Under the Sun Page 11

  ‘What will you do when the war’s over?’

  ‘I haven’t really given it much thought. I’d like to do a doctorate in entomology. Perhaps in Honolulu. What about you?’

  ‘Finish my degree at Oxford.’

  ‘What were you studying?’

  ‘Greats.’

  Hayama looked quizically at his companion.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The classics: Latin and Greek.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps teaching.’

  ‘You would be a good teacher.’

  Strickland was silent and looking away, he watched the waves as they gently lapped the shore. Before the war he had considered joining the church, his faith had always been strong and he admired the monks who had taught him, giving him a sense of man’s true place in the world through their own spirituality. The Benedictine philosophy was one of conversatio morum, a conversion of manners or more accurately, life. Their teaching left a watermark on the child’s soul, which was visible only when held up to the light, but remained indelible to the end. But as the war continued the Englishman’s belief in God had diminished. It was not so much the personal loss of his friends and comrades, that he knew was fate. Yet sometimes the pilot questioned the existence of a deity that allowed such carnage to rage unabated. Was this not a time for divine intervention? An act of God? Then he remembered something a priest had once told him at school.

  ‘In the evening of life we shall be examined in love.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘A Spanish friar called John of the Cross. He was a doctor of the Christian church.’

  The captain picked up a shell and dug at the sand.

  ‘Tell me about this John of the Cross.’

  The pilot gazed out across the lagoon as he recalled his studies of the saint.

  ‘He was a sixteenth-century Spanish mystic who led a humble life at a time when the Catholic church was not especially known for its humility. He was so devout that his own order imprisoned him because his holiness embarrassed them. He wrote several works about faith and how to lead a life devoted to Christ. He also wrote a considerable amount of poetry.’

  ‘Can you remember any?’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ said the pilot. ‘But I remember one in particular,’ and he began to recite a poem that he had learned as a boy.

  My love is as the hills,

  The lonely valleys clad with forest trees,

  The rushing, sounding rills,

  Strange isles in distant seas,

  Lover-like whisperings, murmurs of the breeze.

  My love is hush-of-night,

  Is dawn’s first breathings in the heaven above,

  Still music veil’d from sight

  Calm that can echoes move,

  The feast that brings new strength – the feast of love!

  Strickland finished and a silence lay between the two men. The soldiers had gone and there was just the whisper of palm fronds and the waves lapping the shell-strewn shore. Hayama looked out towards the distant surf and the horizon beyond and was filled with a sense of peace. He had not known anything like it since the war began. This man had come into his life like some winged messenger from the gods. Why had they sent him? The captain was sure there had to be a reason. He turned towards the pilot.

  ‘Will you write it down for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ came the reply.

  Strickland sat up and in the distance he could see a lithe, young figure bounding over the rocks. The man jumped down onto the sand and came running towards them.

  Moments later a breathless Ito slumped down at their feet. He was wearing a pair of swimming trunks, his dark hair matted, his body wet and glistening. In his hand he held a harpoon. Around his back was a string bag and unfastening it, he put a hand inside and produced his spoils. He held out a dead octopus, lank and leathery like a punctured football.

  ‘Tako!’ he said, showing the tentacled creature to his captain.

  ‘Well done, we’ll eat it for supper. Where did you catch it?’

  ‘Ni nanpa taiisan,’ replied the orderly, still breathless from his exertions.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Strickland.

  ‘He said he caught it out by the wreck. There’s an old Dutch merchant ship, which lies in a few fathoms of water near the reef. It was probably damaged by a typhoon, then sank as it made its way into the harbour. Ito does most of his fishing there.’

  ‘I’d like to see it,’ said the pilot.

  ‘Ito, why don’t you show Mr Strickland the wreck? Perhaps you might catch another octopus, this one is pretty small.’

  ‘Heitai-san,’ answered the orderly.

  ‘And you can practice your English too.’

  ‘Yes … sir,’ replied Ito with a bashful look.

  ‘I’ll take this home and put it in some water.’ Hayama got up and picking up the octopus and the empty bento boxes, he walked back towards the camp.

  The two men watched him go. As he disappeared into the trees, Strickland turned to his companion.

  ‘Will you show me the wreck?’

  ‘Of course … come on,’ said the orderly and he got up.

