Kamakura
A tinny voice echoes through the vaults of YVR, announcing that our flight to Tokyo is yet again delayed, drawing groans from our fellow passengers seated with us at gate E83. A wave of thoughts floods into my mind before I can block it: Oh, for Chrissakes! Not again. Bloody Air Canada, but WestJet’s no better. Couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery. Oh my god. I am so done with flying.
“What’s going on?” asks Bailey, our fifteen-year-old granddaughter, seated between me and Bob, a Japanese graphic novel in translation—a manga—open in her lap. She reaches underneath her long, chestnut hair to remove one ear bud so she can hear my reply.
“Our flight’s delayed again.” I shake my head and huff. “And they didn’t tell us why.” I’m already grumpy after race-walking with a loaded purse and pack hanging from my shoulders through the maze of hallways to get to our gate on time, only to find we had two more hours before boarding. All while looking forward to a ten-hour flight in a cramped seat that only reclines about an inch. I eye the attendant at the gate who is frowning with her painted doll face at her computer screen. What is she puzzling over? I glance sideways at Bob; he is immersed in a Popular Science magazine, his eyes and mind glued to an article on cars of the future.
I sneakily turn back and zoom in on the attendant, probing her mind. She is scrolling the screen, skimming down a never-ending passenger list. How many people fit on this plane, I wonder. There must be a couple hundred gathered at this gate. But what is she looking for? Then it comes clearly into my mind. Because of a cancellation, there is some space in Business Class, and she is looking for three economy passengers to bump up. I quickly scan the crowd around us, some sitting, some standing or pacing to the glassed wall and back. Besides Bob and me, not too many white-haired travellers. Surely, being seniors should give us an edge, and then we’re also shepherding our vulnerable grandchild. We’re the perfect candidates. Never mind that mother with the whining toddler and mewling baby. I bore deeper into the attendant’s mind, making her think of the grandparents travelling with their granddaughter, implanting the names Bob and Jan Urquhart in her brain.
It was during the pandemic lockdown that our telepathy developed. Bob and I had been waiting almost a year for travel restrictions to ease so we could go somewhere people don’t speak English. Tired of hearing other people’s thoughts, we had barely learned to control our telepathy when the lockdown lifted—and suddenly our range expanded! Now, we had to deal with thoughts of our neighbours, passers by, and even store clerks. And what we heard often wasn’t pretty, or easy to deal with. With knowledge comes a choice—what to do, or not do, with it. Last fall, we attended a Thanksgiving gathering with Bob’s relatives, where we practiced drowning out the sea of thoughts around us, which we learned we can do except when the thoughts are accompanied by extreme emotions. Those can slam into our brains even from twenty feet away. But something even more disconcerting happened at the dinner—we discovered that we could telegraph our thoughts to other minds.
That scared us—well, Bob more than me. He’s uncomfortable with the idea of acting like a god and influencing other people’s thoughts. He said we had no right to impose our will upon them. We discussed it, and I argued for all the good we could do, like we did at the family dinner, but he insisted that we refrain from ever interfering in someone else’s thoughts again. I finally gave in to appease him.
But here I am, doing just what we had agreed we wouldn’t. I focus on the attendant again, who is now fiddling with her red neckerchief. She is looking for our names on her computer screen, and I continue to engage her mind, pressing her to include Bailey in the bump up to Business Class.
When we told our family we were going to Japan for a holiday, Bailey texted me right away: “Grandma, you need to take me with you! I really want to travel, somewhere, anywhere, just get me out of this stupid little town, please!” We talked to her parents, our son and daughter-in-law, who informed us that she had been struggling with school for months. She had begun skipping classes, not completing assignments, and was starting to stay out late with new friends. In my opinion, fifteen-year-old girls should all be sent to farms where they work with animals and the land for a year (boys, too, of course, except at sixteen and on different farms). But we agreed that a trip to a foreign country and culture might do the trick of giving her a broader, more mature perspective on life. So, Bob and I picked her up on the way to Vancouver. We vowed to stay out of her mind, though, to not invade her privacy, but it isn’t easy when she gets highly emotional, which is often. The way her thoughts ping from some boy called Ashton to her latest zit to some ridiculously named rapper makes me dizzy.
The attendant calls out, “Mr. and Mrs. Urquhart, please come to the gate.”
Heads swivel toward us in a wave of curiosity. Bob and Bailey both turn to me with puzzled faces, to which I respond with raised eyebrows and a shrug. “Better go find out what she wants.”
When the attendant upgrades us to Business Class, I thank her, but Bob just eyes me with suspicion. When we return to our seats, Bailey is so happy that she rips out her ear buds and hugs me. Her joy spills into my mind, buoying my spirits, until Bob sends his thoughts to me. You did that, didn’t you? After we agreed—no telepathy to influence another person’s mind. We said it wasn’t right, but you really have no self control, do you?
