Machi Sakura

Machi Sakura
(Ten-thousand Cherry Blossoms)

With every gust of wind,
the butterfly changes it place
on the willow.
-Basho


         The deep blue waves came crashing into the starboard of the barely sea-worthy vessel at an alarming and ever-increasing rate.  Night had fallen, and the only cure for its darkness was a myriad of bright twinkling stars.  Nikoru was below deck with the rest of the women, almost all of them picture brides, just as she was.  Their living quarters were small, hardly enough room for eight female passengers.  She would have preferred far better accommodations, but had not purchased the fare herself nor did she have the yen necessary to make any upgrade.  The weathered wooden boards moaned in response to the weight of the powerful sea.  Nikoru brushed her raven colored hair away from her eyes and nestled down into the cot she shared with the ship’s cook:  a tiny, bird-like old woman who had been affectionately nicknamed Gin Hana, or silver blossom.  It was the heavy weight of a future unknown that finally forced her unquiet mind into a fitful sleep.  The mighty waves had subsided into a gentle lull and as she was rocked deeper into slumber by the gentle sway of the sea, Nikoru slipped into a fond, but peaceful dream.
         Nikoru was eight at the time of the Spring Cherry Blossom festival in Kyoto that year, the last year she spent with her parent.  Taking her father’s hand, Nikoru led him through the endless groves of cherry trees, abundant with snow-white blossoms.  She could feel the warmth of the spring sun as she dashed down the rows and rows of trees, their rich, sweet scent permeating the entire village.  Nikoru scooped up a handful of blossoms, their soft petals tickling her fingers, as she held them up to her face to inhale their exquisite perfume.  They were an integral part of Nature’s rebirth, soaking in its complexities.  Giggling, she tossed the petals high into the air, spinning in circles beneath the shower of blossoms as they returned to the earth.  Her dream faded as the petals fell, her subconscious drifting to another memory locked deep inside her mind.
         Nikoru saw herself as a young girl, bundled tight in her indigo koi yakuta, intensely watching her father.  She kept her eyes transfixed upon her father, as he sat polishing the ancient Samurai katana that had been in their family for generations.  He worked slowly, embellishing each crevasse of the sword with his strong, broad hands.  Nikoru could almost smell the dried, natural scent of the tatami mats that lined the floors.  Her otosan, gripping the katana tightly in his hands, slashed at the air, the gleam of the steel catching Nikoru’s wide child-like eyes.
         “Chichai Sakura,” her father spoke finally, his voice was quiet and patient, the way she had always remembered him, “it takes great skill and patience to create a work of beauty such as this katana.  Skill and patience, Sakura, is essential in a young woman.  You must learn balance,” he continued, still grasping the sword, “for it is the combination of these qualities that will yield the most strength.  I see these qualities in you Chichai Sakura. . .”
         Nikoru was startled as she awoke to Gin Hana barking orders, in broken English at all the young picture brides.  Poking her head out from the ship’s galley, Gin Hana pursed her lips together and with her tiny, wrinkled face all scrunched up, hollered,
         “Waaah, you girl get up!  Hawaii Island closer than you think!  What kind of wife you be, laying around all day?  Hmph, you won’t last more than day in the cane fields!”
         Nikoru rubbed her heavy, tired eyes and slowly crawled out of her warm cot, trying to adjust to the damp, cool air which always circulated through the lower deck during the morning hours.  She unfolded the envelope that always lay next to her on her solitary trunk of belongings and stared blankly at the old, faded picture of the man who was to become her husband when she finally arrived in Hawaii.  With a heavy sigh, Nikoru held the crumpled picture up the small porthole.  He looked young and moderately handsome, she thought to herself.  He had very kind eyes, and had even written her a beautiful haiku:
Cedar umbrellas, off
to Mount Yoshimo for
the cherry blossoms.

