Epilogue: The Death of the Dragon
Epilogue
The Death of the Dragon
At the eastern edge of the Eurasian land mass, which covers half of the Northern Hemisphere, a dragon lay dying. As he twisted his huge body and thrashed his tail, smoke and fire poured from every part of him. He shook convulsively, racked by spasms. His once powerful back, covered with towering spines surrounded by green forests, had been hacked asunder, and from his wounds hot blood poured out spasmodically. And from the depths of the sea, whose Black Current had gently caressed his belly from ancient times, there now rose the chill jaws of death. As savage as a school of crazed sharks, it shook the dragon’s body as it tore away piece after piece of flesh from his belly, gulping them down one after another into that vast stomach that covered most of the earth.
Kyushu, Shikoku, the southern half of the Kii Peninsula were already torn away and nearly swallowed up. The Boso Peninsula, which had formed one side of Tokyo Bay, had also been severed from the body, and its tip was already plunged some fifty feet below the sea. In northeastern Honshu the coastline had slid some sixty feet into the Pacific. The waters were rushing in on Hokkaido, too, and sections of it had fallen away. As for the islands to the southwest of Japan, the transformation had become evident more than a year and a half earlier, and by now many islands had vanished entirely.
An unseen giant stood behind the dragon, pressing upon him. It was this same giant who, 400 million years before, had helped to form the young dragon, thrusting him away from the continent that had conceived him. But now the giant’s benevolent strength had turned into something vicious. It had shattered the dragon’s backbone, twisted his body, thrust him down into the sea.
In the short space of two or three years Japan had been pushed nearly thirty miles to the southeast. The pressure on Central Honshu was especially intense. Such was the heat coming up from the earth that the rainy season began in May, and as the soft rain fell upon Japan, coastlines melted away and plains became shallow seas. Sea then linked up with sea, and ocean-going ships were able to make their way to what had once been inland cities and towns.
The agonized dragon fought back against the violent forces that were pushing him away from the continent and down into the sea. At the beginning of June four fifths of his body were still above water as he tried to shake off the cold hand of death that had reached up from the depths. And as the dragon writhed and bellowed, smoke and fire pouring from each gaping wound, there perished vast numbers of the tiny creatures that had lived upon him. And the rest were fleeing over the encroaching sea, leaving behind the body that had for countless centuries given them sustenance. The dragon still lived, but his death was quite near. And the eyes of the whole world were fixed upon his death agony.
Planes laden with cameras, flying through smoke and fire, ranged far and wide over the sinking Archipelago. Every major television network throughout the world had its men on the scene.
Ordinary men and women mourned what was happening as a great tragedy for humanity, but for them it was also a spectacle of immense fascination. What was sinking into the ocean was not some shadowy Atlantis of legend, but a modern industrial nation of immense wealth and power, a nation, furthermore, rich in history and culture. A great island nation which some massive force deep within the planet was breaking apart, tearing with eruptions, shattering into fragments, and, finally, drawing down into the depths of the sea. For scientists, of course, the cause for fascination ran far deeper. Never before had they had the opportunity to witness such a thing, and never would they again. What did this phenomenon mean? Had the earth reached a new stage of existence?
The emotions of the rest of the world were complex, therefore—sympathy, curiosity, a zealous desire to help, a feeling of relief that this was not happening to one’s own country, concern about what effect the flood of refugees might have. . . .
The only ones who could face the tragedy in simple, straightforward fashion and throw themselves headlong into the struggle were the Japanese themselves. And soon the rescue units were performing in such spectacular fashion that the world began to speak of the “Japanese Miracle.” They worked without sleep or rest, and as the end drew near, their casualties mounted at an incredible rate. Among the foreign rescue units, the largest contingent and the group that worked most closely and most effectively with the Japanese was the United States Marines, who lost more than 200 men.