  Ito hopped barefoot across the burning sand and the Englishman followed. They walked round to the edge of the harbour and climbed the great boulders along the promontory. Once on top of the spur, Ito leapt from rock to rock with sure-footed grace and Strickland jumped after him as best he could. When he reached the end the orderly stopped and waited for the pilot to catch up. Strickland arrived a little out of breath and looking back, he could see the pale beach curving like a blade towards the jetty on the far side. Before him the sea echoed and boomed. He watched as the waves pounded the coral, the surf exploding in a white cannonade across the reef. The wind whipped the tops of the waves so that a fine mist rose from their crests, before they came crashing down upon the coral. The air was thick with salt and the pilot breathed in deeply, filling his lungs.

  ‘The wreck is down there,’ said the orderly, pointing at the surface which shimmered a few feet below.

  Strickland peered into the water, but could see nothing except the sunlight wobbling on the waves.

  ‘How deep is it?’

  ‘Not much. Maybe twenty feet. I show you,’ and Ito picked his way down the rocks to the shore.

  The pilot followed and joined him on top of a large, black boulder which stuck out above the water.

  ‘There … now you see it,’ said his companion pointing into the depths.

  The water was as clear as sake and the pilot could see schools of brightly coloured fish swimming below. The fish would flit back and forth and suddenly scatter as a predator swam by. There was an abundance of coral of varying shapes and hues, some waving like fans, others static like the branches of petrified trees. And yet, as the pilot gazed at all the marine life below, he could not see any sign of the sunken vessel.

  ‘There’s plenty of coral, but where’s the ship?’

  ‘It is beneath. The coral grow above wreck.’

  Strickland looked again and as his eyes became accustomed to the variegated mass of marine life, he could make out a large shape lying perpendicular to the shore. It was the Dutch merchantman. The seabed was so shallow that when the ship sank its main deck must have been above water. Over the years the tide and storms had levelled the vessel, so that only its hull remained on the bottom. He wondered what had happened to the crew. Had they been rescued? Or were they forced to survive on the island until they finally perished? Perhaps that was how the monkeys had arrived.

  ‘You are ready?’ asked Ito, grasping the harpoon in one hand and holding his mask in the other.

  ‘You go first. I’ll follow,’ the pilot replied and the orderly hopped in, his body barely making a splash. Strickland waited until he emerged and stripping off his clothes and sandals, he dived after him into the sea.

  The Englishman swam beneath the waves and then broke the sur
face, shaking the water from his hair. He saw Ito grinning at him and suddenly they both started laughing. Neither of them knew why they were laughing, perhaps it was just the sheer pleasure of being in the water. The sea echoed to the sound of their happiness, their voices rising above the crashing surf.

  ‘Go on, show me the wreck,’ said Strickland, still smiling.

  ‘Oke,’ replied Ito and putting on his mask, he flipped over and disappeared beneath the surface.

  The pilot followed and together they swam down towards the merchantman. Strickland did not have a mask and opening his eyes, he found the underwater world oddly translucent, shapes and colours melding together in an aqueous light. He lost sight of Ito and continued on towards the wreck. Strickland grabbed a piece of coral on the ship’s deck and hung onto it, marvelling at the seascape around him. He felt he had been transported to another world, a silent numinous kingdom full of strange delights. A variety of fish surrounded him, quite unafraid of this interloper and stretching out a hand they nibbled curiously at his fingers, before dashing away again. He looked down and saw a giant clam gape by his foot, a wave of colour pulsing across the fleshy opening of its mouth. As the oxygen in his blood diminished the pilot felt his chest beginning to constrict and looking up, he could see the waves rippling above him like a patch of sky. He let go of the coral branch and kicked off, rising in a single glide. His head broke the surface and exhaling he opened his eyes, the sun’s glare making him squint. Strickland trod water and soon Ito appeared beside him. In his hand was his harpoon, a blue angel fish twitching on the barbs.

  ‘Take this,’ he said, removing the mask from his face and handing it to the pilot. ‘You can see wreck much better.’

  Strickland took the mask and put it over his head, adjusting it to fit his face. Through the watery pane of glass he saw Ito smiling at him and giving him a thumbs up, he turned and dived again. This time the seabed appeared in sharp relief, the colours no longer unfocused, but varied and bright. Beneath him lay the wreck with its verdant foliage of coral and he swam down towards it, a school of tiny silver fish scattering in his path like bullets. With his hand upon the coral the pilot pulled himself along the wreck, until he came to the shattered mizzen mast encased in a mass of green and red fans waving idly in the current. Before the mast lay the open hatch of the main deck, an ominous black square where fish came and went. The Englishman swam over the opening and felt a chill across his body. He continued on to the bow and with the air in his lungs beginning to fail, he took a final look along the wreck before pushing off and swimming towards the surface.

