The Falling Sun
Shinki-itten - A Fresh Start 

Out in the malicious Siskiyou sun, Colonel John F. Thorbes lines up the binoculars, scrolling the desert terrain until the reticle focuses on that abomination. Not that John F. Thorbes perceives it this way. He sees the facility as a necessity to save the lives of every man, woman, and child of the United States of America.
     Satisfied, he pulls down the binoculars, shields his eyes with his large, leathery hands, and then gestures at the photographer to stand exactly where he is.
     It is John F. Thorbes' job to pick the best angles for the journalist. He performs as a director and keeps a steady eye over his companion in case they should get some big idea – snap a photograph that they believe paints the truth. To John F. Thorbes, that isn't journalism. The news always lies.
     The journalist obeys. They take their place on the bluff.
     From here, it looks like a test site, a No-Man's land, a scrap heap. Inside, it looks worse. Families in hovels. Emaciated children playing in the litter-strewn streets. Ragged men in torn labourer's gear, smudged with muck, working on burst pipes and over-flowing sewage. A slum of grease, and stench, and the sickening mewl of despair.
     That's what criminals deserve.
     John F. Thorbes knows about the camps in Eastern Europe that are promoted as paradise – everyone knows what they are really like. They choose to turn a blind eye and believe the propaganda, which promotes a more desirable version of reality.
     John F. Thorbes' job is similar – but he does not think of it like this. He thinks that he is stopping Socialists from lying about the conditions of that husk across the desert.
     He thinks that he is the hero.

“San Francisco is that way.” the crewman had said once they’d docked.
     San Francisco was miles and miles away. A day’s walk, from midnight to midday. Sandals eroded, feet blistered, so that every step was agony – my parents arrived in San Francisco. The sight rejuvenated them.
     It was easy to believe that this was a foreign country – for the terrain already had one major difference to Japan. In Aisho Delta – or anywhere across the islands – everything was alive, youthful, spirited, green. Here, the land was dormant. Stale.
     As they had stalked from the beach that night, my parents had departed from the other survivors of the Unmei. It had occurred to them that a large group ambling across the coastline was a sure-fire way to draw the attention of the local law. Splitting up had been the best way to avoid capture. My parents, however, had remained together.
     Tenshi clung to my father because he seemed to know what he was doing. He had a dream and was undaunted in its pursuit. Meanwhile, Hamata stayed by Tenshi because he was actually afraid and alone.
     They had been given a lift in the back of a wagon. The driver, a garrulous old man with tufts of white hair sprouted from his ears, had also been on his way to San Francisco Port: to collect goods. He had offered to take my parents as far as they had needed to go. This arrangement had been surprisingly effortless, with my parents deciphering the word San Francisco from the man’s drawled English. It had been enough for them to trust him – or for him to trust them. The only price had been to listen to the man narrating for the entire journey – not that they had known what he had said. Neither did the man seem to care that they did not reply, he had just been happy to have their company.
     Only one person in Aisho Delta spoke English; a sour fossil, who had refused to teach anyone (or else the source of his wisdom and power might not have been special anymore.) As a result, my father’s English was finite. And my mother, whilst her brothers had been taught business English for the future of Tomiyama Enterprise, she had not. For she was a woman and clearly did not need to know such things.
     The man had fulfilled his promise, and my parents had arrived in San Francisco port later that day, their aching limbs well-rested.
     San Francisco.
     The city was still healing from the earthquake four years ago. The old-style buildings constructed yesterday had a ghostly tint, and there was an ordered chaos to their placement. The looming buildings bursting from their foundations, but tightly packed into blocks. As though the wilderness only had a few safe zones, and in these zones, humanity had to compress itself against demand – or the unlucky few would be tossed to the wolves. That was a city, a self-contained bubble against the threatening desert. Yet, the city was, in itself, a desert.
     Especially to my parents, who were overwhelmed by the dizzying magnitude of a place that they did not know.
     “It’s magnificent.” Hamata beamed. (And yet he had not liked what had been done to Aisho Delta.)
     My mother joined him at the edge of the dock; “Beautiful. It reminds me of Yokohama.”
     “Yeah,” my father nodded, but his vision had gone to the sky and the few dotted clouds, feeling as weightless as they were; “I didn’t go often. But when I left, I looked around and said goodbye.” He drifted back to Earth; “A lot is the same.”
     “Which is sad – I thought America would be different.”
     “Out there, it will be. Here, we’re invisible.”
     Tenshi wondered about that. Down on the jetties and in the streets, hundreds of people passed one-another, some sharing garbled conversations, others in haste as they raced Time, and more still in their own worlds, dallying about their chores – and she thought of how each of them, like her and Hamata, had dreams and purposes; how they had flocked to the city to achieve something great. What had made these people fail? Or were they happy? It saddened her that so many people could not have what they desired. She feared that the same fate would befall her.
     Turning to Hamata, she said: “Back on the boat, you didn’t have to do that.”
     “Yes, I did.”
     “Why?”
     Puzzled, Hamata looked at her. My mother seemed unsure of herself. He wanted to smooth that anguish, so he replied: “The captain had you like one of his fish in the nets – I had to help. I would not have forgiven myself.”
     “You hardly know me.”
     “It’s a bit late saying that now.”
     She brushed off the remark, stressed: “That money was yours. What happened was my problem. You should have – you didn’t deserve that.”
