David Peace - Occupied City

alone, alone in the light of one last candle –

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, in the upper chamber of the Black Gate, in this place where once there was an occult circle, where once there stood twelve candles, where now there stands only one,

and where now, before you now, there also stands a single willow branch atop a grass mound, the sound of a drum beating,

a drum beating and a river flowing,

flowing through this city,

this Occupied City,

the Sumida–

gawa,

as feet-step and tears-drop along the banks of the Sumida, the drum beating and the river flowing, feet and tears shuffling,

a woman’s voice crying, ‘I am a mother and I am searching for my son. My son who was taken from me in this city …’

And now this woman reaches for you, she takes your hand, and now she says, ‘Come, Ferryman …

‘Come…’

For this time there is no place for you to simply sit and stare, from where to watch and which to write; this time there is no medium, this time there is no distance; for this time her feet and her tears will carry you, carry you into the words, carry you into the voices –

‘For you are the Ferryman, a writer no more –

‘You are my Ferryman …

‘This city is a river,’ I hear you say. ‘Made of blood and made of sweat, made of shit and made of piss, it is the Sumida River.

‘And with its blood and with its sweat, with its shit and with its piss, the river is this city, the Occupied City.

‘And here in the Occupied City, here on the banks of the Sumida River, here at this crossing, I am its Ferryman. I ferry the people across the river, eastward, and then back again, westward, in and out of this city. And as we cross this river, I tell the people stories to pass the time, I tell them tales, as we go back and forth, in and out of this city. So now in the twilight, here on the riverbank, I stand in the sleet and the wind, among the ruins and the ashes, and I shout, It is sundown! All aboard!’

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.