Kagami

By Elizabeth Kata

Passions and intrigues abound in this epic historical novel. Kagami follows three families in 19th Century Japan, the Yamamotos and the Okuras, traditionalists dedicated to the old feudal Samurai ways, and the commercial Fukudas, eager to seize trading opportunities opened up by the arrival of Commodore Perry's force in 1853.

The Kagami, or sacred mirror, is said to reflect the secret self of anyone who looks into it; what will it reveal of Lady Masa, the gentle aristocrat; her son, Renzo, a student at one of the mysterious Seignorial schools, once Japan's only point of contact with the outside world; the swaggering Samurai, Kenichi, and his sharp witted friend, Fukuda; free-thinking Aiko, with her quick tongue, and Osen, the beguiling courtesan?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Apr 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781448215607

Elizabeth Kata

Elizabeth Kata (1912–1998) was born in Australia and lived for many years in Japan. Married in Tokyo in 1937, she spent the last two years of the Second World War in internment. Her son was born just three weeks before the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. On being released she returned to Australia in 1947 with her infant son, where she embarked on a long and illustrious writing career. Her first novel, A Patch of Blue (originally published as Be Ready with Bells and Drums), was translated into eight different languages and made into an award-winning film. She wrote screenplays for both film and television, which were produced in Australia, the United Kingdom and the United States.

Book preview

Kagami

Elizabeth Kata

To cherished memories of times spent in Japan

Contents

Book I

Book II

A Note on the Author

Book I

In the middle of the last century, on a high bluff overlooking the ocean and the fishing hamlet of Yokohama, stood a family house attached to a Seignorial School which for several hundred years had been run according to the despotic Shogunate laws which prevailed in the land.

The ancient sea pines surrounding the house on the hill and the school were like black lace etched against the sky. The family that dwelt in those two buildings was wilful and passionate, kindly and patient. It was a family of the times, those joyous and terrible times which saw unprecedented change in the Japan that it loved.

The story of that family begins in the summer of 1845…

On the hot, bright day which heralded in Renzo’s seventh year he awakened early, brimming with energy. When his nurse, Honda, finally gave in to his demands about the clothes he insisted on wearing he stood before the mirror admiring the way his hair had been swept up in tufts like little tea-brushes. He liked his new hempen gown, lined with crimson and sashed by a thick twine girdle, but wished he had a real sword to make him feel complete.

He knew that individual birthdays had no real significance because the entire population of Japan celebrated a communal birthday each New Year, but Renzo was determined to enjoy the day to the full.

Although he secretly admired his father, he was pleased that he was away visiting in Edo again — in all probability having his own kind of fun with that bold lady, Osen, his latest fancy so despised and gossiped about by his mother and his Aunt Sumiko who alluded to Osen as ‘a creature of low caste’.

He was accustomed to grown up people ignoring his presence as they expressed their thoughts and feelings freely, believing that he was always engrossed in his games and too young to understand the subjects they spoke of, and in many respects they were correct. For some time he had thought Osen was a pet animal that his father had purchased, maybe a dog, or even a monkey, but now he knew better. During his father’s recent visit home he had been present when his parents had discussed Osen. His mother, her manner aloof, had exclaimed quietly, ‘Husband, your woman, the courtesan Osen, from all reports is doing little to enhance your reputation. Also, although I hesitate to say this, the scandalous association is an insult to your family name.’

His father had replied loudly, with feigned laughter, ‘Must you always tug at my sleeves? Never mind. Never mind! Why not take comfort that you are my registered wife? Seemingly you and I are always to be at odds. I seldom please you. Last year you were criticising my association with Usami, that delightful youth.’

‘Naturally I did not commend it,’ Lady Masa’s voice had been tinged with ridicule. ‘But at least Usami is an actor of some repute, much sought after.’

‘True, but I wearied of him. For the time being Osen fits my needs. My nature demands contrasts. All love-making demands contrasts, otherwise it cannot thrive. Come now, why make my stay here so unharmonious? Please bear in mind that you no longer dwell in court circles but in a fishing hamlet, a social backwater. And remember also that I am here to request that you cease using your influence over my sister.’