In a television interview the Marine commander, Brigadier General Grant, expressed himself in highly emotional terms: “The Japanese relief organizations—government officials, soldiers, civilians alike—have been performing with incredible courage. I’ve seen situations where even veteran Marines who have been through all kinds of combat would have held back, but these people rushed fearlessly ahead. It’s their fellow countrymen they’re saving, of course, but they have so little regard for danger, no matter how desperate the situation, that sometimes when we talk it over among ourselves, we wonder if perhaps this tragedy hasn’t made them half crazy.”
This was all that was actually broadcast, but General Grant in fact went on to say: “I think that as a people they have a Kamikaze instinct. Or else you might say that they’re all soldiers at heart. Why, even the supposedly weaker younger generation has fitted right in. ...”
As the end drew nearer and nearer, the Japanese Miracle went on, a desperate challenge flung in the face of death. Despite earthquake, eruption, and flood, 65 million people had somehow been evacuated, at the incredible rate of some 16 million per month. As the devastation and sinking began to reach a more acute stage, however, with a large-scale breakdown of communication and transportation facilities, the pace of evacuation began to slacken. It became difficult to marshal large concentrations of refugees, and soon there was no choice but to pick up small groups isolated throughout the country.
By the beginning of July there was only one international airport left in operation, at Chitose, in Hokkaido, and it was only a question of time before that, too, was gone. There were some smaller airports remaining in the north of Japan as well as some military airports, which were used as much as their capacity allowed. For the rest, the transport planes were reduced to landing and taking off on whatever broad, open meadowland still remained beyond the reach of the sea.
Now instead of airliners and ships, the burden of the rescue came to rest entirely upon helicopters, STOL aircraft, and other kinds of military planes that could operate under difficult conditions. The huge Soviet transport planes proved especially valuable, as they were able to carry heavy loads and negotiate the worst possible terrain.
By mid-July more than 70 million had been evacuated, at the cost of the most desperate labor. The toll of victims, including those who had died in the Tokyo earthquake, had passed 12 million. Among these, many had died after they thought they had been saved, perishing in air crashes or sea disasters. The rescue units themselves had suffered more than 5,000 casualties. And 30 million Japanese were still left upon the ravaged, sinking Archipelago—frightened groups scattered throughout the country, in isolated inland sections or on high ground near the seacoast. The rescue units threw themselves into the task of saving each and every one of them with an almost insane zeal. They hardly noticed whether it was day or night, spending themselves without rest or sleep, carrying through their desperate missions even at the cost of life itself.
As July gave way to August and rescue became more difficult, the cataclysm claimed more and more victims and the casualties of the rescue units themselves shot up sharply. Many dropped from exhaustion as they toiled unremittingly beneath a sinister sky covered with a pall of smoke, the stink of sulfur in their nostrils and the taste of ashes in their mouths, while the never quiet earth rumbled beneath them. All this took its toll of their morale. As they grew wearier with each passing day, a growing despair took hold of them. How could they hope to win their battle against the violent, overwhelming force of nature? Their fate was sealed, and nothing they could do would alter it. Together with the scattered remains of their countrymen, they would perish beneath the smothering ashes or be swallowed up by the voracious, dark sea.
In the middle of August the first typhoon of the season took form in the South Pacific and began to move toward Japan. In the midst of her other torments, she was now to be afflicted with that of a raging storm. The fleet of rescue vessels sought the relative safety of the open sea, and many among them sailed for home. The efforts of June and July had brought more than 4.5 million people out of the country, bringing the total to some 70 million. During these same two months, however, the toll of dead and presumed dead had increased by more than three million. Among these were many who, either overwhelmed with despair or crazed with shock, committed suicide. And of the 20 million remaining, a considerable number yielded their turns to others and went off by themselves. The vast majority of these were men in their seventies and older. They would leave notes for their families and disappear from the marshaling points in the middle of the night. The future could be entrusted to youth. They had lived long enough, and what happiness could there be in living on away from their beautiful homeland, gone forever?
Oldest of them all was probably the man who now lay in a room of his imposing mansion in Fuchu, just outside of Tokyo. The town was covered with a thick layer of reddish-brown ash. Built of reinforced concrete, the house had withstood the successive quakes relatively undamaged, but nothing could keep out the fine stream of ash that worked its way in through every crack, covering not only the sleeping kimono the old man was wearing but even his face, which was like a skull etched with wrinkles. The dust lay on it like the cosmetics that are applied after death.