What a killjoy. I shoot him a look of icy contempt. Oh, you’re Mr. Morality, are you? Remember what you thought about Miss Melon Boobs? His cheeks colour at the reminder. What harm is it to get a more comfortable plane ride? Someone was going to get bumped, why not us? Look how happy Bailey is. And you’ll be singing a different tune when we get free drinks and a wide, reclining seat. His lips tighten and he sticks his nose in the air. He really can be such a tight ass. I should have left him at home.
Bob doesn’t speak to me on the plane, orally or telepathically, but when we arrive at Narita, he reluctantly admits that he feels rested. However, he doesn’t apologize, and I remain cool with him. He wants us to curtail our telepathy, but we can’t go backward. It’s like learning that you can walk but then not walking, forcing yourself to keep crawling. I don’t know why we developed it instead of some younger people, but we have, and I need to explore it. I put my attention on Bailey and what she wants to see. But after two days of navigating through hordes of people—admittedly polite people—in the multi-level train stations and the clogged streets and shops of Shibuya and Harajuku, where she takes a thousand pictures of the crazy fashions that look like a never-ending Halloween costume party, I’ve had enough. I insist on visiting a place where she can learn more of the culture and history of Japan. So, this morning, after finding a Starbucks and a decent cup of coffee, we join the other three million travellers in Shinjuku Station to find a train to Kamakura. On the hour-long ride, I have Bailey research what we can expect at the local festival, hoping her interest will be piqued.
Now we follow the crowds flowing down Komachi-Dori, the street reserved for pedestrians and rickshaws at this hour. Savoury and sweet aromas waft through the air from noodle and sweets shops; long banners painted with black calligraphy hang outside. We are moving toward the festival grounds adjacent to the temple, where the Yabusame tournament will be held. Bailey reads aloud from her phone, “It is the capstone of a week-long festival that welcomes spring and commemorates the history of Kamakura and samurai culture. In the tournament, the competitors will shoot an arrow at a target while riding a galloping horse, a once-essential samurai skill.” Her eyes light up at this, and I am reassured that my idea is a good one.
Pink cherry blossoms drift onto the crowd, which is a curious mix of tourists like us in sun hats and walking shoes and locals in everyday clothes. A few traditionally dressed women wear elegant kimonos, and some men are in hakamas—traditional pleated trousers with tied vests. A space opens ahead of us around four girls in bright kimonos in exquisite, printed fabrics of crimson, cerise, robin’s-egg blue, and tangerine. They pause and giggle while tourists take pictures. Bob lifts his Nikon under his Tilley hat and fiddles with the zoom lens while Bailey slides her phone out of her hoodie and deftly aims and taps. I catch myself wondering what she thinks of these girls—about her age—but I resist the urge to read her mind. Even if I’m still annoyed with Bob’s self-righteousness, he’s right about one thing: we should respect her privacy. And we don’t want to give her any reason to suspect our telepathic powers. If our secret got out, who knows what would happen? We’d be hounded or locked up, regarded as either crazies or charlatans, or maybe even scientific specimens.
The crowd thickens as we reach two stone guardian dogs and funnel through a red torii gate. My arm is jostled by a passing man dressed as a samurai in black hakama and yukata, his hair in a tight topknot. I am hit by a wave of extreme agitation. Bob immediately shoots me a concerned look from under his furrowed brow. He has sensed it, too. We snug up protectively on either side of Bailey.
It’s coming from him. I point my chin to the samurai who is now pushing through people ahead of us, who give him offended, silent glares. I’m getting some thoughts, but they’re in Japanese, so I don’t know why he’s agitated.
“Why are we stopping?” Bailey asks.
“Um, just a minute,” I mutter, straining to hear more.
On the other side of Bailey, Bob is squinting at the man and sends me his thoughts. He’s picturing a sword or knife…I think it might be under his robe. I’m catching something that sounds like ‘guy koko,’ but I can’t make out the rest.
Oh, god, now I wish we had learned some Japanese! Google Translate! I fumble through my purse for my phone and hiss as it fails to recognize my face. I tap in my password and shoot Bailey a split-second glance. “Just have to look something up.” I type in ‘guykoko’ and curse under my breath when I am asked if I want to translate from Turkish. I try again with ‘gaikoku’ and the result is ‘foreign country.’
Bob instantly knows what I found. Foreign. I don’t like the sound of that. I’m hearing ‘shin uh’ over and over.
I quickly type ‘shinu” and get the translation ‘die.’
Bob stares at me over Bailey’s head. Die foreigners?
Let’s get out of here. I pull on Bailey’s arm.
