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About the Author
Darryl Hill
was born in 1949 in Toowoomba, Queensland. He worked as a plumber and then
studied to work as a pathology laboratory technician. He writes in his spare
time in retirement on the Sunshine Coast. Darryl and his wife, Joy, have
vacationed several times in Korea and enjoy travel. They have two grown-up
children, one of whom teaches Korean.
READ A
SAMPLE:
Part 1 – Wednesday
“Look, dear, another bus load of Jap
tourists,” the man commented dismissively. Generous moist breezes swept over the
lookout and ruffled shocks of black hair as the passengers alighted at the
popular coach rest stop. In resigned fascination he watched the tour guide
apparently explain, with appropriate gesticulations and arm directions, what
made the high Point Danger headland lookout such a favourite sightseeing
viewpoint.
“It’s like they’re following a script,
Vonnie.”
In short quick steps, the tourists
hastened towards the steel-railed safety fence, cameras at the ready.
“The Japs haven’t changed a scrap since
I first met ’em; like a flock o’ sheep, can’t think of anything but their next
camera shot...”
“Now, now, dear, every Asian you see is
Japanese to you. It’s just not the case.”
“All the Japs are the same. Just look at
’em. Cameras out quicker than Flash Gordon, and they’re snap-snap-snappin’ in
all directions like every view is a lost picture. Gotta fill that shot. Another
bus stop, another roll of film; that’s the Jap tourist, isn’t it, Vonnie?”
“Yes, dear, but don’t forget it’s all
digital photography these days. You’re living in the past.” Yvonne raised her
hands to her gentle face and giggled involuntarily. “Surely you know that
they’re obliged to take lots of pictures and souvenirs home for their families.
There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s all part of their culture, can’t you see?
Archie, you really are so annoying sometimes.”
“I know that, luv. I’m just havin’ a
lend of ya.” He laughed loudly and gave her an affectionate hug. “Anyway, let’s
just watch and see. I always find this fascinating. They’ll be just like all the
other Japs. Just look at ’em, a dead giveaway. We may as well be back in Japan –
then again, that was quite a while ago…a long time ago,” he mused. “There, look.
I told you so. See that love-sick couple dressed in matching outfits?
Honeymooners; they’d normally have eyes only for each other, and see that
elderly Jap with the white Panama hat? He’s arranged for the honeymoon couple to
take his photo. Hat off and down by his side, perfect pose. That’s it – so
predictable.”
“Oh come on, Arch, get out of their way,
will you, or they’ll snap us too!”
The Asian man hung his white Panama on
the hat stand. While others of his group socialised with each other, he kept to
himself. Except for the evening meal, when he was joined by the couple who had
obligingly taken his photograph earlier that day, he remained in his sumptuous
Hilton apartment. After the meal, they invited him to their room where the trio
delighted in viewing a slide show of digital photo images from the day on the
television screen: Brisbane’s heritage-listed Victorian and Edwardian buildings;
the historic Beenleigh Distillery; brooding cloud-shrouded Mount Warning and the
lush rainforests of the Scenic Rim hinterland. Each image held a thrill for the
tourists. As they shared their day’s travel, the television screen brought
detail into sharp focus.
“Wait! Please hold that picture,” the
older man snapped, on seeing the Point Danger scene and himself in the centre.
“I want to have a closer look. Just look at those glorious colours.” With only a
gentle rush of air through the room vent interrupting the silence, his mind
could hear the deep boom of a rolling ocean swell, the aquamarine blues and
turquoise greens of giant waves and their white caps claimed by worn boulders,
resembling giant decayed teeth, far below. His keen imagination evoked the ocean
smell, a rankness of seaweed, oysters and soft corals...and the feeling of
danger. He flinched at the sudden thought of that night, when it was a full
moon, when flashing messages of lights passed both ways between the ships and
allies on shore. Long ago, it was indeed. But the rank ocean smell of today was
no different from then. So deep in contemplation, whisked away to the disturbing
distant past, he failed to hear the voices, until one of his company all but
shouted, “Excuse me, sir. Are you unwell?”
“Oh, I’m deeply sorry, Takasu-san.
Please forgive my rudeness. I was thinking of something else,” he apologised,
recovering with a start.
“You must have been a lifetime away. I’m
sorry I raised my voice. Please forgive me. Neither of us could make you hear
us.”
“Indeed it is a very good picture of
me,” he complimented them. “My family will be pleased for me. What a pity my
wife is not here.” They bowed formally to each other.
