When the Marisae Call
Creative Fiction with Critical Commentary
(First Class)
They didn’t call that night. The wind beat at the ocean too fiercely and the currents moved too fast. I stayed with the shoreline a while, not feeling much like walking home through Ginza Street with its irate officers and equally impatient merchants. I was tired of watching the smiles of my clan dissolve as each man’s honour was captured in the name of the emperor. My town was broken, reduced to consumerism. Mechanical men browsed the streets in the afternoons, each brick building displaying piles of material fodder bathed in shining light and illusion. For me, there was nothing much to see but humanity’s clock slowly ticking by. Eventually, the night turned cold. I dragged my heavy boots from the shore, back home to the irori. The water was still warm enough to bathe; in the half full rice bowl was where I found my contentment.
I crept back through Gingko Avenue the following evening, when the sun was setting through the golden leaves and the hazy pink sea whispered softly in the distance, caressing the sand with gentle nudges of affection. I hid my face from the people; my intention was of another world. The merchants distributed their western products but I could be without it all. Oil paintings and foreign dress sold fast but woodblocks and their indigenous inks faded in the red glow of dusk. Clumsy voices struck at my tender eardrums; my spirit suffered until I reached the quiet docks, finding solace in the silver mirror on the water’s surface. This lifestyle was not meant for the trained warrior, my heightened perception had lost its purpose.
The tough soles of my sandals broke the soft sand as I approached the shore. Fuyuhito Uozumi cast a fishing line from the jetty across the water before bowing deeply. His silent respect meant more to me than the two swords hanging beneath my longcoat. Everyone knew of the Uozumis; Fuyuhito’s father had served the Shogunate as usho for decades, but their work was fading out now. I looked out to the horizon, embracing a wave as it lapped over my aching feet. I watched Fuyuhito’s faded navy mantle and pensive expression blend with the blue sea mist and wondered if he missed the fire-lit cry of the cormorants and the ayu bulging in their throats by night.
A moment later, the distant pattering I had come to love sounded in the space behind my eyes like glass teardrops beating at a cosmic eardrum. The phosphorescence in the waves lined up gradually and the Marisae’s orchestral harmony soon penetrated my clouded mind. I opened myself; I let their quiet voices blend with my own. I let go of times past, leaving them to the clutter of conflict and confinement behind me. I wandered into the waves with my hand outstretched until someone took hold of it. I was pulled under; my heart spilled its black ink of grief and sorrow into the empty space. My vision turned to gold and I felt the child-like joy of another realm. A celestial voice calmed my fighting breath and said:
‘Come, see what I see.’
The Maris revealed her silver-scaled form by playfully winding her long, slender eight-foot body around me. She acted familiar, perhaps she had felt me there last night after all. I watched her closely, my chest tight as it adjusted to the depths of Luthalla. I grew curious of her world; it felt as if she wanted to show me something. I looked for it in the way she moved, she was youthful and alive but shifted too far on her left side.
To my surprise, she opened the gates. A blaze of electric blue caught my eye in the deep. I was humbled; the Jewels of Luthalla are only trusted to the most honest of men. The young Maris dove down, her skin catching turquoise glimmers as she showed off the smooth-cut gemstones set into the crystal rocks that formed her habitat. Iridescent rays beamed from their shining faces, caressing her body and casting a soft, silver halo around her. The tightness in my chest released, my vision blacked out, and when I returned, I was no longer human.
At least not for a while. The tidal waves pulled back at the surface and the town bells still played, but I was with the Marisae now. I remembered my long sword’s blade as its heavy weight dared to pull me deeper, closer to her. Then I saw the open wound pulsing behind her fin; her stern eyes warned me to keep my distance as I acknowledged it. The cry of a lost daughter tore her throat to pieces as her body darted suddenly towards a dark trench in the distance. She beckoned me to follow her, her tail thrashing at the jagged rock face as we felt our way through. We emerged into open waters and with dizzy nausea, my eyes caught the horror below. Another one, caught in a net. She screamed into the water, mouth foaming, seething and ferocious. The rope burn had blackened large parts of her skin; she had been there far too long.
With instinctual haste, I went to withdraw my short sword. She whipped her tail and cut my cheek. If she drew blood, the stream was ethereal. The quick thud of my heart told me she was emitting the sounds of war and a heavy darkness crept into my peripherals as I loosened my grip. Shadows circled around me, slower than the Marisae but quicker than me. Orcas. They gathered for protection and I held my breath, relieved when they overlooked my trembling body and went to her instead. As they gently curbed her lashing tail and bathed her in whale song, their resonance reached me, transmitting something I could only understand at a subconscious level. I bowed deeply before approaching them, this time with patience. A sharp arrow struck me in the leg and the younger Maris cried out despairingly from above. I reached down and tore out the head, moving quickly but calmly so as not to startle the symphony of sea creatures. I severed the net with my sword. Four more arrows came flying towards the Mother, my steel blade swiftly deflected them.