“So . . .” said the old man, mumbling, “it’s all settled. His Majesty and the Imperial Family are safe in Switzerland. . . . And the government?”
“The Paris arrangement seems to be working out, sir,” answered the huge young man with close-cropped hair who sat, back straight, on the tatami mat beside where the old man lay. “And the headquarters of the Evacuation Committee is now in Honolulu.”
“Yukinaga and Nakata?”
“On board the Haruna, sir, together with the rest of the Plan D staff.”
“Very well. Are you leaving by helicopter?”
“No, sir. There is too much danger of the ashes choking the engine. A large-sized jeep is coming to get us. Then we shall be transferred to an amphibian.”
“All right, Yoshimura . . . you’d better be off. What’s Hanae doing?”
“I believe that she’s all ready to go, sir.”
“Bring her here at once.”
The huge young man named Yoshimura got to his feet and hurried out of the room, the tatami mats squeaking beneath him. As soon as he was gone, a young girl appeared in the doorway, as though she had been hiding in the corridor.
“Hanae!” said the old man, raising his eyes. “You’re going to ride in a jeep dressed like that?”
The girl was wearing an Akashi kimono of deep, glowing purple, fastened by a silk obi of an old-fashioned morning-glory pattern. She stood gazing at the old man, her eyes passionate, and then she suddenly began to walk toward him, her tabi-shod feet moving with exquisite grace. She knelt beside him, her head and shoulders drooping.
“I’m . . . I’m not going,” she said, covering her face with her hands. Her voice shook with emotion. “I want to stay just like this ... at your side.”
“No,” said the old man calmly. “You’re young. You’re not meant to die with an old man like me.”
“No! No! I can’t leave you.”
“Hanae, what a way to carry on!” said the old man wearily. “I never expected to hear such nonsense from a girl of your breeding. You must go. You must live. That’s what’s important.”
The girl threw herself down, the sleeves of her kimono spilling over the floor. Her slender shoulders trembled from her sobbing.
The old man glanced up to see Yoshimura looking hesitantly in through the doorway. He raised his voice: “Bring her some clothes. Something she can wear in the jeep.” He coughed faintly. “What a bother you are, girl.”
A dreadful roar rose up from the earth, rocking the room. Yoshimura staggered as the sliding door tore loose and collapsed. A cloud of powdered ash filled the room. The air echoed with the loud noise of something falling, and the steel reinforcing rods rang ominously. From outside came the rumble of sliding earth.
“Hurry up,” said the old man. “The roads are going to be blocked”
Yoshimura turned and ran down the corridor.
“Hanae ...”
The girl raised her tearful face.
“Would you let me see . . . ?”
She drew in her breath with a quick movement of her white throat. Then the girl stood up and loosened her obi. There was a faint rustle of fabric as the kimono slipped from her shoulders. With this single graceful gesture, her naked body stood revealed in the desolate room. Its firm and rounded flesh shone in the gloom like a secret cache of snow.
The old man looked at her but for a moment before closing his eyes.
“A daughter of Japan,” he whispered to himself. “Hanae . . . have children. ...”
“What, sir?”
“You must have children. You could have good, strong babies. Find a good man. . . . He doesn’t have to be Japanese. Have many children.”
Yoshimura reappeared in the doorway with the girl’s clothes. The old man glanced up at him. “Take her with you.”
The huge young man draped a coat over Hanae’s shoulders and then knelt beside the old man’s bed.
“Farewell... Master,” he said, bending forward and pressing his palms to the ash-covered tatami.
“Hurry up,” said the old man, shutting his eyes once more. “There’s no time to waste.”
The sounds of footsteps and quiet sobbing receded. Then there was the sound of an engine at the front of the house, and soon that, too, grew more distant and faded away. There was no dearth of other noises, however; the air was filled with them. The continuous rumble of the eruptions that were shattering the mountains of the Kanto Region, the convulsive shuddering of the earth that rocked, the creaking house ... Then there was another sound, a rustling in the air that gradually grew stronger until, finally, a strong gust of wind blew in from the ravaged veranda, stirring up the ashes and bringing still more in its wake, which formed new piles.