Already shaken from his interrupted
return to the past, his gaze travelled over the image, and all at once he became
startled by something else. There in the background – he hadn’t noticed it
before – an elderly couple materialised on the screen. The woman in the
background had shaded her face from the sun’s glare with her right hand, and so
her countenance was obscured. Firmly, from point blank range, he fixed his gaze
on the image of the tall, elderly man’s face. His distinct profile clear, he
seemed to be staring back accusingly. In instant recognition, the elderly
tourist gasped, “It can’t be, it can’t be true. But it is true, it’s him. Yes,
it’s him.” At this he slumped onto a couch and the couple watched in startled
fascination as the colour drained from his face.
“Sir, what is it? Are you alright?” one
of the Takasu couple queried, alarmed.
“I…I…feel faint. I wonder what has come
over me.”
“Your face is clammy and you look as
pale as a yurei, a ghost.” The young husband turned to his new wife, “Get him a
glass of cold water, quickly, darling, and a wet hand towel, please.”
“A yurei. Yes, a ghost. A ghost from the
past, my nemesis.”
“What do you mean, sir, your nemesis?”
“It’s no use my explaining, you are both
too young.” The couple saw his irritation, as beads of sweat joined into
rivulets.
“Here, sir, have a drink of this cold
water.”
He grabbed it greedily and gulped a long
draught. “Thank you. Oh, this is so refreshing, a cup of cold water for a dying
soldier.”
“A dying soldier? Please allow me to
call a doctor. Your voice is slurred and you’re confused, obviously unwell,” the
young husband insisted.
“No, please don’t worry! I’ll be fine.
Probably just low on fluids in today’s hot weather. I’m feeling somewhat better
already. Thank you sincerely for your kindness.”
“Sir, are you sure you’ll be alright?”
“Yes, of course I’m alright. Just a
little sentimental, that’s all. And that man you see in this picture...not even
my wife could have ever understood. I have just one wish before I die: to meet
him again.”
“You must tell us...if only for your own
sake,” the wife of the young couple encouraged, mopping his face with a cool,
damp cloth.
“You could never understand, never
believe me. In fact, I sometimes find it all beyond belief myself. But if you
insist...”
“We’ll stay with you until you’re ready
to retire for the night, if you like. To be sure that—”
“You see, the truth is...I’m so lonely.
My wife passed on recently and I thought I had worked through most of the
grieving but now that she’s gone, the distant past comes to me; in dreams,
morbid dreams. How can events from so long ago be so real as to punish me like
this? Oh, I feel so weary. What’s the use of going on?”
“If it would help, sir, we’ll listen.
What was your wife’s name?”
Angrily he sucked air through his worn
teeth. “Never mind my dear wife. She’s better off than I am now.” Then he seemed
to recover and knelt before his hosts. “First, you need to know about my mother.
Here we are, three of us, kneeling on our heels just as my mother was when the
kami came to her. That’s how she knew I was to be a son. How would Mother feel
if she could see me now? Would she approve of me disclosing her private life to
strangers? I feel it’s somehow wrong, yet it’s a story that needs to be told, to
honour her memory. Besides, this story is too painful for me to tell you, as me.
I have to detach myself, as it were.” At which he dropped his eyelids and, in a
state of silence and stillness that shrouded his own inner turmoil, the
storyteller began in a hesitant voice to present his extraordinary life as a
gift to another generation.
Many years
before…
A satisfied calm descended on her as she
worked before the warm hibachi, on age-mellowed tatami mats that covered most of
the wooden floor. Humming a sutra chant, her dexterous fingers wove multiple
strips of damp cane, creating a basket crib to add to the shawls, wraps and
other infant necessities she had completed to her fastidious satisfaction, not
to speak of bundles of offerings from the generous, excited village womenfolk.
The broad black obi round her plain indigo kimono seemed shorter each time she
tied it. She was almost ready. I hope I will be a good mother, and I hate the
prospect of visiting that local fortune-teller. If I were given a choice, I
would go to one of my Buddhist priests – I am duty bound to obey my husband, but
I will delay the visit as long as possible, she vowed to herself.
