Eternally Mortal by Tom Cobey

Japan 1945

William Fennerman tried to dress without waking his wife; dawn was still over an hour away. Birds were beginning to sing somewhere beyond the garden as a warm breeze from the open door ruffled papers on his desk. This was not his favorite time of day, but he understood how it could be for so many. He stuffed a haversack with food, painting supplies and hoisted the sling over his shoulder. As he stepped over the threshold to leave, he heard a voice from behind him.

"Where are you going so early?" The voice sounded soft and thick from sleep.

William turned toward his wife. "Good morning."

Compared to Europeans, William's six foot three inch height bore above most contemporaries. By Japanese standards, he had no contemporaries. The door behind him seemed small in comparison to his mass. Although he loved the old farmhouse, the builders did not have his comfort in mind when the walls were plumbed and the doors hung.

Yoshi propped herself on an elbow. "You were leaving without saying goodbye?" She did her best to sound truculent, but suspected the effort wasted.

William removed the pack, and then sat on the bed. "I left you a note. Thought I'd take a trip into the hills and catch the sunrise on canvas." He wished for the power to make time stand still. Women were no mystery to him; he loved many in his life, but none like this. Yoshi stood five feet tall. Her black hair ended at the curve of her back. She was smart as he, if not smarter, with a will to match her intellect. She challenged him in almost every way.

"You said you would come with me today to visit my mother. Remember?" Yoshi studied her husband's face. Most days William wore a tight ponytail. When he painted he let it flow free. She brushed the hair from his face. "She'll think you don't like her."

"Your mother's wise and loves the arts. Tell her I went into the hills to paint, she'll understand." His excuse for not traveling with his wife sounded feeble to his ears. He disliked the city, any city. Cities were where people herded themselves together like masses of migrating birds. There, the friction of beating wings all going nowhere served to amplify their futility. The buildings crammed together with filthy alleys between, the mass of humanity living in squalor, the smell, the stink, all these things burdened him with a sadness only his farm could lift.

He was right; her mother did love the arts and would understand if her husband spent the day in the mountains. Her frown faded as she thought of another way to keep him from leaving. She lifted the sheet. "You left the door open. Now I'm cold."

The attribute William acknowledged most effortlessly was his love of the female form. Yoshi's nakedness exuded a simple truth. When grown men and adolescent boys were alone with their thoughts, this is what they dreamt of. His resolve to leave began to unravel. William closed his eyes and drew deep from an inner well of strength. He took the sheet and gently covered her. Now he brushed the hair from her face. "I'll be back by the time you return from the city. I think you worry something will happen while we're apart. Your fear is sound, but I'll come back. You're my sanity in a world gone mad. Now go to sleep. You have more than an hour before it's time to get up."

Yoshi pulled the sheet tight to her face and settled back down. Maybe tonight she would make his favorite dinner. And what about her mother? She would never admit it openly, but occasionally she liked to visit her mother without her husband. She closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

William rode his bike along the small road leading out of the village. It was a hard ride. Despite being in good shape his legs burned and cried out for rest. To lament over his age and blame it on the pain came easy enough.

In the time before light when the sun is an orange haze on the horizon, objects have form, but no color. From this colorless transition, William noticed the outline of a man sitting on the side of the road. At the moment, any excuse to stop would be welcome. Besides, the man looked in need of something. Whether that something was the rest he appeared to be taking, or medical assistance, it did not matter, William would investigate and at the same time give his legs a rest.

He had been a soldier in another life and in his own opinion a good one. Now that life lingered only in distant memories. Still, the memories were not so removed that he forgot how to approach a seemingly benign situation with the caution due any unknown. The man looked harmless and probably was. But these were dangerous times and here a man lingered where he normally would not at a time of day when most were home. William set his bike down and approached with a focused concentration not used in years.