His mother had not dignified that outburst with so much as a glance, murmuring coolly, ‘Kindly take up the matter of her marriage with Sumiko. She is strong-willed and…’

‘Nonsense…’ his father had thundered. ‘She is completely ruled by your will which keeps her tied here. Your Lady in Waiting, so to speak. My situation with the Fukuda family becomes more difficult with every passing month. I intend to brook no further female capriciousness. Have Sumiko brought here at once and send the child from the room.’

Just yesterday, shortly after his father’s departure from Yokohama, Renzo, his mother and his aunt, together with a maidservant, left the house to picnic on the beach at Hommoku Bay. The ladies wore loosely tied sashes around their cotton kimonos, and the little party from the house on the hill meandered happily down the straggling path which led to the fishing hamlet. The summer chorus of cicadas in the pine trees was deafening enough for the ladies to cover their ears, but Renzo, who loved the merry sound, set up his own continuous high-pitched screaming until he was ordered to stay silent.

On reaching the beach they were welcomed by the fisher-folk. The women bowed and the children, many with brother and sister babies slung on their backs, gazed curiously and shyly at the young master from the School House. With politeness and respect, sparsely clad men had adjusted their loincloths as they called cheerfully, ‘Perfect weather! Perfect weather today!’

‘Indeed, perfect weather,’ his mother replied. Then turning to him she murmured, ‘Ren-chan, keep well away from the children. Several of them have skin eczema.’

She spoke the truth but he wished that she was not always quite so observant. He had hoped to talk and play with the children; but it was still enjoyable just following after the ladies. With their robes tucked up, they were gathering sea-shells while the waves lapped gently over their bare feet.

Banks of white clouds floated high above and the sea was unruffled; only the rocking of small boats sent out ever-widening ripples. As the tide receded women and children set to work collecting masses of velvet-smooth seaweed.

Renzo noticed that several of the near-naked youths’ bodies were decorated with grotesque highly coloured tattoos. Wondering how they achieved such spectacular ornamentation he decided to ask Aunt Sumiko, but even as he ran to her side she waved him away, saying, ‘Later, Renzo, later…’ She had gone on chatting to his mother, her voice triumphant, exclaiming, ‘At least I have been reprieved once more and all thanks to you, older sister.’

‘Don’t mention it. You know that my husband pays no attention to my opinions. Indeed, to the opinions of all women. Kenichi’s samurai philosophy destroys within himself any feelings for the intelligence of the opposite sex.’

‘Sensual intelligence and sensual feeling too?’

As the two ladies laughed, mocking and merry, Renzo ran ahead of them, trying to draw attention to himself.

Joining a group of fishermen, he stood by watching as one by one they plunged their brawny arms deep into an immense wooden tub filled to the brim with freshly caught whitebait.

The men were bargaining, laughing good naturedly as they made bids for the catch, while sea gulls hovered greedily overhead. Renzo, out-screeching the birds, leapt into the tub, then called out fearfully as his body sank beneath the sticky mass.

After he had been hauled from the tub by the owner of the catch he stood by, head bent, listening to the barrage of comments around him, realising that his behaviour had lowered the price which the good man had expected to gain.

‘Domo, domo! — Ruined — squashed flat!’ the man muttered ruefully as Sumiko came forward to apologise for her nephew’s unrefined manners and offered recompense for the fisherman’s loss.

A discussion, punctuated by many deep bows, continued for some time as the man repeated again and again, ‘No, no. Think nothing of it, Lady. What’s done is done. Please, think nothing of it.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ an old fisherman chimed in cheerily. ‘Children are children. ’Tis said that even the holes by the roadside hate a boy of seven or eight years old.’

Finally his aunt led him away while his mother, who had ignored the entire episode, gazed at the sky holding a conch shell to her ear, listening to something that only she could hear.