The old man opened his eyes slightly. The figure of a man had appeared on the veranda.
“Would that be Professor Tadokoro?” the old man asked in a hoarse voice.
“It looks like the typhoon is almost on us.” Tadokoro came in and sat beside where the old man lay. “Miss Hanae is safe by now, I imagine.”
“So you didn’t go, after all? Why not?” The old man closed his eyes, and his expression became somewhat contorted as another fit of coughing took hold of him.
Tadokoro’s eyes had sunk deep into his head. His cheeks were hollow. He seemed to have aged at least ten years. Even his broad, heavy shoulders had grown thin and were sagging. The crest of hair that surrounded his bald head had turned pure white.
“If there had been a jeep left that ran, I think that I might have taken a ride up into the mountains,” he said quietly.
“I don’t think you would have gotten very far,” said the old man, opening his eyes from time to time. “How much time do you think is left?”
“About two months, I’d say,” said Tadokoro, rubbing his eyes as though ashes had gotten into them. After he took his hands away, several tears rolled down his cheeks. “But as far as staying alive goes . . . then I think that it’s a matter of only two or three weeks.”
“Professor Tadokoro,” said the old man in a louder voice, as though something had just occurred to him, “how old are you?”
“I’m sixty-five,” Tadokoro answered, smiling slightly, the tears still wet on his cheeks. “I’d be retiring this year. There’d be the ceremonial speech to give, and all that. . . .”
“Sixty-five? You’re a young fellow. Why do you want to die?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sad . . . that’s why,” Tadokoro answered in a low voice, his head drooping. “After all, I’ve lived to a good age.”
“Because you’re sad? Hmmm . . .”
“At first, you know ... I thought that I’d say nothing.” All at once, as though stirred by some strong emotion, Tadokoro spoke out in a loud voice. “When I saw that it was going to happen . . . well, for a long, long time the scientific world had been giving me a wide berth anyway. Remember when we met for the first time at the hotel and you asked me what was the thing most important in a scientist? I told you it was intuition. And the only proof lay with my intuition. It was obvious that no one was ready to see it my way, no matter how I protested. I felt a chill of dread when I put everything together ... and then the thought came to me: Wouldn’t it be better to keep it to yourself anyway?”
The old man said nothing. Tadokoro heard him cough faintly.
“I know it sounds strange, but the truth is that this is what I really wanted to do. I wanted to speak out to my fellow Japanese. I wanted to say: Listen to me. This country we love, this island country, is going to break apart and sink into the ocean. Since we love it so, let us die with it. . . . And even now I think that might well have been the better thing. Why? Because those who have escaped overseas are going to experience hardships worse than any the Japanese race has ever before encountered.”
Another strong gust of wind blew into the room. Tadokoro felt a stream of ashes brushing his cheek. Was it his imagination, or did the wind carry the scent of the sea? Had it come that close?
“Professor Tadokoro ... I think I understand now. You’re in love with Japan herself, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, I am,” answered Tadokoro, as though he was happy to hear it put into words.
“It’s as though the woman you loved were dying.”
“Exactly.” Tadokoro covered his face and began to sob. “And when I found out that she had to die, I wanted to die with her.”
“A love suicide, eh?” A wheezing sound came from the old man’s throat. It was not a cough. Tadokoro must have said something that had struck him as funny. “Ah, the Japanese . . . a strange race indeed.”
Tadokoro raised his face, still streaked with tears, and gazed up at the somber sky. “It’s not as though we were a race that came from somewhere else to these four islands. We were formed here, and we’ve become one with this land—with these mountains, these rivers, these cities and villages, these monuments left by our ancestors. Once these have all been destroyed, what meaning could there be in being Japanese?”
Suddenly there was the boom of an explosion, and a moment later the sky seemed to shake with an ear-splitting roar. Somewhere nearby, it seemed, the earth had been rent yet again.