“What’s going on?” she says, looking from me to Bob and back.
“We have to go—too many people.” I glare at Bob. Come on!
He gives me a pained look. We can’t just let him start killing people.
What do you mean? But I’m afraid I know what he means. We have the knowledge, and now we need to choose what to do about it.
You get Bailey away from here and find the police. I’ll stay and try to stop him.
No! My heart shoots up into my throat. What can you do? You don’t know any Japanese, and you don’t have a weapon.
I’ll think of something. He gives me a little shove. Go! Quick. He looks toward the samurai man, who has stopped about fifteen feet away under a cherry tree, its pink petals dotting the ground beneath him. He turns to face us, a wild, fierce look in his eyes. His right hand goes to his waist, onto the hilt of a weapon peeking out from behind the cloth of his black cloak.
Bailey’s eyes widen, and her thoughts burst into my mind: Wow, a performance! Quick, get a video!
Before she can get her phone out, I grab her hand and pull her away with me.
“What the hell?” She staggers and resists, turning her head toward the space in the crowd that has now opened around the samurai, the onlookers holding up their phones. “Why does Grandpa get to stay?”
“Quiet,” I hiss. “Just follow me.” I am dragging her now, as she skids and hops behind me, protesting that she wants to see the show. People turn and stare from under lowered brows. I don’t want to raise a commotion or provoke the samurai man, so I take a chance and send her a telepathic message. Trust me. We need to go quietly and quickly to find the police and save Grandpa.
A split-second pause, and the resistance stops. She trots up beside me in her high-top sneakers, giving me a questioning, sidelong glance.
Outside the Torii gate, I scan the masses of people. On the way here I had seen several men and women in blue uniforms. I turn to Bailey. “Translate ‘police’ into Japanese.” I know she’ll be quicker than me. I step in front of a middle-aged woman and bow my head quickly. “Excuse me, but we’re looking for the police.” I turn to Bailey, but I don’t need to tell her to tap the button. She’s ahead of me.
A female voice on the phone says, “Keisatsu.”
The woman’s mouth opens. “Ah, keisatsu!” She crooks her finger, and we follow her through the sea of bodies to a street corner. She points across to two young officers in blue uniforms with high-visibility vests looking out over the teeming mass of people.
Bailey and I run up to them. I blurt out, “There’s a man with a sword!”
Their chins jerk down, and they frown. Before I can say anything else, Bailey has her phone speaking the phrase in Japanese. Their eyes pop open wide. One of them asks, “Doko?” Bailey points back the way we came, waves her hand, and leads the way, dodging through bodies.
Screams ring out from inside the gates. A voice bellows in Japanese. People stream out toward us as we push our way back inside the park. As we near the place we left Bob and the samurai, the bellowing becomes clearer. Two words: “Gaijin korosu, gaijin korosu!”
Then silence. We reach the spot near the cherry tree and stop. Bob is standing still and mute, staring directly into the eyes of the samurai man fifteen feet away. The samurai is frozen in place, his feet planted wide, his glinting, lightly curved sword held high. Everyone else has fled the scene.
Suddenly, the samurai’s mouth drops open, his arm plummets like a felled tree, and the sword slips from his grasp, hitting the ground with a thunk.
The two officers rush to either side of him, restraining his arms around his back, shouting commands in Japanese.
Relief washes through me, releasing my taut muscles. The danger is over, and we are all unharmed. Bailey runs to Bob and hugs him. He looks startled, as though awoken from a trance, even though his Tilley hat and camera are still in place.
“Grandpa! You’re okay. I’m so glad.” She steps back from the hug and adds, “And you’re a hero. You saved everyone.”
Yes, he did. My Bob, a hero. But how? I send him my thoughts. How did you do that—get him to drop the sword—without knowing any Japanese?
I’m not sure. He glances around, as if looking for answers. At first, I sent him calming images, a field of flowers and waves on a beach, but they just seemed to confuse him, and then he lifted the sword, and I tried ‘ie, ie’ because ‘no’ was all I could think of in Japanese. But it didn’t work. He started screaming at me with murderous thoughts, so I kept hammering into his head ‘Drop the sword, drop the sword’. It took a few seconds, but I guess it worked.
My eyes widen, and a shiver runs through me. Not words and gentle images, but sheer force of mind. Bob compelled him to act by just thinking about it. But I don’t have time to consider the ramifications.
The two officers secure the samurai man and then radio someone. A few minutes later, a tiny black and white Suzuki van makes its way through the Torii gate, its red light flashing. Just as the van whisks the samurai away, another police car shows up. Two more officers get out, bow to the three of us, and gesture for us to get in. Technicalities, Bob and I think, statements, maybe a commendation for Bob.
