And now the people whisper, ‘We stand in line, bundles on our backs, bundles in our arms, lice in our clothes, lice in our hair, edging forward, step by step, step by step, but turning back, glance by glance, glance by glance, to whisper, lip to ear, lip to ear, about the woman at the rear of our line, the woman with no bundle on her back, no bundle in her arms, the woman who parts the crowd, who stands before us now, a single sasa branch in her hand, a mad woman — ’
And that woman is me. For it is too true; a poor mother’s heart, though not in darkness, may yet wander lost, lost for the love of her child. This I know well as I have roamed astray through this city, along its streets, its riverbanks, among its people, as I seek the place, the place where my son has gone. But how can they know? How can they know …?
And the people whisper, ‘See now as the mad woman standing before us, the single sasa branch in her hand, begins to dance, an anguished dance, to the sound of a drum, a rotten drum, her feet in the mud and her chant on the wind — ’
‘Frail is the dew upon the moor,’ I sing, ‘and I as frail, am I to live on, ever bitter at my lot? I who lived for many years in Saitama, to the North of here, with my only son. Until one day, alas, one January day, disaster fell upon me. For my only son, he left our home for work, work in this city. But he never returned. He vanished from me. And I yearned for him and at last I learned he had been taken from me in the Occupied City. My only son, alas, lost in this city. And this news so distressing, it confused my wits. The one thought left me was go, go find my boy. But now in my quest, I too am lost, so wholly lost…’
And now the people whisper, ‘A thousand leagues are never far to a fond mother’s heart, so they say, when she cannot forget her child. And they say, that bond in life is always so fragile, yet now he is gone, is always so fragile, yet now he is gone — ’
‘Oh, if only he had stayed for a little while longer, stayed at home with me, a son with his mother. But now we are sundered, a mother from her son …’
And the people whisper, ‘Just so, long ago, all mothers grieved to see their nestlings fly away — ’
‘And now this anxious heart can go no further. To the Occupied City, I have come at last. Here where the road ends and the river begins. So to the Sumida River, I have come at last…’
And now the people whisper, ‘See the woman has ended her dance. Hear the woman has stopped her chant. See the woman now drops to her knees, her face in the cold earth, her hands with the sasa branch, outstretched and raised, before the Ferryman — ’
‘Please, Ferryman,’ I ask you, ‘let me board your boat. Please Ferryman, I beg of you …’
‘Where have you come from?’ you ask. ‘And to where are you going?’
‘I have come here from Saitama,’ I say, ‘and I am searching for someone, wherever that search may lead me …’
‘You are a woman,’ you say. ‘But you are mad. And so I cannot let you come aboard.’
‘You are a man,’ I reply, ‘and so too a liar. For if you were truly the Ferryman, the Ferryman on the Sumida River, then you would say, Please board my boat. Instead you mock me and say, You are mad and cannot board. And so I know you are no Ferryman …
‘You are but a liar. Not a Ferryman.’
‘You are mistaken, woman!’ you shout. ‘I am the Ferryman!’
‘Then, Ferryman,’ I say, ‘you should know that here at this very crossing, Narihira once sang, If you are true, then Miyako birds I ask you this; does she live, the one I love, or does she die?
‘Come Ferryman, those birds over there, in the sky up above, those birds are none like I have seen before. So what do you call them, those birds up above? Speak, wise Ferryman, what do you say?’
‘They are scavengers,’ you say. ‘They are crows.’
‘Perhaps among the corpses,’ I laugh, ‘they are carrion. But why don’t you answer that here, here on the banks of the Sumida, here those crows are Narihira’s own birds …?’
‘You are grieving and you are stricken,’ I hear you say now. ‘I am sorry, I was mistaken.’
‘Ferryman,’ I ask, ‘have you never felt stretched or torn apart? So do not these evening waves now wash us back, wash us both back to times long past, when Narihira asked of those birds up above, My love, does she live or does she die?
‘So eastward my love goes to the child I seek and, just as Narihira sought his own dear lady, so now I seek my own dear son, asking the same question of those birds up above …’
‘I know this story well,’ you say. ‘The story of Prince Narihira. And so I can see, the two stories are one; your own story and his, these two loves now one.’
‘So does my child live, or does he die?’ I ask. ‘For again and again, I question the birds, but no answer comes. No answer ever comes. Oh, Miyako birds, your silence is rude!
‘Miyako birds, your silence is cruel!
‘So now I stand on this bank and I wait, lost in the depths of the East, I wait for an answer …
‘So please, Ferryman, your boat may be small, your boat may be full. But, kind Ferryman, make room for a mother and take me aboard, please, Ferryman, please …’
‘Come aboard, but hurry,’ you say. ‘This crossing is difficult.’
And now the people whisper, ‘See how the woman steps into the boat. See how she stands at the bow of the boat. How she stares out across the waters of the Sumida. How she suddenly points — ’
‘On the far bank,’ I say, ‘I see a crowd gathered around a willow. What are they doing?’
‘They are holding a Great Invocation,’ you say.
‘But why?’ I ask. ‘Why there? Why now?’
‘The reason is a sad story,’ you say.
‘Then please tell me,’ I say, ‘for you are the Ferryman. To pass the time, please tell me the tale …’
‘It happened exactly one year ago,’ you begin. ‘On the twenty-sixth day of the very first month, when the Ashura passed by that place, leading a night parade of the recently murdered.
‘One among this procession was a youth, more exhausted and feeble than all the rest. Unable to walk a single step more, the youth collapsed on the far bank. But the Ashura did not hear him. The Ashura walked on and abandoned him there. They left him struggling, they left him weeping.
‘But the local people took pity on him. They cared for him as best they could. But no doubt his karma opposed their help, because the youth grew only weaker and weaker, until he was clearly dying a second time. And so the people asked him who he was.
‘I am Sawada Yoshio, he said, and I am twenty-two years old. But here I am no longer Sawada Yoshio. Now I am no longer twenty-two years old. Now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. But it was not always so, not always so. After my father died in the war, he wept, I lived alone with my widowed mother. Then today at my place of work, I was murdered and so taken away. Now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. That is how I have come to this place. But I worry so much for my mother. And that is the reason I can go no further, that is the reason I cannot follow the others. Now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. So please build a mound over me, he begged, here on the bank by this river, in the hope that one day my mother might pass, that one day my mother might be near me again.