‘Strip off your garments,’ his aunt commanded, gesturing that he go into the sea and wash the fishy odour from his body.

It was so nice splashing about in the salty water, feeling the gritty sand beneath his feet that he quite forgot the reason why he was there.

‘Come along. That’s quite enough,’ Sumiko ordered but he laughed at her, boldly moving further out from the shore. ‘Ren-chan, Ren-chan, you can’t swim, you will drown,’ she warned, her voice high and shrill.

He was rescued by one of the tattooed youths who earlier had laughed so heartily at him. He lay on the sand spluttering and the kind young maid-servant helped him on with his loincloth.

Deeply humiliated, he dawdled behind the ladies as they climbed up the steep trail towards their home.

His grandfather and the dour scholars, all stoop-shouldered from so much reading and writing, dwelt in the adjoining School House. To Renzo, they seemed scarcely human; his father especially, so seldom at home, was a man of mystery. And he fully believed that Aunt Sumiko had her cheeky monkey, Zar-chan’s needs more at heart than his own.

His mother, the Lady Masa, treated him with a puzzling mixture of possessiveness and indifference. When he displeased her she would remove the small fan tucked in her obi-sash and point it imperiously in his direction; those fan gestures combined with her silent glances spoke more than words could and never failed to bring him to order…

Now, filled with pride and animation, as he stood before the mirror on this very special birthday, he was determined to behave with new dignity.

He ordered Honda to bring him his toy sword and sticking it into his girdle, he strode along the dim, highly polished corridors of the rambling house and entered a ten-mat room where the family’s Shinto shrine held place of honour. He made his obeisance, careful about the quality of his expression, about the position of his hands upon the floor and about his manner of bowing during the act of reverence.

That ceremony completed, he thought he should present himself in all his glory before one of Japan’s most eminent scholars, his own grandfather, Doctor Yamamoto. However, no sooner had he arrived at the entrance of the school quarters, calling out ‘Gomen nasai! Gomen nasai! Excuse me — please!’, than the ever-present guardian of the door chided him for daring to disturb the honourable persons who had risen long before dawn and who were diligently at work.

Dismayed, Renzo stood for a moment, fingering his sword, fantasising that it was a real weapon and that he was a grown samurai who, with one flashing action, could put an end to the impertinent servant by chopping his head from his body. But his blood-thirsty thoughts faded as he made his way towards his mother’s living quarters. Even more than compliments on his unusually striking morning attire, he was in search of sustenance, for his belly was rumbling, calling to be filled with rice, hot miso soup and crisp, pungent radish pickles.

He slid open the high wooden gate and was about to rush forward when he remembered his new-found dignity and, aware that his mother and his Aunt Sumiko were glancing in his direction, he halted. The two women, still attired in their sleeping robes, sat on cushions on the verandah-platform. Their hair fell like jet-black silken skeins about their bare shoulders and already the heat of the day obliged them to wave their fans as they murmured to one another, scarcely moving their lips, as was their habit when they were exchanging confidences.

Determined to impress, Renzo pretended to be unaware of the women’s scrutiny. He spread his legs wide and with one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other shading his eyes, he gazed intently, as though lost in contemplation of his mother’s garden pond.

As he gazed, he was surprised to discover just how beautiful the garden really was. The depth of the pond allowed the sky and the upper part of the tall trees on the opposite shore to be reflected in the water, thus providing an added feeling of distance. The bridge was made of naturally warped granite and cambered slightly for ease of crossing.

Renzo stood looking from the bridge into the water at the smooth movements of the brocaded carp. Those carp were his mother’s pride and joy. She alone had the privilege of feeding them; always, on hearing her voice, they would come darting in her direction, leaping high from the water to receive her beneficence.

Food? His own hunger suddenly overpowered other emotions and he ran swiftly, calling fretfully, ‘I am hungry. Hungry, hungry. I want my morning meal…’

At once, his mother snapped her fan closed and pointed it at him. He fell instantly to his knees, bowed his head, and called politely, ‘Good morning to you, Mother! Good morning to you, Aunt Sumiko. Is not the weather beautiful today?’