The placid atmosphere tempered my wrath and I gained an otherworldly strength. My instincts drove me skyward; I burst through the veil and reality smacked me hard in the face. The sun was still descending and its subtle glow warmed my vulnerable shoulders; time had not existed, but the poachers were real, and I was human again. Zenbei, I knew him from the market and he knew me too. I glided through the water towards him and leapt onto his sailboat with sword drawn, still propelled by Luthalla’s extraterrestrial power. Zenbei’s men faltered; their bows lay limp in their arms, five men dumbfounded and rendered useless in the presence of truth. I pitied them and their ignorance, standing there in position to kill without justification or remorse.
‘Dock the boat,’ I ordered the captain. He nodded meekly; well aware his societal ranking held no value to the feudal structures still ruling the uncharted seas. ‘And cast your weapons to the waves.’
No wisdom emerged from their gaping mouths; their chests were laden with jewels but their minds lacked all understanding. I watched Zenbei closely as his varnished sailboat rose and fell with the gentle waves and I wondered what would become of humanity if his kind should rule. I commanded the stern as we docked, waving Zenbei and his unarmed crew past me to shore. My chest was tight again, the cold air cutting my lungs like shards of ice; my longing for Luthalla penetrated even beyond this physical sensation. I dove back in but I knew I wouldn’t find them again. The encounters with the Marisae are not chosen by us; we are chosen by them. But through my heavy grief, I felt a shift in the current. The glass teardrops came thundering onto my cosmic eardrum now, no longer peaceful, no longer calm. I watched in awe as the unthinkable happened, the orca’s formation pushed forward and held the Mother Maris’s bruised, fragile body above the waves. Her shrill cry cracked open the skies and a merciless storm cloud released a downpour over the enigma. Crowds gathered, the tide withdrew, and she beached. Still and silent, she lay bleeding copper streams into the sand. A man started towards her and captured a photograph. Another waved his friend from the street. I went to her and she called me into her eyes, just as her daughter had. They screamed with pleas of justice. Zenbei’s men approached with weapons at their side and fear pasted on their sickly faces.
‘I would die for her,’ I said as I rose. And it was enough.
They retreated once more, their honour fading along with their immoral power gained only through sabotage and betrayal. I struck the life from their bodies, not with my sword, but with the shame of defeat. They walked away, souls draining into the sand with each step. I knew I wouldn’t see them again. The tide soon collected the Mother, pulling her close into the safety of its coolness, ready for healing, her message loud and clear. It was a warning, and an invitation to those who chose to listen.
Critical Commentary
Inspired by Meiji Japan, When the Marisae Call takes place in Ginza town, Edo (now Tokyo). Through a combination of samurai wisdom, social hierarchy and transcendent thought I sought to set the stage for a portal into the world of multi-dimensional magic that is Luthalla. By bringing in the Marisae, an animalistic water spirit species, I was able to focus the plot around ‘deep ecology’, a movement valuing ‘animal and plant life as much as our own’ that is also found in Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. This commentary compares my own literary style and observation of ecological issues with Hemingway’s ‘biocentric perspective’ (Jones, p.3) and candid first-person narrative voice in After the Storm. When the Marisae Call has become for me, an exploration of Western influence in Meiji Japan, deep ecology and our interdependent connection with the nonhuman.
In When the Marisae Call, I have introduced the idea of interspecies communication through abstract literary devices such as silence and emotion while drawing attention to the protagonist’s instinctive awareness. By delving into the realm of the subconscious, I further opened my receptivity to Hemingway’s After the Storm, allowing a deeper integration of his style and theory into my own. I concluded that omittance, as presented in the ‘Iceberg Theory’, allows an individual to experience storytelling subconsciously while softening discussions of controversial or challenging subjects. This is demonstrated in When the Marisae Call by the nameless protagonist as he hints at the concept of ‘ritual suicide’ or seppuku towards the end of the story, transporting us into the world of ancient samurai culture without the vivid imagery and resulting emotional intensity: ‘I struck the life from their bodies, not with my sword, but with the shame of defeat’ (p.5).
