Reclaimed – Chapter 1

“Time to move again, Sanaa.” Sakai’s clear voice is full of ache and fatigue.

I roll over on my mat, cool air rushing across my cheek, and chant my new mantra. Soon I’ll be able to sleep, soon I’ll be able to sleep. I haven’t used a mantra in years now, and these words repeated in my brain are the only thing keeping me going.

I sit up, brush a few bugs from my hair, and succumb to the wave of nausea like I do every morning. Jiro places the bucket in my lap just in time to catch my stomach’s contents. The vomit gets stuck in my throat and up my nose, bringing a much-needed fit of tears. I’m a mess. I glance down into the bucket. I barely ate dinner last night so it’s not much.

“I hate sleeping outside,” I moan into the bucket. We’ve been on the road now for three weeks. The soldiers who approached Takayama were a ruse, but Arata Sasaki, my new ally, dynamited the mountain passage anyway and evacuated the town. We made it out through the North Passage two days later, and I haven’t rested since then. Thankfully I didn’t need to fight anyone with a sword because I can barely stand.

But each town we come to, I smile, bow, trade goods for food or shelter, speak to the town elders, and visit the shrine of my greatest grandfather. Because he’s everywhere, on every shrine, in every home, in everyone’s heart. The moment I mention I’m his descendent, the questions begin. How far removed am I from him? How many generations? How tainted is my bloodline with gaijin? Two towns have kicked me out of their city limits so far for being half and two towns have welcomed me. I’m on a roll.

“I know. Next town, I promise. A real bed, a hot meal, and hopefully an onsen.”

“Right. And okonomiyaki. Fresh noodles. Sushi.”

I lean forward and retch into the bucket again. Food always sounds good until it’s right in front of me.

I twist the disaster that is my hair away from my face and look up. Jiro stands over me, his arms crossed, his scruffy, unshaven face a frown. The sun rises behind him, coloring the sky in a wash of pinks and oranges. I slump back away from the bucket and stare up until my eyes blur, until the nausea fades away, almost gone but not completely. I remember when the sky used to terrify me. Now I know for certain I am glued to the ground, and I’ll be buried in this soil someday.

My bed for the evening shifts under me, a pile of grasses under a straw mat. Not warm or comfortable at all especially on my pregnant aching hips. Kumo trots over and lies down next to me. I rest my head on his coat and concentrate on his breathing.

“How about we stop talking about food?” Jiro sits on Kumo’s other side. “I’m starving and so are you. Let’s think of hot towels and warm beds for two instead.” He hands me a canteen of water, and I sip from it and set the bucket aside. The smell of rice cooking wafts over to my spot, the only food smell I am fine with. Oyama is crouched over a campfire tending to a steaming metal pot. His wooden spoon dips in and pulls out a mound of fluffy rice. How long has everyone been up?

My eyes well with tears, a rush of hormones claiming my good sense and strangling it to death. “I want to go home for a little bit. Can we? I want to sit in the baths and sleep in our bed. It’s been so long.”

Jiro sighs and touches his finger to the tear falling down my cheek. “Please don’t cry. I don’t think I can take it today.”

“Sorry,” I mumble and bury my face in Kumo’s fur.

“It’s not that I hate it. I’m just as tired and worn out as you, and if I see tears, that’ll be it. We may as well give up.”

I cry into Kumo for a moment, letting out the aches and sadness, then sniff up and accept. Accept my shitty situation. Accept the pain and sickness. Accept there’s little relief in sight. Kumo rubs his cold nose against my neck and huffs on me. Get up, he says.

I lean back, wipe my face, and plaster on a fake smile for Jiro. He winces. “That’s not any better.”

“It has to be for today.” I hold out my hand, he pulls me up and hugs me. I thought the weeks of solitary time in Yamato were bad. Having no private time, no bedroom, no toilet, no way of relieving any stress except for mantra chanting is worse. Far, far worse.

“You stink,” I say into Jiro’s neck. It’s been a few days since we had showers. I inhale deep and then press my lips to just below his jawline. He hums in response. “I don’t mind it.”

“Me neither.”

After a rice and seaweed breakfast, Oyama, Usagi, Kentaro, Kazuo, and Jiro pack up the camp while I sit in the nearby meadow with Sakai and meditate before yoga. I wanted him to teach me, and with my increasingly unstable condition, yoga stretching is the only thing that helps with the aches and pains. I’ve learned the majority of the positions and their names in both English and Sanskrit, and Sakai put together a routine for me to help relieve pressure in my hips and aches in my legs from all the walking and horse riding. I wish it helped in the same way a good week’s rest, saké, and a warm shower could.

When we return to our campsite, the horses are ready to go, packs hanging off both sides of them. I roll up my mat and push it into the carrier on Kagemusha before scratching his neck and leaning against him for strength. My stomach is full of rice but the nausea refuses to abate.

“Sanaa,” Arata calls from under a nearby tree, “come and smoke some cake before we get underway.”

“No, thank you, Arata. I’ll be fine.” I breathe through my nose and push my breath out through my nose. In and out. Then I push on one side of my nose and breathe in. Push on the other side, breathe out. In through the left, out through the right. This is my other mantra, controlled breathing. Another trick I learned from Sakai. The controlled breathing and yoga go hand in hand. When I open my eyes, Arata is in front of me.