‘Beautiful indeed.’ Lady Masa replied. ‘Not so your rough ways. They wound my spirit.’ As though unable to bear the sight of him, she opened her rosary bag and took the beads in her hand as she intoned a prayer of homage to the glory of the lotus.

Relieved at being let off so lightly, Renzo proceeded to the kitchen quarters where the five house-servants were all making a clicking music with their chopsticks as they ate their morning rice and gossiped and laughed. At his sudden appearance they fell silent, staring admiringly, astonished by his grand raiment. Even the cook, usually so crotchety, shouted, ‘Who can this handsome personage be? How fortunate it is that I have this feast of fried bean-cakes to set before him.’

Gratified that his efforts had been appreciated at last, he tucked into the tasty food, enjoying the servants’ teasing praise of his person. But he frowned at the newcomer to the household, Misa, a fat twelve-year-old girl who made dreadful faces at him and said insolently, ‘How silly you look with your little toy sword. I could squash you flat just by sitting on you.’

True, he thought, she could easily do that. He tried to put her in her proper place by pointing a chopstick in her direction, just as his mother did with her all-powerful fan. But Misa, unimpressed, merely pulled another grimace and rushed from the huge earthern-floored kitchen to unlatch the outside gates where pedlars had arrived with their seasonal wares.

Their arrival always caused a stir throughout the house. Renzo liked them more than anyone else he knew. They were humorous, good-natured men and women, who brought huge straw bags of charcoal, loads of chopped wood and countless other mundane necessities, as well as delicacies in their wicker baskets, like dried persimmons, mushrooms, chestnuts, fresh flowers, fruits, vegetables — and toys. When winter was approaching they brought straw raincoats and high-platformed wooden clogs for walking in the cold snow slush.

He remained in the kitchen enjoying the bustle and the bargaining and admiring the giant lobsters. Then, losing interest, he made his way to the main living-room, but stopped before entering in order to eat a juicy pear he had snatched up, and then to secrete the core in the sleeve of his tunic.

His mother and his aunt, now robed and coiffeured for the day, and their underlips rouged, sat smoking long stemmed one-puff pipes as they examined goods brought by the merchant, Moto San, who dealt in articles catering for womanly needs and in luxuries which only such ladies could afford.

The silk merchant had already spread his wares on the tatami floor, creating an orgiastic delight of colour: smooth printed silks, richly embroidered brocades, patterned velvets, and airlight chiffons.

Quite often the silk merchant and his two assistants would stay on for several days, patiently awaiting the ladies’ final decisions. His visits were deeply appreciated and, although he was not received as a guest, he was treated with great courtesy. In turn, Moto San, of necessity patient beyond belief, was willing to play the waiting game that was an integral part of his business.

Renzo was now on his best behaviour and sat quietly, careful not to draw attention to himself. He was anxious to get back into his mother’s good graces as she unconcernedly observed all that was going on about her, speaking in a muted voice, obliging those about her to listen intently when she spoke.

‘Tell us, Moto San,’ she murmured, ‘Have you knowledge of the coming winter fashions in Kyoto?’

‘Indeed, Lady Masa, I have. Underclothes, beneath unobtrusive garments, are to run riot with colour, and kimono sleeves are to be slightly shorter. Yes, gentle but yet, in all, extremely seductive.’

‘And obi-brooches?’

‘Elegant. Jade and coral are greatly in demand. But, Lady Masa, Edo, not Kyoto leads fashion these days.’

Wearied of such feminine talk, Renzo waited for a suitable moment to make his escape, which came when a troop of serving girls entered the room carrying lacquered trays laden with food, hot rice-wine and tea.

Although Lady Masa’s gaze was apparently focused on the movement and bustle about her, Renzo bowed deeply in her direction before leaving the room.