         Mount Yoshimo, she thought to herself, why that was just miles from my village.  Perhaps he knew of the Kyoto area and the enchanting cherry blossoms, perhaps leaving Japan had not been such a terrible idea after all, perhaps he would turn out to be an excellent match.  Her worried expression slowly faded into a slight smile.  Nikoru could scarcely believe that in just a few days, she would become Mrs. Ito Kiyoshi.  Ito Nikoru.  Nikoru carefully folded up the old picture and slid it into the obi of her kimono for safe keeping.  She would need this picture to find her husband among the other men who were awaiting their new brides.
         The other young women aboard the ship had gathered in the ship’s galley to begin preparing meals for the day.  A portion of the economy fare was repaid by performing various duties instrumental to a successful voyage.  In the tiny, narrow galley, four picture brides gathered, chopping vegetables for this afternoon’s light lunch, tonkatsu.  One of the young women, who was especially tall and slender, spoke up, arching her ink black eyebrows, “Nikoru is especially peculiar.  Wouldn’t you agree Sayuri-san?”
         Caught off guard, Sayuri perked up, looking worried at what she might say in response.  “Well, Natsuki-san, perhaps it is just that Nikoru is reserved.  I do not find her manner peculiar, just, well, very conservative.”
         Natsuki pursed her lips in irritation, “Don’t be so kind, Sayuri.  Nikoru is odd; there is nothing more to it.”
         “I find her very enchanting really and quite a refreshing change from your dreadful company, Natsuki.  If I have to suffer through another rant about your mysterious husband-to-be I swear I shall die from boredom!” Sayuri sighed, dramatically draping her arm over her forehead.
         Natsuki, easily offended and short-tempered, stood up abruptly and casually remarked, “I believe I’ll go up deck for a bit of fresh air, it appears this conversation has grown rather stale.”
         Sayuri smiled mischievously and tried to hide her laughter.  As soon as Natsuki had left the galley, Sayuri continued, “Nikoru is really quite extraordinary.  She is so lovely, don’t you think?  Her features fit perfectly together in some sort of balance.”
         Kumiko, a good-natured and quiet young woman, whose round little face perfectly resembled a peach, nodded her head in agreement with Sayuri. 
         “I believe, Sayuri, that lovely is quite an understatement for Nikoru.  She has such delicate features and the most beautiful skin.”
         “I quite agree.  Her complexion is comparable to, oh, I don’t know.  Something very smooth. . .like poured cream!” Sayuri remarked, carefully laying out sheets of norii for kappa makki rolls.
         “More like a cherry blossom, Sayuri, with its creamy white petals, just kissed with a hint of rosy hue.  Little cherry blossom, what a proper nickname for Nikoru.” Kumiko said, sounding rather pleased with her idea.
         “How clever Kumiko!  We shall call her Chichai Sakura then, when she isn’t around of course.  I don’t know how she would respond to such a nickname.  I wonder, Kumiko, have you ever noticed her hands?”
         “Oh yes.  They are so unusual!”
         Sayuri looked down at her own hands, rough and calloused from working hand beside her family all those years.
         “She must have never seen a day’s work back in Japan.”
         “She is a very accomplished painter you know.” Kumiko said casually, spreading sticky rice atop the sheet of seaweed.
         “I hadn’t realized that.”
         “Oh no?  She has the hands of an artist, long, spider-like fingers and a very commanding grip.  Nikoru directs a paint brush like a general would command the Imperial Navy!  Haven’t you seen her painting on the upper deck every morning?” Kumiko asked.
         “If I may be excused, I think I shall go enjoy her skill right at this moment.  How fortunate Nikoru is, being able to paint all day instead of working down here in the galley.  Her husband must be very wealthy.” Sayuri said
         “Yes, I imagine he must be since he paid for her entire fare to Hawaii.  What a fortunate match, a talented beauty like Nikoru deserves such good luck.” Kumiko remarked, still concentrating on her work as Sayuri left the galley.

         Since the voyage’s inception, Nikoru had loved to paint above deck.  Though there was no sign of life to be seen for miles around, the rush of being on the open sea made her feel so alive and seemed to provide a source of inspiration for her work.  She chose a spot on the starboard that would allow her shelter from the constant sea spray.  Taking out her watercolor paints, Nikoru began to embellish a sketch of the Ise Shrine, the ancestral shrine of the Imperial family and guardian of the Japanese Nation.  Nikoru had seen the shrine only once, but it was an image forever locked into her memory.  She and her otosan had gone there in spring while the cherry blossoms were still a green, undeveloped bud.