But, when we are ushered into the police station a few minutes later, no one speaks to us except to ask for our passports and to take our bags. Finally, we are waved toward a bench that sits against the hard wooden wall of the cool hallway, overseen by two stern officers behind a glassed-in counter.
As I wonder how I’m ever going to explain this to Bailey’s parents, a small, stone-faced female officer, her black hair cut in a severe bob, emerges from a door at the end of the hall and walks toward Bob. Her uniform is crisp, and the crease on her dark pants could slice a tomato.
She inclines her head in a quick bow. “Mister Er…qua?”
“Urquhart.” Bob smiles apologetically. “A Scottish name.”
She doesn’t smile back. “Come with me, please.”
I try to probe her mind, but even though she spoke in English, her thoughts are in Japanese. But a cold cloud of suspicion emanates from her. She clearly doesn’t trust us or our story.
Bob glances at me as he rises from his chair. What the hell do they want?
The officer turns briskly, motioning him to follow. I project to him as he walks away. Just keep saying that you saw the sword, and you spoke quietly to the guy. Telling them we’re telepathic could only lead to trouble. And admitting how he managed to get him to drop the sword would be even worse. Surely, if the crazed samurai tells the police that Bob made his arm drop, they will take it as just more evidence of his insanity.
“Are they going to give Grandpa a medal?” Bailey’s eyes, framed by her long, dark hair, are as wide as saucers. Although I vowed to stay out of her mind on this trip, I know she’s scared but also excited. Well, she wanted some excitement, and she got it.
“I doubt it. Probably just a statement of the facts.”
“But he made the guy drop his sword!”
I don’t respond. We sit in silence while the two officers behind the glass shuffle papers, move back and forth between computer desks and the counter, but always seem to keep their eyes on us. Bailey huffs out a sigh and taps her fingers on her leg. Our packs and purses, including our phones, are in the possession of the police, so she has nothing to occupy her mind but her own thoughts.
I resent that they have taken our property, but I suppose it might be standard practice for police stations—security and all. However, it gives Bailey time to consider the recent events.
Quietly, she asks, “How did Grandpa do that—get the samurai to drop his sword? I didn’t hear him say anything.”
My stomach tightens. “Oh, maybe he said something before we got back there.”
“It looked like a staring contest to me.”
“If it was, I guess he won it.”
She smiles at this, but then pinches her eyes at me. “Grandma, when you were pulling me away, did I hear your voice in my head?”
I swallow, frown, and then say softly, “What do you mean? Like, without me talking? How could that be?”
She tips her head to the side, a puzzled look on her face. I never thought I’d wish she had her phone to keep her from cogitating.
Just then, the door at the end of the hallway opens and Bob reappears, followed by the cheerless female officer. His mouth twitches up slightly as he sends his thoughts along with a ray of relief. It’s okay. Just some questions about us and a statement. I think she bought it.
The English-speaking officer hands us our passports, thanks us, and tells us we are free to go. Another officer brings us our bags. Then she and the other police officers line up and bow to us, so we incline our heads, Bob puts his Tilley on his silver hair, and we push through the door onto the sunlit sidewalk.
Once outside, Bailey digs out her phone and starts texting, no doubt telling her friends about the incident. I heave out a huge sigh of relief. “Well, Bob, you really were heroic, staying behind to deal with that guy. I’d kiss you, but I think the Japanese might frown on such a public display of affection.” But you did use your telepathy to influence him. I need to dig that in, to remind him that he broke his own rule.
He hangs his head and frowns. I know. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t think I’d be able to physically force him to drop the sword, and it was life or death. He pauses, and then turns to me. Not quite the same as getting an upgrade for our seats, but still, I used my telepathic power on another person. I’m sorry I was so hard on you for doing it.
And not just words and images to influence a person, I thought in reply. But you forced a physical action! Now that’s frightening. If you can make someone drop an object, then what else could you make them do?
I don’t know. He shakes his head. This is too much to deal with. I thought we could be more like normal people in Japan. I just want to forget about it and get back to being tourists and grandparents. “Let’s look for a place to have lunch. Where would you like to go, Bailey?”
Bailey is still texting away furiously as we saunter along. She lifts her head briefly, says, “I’ll search for a place,” and directs her attention back to her phone.
And then I remember. My lips pinch. I better tell Bob. Oh. About Bailey. I, um, need to tell you something.
Bob turns and stares at me, eyebrows raised.
In the panic today, I sent her a telepathic message. I think she’s suspicious.
His eyes widen so that the whites become visible behind his glasses.
Bailey stops and looks up from her phone. “Oooh, we need to get some inarizushi!”
Bob slowly shakes his head. “Just as long as I can get a beer,” he says with a sigh.