Quite suddenly he remembered that it was his birthday and he felt put out, for no one had even thought to congratulate him. At a loss, he crossed the spacious hall leading to the steep stairway and made his way up the stairs to his father’s private study. The wooden shutters were closed and the room was almost in darkness, but it was cool and filled with the fascinating smell emanating from the precious kiri-wood chests and from the books and boxed scrolls so neatly arranged on the low shelves which lined the room.

He liked this room and wondered what secrets he would discover if he opened all the closed doors and drawers in the chests. Pulling out one long, deep drawer he beheld two ancient swords, sheathed with silk-brocade wraps.

Renzo removed the toy dirk from his side and took a piece of blue velvet that was covering his father’s writing materials on the low floor-desk. He folded the cloth about the toy and placed it with the real weapons. As he closed the heavy drawer he wondered what his father would think on finding the toy. Well, let him think what he would!

Still at a loose end, he now found himself embarking on a tour of his home. The adjacent School House and its dormitories were, of course, off-limits but here, upstairs, there were rooms he seldom entered. The long corridor was lined with muralled sliding doors and as he went from each small room to the next he slid open all the connecting doors, until finally he had created one immense chamber. He was deeply impressed as he surveyed the new tatami mats; white with a slight tinge of green in them, they were bordered by black tape bindings that created a dramatic effect. The sides of the rooms — now just one — facing the passageway and open air were filled with sliding screens covered with rice paper which admitted a soft, diffused light into the chamber.

After a while he entered the eight-mat room that was his Aunt Sumiko’s private den. On the raised tokonoma hung a single picture-scroll featuring three baby monkeys and beneath it stood a bronze flower vase with blue flowers in it. The hibachi, the large fire-bowl, was made of porcelain, whiter than snow and decorated with scarlet, snarling dragons. Beside the low, ornate table were two purple floor cushions and on the table lay one of his mother’s fans and several tiny picture-scrolls, rolled and tied with lengths of faded cord.

Renzo plumped himself down on one of the cushions and, ignoring any feelings of guilt, he unloosed the cord of one scroll. As he unrolled the silky, yellowed parchment he beheld amazing pictures — coloured drawings portraying men and women grimacing as though in ecstasies of pain, their bodies all twisted together.

Without bothering to replace things as he had found them, Renzo left the room, disturbed by the insight into the queer tastes of grown up folk. How could his aunt and his mother enjoy looking at such pictures that he found so ugly and so strange? Especially his aunt. Sumiko had always entertained him with stories of brave, heroic men and women. It was Aunt Sumiko who had told him about the magnificent history of Japan, the largest, the most beautiful country in the world. She had let him know that Fujisan, the tallest mountain in the whole world, was ruled over by a goddess who bade all the flowers in the land to bloom. And there was nothing strange or ugly about that.

Outside on the wooden-railed verandah Renzo drew a deep breath of fresh air into his lungs and, forgetting that unpleasant scroll, gazed outwards from the high perch.

There, beneath him lay the fishing hamlet of Yokohama. A soft sea breeze wafted his way, sweet with the pungent scent of pine needles and he blinked his eyes rapidly, taking in the symphony of colour: so many shades of green, of morning-glory blue and of yellow field-flowers.

Far below was Hommoku Bay from which those brawny fishermen sailed away every evening as the sun went down, to return with their catch at break of day.

His old nurse, Honda, was a fisherman’s daughter and from her he had heard many tales. He knew that no worse incident could befall a fishing boat than if a bucket should fall from it into the sea and sink; sooner or later the evil spirits inhabiting the waters would use the bucket to pour water into the vessel and founder it. He knew that a cat should always be carried on a deep-sea fishing junk, as cats had the power to repel the ghosts that frequent the ocean depths.

Although it was not yet near evening, Renzo could see the fishermen already at work on the beach. From the distance they looked small and the boats lined up on the shore resembled toys. He wished he could run down to the bay on his own and help the men with their nets, then splash about in the water with the village children. But his mother would never allow him such freedom.

