didn’t add up to the behaviour of a spy or an enemy, Keiichirō was certain. And the time they’d shared together, that felt too real, too authentic to be built upon a lie. But what could he say that wouldn’t sound suspicious, that wouldn’t make him sound as though he was being played for a fool? If Keiichirō tried to explain any of this, all that would happen would be that he would make the situation worse.
‘Saigō-sama has informed me there are Dutch traders staying in town until tonight,’ said Kirino-san. ‘They may be willing to take the girl to Nagasaki, where they can help her. There are British sailors there who will be able to take her home. She does not belong here. We need her gone.’
The thought of Isla leaving brought a terrible emptiness he could not fathom, but Kirino-san was right – Satsuma was not Isla’s home. She had tried to leave before, and she stayed at the Maeda household only because she had no other choice.
Keiichirō had, for the first time, a moment of clarity. He wanted to beg Isla to stay in Satsuma. To stay with him, at his side. Every cell in his body compelled him to open his mouth and speak these words. They had never touched unless by accident, or talked about deeply personal things, or even stared into each other’s eyes. And yet Keiichirō knew his life would be less if Isla wasn’t there, and her absence would be like draining all the colour from the world. He just knew.
No matter.
He knew too that he wouldn’t say a word to Isla of his feelings. He cared for her too much to stand in the way of her returning to the place where she felt happy.
And in that moment of clarity his heart broke.
* * *
Isla should have gone back to Kirino-san and Nene, but she was so disappointed over her failure to find the white gate that she was willing to endure whatever punishment awaited her for not rejoining the women’s work. After that, she would go to the hot spring, clear her head, and come up with another plan.
When she reached the Maeda household, however, to her surprise Keiichirō was waiting for her, his face statue-like in its firmness. His broad-shouldered cousin was there, too, looking out across the water, as well as an older man Isla recognised. He was the man who’d ordered Keiichirō and his friends to take her to the school the night she arrived.
‘Ah, MacKenzie-san,’ the older man said. He gave a short bow, and Isla awkwardly mirrored him.
She could see Keiichirō staring at her, and she thought he was probably wondering why she was in wet clothing.
The man who had bowed to her said, ‘I am Kirino Toshiaki. My wife tells me you’ve been working hard. We have some good news. But, ah, perhaps first you’d like to change?’
‘I’ll get Kana to make some tea,’ said Keiichirō after Isla nodded that she would appreciate the chance to put on a clean outfit. Kana busied herself with a kettle.
Isla was glad to step into the relative privacy of her room. Keiichirō slid open the door and murmured, ‘Where were you? Did you fall into the river?’
She ignored the question, asking instead, ‘What’s that Kirino guy doing here?’
Keiichirō thrust a towel at her. ‘He might be able to get you home.’ He backed out and slid the door closed.
Confused, Isla was left staring at the closed door for a few seconds. Then, with no dry Japanese clothes to her name, she dressed in her present-day clothes. Her hair still damp, she joined Kirino-san, Keiichirō and Tatsuzō and listened with increasing dread as Kirino-san told her about a group of Dutch traders who planned to head back to Nagasaki that evening.
‘They’ll be willing to take you with them,’ said Kirino-san as they perched uncomfortably on the porch, hot tea in their hands. ‘They will be able to find British sailors who can take you on their ship.’
Isla stared, unseeing, in front of her. If they took her to Nagasaki, or even on a ship to Britain, how would she ever get back to her own time? But it might be what she needed to do, as shown by her latest visit to the shrine being so fruitless.
Isla looked at Keiichirō as if that might help her. His expression was blank, and she couldn’t work out what he thought.
‘The Dutch might even know your family,’ added Kirino-san. ‘Murata-san is explaining your situation to them right now. They’ll take good care of you.’
Isla’s thoughts were racing. She was being sent away. What should she do? What could she do? Stay here and hope that somehow the white torii gate would return, or venture into the unknown? And what about Keiichirō?
As Hisa Kirino arrived Isla glanced at Keiichirō, her heart aching. Although he wasn’t looking at her but straight ahead, Isla felt as if her world was collapsing into nothing. She wasn’t supposed to be here, but now she couldn’t bear to leave.
‘We’ll be back before sunset,’ Kirino-san promised. ‘Go back to the others and get some work done. We’ll pick you up later.’
Isla looked at Keiichirō, and he smiled. Her heart leapt, and she almost smiled back. But as he turned and left, his katana swords at his hip, long black hair blowing in a wind still occasionally flecked with raindrops, she could have screamed in anguish.
It was torture, especially as Nene kept asking Isla if she were scared to leave on her own with the Dutch traders. And when Isla didn’t reply, Nene strayed too close to the truth when she asked if Isla would find it hard to manage without Keiichirō, seeing as how he’d been so devoted in offering her sanctuary while also being her protector.
Isla didn’t reply, but Nene may have spied a tear under her lashes.
‘Oh no, not Keiichirō. You know that can’t ever happen, don’t you?’ Nene’s words made Isla look up. There was a strange expression on Nene’s face as she said, ‘I thought everyone knew he was betrothed.’
Isla frowned as she tried to work out if she had misunderstood.
‘He’s going to be married. We all thought it was strange enough, you staying there. And Kana says you and Keiichirō go off together all the time and sit and talk for hours. He shouldn’t be doing that. He’s promised.’
‘Kana’s confused, and she’s exaggerating. We’ve never done anything wrong,’ said Isla, her despair giving way to fury. ‘Anyway, I don’t for a moment believe he is betrothed. He would have told me.’
‘I am not wrong, I assure you,’ Nene said with more than a hint of gloat thickening her voice. ‘I know this without a doubt. You see, he’s betrothed to me.’