From a few feet away he noticed the man looked old. Moisture from the previous night's dew made his flimsy shirt translucent; it clung to his bony torso revealing the tired body beneath. Apart from his shirt, the moisture gathered in his thin, white hair and held it firmly to his brow. Older people wore jackets on comfortable days, the man before him had neither jacket nor a proper shirt. William relaxed, slightly. This did not appear to be a threatening situation. The man leaned against a fence post with his chin resting on his chest. William placed his pack on the ground, kneeled on his left knee, and held the man's hand as he searched for a pulse. After a time he found it. Its rhythm felt slow and weak.

"Hello, you with me friend?" William asked. The man stirred but did not open his eyes. William reached for his pack. It held, among other things, tea, and a flask of his favorite Kentucky Bourbon. Despite his years living in Japan and acceptance of the culture, he still preferred some things from the west, Kentucky Bourbon being top on that list. He rationed the bourbon carefully. At the start of the war, he had a full case. Now, years later, only one bottle remained, and the contents of the flask.

William held the man's head upright and put the flask to his mouth. Some of the liquid went down his chin some went down his throat. William removed his jacket and put it over his new friend's shoulders then gave him another shot from the flask. This time most of the bourbon stayed inside. The man opened his eyes. "Good morning," William said. "Wasn't sure if you were coming back."

The man reached for the flask and gave himself a third shot. William sat on the ground beside him. "So, you going to tell me your name, and why you are out here half dead from the night air? Or are you just going to finish my flask and move on?"

"My name is Haruo Watenaby and I've come here to die. You have interrupted me."

William took the flask from Haruo's shaking hands and put it to his lips, then paused. Looking around he noticed pastures, a quiet country road and picturesque mountains. "Yes, if I had to pick a place to die I might choose this same spot." Although it was too early to be drinking, the bourbon went down easily. Considering the conversation, he had another shot. "Would it be rude to ask why you want to die? You see, I'm not from around here and I don't know your customs. I'm curious and would like to help, but I don't want to be rude."

If Haruo's thoughts were clear he would have noticed the stranger was not only a foreigner, but spoke perfect Japanese, and anyone who spoke the language that well would probably know Japanese culture. Although suicide seemed the rage, at least for this year, the closest he ever came to the Japanese tradition had been in books about ancient lore. "My life is over. The world's on fire and my family is gone. I'm old, tired."

"Where's your family?"

"My two sons are dead. My oldest died four years ago in China. A child with flowers killed him. Last night we received word our other son died fighting in the Philippines." Haruo reached for the flask and took another drink. "They were good men. It is not because they were my sons I say that. It is because they were good men. They had families with children and both worked hard. When the Emperor said it was time for them to fight and kill, they went without complaint. Now they are dead."

The man was not in the habit of telling his story to strangers. In fact, he had never spoken of his grief. Now he spoke of things he felt deep in his heart and the words felt right. The big man was easy to talk with. "My brother and his whole family were killed in Tokyo two months ago by American bombers."

"Where is your wife?" William asked as he pulled a good size stone out from under his seat.

"She is homeÉ ill. I don't think she has much time left."

"And your grandchildren, where are they?"

"They live on my farm. I have five grandchildren. They work hard and are full of life. I pray the war is over before..." The old man stopped and closed his eyes.

"So, your wife is sick and you have five grandchildren. Things have been bad, and you are very old. Please forgive me if I'm out of line. It sounds like your family still needs you."

The old man did not answer.

"Your wife is sick. Isn't it better you are with her? It's not right to die alone, and your grandchildren, they need a man around. You know it is true. It's also true that you're old, but children need a man's influence in their lives, especially one with the wisdom of your years, and you know the farm cannot run itself. You might be thinking, what do I know, a stranger. Well, I will tell you.

"Life is precious and should never be given up without a fight."

Again, Haruo did not answer.

"Maybe I have something that will help." William rummaged through his pack. "Something other than my bourbon, which you have taken a liking to." A moment later he said, "Here it is, I never leave home without it." He held out his closed hand and offered Haruo what help he could.