He understood that his life was extremely important to his parents; if he had an accident and died, his mother would have to produce another son from her body. Before his birth two other children, both boys, had died in their infancy. Honda had told him that his birth had given the Lady Masa hours of untold agony and that she, still so young and beautiful, felt she had suffered more than enough.

He sighed deeply. Perhaps growing up was not such a good thing. His mind was filled with heavy thoughts and even as he stood on the verandah a bell at the monastery, on the highest hill above the hamlet began to send out deep, sweet notes which trembled in the hot air and caused his heart to ache.

His heart? No, his stomach. He was hungry again.

Having eaten two bowls of rice, two bowls of miso soup and every scrap of food set before him, Renzo was then taken in hand by Honda. She stripped him of his regalia and scrubbed from top to toe in the bath-house, while croaking at him, ‘Be still while I clean you up. Why do you become so dirty so quickly? Be still, I say. I warn you, if you don’t keep yourself well bathed you will grow hair all over your body. Do you want to look like an Ainu — an Aborigine —? No decent person wants to be in smelling distance of those hairy Ainu folk. They eat bear flesh. They are savage and wild. There, all nice and clean! Now, little master you must scrub my aching back. Your old nurse deserves a reward.’

The household bath was a communal affair and the naked female bodies were familiar, arousing in Renzo no more interest than did the trees or the flowers. However, since seeing that scroll, his imagination had been affected and he wondered what his nurse would do if he threw her on her back and grappled with her while astride her body. Would she scream out, be terrified and angry? Would she fling her stick-like old legs into the air and cling to him, grimacing like the women in those drawings?

‘I’ve scrubbed you enough,’ he shouted hilariously and ran dripping wet from the bath-house out into the sunlight, not caring that his mother was witnessing his wild, naked flight.

She stood on the bridge of the pond, a colourful parasol shading her from the bright glare. The silk merchant was by her side and they were admiring the carp. The new maid, fat Misa, was kneeling at his mother’s feet holding a basket from which her mistress took small balls of rice and threw them into the water calling ‘Koi, koi, koi…’. For the benefit of the merchant Lady Masa was showing how her aquatic pets actually answered when she called to them.

At the sight of her naked son she called merrily, ‘Ren-chan! Ren-chan, come to my side! Come hold the food basket.’

As he took the basket from Misa he pulled a hideous face at her, knowing that she could not retaliate in the presence of her mistress. Lady Masa whispered sternly to the girl, ‘Go at once to the bath-house. Your body odour is most unpleasant.’ Her head bent, Misa trotted off and Renzo, a smugly clean child, assisted his mother while the silk merchant complimented Masa on the beauty and the intelligence of her brocaded carp and also on the comeliness of her child. ‘A son to be proud of,’ he exclaimed.

Renzo straightened his shoulders and stood with his head bent humbly beneath their combined gaze. Despite her obvious pleasure, his mother murmured, ‘No, no, Moto San. He is a most ordinary child.’

Turning to her son she said ‘Make haste, get dressed and go to your aunt, she is waiting for you.’

For the past two years Aunt Sumiko had tutored him in the arts of writing and reading and in the discipline of good manners. Lessons always began with, ‘Self-restraint is one of man’s greatest virtues. Let this virtue manifest itself during today’s period of study.’

She was a gentle, patient teacher. He had learnt that for more than two hundred years Japan had been in a state of total isolation from the rest of the world, and that before then hosts of rapacious barbarians had caused terrible chaos and tragedy. Since their banishment no ugly or serious political disturbances of any kind had threatened the supremacy of the Tokugawa Shogunate.

‘Will the cruel barbarians ever come again, Aunt?’ he once asked.

‘Never!’ she declared. ‘Be assured of that. Be happy that you are a child of Japan. Enjoy this time of learning.’

He was usually happy under her tutelage but today lessons were tedious. He found it difficult to concentrate and difficult to handle his writing brush correctly.

‘Must you fidget so?’ Sumiko chided. ‘Have you caught a fever perhaps?’

‘I think I have a fever Aunt,’ he lied.