In terms of narrative voice, the nameless, first-person point of view is a dominant characteristic of both When the Marisae Call and Hemingway’s After the Storm. With Hemingway’s impressive ability to convey the protagonist’s lack of emotion through brevity and vacant tone, the consistent quick pace of the story keeps us attentive to the ‘now’ while entering into the rich world of sea scavenging through a ‘direct presentation of the object’ typical to Hemingway’s literature: ‘She was right up close to the porthole and I hit the glass twice and didn’t even crack it’ (After the Storm, p.130). Similarly, When the Marisae Call uses a narrative voice that tends to the present moment at a steady pace while also telling the story through the protagonist’s thoughtful mood, gentle demeanour and vehement emotional state. This contrast in narrative shows how literary devices can be inverted to achieve similar results of pace, style and form while staying true to unique concepts and values.
These concepts, and the consequent choice to set the story in the Meiji era, were inspired by Miyazawa Kenji’s Night on the Galactic Railroad. Not only was Kenji an author with scientific ideas far beyond his time, but the fact his works were mostly recognised after his death suggests to me that his ideas challenged the accepted norms of early Modernist literature and paved the way for ground-breaking potential in the Sci-Fi movement. The futuristic landscapes in Night on the Galactic Railroad are a profound example of world building from imagination. With the railroad’s ‘gingko trees that looked as if they had been crafted out of glass’ (Night on the Galactic Railroad, p.68), Kenji seems to exhibit an element of Surrealism by allowing his admirable passion for science to fuse with the multi-dimensional nature of the transitory world he dreams into existence. The Surrealist idea of an achronic world ‘outside of time’ comes to mind, an idea present in both Kenji’s work and my own. By utilising ephemeral descriptive language for natural occurrences such as ‘iridescent rays’ (p.2) and ‘the Marisae’s orchestral harmony’ (p.3), I endeavored to integrate science and spirit while sustaining a sense of interspecific equality and symmetry.
Another important factor in When the Marisae Call is the cultural and historical accuracy, demonstrated by the cultivation of the main character’s samurai heritage and surrounding environment. His instinctive courage and protective qualities are based on traditional qualities of bushido which still hold their place in today’s world and by connecting with the protagonist in this way, I concluded that perhaps, with the right intention, practicing the wise values of the samurai in the modern day could reinstate our connection with the natural world and help us to reclaim a sense of community.
While researching the cultural aspirations of ancient Japan, I also discovered Takao Hagiwara’s reflections on the ‘negative aspects of modernity’ in his essay ‘Overcoming Modernity in Kenji Miyazawa’. Hagiwara talks of the ‘excruciatingly frustrating sensations of alienation’ which came about as a result of the rapid Westernisation of Japan in the nineteenth century. He also draws attention to the underlying ‘craving for … unity, harmony, completion and salvation’ in the naturally resistant native culture. By embracing the ‘deep ecological’ biocentric perspective (Jones, p.3) found in Hemingway’s After the Storm, we can aim to comprehend that this school of thought was not only central to Japan, but an international discourse even more necessary today. I was able to maintain the deep ecological theme in When the Marisae Call by using personification as a device to develop the interspecies relationship between humanity and the Marisae. My intention was to clarify that neither’s position in the pyramid of societal structure was above or beneath the other: ‘The encounters with the Marisae are not chosen by us; we are chosen by them’ (p.5).
My creative portfolio is a holistic attempt to contribute my unique perspective to the ecocritical conversation in literary activism. By bringing environmental issues to the forefront of my work, I hope to educate readers on relevant issues while exhibiting a restoration of humanity’s instinctual connection to the natural world.
References:
Drixler, Fabian, William D. Fleming, Robert George Wheeler, Samurai and the Culture of
Japan’s Great Peace, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015)
Hagiwara, Takao, ‘‘OVERCOMING MODERNITY’ IN KENJI MIYAZAWA’ in Rethinking
Japanese Modernism, (Boston: BRILL, 2011) pp.310-119
Hagiwara, Takao, ‘Innocence and the Other World: The Tales of Miyazawa Kenji’,
Monumenta Nipponica, 47, (1992) pp.241-263,
Hemingway, Ernest, ‘After the Storm’ in The Complete Short Stories of Ernest
Hemingway, (New York: Scribner, 2003) pp.372-378
Jones, Allen C. ‘Man or Fish? An Ecocritical Reading of The Old Man and the Sea’ in
Teaching Hemingway and the Natural World, (La Vergne: Kent State University
Press, 2018) pp.118-131
Kato, Shuichui, A History of Japanese Literature, 3, (1983) pp.107-125
Sas, Miryam, Fault lines: Cultural Memory and Japanese Surrealism, (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 1999) pp.121-127
Scofield, Martin, The Cambridge Introduction to the American Short Story, (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2006) pp.139-141