In the shimmering warmth above the
hibachi, a kami appeared, squat and square, its four muscular arms and both legs
flexed for action. With a head as bald as an egg and its face contorted in rigid
determination, it identified itself to her as a messenger kami, with news of
supreme importance for her ears only. Not in the least afraid – rather, she was
used to the frequent, unannounced apparitions of kami – she brought her hands
together before her delighted face in devotional thanks for recent prayers
seeking help and strength. Shinto priests say that as many as eight million
deities inhabit the heavens and the earth. When she asked a priest how many
eight million was, he told her it was many more than a lot. How would I know, a
mere artisan’s wife? All I know is that kami are all around me and I constantly
feel their presence. Mostly they help me, but occasionally a particularly nasty
one slips through a crack, but not you, my friend, she giggled for the kami’s
benefit. The demon spirits were her greatest fear. Even more fearful than her
husband, they gave no warning of their evil desires. They can strike me down
with misfortune at any time, and my family will suffer even unto any
grandchildren and great-grandchildren I may be blessed with. But I have a
powerful force at my disposal. Ah yes, even stronger than a tiger; the Shinto
shrine. You, my kami friend, will instil in me the true knowledge of my
firstborn. The Shinto gods are to be believed over that fortune teller, she
scoffed. If he wants to know what the untrustworthy wretch has to say, why
doesn’t he go and ask? No, I won’t go! As she looked at the kami for
confirmation, it delivered the good news of what her baby was to be into her
mind. Then it dissolved into the heat shimmer, and was gone.
Michiko Ohmori and her husband Tadeshi
were united in joy when a healthy boy was born; the mother aglow with relief
that the kami’s prediction was correct. For her firstborn, she had produced a
son. And to see how indulgent her husband was, gleefully holding the child,
giggling into its red face and running his hands over its tiny smooth body with
such obvious satisfaction, she didn’t think he had it in him to so overtly
cherish another person.
The next day she couldn’t believe her
eyes when her husband swept the swaddled child from out of her arms and hastened
off at a lively trot in the direction of Hita. Unable to conceal her dismay and
shock, she broke into an incessant wailing while running in a desperate bid to
catch up with him. She cared nothing for neighbourhood eyes that stared through
window shutters in sympathy at her plight, as she followed him to the door of
his favourite geomancer.
Used to welcoming his clients
effusively, the silver-bearded sage, in this instant however, stood
threateningly tall over Ohmori-san. “Do we have to put up with that obnoxious
din? Get rid of that woman,” he snapped at the father.
Only after Ohmori-san had beaten his
implacable wife away with a stick could the men have peace, although she
returned and continued to whimper like a dog with fleas on the practitioner’s
cold steps. Seated together on the smoothly-worn timber floor, they conversed
animatedly while slurping sake rice wine from crude earthenware cups. The
neonate lay placidly between them amidst swirling tobacco smoke from their
long-stemmed pipes. In due course, the geomancer’s face broke into a wide smile
exposing crooked, discoloured teeth, and he clapped his hands to indicate the
advent of high-seriousness. Unwrapping the bundle and muttering to himself, he
began to near-sightedly inspect the infant, pressing its navel, pinching its
nose, peering in its ears and pulling them until it cried. The father watched
enthralled as the learned sage consulted a zodiac chart and calculated the
child’s birth date against the alignment of the stars and moon. Muttering to
himself, he proceeded to blend soils of varying colours and mineral contents on
a flat tray with a special brush, and then he consulted a different chart for
signs of earth elements predominating in the child’s personality. Finally, the
sage spoke, “Ohmori-san, your child has only one apparent defect.”
Ohmori-san sprang to his feet,
gesticulated with flying arms and yelled in a high-pitched snarl, “Defect? How
dare you insult me? Do you take me for a fool, or what? I have examined my son
from his head to his toes and I dare you to find one blemish,” he raged, while
white froth and spittle foamed and spat from his mouth. “I double dare you!” and
with that he sat down immobile and sucked hard on his long-suffering pipe.
The sage bowed his head and furrowed his
brow, mulling in his mind how best to divulge – without causing his valued
client further anguish – that there was every reason for him to be proud of his
son in spite of the defect. He confidently jerked his head upright, clenched his
jutting jaw and in a firm voice of authority he addressed the new father. “I
reveal good news, honourable sir. The defect is so minor that even you, his
father, were not aware of it. It is because of this blemish that the omens are
so strong.”
“But what has my peasant wife passed on
to the poor child? I am a proud traditional artisan, well above her poor station
in life. I regret ever having married the classless weakling. What is wrong with
her child? Tell me now!”