She touched his forehead lightly, and laughed. ‘A nice cool little forehead! Come now, do it again. Treat each character with reverence.’

Filled with impatience, he spent another long hour forming the difficult characters, attempting to emulate her elegant calligraphy.

‘There, all finished,’ he shouted. ‘May I go now, Aunt?’

Sumiko examined his efforts, ‘Really, this is disgraceful,’ she said. ‘But you have worn me out. Apologise for shouting then put away your writing implements. No. Not like that! Carefully…’

As usual, the boy was obedient. He bowed and was given permission to go his way.

It seemed that a whole year had gone by. But the sun was still high in the sky, and everyone in the house, even the servants, was having a rest and there were no birds in the sky.

Birds! To pass the time he would visit his grandfather’s aviary. Running helter-skelter towards the grove of striped bamboo he heard the sound of a flute and he knew that the blind masseur who lived on the premises was in the grove. For forty long years he had lived in the midst of the Yamamoto family, on call to go to the School at any hour, day or night, ready and willing to massage aching muscles, to grant sleep to wearied minds and restless bodies.

When not needed the masseur hid away in quiet nooks, playing the wooden flute that was his prized possession. During the summer months he would sit in the bamboo forest which held Doctor Yamamoto’s treasured collection of winged creatures.

As Renzo entered into the cool, green gloom of the grove he called out, ‘Konnichi wa — Good day to you, Old Man!’

‘Konnichi wa, little master! Am I needed in the house?’

‘No. Please, old uncle, may I blow music on your flute?’

‘No. It only plays for me.’

‘I don’t think that is so.’

‘Maybe not but it’s what I believe. Listen, this day I have composed a new melody.’

Renzo, charmed that he was listening to a tune no one else in the world had ever heard, stood by, his arms folded, his expression critical. It was a cheerful tune and he asked him to play it again and again until the old man, tired of his demands, tucked the instrument in his rope girdle, reached out his hand and picked up his cane staff which was hidden in the long grass.

Renzo wondered if the old man was really blind. ‘Can’t you see even just a little bit Old Man?’ he exclaimed staring at the bleary eyes in the wrinkled, walnut-coloured face.

‘I have ears. I have a good nose. I have touch. I earn my rice. To see has no sense for me. Folk speak of light. Never have I understood that word.’

‘Then…’ Renzo hesitated. ‘Then, all is dark to you always? You live in a dark cage then?’

‘A dark cage?’ the blind man cackled merrily. ‘If you say so, little master, I live in a dark cage but it is a comfortable cage. Excuse me, if you please. I wish to take my nap.’

Perhaps he should leave the grove? He had no business to be there for it was Doctor Yamamoto’s retreat. The elderly scholar had a passion for the birds and fowls in the aviary. He employed a half-witted youth who wandered about the countryside with his bird-catching pole, skilfully capturing wagtails, finches and the like. But he had explained to Renzo, ‘Never sky-larks. They would pine away and die, if put in a cage.’

Renzo peered in between the bamboo slats at the immense enclosed area of the aviary. What a motley collection of birds it held! What havoc a fox would cause if one broke into the enclosure. Certain birds, the kites, sparrow-hawks and the one falcon, had their own compartments. The wild geese, ducks, teals and long-legged herons had their reed-filled water pond and dwelt peaceably with other varieties, including quail, pheasants, and several bluebirds. Perched in the heights of the enclosure, like an emperor surveying his kingdom, was the rice-white Chinese cock. His long tail feathers resembled a waterfall and cascaded to the ground near the pond.

Near by was an ancient oak tree, its leafy branches shading a lotus pond; the pink blossoms raised high above the immense leaf pads gave out a bitter-sweet perfume. Renzo stared down at the pink and green carpeted pond recalling the day, several years back, when he had been reprimanded by his aunt for having plucked and crushed one of the lotus blooms. ‘Ren-chan,’ she had said, ‘The lotus is a holy flower, the token of truth and light and purity, which displays its glory for just a few weeks.’ And indeed, when he had returned, the pond, once so resplendent, had become unkempt, ugly and filled with dying stalks and leaves.