     My father realised then how much he had yet to learn about this woman. Softly, he said: “It’s okay.”
     “I’ll pay you back.”
     “What?”
     “I will pay you back.”
     “But I don’t want you to.”
     “I will.” she finished, locking the pact in place by turning away.
     As much as Tenshi was grateful to my father for helping her, she didn’t want to be indebted to him. There was a loss of freedom in that. As it was, she was shackled to this new land. To get home, she had to have money. To get money, she had to work. That meant staying in America for the foreseeable future.
     My father yielded: “You need to save your money to get back.”
     “What about you?” she asked.
     “I’ll help. But I’m staying.” Then, he slung his bundle up his shoulder and headed towards the steps down to the jetty; “There must be jobs around here somewhere. Fishing crew said so.”
     “They also said they would bring us directly here.” muttered my mother as she followed.
     The pair took the warped steps and walked beneath the black arch that proclaimed the area: San Francisco Harbour! It might seem a bold move for two illegal immigrants to stroll into the heavily policed docks, but they blended with the cosmopolitan crowds: some people whistling, some people talking, and some more listening to those who were talking or whistling. The plod of fine shoes on wood. The hiss of steam released by cooling ship engines. The scent of smoke, sea, and spring sun on the unsettled dust.
     My parents found their way to a large, paved common. The place was alive with advertisement, as men yelled, battling to have their voice heard over the cacophony of wagons, horses, ships, and idle conversation. Even for someone who did speak English, the words would have been wrangled:
     “Jobs! We pay well! Factory jobs!”
     “Fishing crew wanted! Good pay!”
     “One dollar a day. Hard labour!”
     “Farmers wanted! Best pay in California!”
     It was this last proclamation that caught my father’s attention. He had snatched the most important word of English that he knew – farm. A word that he had heard from a fisherman who had spread tales of America. A word that he had repeated to himself every day since, knowing that it was his dream.
     He headed in the direction of the voice. My mother hurried to catch up. Nervously, they approached the speaker.
     “Farmers wanted. Best p – Oh, howdy there.” The proprietor of the carriage gave an uneasy grin.
     In a scratchy red shirt that was smothered with mud, the man looked his part: a rancher. Trousers set like cement from the same mud as that on the shirt; Camilla boots with bronze spurs, which my father looked at enviously. A cornfield hat sat askew on this man’s wild, dark locks, and a roguishly handsome face stared out. The hat had failed at its job of keeping off the sun: pink patches of sunburn scarred his eyes and forehead.
     As the rancher stepped down from the wagon, Tenshi retreated behind my father, peering over his shoulder at this stranger. A fitting term, for Tim Shackleton certainly was strange.
     “Wanna work on the farm, huh?” He looked my parents up and down; “Either o’ you speak English?” A heavy stare unsettled my parents, before he probed: “Hmm? English, you know? Compadre – you understand?” He sighed; “Gosh darn.” Rubbed a large hand down his face. He asked: “Papers? P-a-p-ers. Papers?” With no reply coming from either of my parents, he produced a crumpled sheet from his pocket and waved it at them; “Ya’ll got papers?”
     My father, understanding what paper was, to the astonishment of the brute, mumbled: “N-no.”
     “Hush.” A square finger hurried to my father’s lips; “Keep ya voice down – ‘less you want every coot for a mile to come crashin’ down here.” The rancher flickered his eyes back and forth. Satisfied that no coots were on their way, he relaxed. A new debate took him as he surveyed my parents – probably wondering what to do with them.
     Japanese workers were highly valued by employers at that time. They worked hard and were determined – after all, in the United States, hard work was supposed to make dreams come true. When the Chinese had been excluded from immigrating, employers had hired Japanese in herds to plug the gap in cheap labour.
     Having weighed this, the rancher said: “Ya’ll not from ‘round here. But you’re young.” He apparently didn’t understand that they didn’t understand; “Tell ya what, though, my employer’s been desperate for hands for a good part of the year – an’ we’ve got folk like yous already. Ain’t too much of a trouble, I s’pose.” He chewed his tongue; “No-one here need know your little predicament. Fine shape should nae be denied.” He acknowledged my mother for the first time; gave another grin; “You ain’t knotted to this angel here, are ya?”
     My father stared blankly.
     “I ask ‘cos there be rules: ya’ll both must be independent, for we don’t wanna support no heavy woman who ain’t pullin’ they’re weight, do we now? No, we don’t. But we also need good women who make good maids.” Again, he looked at my mother; disguised it by tugging his ear and focussing back to Hamata; “Ya’ll both work hard and fairly, an’ listen to the ol’ man, then we’ll get along like dandy. Pay is six cents an hour.”
     The average wage was ten cents an hour.
     My father replied with a slow nod.
     “Great.” beamed the rancher, and he gestured to the back of his wagon. A tanned horse lounged nearby; it gave a chuff of encouragement.
     My father read the gesture, pleased to have found him and Tenshi a job. But he was still scratching his head to what the whole affair had been about. One thing was for certain: for his new employer, he would do anything.
     Tenshi followed my father into the wagon, she was helped to reach the step by the rancher, who took her delicate hand in his paw. She then took her seat next to my father. They were regarded by their sweaty colleagues as thugs or aliens.
     The rancher looked up at the clock on the Ferry Building and decided to saddle up.
     Giddy anticipation returned to my parents.
     There was a “Yeargh!”, and the wagon pulled away.