“Ohmori-san, please bear with me. Sit
down here again and share some more sake with me. Here, drink. That’s better.
Now, you must listen to me. I am certain not only about the most appropriate
name, but that this child of yours will take a very different path from previous
firstborns of your clan. You will be a proud father.”
“Tell me what is wrong with it,” the
father pleaded, grubby hands outstretched imploringly. He waited a full minute
as the geomancer sat close to him, silent, nodding his balding head in rhythm
while he rocked the baby to some imaginary ancient lullaby.
Then he fixed his eyes on his client and
broke the news. “Your child has a flat nose.”
In raucous, joyous laughter the father
responded, “A flat nose? So he has a flat nose. Is that all that’s wrong with my
son?”
“Don’t you think his nose looks rather
flat?”
He slapped his hands on his knees and
exclaimed, “Why of course, now that you mention it. Wouldn’t you have thought
that dull wife of mine could have forewarned me? She’s its mother. I’m a busy
man. I barely have time to look at him.”
“Ohmori-san, it’s a good sign, trust me.
Now for the name – you must name your son Kenji.”
“Aaaah, Kenji – an excellent name; it
means good health. Yes, I agree, we will call him Kenji.”
“I’m sorry, honourable sir, it is the
other Kenji spelling.” With a stub of chalk he rapidly scrawled on the wooden
boards beside the baby. “You see these characters? This one is the Kenji for
good health and prosperity. But this other one, this is the character that
appeared to me from my studies of your child’s birth. This is the other Kenji
character, the one that means smart and intelligent. Your son will rise above
this old traditional life and embrace a new era of prosperity for Japan.”
“No! It is my wish that he be called
Kenji meaning health and prosperity.”
“Please forgive my directness and I’ll
forgive your rudeness, Ohmori-san, but you must name the boy as I say.”
Now somewhat becalmed, although
confused, Ohmori-san relit his pipe and asked, “In what way will our son be
noteworthy?”
Once again in command of the situation,
the sage refilled his client’s sake cup from the earthenware decanter and
continued, “The signs show a strong personality. Yes, he’ll be a difficult child
at times, I warn you, but as a potter he will outshine you, his father, but
perhaps not his teacher. He will study diligently and travel far away, further
than our capital, Tokyo. From Tokyo, your Kenji will sail across the distant
seas to foreign lands. He will befriend different people with their strange
customs and gods. His star will shine, and Ohmori-san, you will be justly proud
of your firstborn...”
Ohmori-san, apprehensive and petulant
anew, sprang to his feet and flung his pipe on the floor. Waving his arms near
the sage’s face, he raged, “I don’t care about other people and their strange
lives and gods. If my son is to make a difference, it will be to help my clan’s
prosperity and social standing,” he snarled. “I will make sure my son follows
the ageless traditions of our ancestors, the life of an Onta-yaki potter. Then
the Shinto gods and the spirits of my ancestors will be pleased. Then he will
live up to his name. And then my family will have good health and prosperity.”
He shook his sage head slowly, and said,
“No, Ohmori-san, it’s no use ranting. I’m not mistaken. Mark my words, this one
will be different. The signs show it, and they are never wrong.”
To emphasise the lack of amity between
two proud men, the father glared at his clay pipe spread in broken pieces on the
floor, but left it there. Then, on leaving the booth he dropped a few brass
coins, barely enough to promise a future transaction, into the geomancer’s eager
hands, made a vestigial bow and strutted resolutely out.
“Just don’t ask me what he said,” her
husband spat as she joined him to return home.
“I don’t care what he said,” she snapped
icily. “You’re in league with that miserable old fool, and whatever he said will
be lies.”
“Cheer up, woman. There’s nothing wrong
with my son.”
Already Michiko had carved out different
ideas for her firstborn son. It was my immoral uncle who made all sorts of empty
promises to my father, if he would let me marry this worthless potter. I will
invest even my very life, if necessary, in raising my son above the social
status of a mere artisan, for our family to escape the trap of ignorance and
narrow-mindedness that is this village of Onta. He will work his way back into
the prosperous merchant class I was forced to abandon. Secretly storing them in
her heart, her young round face glowed with the excitement of performing all the
ordinances and rituals required of her with the arrival of her firstborn. At the
temple in Hita, in the presence of his parents and villagers, a Buddhist priest
dedicated their firstborn son in a traditional naming ritual – where she heard
her son’s name, Kenji, for the first time – and added a blessing from the
guardian gods for his life.
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