“I pride myself in not being an especially provincial or narrow-minded person.” Tadokoro was speaking again. “I’ve seen most of the world. I’ve been almost everywhere. I’ve seen other peoples. I know their customs and their environments. The truth is that I am in love with Japan. And now, when her end is near, I can’t bear to leave her.”
Once more emotion overcame Tadokoro, and he could not speak.
The old man’s coughing fits had become more severe. Nonetheless, he began to speak in his hoarse, quavery voice: “The Japanese are a young race,” he said and then paused for breath. “They’re like infants who have had a happy time of it . . . these two thousand years . . . clinging to their mother’s bosom . . . these four islands, with their warm, gentle climate. If they ventured out into the world and suffered mishap, they could always run back to their mother. Now that mother, whom they loved so much, is dying.”
Tadokoro listened with the intensity of a disciple hearing his master’s words.
“From now on, the Japanese must experience suffering. As long as these four island were here, there was a home to return to, a place to raise children, children who would live exactly as they . . . but there are not many races who have been so fortunate as to have so secure a home of their own for so long a period. Through thousands of years of history there have been countless races that have experienced the bitterness of exile. This, then, will be a test for the Japanese. Their bridges have been burned behind them. They have no choice but to go forward. Whether they wish it or not, the chance to achieve adulthood is being forced upon them. Let them be swallowed up by the world ... so much the better! They can emerge as a mature people, with their language and customs intact, ready to take their place in the world of the future. . . . But if they bewail their fate and cling to past glories, then there is no hope for greatness. This is what’s now at stake . . . Professor Tadokoro
. . . it’s well for you to mourn for the passing of the woman you love, but spare a blessing for the future of your fleeing younger brothers and sisters. They have no idea of what Fve been trying to tell you. Nor will they ever realize that it was you who saved them. But I recognize it... I realize it. Well and good, Professor Tadokoro?”
“Well and good, sir,” said Tadokoro, nodding. “I understand what you said.”
“Well, well...” whispered the old man, taking a breath. “You understand me, do you? Fm gratified. Come to think of it . . . Tadokoro . . . you’re the last stiff-necked Japanese I’ll have to deal with. The truth is I didn’t want you to die thinking as you did . . . taking the whole Japanese race with you. When I was listening to you just now, I suddenly felt as though for the first time in my life I fully understand the Japanese character. For, you see, there have always been aspects I did not quite grasp. ...”
“How do you mean, sir?” Tadokoro asked, even though he did not expect a significant answer. The old man’s words had suddenly become much more labored. He sighed briefly and then said nothing for a few moments. When he spoke again, his voice was a bare whisper.
“Perhaps . . . because I am only half Japanese.” He paused to take a breath. “My father ... he was a Chinese monk. ...”
Startled, Tadokoro looked down intently at the old man, waiting for him to go on. But no more words would come.
“Mr. Watari ...”
Tadokoro studied the old man’s face for some time. Then he took up the purple Akashi kimono which lay on the mat and placed it gently over the old man’s face. The wind was growing stronger. He got to his feet and stepped down into the garden, where he picked up two small rocks. He returned to the old man’s bedside and placed one upon either sleeve of the fluttering kimono. Then he sat down once again, his back straight, his arms folded.
A thunderous roar of awful force drowned out the noise of the approaching typhoon. The earth began to quake with a terrible frenzy, and from somewhere in the house came the sound of steel reinforcing rods being torn asunder.
The end came in September. Despite the typhoons, the rescue units had pursued their task with a still more frantic zeal, but toward the latter part of September four groups were wiped out in eruptions, and the LST carrying the last few hundred refugees was lost in a typhoon.