         “Chichai Sakura,” he had said, pointing towards the shrine, “this shrine is dedicated to the Shinto sun goddess, Amaterasu.”  Her otosan had always described Nikoru’s mother as “the most beautiful woman in Japan, as radiant as the sun goddess, Amaterasu”.  Leading her up the overgrown hill towards the ornate cypress wood shrine, he otosan continued, “I was here once before, many years before you were born when I was in the service of the great Emperor Ninko. . .”
         “That isn’t the Ise Shrine, is it?  It looks lop-sided?”
         Nikoru snapped out of her day dream and looked up to see Natsuki towering above her, the disgusted look on her face transformed into a cruel, spiteful smile, “I see you’ve decided to pay attention, little Miss Day-dream.  Where did you learn to paint, Nikoru?”
         Nikoru wished she could just disappear.  For some odd reason, Natsuki had targeted her as the victim of her constantly harsh, judgmental words.  Setting down her palate, Nikoru regained her composure and looked up at Natsuki with a smile, “In Kyoto, under the apprenticeship of the great sensei, Tanaka Tsubasa.”
         Natsuki looked displeased at her answer, “Hmm. . .I was under the impression that you were some sort of street performer.  What a waste that you spent all that time with Tanaka-san and have gained nothing.  I must say, his name sounds familiar.”
         “He is an exceptional artist, Natsuki-san.  I’m sorry you feel I have learned nothing from his tutelage.” Nikoru replied, feeling somewhat offended and thrown off balance by Natsuki’s blunt insult.
         “No, I’m sure that isn’t why he’s familiar.  I remember reading about his studio in the shinbun, perhaps a year ago.  You must have been studying with him at the time.  Don’t you remember?”
         “I don’t believe I know what you’re referring to Natsuki-san, perhaps you are mistaken.” Nikoru replied hastily as she began to work on her landscape, hoping Natsuki would leave.
         “Oh yes, now I remember!” Natsuki chirped.  Nikoru’s heart sank as she began to feel a surge of anxiety building up.  “It was some sort of scandal with Tanaka-san’s youngest son.  You must remember. . .”
         “Remember what?” Sayuri asked, appearing with two large steaming bowls of udon noodles balancing on her forearm.
         Nikoru looked at Sayuri with a grateful smile; she was one of the only young women who was kind to her.  Grabbing Nikoru’s arm, Sayuri looked at Natsuki with a forced smile and said, “Nikoru looks rather bored with you Natsuki.  I’m sure you won’t mind if I steal her away for some noodles.”
         They left Natsuki, standing there, her hands on her hips, and her lips pursed into a familiar look of anger and disgust.


         The rich, savory aroma of bonito broth filled the cramped corner where the two girls huddled to shield themselves from the increasing gusts of wind.  The morning had grown cooler, a tell-tale sign that they had ventured far away from Japanese shores and out into the vast Pacific.  Sayuri had managed to make room for the two of them to sit, besides unmended fishing nets and unopened crates.  Once she had broken her fast, Nikoru set down her empty bowl.
         “Thank you, Sayuri-san.  You have always shown me such kindness since we boarded this ship.”
         “I would not say kind, Nikoru.  I only do what a friend should do.”
         “You consider me a friend?”
         “Of course, I certainly couldn’t stand to spend all my time with that insufferable Natsuki, now could I?”
         Nikoru smiled.  It had been so long since she had felt the warmth of a true friend.
         “I can see more about you Nikoru, than you allow many others.  You possess a great strength of character, and I am quite certain that there a very kind, loving heart behind all that silence.  Am I wrong?” Sayuri inquired, not doubting her own statement.
         “My otosan always told me that the key to becoming a great person in the eyes of the Buddha was to become a reed in the blowing wind.”