His meditations came to an abrupt end as he caught sight of a brown speckled frog — no larger than his thumb nail — sitting on a lotus pad in the middle of the pond. He wanted it. He would capture it as he was without a pet, having neglected to feed his finch, which had died of starvation in its cage.

It was not fair. His mother had her carp. His aunt had Zar-chan, her monkey, Grandfather had his aviary, and Father, far away in Edo, had Osen. Could he capture the frog without harming the holy flowers? Remembering his aunt’s lecture, he decided to forgo a new pet and to leave the frog on the lotus pad. Instead he climbed the wide-spreading branches of the tall oak tree.

It was nice to be up so high, looking down through the green foliage to the ground and looking up at the sky and out over the ocean. How smooth and blue the ocean was and how hard and straight the dark line which separated the sky from the sea. What lay beyond that horizon? He knew that sailors were forbidden to sail too far from the shores of Japan. In a way, maybe the entire population of the world lived in cages of a kind? He was himself a prisoner, a boy all of seven years, spending his days beneath the ever inquisitive eyes of jailors. Women jailors at that.

How could he set himself free? He could run away, become a ronin, travelling far and wide, performing tremendous acts of courage and bravery. But then his mother would again be forced to produce a new son from her body. He couldn’t bear even to imagine her slender figure swollen and distorted like the maid-servant’s, Ume, who lumbered around, complaining about her swollen legs, her aching back, as she awaited the arrival of her overdue baby.

He didn’t blame that baby. Why rush to become caged up in a world which held so many frustrations? Clambering down from the oak tree he stamped angrily on the ground, cutting the air with his hand, shouting, ‘I want to be free! I want to be free, free, free…’ As though scorning him, the savage-beaked falcon gave a frightening shriek which caused the other birds to flutter wildly against the bars.

As Renzo approached the aviary time ceased to exist for him. He knew that he was about to commit a terrible deed, a crime. He also knew that he would, like all criminals, pay a high price for his wickedness. He did not care. He could not free himself. He could not free the blind man from darkness into light, but he could, and he would, free the caged birds.

His punishment was a terrible ordeal. He was alone for the first time with his grandfather, in the shadowy silence of the main study room of the School House. He could not see the elderly scholar but he knew that he was sitting nearby for he heard pages being turned. He smelt smoke and knew that his grandfather was using the small wooden tray containing a tiny charcoal hibachi which he used to light his pipe.

Sweat sprang from every pore in his skin. He bit his tongue and shut his eyes tight, strengthening his resolution to bear this ordeal. He was kneeling, absolutely motionless, holding a bowl filled with water, knowing that not one drop must spill on the age-yellowed tatami matting.

A lifetime seemed to go by and no sign or word of release was given. When he felt that he could no longer endure his plight, suddenly, most miraculously, the torture of his excruciating position vanished and the cramped feeling in his legs was forgotten. His head felt light. His mind had never been so clear. Without any conscious effort on his part, as though he were an observer, he saw the enactment of his deed and he saw a vision of its consequences…

He had picked up a long pole, unlatched the gate and entered the aviary. His task had been fraught with unexpected difficulties, for instead of seeing him as their saviour, most of the birds had considered him to be out to harm or to kill them.

Their lack of understanding drove him into a further fury of desperation and he ran about opening cages, shouting instructions and poking at the terrified creatures with the heavy pole that he brandished as though it were his father’s samurai sword.

To assist his efforts he scrambled up a ladder and opened a wide roof-door, shrieking with joy as many of the birds flapped their way to freedom. Then he had plummeted to the ground, stumbled and fallen into the water-birds’ pond. His head struck a granite rock and he sank to his waist in the slime and black slush, slipping and falling flat on his face again as he extricated himself.

Still in a fury, Renzo rushed towards the Chinese cock, screaming out, ‘You! Come on down, come on down…’ The great bird merely ruffled his crest-feathers and stared down at him, just like his mother’s reprimanding