“Smoke the cake, dear.” He holds it out to me. “I hate to see you like this. You know, in some extreme cases, women can be sick their entire pregnancy. Most women I know only felt nauseous and never vomited. You’re vomiting three, sometimes six times per day. The cake will help.”

I stare at the cigarette in his hand, but guilt sits on my shoulders like an angry monkey. If I smoke the cake, I’m okay for a few hours. But I never asked a doctor if it was safe; I haven’t even seen an Earth doctor yet. I look down at my belly, and I’m not showing. There’s no way I’ll be a responsible parent with the way my life is unfolding. Maybe I should just smoke it and not care. I wave him off.

“No, thanks, Arata. I really appreciate you looking out for me, but I need to brave this on my own. At least until I can see a doctor.”

Arata nods, but his eyes are sad and concerned. “I understand your hesitation,” he says, taking Kagemusha’s reins, looping them over his neck and across to the saddle. “Regardless, I’ll be happy to provide you with some the moment you need it.”

I nod in response, my mouth clenched against the rebellious nature of my stomach. Juices in my belly roil and bubble like a hot spring about to blow.

“Today we ride to one more village to the west of Zenyama where we can hopefully stay before continuing on to Owari and Oda Clan. I have a friend there I think will be sympathetic.” Arata avoids eye contact with me. He says, ‘hopefully,’ because he knows my track record with the natives is now fifty-fifty. Before I came along, Arata had every city on the West Coast charmed. Now, because of me, his hold on these people is slipping.

I bow to him. “I’ll do my very best. I wish there was something I could say or do differently to convince them. I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve brought you and your people.”

“Please,” he begs, his hand on my shoulder, “never apologize to me. Nothing you have ever done could be as bad as Fujiwara. Nothing.”

—-

The trip to this unnamed village takes three hours on horseback. I stop the line twice to rest. Someday this will all come to an end, and I will be well. I will be well. I repeat this in my head until my brain swims with nausea again.

Along the village outskirts, a small boy sitting by the roadside on a mat picks at the grass at his feet before turning his head up. Oh no. It’s Hiro, the little boy who hates me because his mother was killed right in front of us.

“Hiro!” Jiro calls from the front of the caravan. He dismounts from Kazuki, and Hiro jumps from his mat and runs towards us. I close my eyes, unable to witness whether he is happy to see us or wants me dead. It could go either way.

Sakai gasps and I open my eyes. Hiro is wrapped around Jiro, crying into his chest. Uh oh.

I’m frozen to the saddle, sure I’m about to get more bad news. Kazuo turns on his horse and makes eye contact with me, but I can’t let go of Kagemusha’s reins, can’t force my leg over and off the horse.

“Kentaro…” Kazuo jerks his head at me, and Kentaro sighs, dismounts, and comes to my side. Kazuo keeps his distance from me both emotionally and physically. He knows how much I hate him for kidnapping me, even if he turned around and rescued me.

Kentaro taps on my knee and pulls the reins from my hand. “Let me help you get down.”

Dismounting Kagemusha and walking towards Hiro is like trudging through mud.

“Sanaa! You filthy… stupid…” The words halt on Hiro’s tongue before he lunges at me, grabs my shirt, and smacks me in the face. I don’t defend myself. Instead I stand and take his fury. My eyes sting and water, and a blush of heat blooms on my cheek.

“Hey!” Jiro yells at him, pulling him away from me. “Don’t touch her. She risked her life for you and your family.”

“My mother’s dead, and now my father, too. And it’s all your fault!” Hiro jabs his finger at me and kicks dirt on my shoes.

Sakai steps forward and places his hand on Hiro’s shoulder. “What happened?”

“It took me days but I walked home to Izumo. When I opened the door at home, he was…” Hiro gulps, a slew of tears cascade down his cheeks. “He hung himself. Left a note.” With shaking fingers, Hiro extracts a dirty piece of paper from his torn pants.

I should refuse to take it but all the honor I have left instructs me to bear witness to the destruction I’ve wrought on this poor kid.

“My wife and child are gone. I have nothing left to live for. Please cremate my body.” My hand shakes as I give the paper to Sakai.

Sakai’s mouth drops open. “What? He didn’t wait to see if you were alive?”

“Someone came and told him I was already dead! What was he supposed to do?”

“Who?” Kazuo asks, his hands jammed in his pockets.

“A woman.” Hiro snatches the paper from Sakai. It was Sachi. I’m sure of it. “My neighbor told me about the incident. Everyone in the neighborhood grieved and had a ceremony and everything. You owe me my family! My home is completely ruined. I ran away before I could go to the orphanage.” Hiro smears the tears from his face and stares at me, defiant, his shoulders back and head tilted up. “What are you going to do for me?”

“You’ll come with us for now.” Sakai steps in front of me, cutting off Hiro’s deathly stare. “If you want to, you can live with us, though we’ll be on the road for some time. When we come back to Yamato, you’re welcome to live with us, or maybe you’d like to live in Takayama…” Sakai turns to Arata, and he nods.

“There is room for you in my family as well.”

I stand mute, a dark cloud of sadness swirling about my head. I’d offer to take Hiro in too. I would. I’d watch after him for the rest of his life, adopt him, treat him with the kind of love he deserves. But he glares at me with hatred so intense I sweat under the force of it.

I can’t do anything for him. I’ve already done enough.