         “Why a reed?”
         “You see, a reed that blows in the wind never breaks, but bends with change.  Otosan practiced this, among many other things.  He was a great man.”
         “Was?  I gather that he is gone now.  I am so sorry, Nikoru.” Sayuri placed a gentle hand on Nikoru’s shoulder.
         “He has been gone ten years now, Sayuri.  There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel as thought he is still one step behind me, making sure I follow the right path.  Often times, I wonder if he didn’t wish that I would have been a boy.  He often spoke of passing on both his knowledge of Bushido and his nihonto to someone who could have used them.”
         “Bushido?  The way of the warrior?” Sayuri asked, sounding surprised.
         “Yes.  Are you familiar with it?”
         “No, of course not.  My families were mere farmers.  I hadn’t realized that you father was a Samurai.  Infact, I had thought there were none left.”
         “Oh, but there are.  The history books leave out this important part of our culture.  You see, after the destruction of the Toyotomi clan in 1615, the great warlord Ieyasu captured Osaka castle.  Ieyasu proclaimed himself emperor and the Rightful Son of Heaven.  He and his successors had practically no rivals anymore and peace prevailed throughout the Edo period.  The Samurai weren’t needed to protect anymore, but the ways of the warrior did not disappear.  My otosan was trained as a Samurai, but his own father well over two hundred years after this occurred.  The Samurai live a life of education.  Most of them were educated in the many arts.  Otosan’s specialty was painting.  This was how I learned.”
         “Oh, Nikoru.  How the others have misjudged you.  But what of your mother?  You haven’t even mentioned her.”
         Nikoru looked away, out towards the rolling ocean.  The blue-grey waves splashed violently over each other for miles.  “My mother,” she finally said, “what is there to tell of a woman I never knew?  She died shortly after I was born.”
         “And your otosan never remarried?”
         “No, the Samurai are fiercely loyal.  He could never leave the thought of my mother.  It was always just my father and me until I was eight.”
         “It’s getting late, Nikoru, and dark.  Perhaps we ought to go back below deck.” Sayuri said with a shiver.  The wind always picked up in the late afternoon, tossing the ship back and forth.
         “Yes, of course.  I hadn’t realized how the time had passed.  Thank you, Sayuri-san, for listening to me.  There was only one other that I had ever been able to open up to.” Nikoru said, as she stood up, following Sayuri back below deck.
         “Who was that, your otosan?”
         “No.  Another time, Sayuri, another time.”


         Weeks had passed since the ship had left for the Hawaiian Islands.  Many of the young brides felt that they would reach they shores of Oahu any day now.  Life aboard the vessel had become mundane for the young women, all save Nikoru and Sayuri, whose friendship had blossomed.  One morning, it was finally confirmed that the ship would indeed reach the Hawaiian Islands the next afternoon.  The skies had gradually cleared and a warm breezed caressed the ship.  In the midst of the confusion, Nikoru and Sayuri had managed to slip away, meeting in the very same alcove they had done ever since the afternoon that Sayuri had saved Nikoru from Natsuki’s ever-critical eye.
         “I can scarcely believe that today is our last day together,” Sayuri lamented, “It seems strange now, but I have never once asked you why you have become a picture bride.”
         “I shall tell you, Sayuri, but only if you promise to tell no one of what I am about to say.”
         “Why?  It couldn’t be that bad could it?”
         Nikoru managed to produce a smile, “I was hesitant to tell you anything of my immediate past.  There is great shame and dishonor.”
         “Who is it that you are afraid of?  You can trust me to keep your secrets.  You are the truest of friends Nikoru.  Nothing will ever break that bond.”