Shikoku had moved more than a seventy-five miles to the south and was completely submerged. Kyushu had broken in half, and the southern part of it was overwhelmed. The two great peaks in the central part of the island, Aso and Unzen, barely showed above the surface, though they continued to erupt. In the Northeast Region of Honshu the mountainous area had already slipped beneath the sea. In Hokkaido, reports said, only Mount Daisetsu remained. The final drama was played out in the Central and Kanto regions of Honshu, with no witnesses. The slipping of the earth had generated so much heat that when the waters rolled in, there were explosions of such cataclysmic force that the mountains were blown apart and shattered to fragments. While the Pacific coast slid away into the deep, the Japan Sea coast rose up for a brief moment, like one side of a capsizing vessel. But then the same blind force took hold of it and plunged it, too, down into the sea.
“Are you still working?” said Yukinaga in surprise as he came into the wardroom of the Haruna to find Nakata with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. The strain of the past year had drastically altered the appearance of both men. “Everyone says there are no more plans to be made.”
“Do you have a match?” asked Nakata. “So... Japan has gone under, eh?”
“There was a television relay. A half-hour ago there was a final explosion in the Central Region,” said Yukinaga, holding up his cigarette lighter. “There’s still something left, but the sliding and sinking are continuing. It’ll all go under, it looks like.”
“‘Oh, have we sunk the Teien yet?’” said Nakata his voice harsh as he quoted the dying sailor’s words in the old Navy song. He blew out some smoke. “How many were saved in all?”
“I don’t know. We don’t have the figures tabulated even up to the end of August,” answered Yukinaga, yawning wearily. “The Secretary General of the UN is going to make an appeal to the world on television, and the Prime Minister is going to make a speech, too. Do you want to hear them?”
“To hell with it.” He crushed his cigarette into an ashtray and got to his feet, apparently in good spirits. “It’s over, it’s over— no more plans to make. Should we go on deck?”
Nakata led the way, walking with long strides and whistling cheerfully. Yukinaga came along behind, a disturbed look on his face. The sun was hot out on the deck. The dark blue water was free of the ashes and pumice stone that had covered it throughout their time on board. The Haruna was speeding along at twenty-eight knots, and a brisk wind was blowing.
“It’s hot,” said Nakata, squinting in the dazzling sunlight. “The sun is high in the sky. Is it morning?”
“We’re not on Japan time any more. We moved fourteen hours ahead. The Haruna’s going to Hawaii.”
“I see. So I suppose we can’t see the smoke over Japan any more. . . .”
Nakata shadowed his eyes as he looked back at the western horizon. Cumulus clouds were towering there. Their trailing edges seemed to be gray, but since he was uncertain as to the position of the Haruna, there was no way of knowing if these clouds were in fact rising over Japan.
“‘Oh, have we sunk the Teien yet?’ “ Nakata’s tone was jocular.
“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to get some rest?” asked Yukinaga, frowning at his colleague’s levity. “You seem a bit odd, you know.”
“So this is it?” Nakata leaned upon the rail. His teeth were bared. “The end of the Japan Archipelago . . . it’s goodbye, Japan. . . . Give me a cigarette, will you?”
“The end? Yes, it’s the end, all right.” Yukinaga held out a pack of cigarettes.
Nakata took one, put it in his mouth, and then, instead of lighting it, he stared down at the water rushing by below.
“You know,” said Yukinaga absently, “last night I dreamed about Onodera. I can’t help but think he’s still alive.”
There was no response from Nakata. After a few moments Yukinaga turned to look at him. Nakata’s huge body was slumped over the rail. The cigarette had fallen from his lips.
“Nakata!” said the startled Yukinaga, reaching out to put a hand on the other’s shoulder.
Before he could catch him, however, Nakata fell heavily to the deck and rolled over upon his back. His arms flung out to either side of him, he began to snore loudly, as the sunshine poured down into his wide-open mouth.
It’s hot! Onodera felt himself wanting to yell out. He wanted something cold to drink. A cold beer . . . that would do it. He opened his eyes. The round face of a little girl appeared in the semi-darkness. Her eyes were big, and there was a worried look on her face.
“Does it hurt?” she said.
“No . . . it’s just hot.” He could only move his mouth, since his face seemed to be swathed in bandages. “I’ll bet we’re in the tropics by now. ...”
“Yes . . . that’s it,” said the little girl, her eyes sad.
“Have you heard from Nakata and Yukinaga?”
“Not yet.”
