into my jacket pocket and climb the stairs – I don’t want Buntaro to see the shock on my face.
On the steps to the thunder god shrine, spider webs tug, tear and stick to my face. Boiled-candy spiders. I trip and muddy up my knees. I try to forget the ghost stories I’ve heard about how dead children live on these steps, but once you try to forget something you already remember it. Colossal ferns tower over me. Freshwater crabs skitter into rooty cracks. A deer thuds and disappears into thicket. I focus on the ultimate reunion with our father once my ultimate plan bears fruit, and run, and run, and suddenly I am standing in the shrine clearing right at the top. I can see for miles. Inland mountains heave and lurch towards the breaking sky. Light smooths the sea over. I can see the windows on the Yakushima ferry. I approach the bell nervously and look around for an adult to ask permission. I’ve never woken a god up before. Wheatie takes Anju and me to the harbour shrine every New Year’s Day to change our zodiac amulet, but that is a jolly affair of relatives, neighbours and having our heads patted. This is the real thing. This is sober magic. Only me and the god of all thunder in his mildewed drowse. I grip the rope that swings the bell-hammer—
The first gong is to slosh through the forest, scaring pheasants.
The second gong is to make swing-wing fighters wobble in turbulence.
The third gong is to slam shut for ever the iron doors.
I wonder if Anju heard the bell in her sulking-place. When I get back tomorrow I’ll tell her it was me. She’ll never admit to it, but she’ll be impressed by my daring. This is like something she normally dreams up. I approach the shrine itself. The thunder god scowls. His face is hatred, typhoon and nightmare all knotted up. I can’t back out now. He’s awake. My coin clatters into the donation box, I clap three times and close my eyes. ‘Good morning, uh, God of Thunder. My name is Eiji Miyake. I live with Anju and Wheatie in the last house up the valley track, past the big Kawakami farmhouse. But you probably know that. I woke you up to ask for your help. I want to become the greatest soccer player in Japan. This is a big, big thing, so please don’t give me piles like you did the taxi driver.’
‘And in return?’ asks the silence.
‘When I’m a famous soccer player I’ll, uh, come back and rebuild your shrine and stuff. Until then, anything that I can give you, you can have. Take it. You don’t have to ask me, just take it.’
The silence sighs. ‘Anything?’
‘Anything.’
‘Anything? Are you sure?’
‘I said “anything”, and I mean it.’
The silence lasts nine days and nine nights. ‘Done.’
I open my eyes. The fin of an airliner trails rose and gold. Doves spin predictions. Down in Anbo harbour the Kagoshima ferry sounds a solitary horn, and I can see cars arriving. The million and one clocks of the forest flutter, dart, shriek and howl into life. I rush off, flying down the muddy steps where the ghosts of the dead children are dissolving in the first sunlight.
Miyazaki Mountain Clinic25th AugustHello Eiji,How do I begin this? I already wrote a stroppy letter, then a moaning one, then a witty one that began, ‘Hello, I am your mother, nice to meet you.’ Then one that began with ‘Sorry’. They are scrunched up, near the bin on the other side of my room. I am a lousy shot.Hot summer, isn’t it? I knew it would be when the rainy season didn’t happen. (I suppose it is still raining in Yakushima, though. When doesn’t it?) So, you’re nearly twenty now. Twenty. Where do all the years go? Want to know how old I’ll be next month? Too old to tell anyone. I’m at this place receiving treatment for nerves/drinking. I never wanted to come back to Kyushu, but at least the mountain air here is cool. My therapist has advised that I write to you. I didn’t want to at first, but she is even more persistent than me. That looks wrong – I want to write to you, but after all this time it’s so, so much easier not to. But I have this story (more a serial memory). My therapist says I can only stop it hurting me by telling you about