         “All right, then I will tell you, only because you have sworn.  Your reasons for becoming a picture bride and mine are quite different.  You came from a poor background of farmers and had no other choice.  I, too, was given no choice, but that is because I was sent away.  You left to find a better life than the once you left behind in Japan.  Being forced to leave, I have had to give up everything.  After my father’s, well, his death, I was sent to live with Tanaka Tsubasa, my otosan’s closest and dearest friend.  Tanaka-san, as you know, was a master painter and of course, instructed painting lessons in his Kyoto studios.  Tanaka Tsubasa, although he may be a wonderful artist, was a horrible old miser.  In fact, Sayuri, I do not even know if I can accurately explain how awful he really was.  Tanaka-san was repulsive to the eye.  Who would have thought that a man who could create such beauty on the canvas could be so hideous?  This was the case with Tanaka-san.  He was a thin, wisp of an old man, tall and lanky, with protruding grey eyes.  In fact, I believe that he was so thin, his dresser would have to wrap the kimono around Tanaka-san several times before it would fit.  He was completely bald and hairless, except for a few long strands on his chin, which I believe were supposed to be a beard.  Hi little, prune-like mouth was full of cracked, stained teeth; his breath smelled of rotten bean curd.  I also believe he was highly addicted to opium.  I hope, Sayuri, that you can at least picture how decrepit Tanaka-san was.  You might think that for a frail man such as Tanaka, he would say nothing louder than a whisper.  This was also a fallacy.  Tanaka-san would yell and scream at the top of his lungs constantly.  The Ichiriki teahouse down the block often complained that his loudness drove away their customers.”  Nikoru recounted, almost giggling at the thought of Tanaka-san again.
         “Why on earth was your otosan acquainted with such a man?” Sayuri interjected.
         “That I will never know.  I believe now, that my father might now have been friends with Tanaka Tsubasa after all.  Even Tanaka-san claimed to love my father like his own brother, and myself like his own daughter.  I know that to be a lie.  He would treat me no better than some beggar he saw on the street, shouting at me and hitting me with his cane when I didn’t paint landscapes the way he saw it through his own eyes.  Tanaka-san had a beautiful studio, right the heart of Kyoto.  Inside the bamboo fence was a lush garden surrounding the main house where Tanaka-san lived for seven months out of the year, alone.  I was the only artist in residence at the time, and lived in one of the side buildings with the servants.  On most days, I would paint for hours, doing only minimal chores.  All my paintings, however, Tanaka-san sold as his own and kept the profits.  If he really loved me as his own daughter, as he had claimed, I don’t believe I would have been treated in such a fashion.  In reality, his own children had all been sent away to different universities to study various subjects.  Tanaka-san did not approve of his own children becoming artists.  Things went on like this for about seven years.  My apprenticeship would have been over in only three more years, but I had some odd feeling that Tanaka-san was not ready to part with me.” Nikoru finished, and then paused to catch her breath.
         “Why not?  You must have been anxious to get away from this horrible man.” Sayuri asked, impatiently waiting for more of the story to unfold.
         “I certainly did want to get away from him.  And I would have too.  In the spring of last year, I had just completed a piece depicting the Kyoto cherry blossoms.  It was a beautiful piece, aesthetically perfect perhaps.  Tanaka-san seized it immediately and had it sent to the auction block.  Little did either of us know that my piece would fetch the highest price at the art auction, 10,000 yen.  To give you an idea of how much that was Sayuri, Tanaka-san’s pieces would usually have fetch somewhere in the range of 3,000-4,000 yen.  That sum was more than the studio would receive in a year.  I believe the real shock cam when we found out who had purchased the piece:  Tanaka-san’s youngest son.  Sayuri, do you remember when I told you that there was one other person who I had felt entirely comfortable sharing my past with?”
         “Yes, of course.”
“Well, that person was Tanaka Haru, the man who bought my painting, and also, Tanaka’s son.” Nikoru finished.
         Suddenly, the silence was shaken by the loud clanging of the ship’s bell.  The Hawaiian Mainland was insight.
         “Nikoru, we’ve got to get our belongings together.  I want so desperately to hear the rest of your story.  We must find another way to meet.”
         “Sayuri, there isn’t time.  I promise that I will find you.  My husband-to-be must know of your future family; these islands are not the size of the Japan.  I will find you, I promise.” Nikoru rushed below deck to gather her belongings into her large steamer trunk and to begin her new life, even if she didn’t intend to give up or forget her past.