“No? Well, we’ll be hearing from them soon.”
The girl’s face disappeared, and a moment later Onodera felt something cold pressed to his head.
“Ah . . . that feels good.”
The girl’s face came back. Her eyes were filled with tears. With the coolness, memories seemed to be coming back to Onodera. A volcano ... an eruption ... a helicopter . . . Reiko —was it Reiko? There was an earthquake in the midst of the snow ... more eruptions ... a wave of glowing lava rolling down toward him . . . Yes, he remembered now.
“Japan . . . did it sink?” he asked the girl.
“I ... I don’t know. ...”
“It’s sunk ... it has to have sunk. ...”
“I think it did.”
He shut his eyes. Tears gathered behind the lids and rolled down his cheeks.
“You must go to sleep,” said the girl, wiping away his tears.
“I’ll go to sleep. . . . Who are you?”
“You don’t remember?” asked the girl, smiling sadly. “I’m your wife.”
Wife? Onodera tried to think, but his head was burning up. How strange. There must be some mistake. Hadn’t his wife died beneath a rain of volcanic ash? But what difference did it make anyway?
“Can’t you sleep?”
“Maybe I could if you told me a story,” said Onodera like a child coaxing his mother.
“A story?” said the girl, taken aback.
“Yes . . . any at all. I don’t care.”
“I do know one story,” said the girl hesitantly. “My grandmother told it to me. She was born on Hachijo Island, and she came to Tokyo when she got married. When she died, they took her remains back there. I visited her grave every year when I was a little girl.” She stopped. “I don’t think you’d like this story. . . .”
“No, no ... go on,” said Onodera.
“It’s the story of Tanaba. It’s a terrible story. And it’s sad, too. Long, long ago there was an earthquake, and a tidal wave swept over Hachijo Island, killing everybody except this woman called Tanaba, who clung to an oar. She was pregnant, and so after the wave was gone, she gave birth to a son there on the island. It was long ago, so no boats ever came there. The son grew up into a strong, handsome man, and one day Tanaba told him what had happened. She said to him: ’All of them are dead. Only the two of us are left. If there is to be an island race after this, then it must come from us. Lie down with me, then, and let me conceive your sister. Afterward, lie with her and have children by her.’ Her son did as she told him, and, according to the story, this is where the people of Hachijo Island came from.”
As he listened, Onodera focused upon a clear image in his fevered head: Tanaba . . . Hachijo Island. . . . Then another: the cold darkness of the ocean floor beneath Ogasawara.
“It’s a dark and frightful story Tanaba’s grave, even today . . . up to just a while ago, I mean... was there on Hachijo Island. Just some stones beside the road. There was nothing written there. I used to look at that little grave and feel sad and a little frightened, thinking about what it stood for.” The girl drew in her breath and bowed her head. “I forgot that story for a long time, but then, after this happened, it came back to me all at once. Tanaba was a terrible woman. It’s a dark and terrible story, but somehow that story has been my support all during this. I’m a girl who has island blood, and I would do just what she did.”
Onodera began to breathe a slight noise as though he had fallen asleep. But when the girl moved quietly away from his berth, he spoke.
“It’s shaking.”
“Yes,” said the girl in surprise, turning back to him. “Do you feel pain?”
“Ah, I know what it is. We’re probably running into the Black Current south of Cape Nojima. Hawaii’s still a long way off,” said Onodera groggily.
“Yes,” said the girl. “Try to sleep.”
He became quiet for a moment. But then he spoke out, his tone urgent and insistent: “Has Japan sunk?”
“I . . .”
“Look out the porthole there. Can’t you see?”
The girl looked hesitantly out the window.
“Can you see Japan?”
“No.”
“It must have sunk. . . . You can’t see any smoke either?”
“I can’t see anything at all.”
After a while Onodera began to snore. His breathing was painful.
Mako raised her right arm instinctively, and with the bandage-wrapped stump of her wrist she wiped away her tears. Outside the window there was not a single star to light the black Siberian night. The train sped westward, plunging ever deeper into the chill darkness of an early winter.