Haruo thought nothing from the stranger's bag could help, but he seemed sincere in his effort to share. Not wishing to appear rude, he held out his hand. He wanted to die, or at least he thought he wanted to die. When the stranger grabbed his hand with a speed faster than his old eyes could perceive, fear rocked his body and death was suddenly something detestable.

William knew the man would be afraid, and he was sorry for that.

He closed his eyes and let it happen the way it had happened countless times before. This time, instead of removing life, William reversed the flow and gave. The world around the two faded to a sepia haze, and then winked out entirely.

In a dream, the two walked together down an old path rutted deep by the wheels of Haruo's cart. The grass grew tall between the bare patches and kissed his fingers like soft paintbrushes looking to spread their morning's moisture. To the left sat a farmhouse. William knew the meticulously maintained house and grounds belonged to Haruo, just as he knew everything about the man. He knew about a personage of no real status, and all the things that made him the most important person in the world, and the old farmer knew everything about William. They trod the path side by side, but were one mind. William loved the farm, as Haruo did, and both watched two sons grow into fine adults.

In measured time, only a few seconds passed. Yet the walk with Haruo had been timeless.

William nudged Haruo. "Open your eyes now and look at the dawn. A new day is coming and you don't want to miss it."

When Haruo opened his eyes, his age had decreased by one year. Instead of being seventy-four, he was now seventy-three. William's body responded to another year. Another year added whatever that came to. He still did not know.

One short year did not make a large difference in Haruo's life. Nevertheless, William's nudge had rallied enough optimism to live for another day. They did not speak at first. No words were necessary. No words felt adequate. Haruo's memory of their meeting would fade in a few hours, but at this moment, as the two men faced each other on the side of the road, the awareness of what occurred felt real. "I'm going home to be with my wife," Haruo said.

"And I'm going up the road to paint the rising sun, while I still can." William picked up his bike, and then bowed low. Although it had cost him a year, he smiled at the memory of a wonderful life on the farm and the children he would never have. It was costly, but worth it.

After an hour, he stopped by a ridge overlooking the village. The houses, shops and farms looked small, distant and full of life. For twenty-one years, he lived in the farmhouse with Yoshi and had grown fond of the locals. Recently, from the start of the war anyway, he paid local officials for the right to live unmolested among them. For the money, William thought he should be a full citizen by now, or at the least a respected member of the community. He shook his head. The reality did not escape him. "Considering how the war is going," he said to no one, "I suppose I'm lucky not to be in prison, or dead in some ditch."

The view looked suitable for his canvas. After a brief policing of the area William set up an impromptu easel then rolled a small log to sit on. He felt comfortable, content. The light changed as dawn became early morning. William considered his options. Start painting while the light is right, or eat breakfast. He smiled and said, "Maybe my legs need food." William reached for his bag.

Breakfast consisted of simple food: leftover fish from the previous night, a wedge of his own cheese, two biscuits and tea to wash it down. He wished the tea were coffee. Not that he disliked the local tea it tasted fine. But dear sweet Lord, how he missed a cup of coffee. Before the war coffee was scarce, now, along with his bourbon, it was impossible to find.

After eating, he looked at the sun and considered the time between 8:00 and 9:00. He thought of Yoshi and her destination about forty minutes south by bus. If he guessed right, she should be pulling into Hiroshima in about. Hell, she is there now, he thought.

William brought himself to his canvas. Pencil ready, the view etched in his mind.

Then, from the south, a light like no other dimmed the sun.

He turned away. When he looked back, a large cloud arose from where the light had originated. He did not know what he had just witnessed. In the same instant, he did know.

It was a bomb, probably American, and without a doubt the largest in history. It came clear in his mind. The Americans, except for Hiroshima, had bombed every major city in Japan. They had saved it for this?

Yoshi's mother lived in Hiroshima. William leaned heavily against a small mountain pine and wished for death.