  Strickland emerged with a gasp and removed the mask from his face. He took a gulp of air, looked about and saw that Ito was paddling near the shore and swam towards him.

  ‘Wonderful!’ he said, as he approached. ‘All those fish!’

  ‘Yes, there are many fish!’ agreed the young Japanese.

  ‘Here take this.’ Strickland handed the orderly his mask. ‘Go and catch your octopus. I’m going to have a rest.’

  ‘Oke,’ said Ito, slipping the mask over his head. ‘I hope I catch one,’ and with that he ducked, disappearing like a cormorant beneath the surface.

  The pilot turned and headed back towards the promontory. With a few strokes he reached the wave-spattered shore and trod water as he selected a suitable rock and grabbing one, he hauled himself out of the sea, the waves trying to drag him back. With a final effort Strickland rose clear from the water and climbed up the boulders towards his clothes, but he did not put them on and instead lay down, using his shirt as a pillow. He stretched out on the sun-warmed rocks and soaked up the heavens’ rays. The pilot closed his eyes, listening to the surf roaring in his ears and in a short while he dozed off.

  He had not been asleep long when a splash of water woke him. He looked up and saw Ito standing over him, an octopus squirming in his hand. The orderly turned the mottled mass inside out and bit it. He then put the dead octopus in his bag and sat down next to him.

  ‘We’ll eat well tonight,’ said the pilot, raising himself on his elbows.

  ‘Yes. Captain Hayama like octopus very much. But he like this even more,’ and he made a snapping motion with his fingers and thumbs.

  ‘Crab?’

  ‘Yes. He love crab. But they are difficult to catch. The crab hide deep. They live out by reef,’ and the orderly pointed to the foaming line of surf.

  Strickland smiled and lay back again and Ito joined him, taking off his bag. The two men lay there on the rock, sunning themselves like lizards as the waves pumelled the shore. The sky above them was blue and empty and a breeze blew in from the ocean bringing a taste of the sea. The air was soporific and soon they fell asleep. As the afternoon wore on, the sun made its slow way across the heavens, the wind dropped and the sky deepened.

  After a while Strickland woke again. His head felt light and his limbs heavy from sleeping in the sun and he decided to have a last swim before returning to the camp. Ito dozed quietly beside him. The pilot left him to his slumber and padded over to the large rock and standing on its edge, he flexed his knees and dived in. The water was refreshingly cold and the Englishman struck out towards the reef. As he drew closer, the noise became almost deafening. The pilot went as near as he dared and watched in awed fascination as the waves detonated across the coral, before rising again and rolling in a phalanx towards him. Finally, he turned and swam back to the shore and saw Ito sitting up on the rock.

  ‘You are strong swimmer,’ said the orderly, as Strickland hauled himself out of the water.

  ‘I grew up by the sea,’ the pilot replied, picking his way towards his companion.

  ‘Ah … like me.’

  ‘Captain Hayama told me that you’re from Nagasaki.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ito. ‘I’m half man, half fish.’

  Strickland smiled and observed the young Japanese. Hayama said that he had compassion, but if that were true it was nothing compared to the orderly’s. If it had not been for Ito he would have died in the punishment box. Both of them knew what had happened and both of them realised they must never mention it.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ the pilot said as he looked out to sea at the westward sun and began to put on his clothes. ‘We should get back to the camp.’

  ‘I hope the captain-san will be happy with my fish,’ replied the orderly, picking up the bag which contained his catch.

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ answered his companion and together they made their way over the rocks towards the beach.

  When they reached the camp the two of them parted. Ito went into the yard behind Hayama’s quarters and the pilot returned to his own hut. He was tired from swimming and lying out in the sun and after a quick shower he went inside and lay down on his bed. Strickland closed his eyes, enjoying the respite from the day’s heat. He lay there in the gloom, listening to the diminishing sounds of the forest as the sun set beyond the trees.

  Later, the pilot went over to the captain’s hut and found his friend happily playing with the macaque, who seemed to have taken to his new guardian. Hayama had made a collar and fastened it with a long chain so that Chamberlain could run freely around his quarters without escaping. The radio was tuned to a station playing popular music and the atmosphere was happy. They dined on Ito’s grilled octopus and after supper the captain brought out his set of Mahjong and sat down to teach the pilot how to play. He built the walls containing the various characters and described the importance of the dragons, the seasons and the four winds. They played late into the night, constantly refilling each other’s glasses with sake. There was laughter and music and outside the pale moon shone and cicadas sang in the trees.

  SIX

  Strickland spent the following days fishing and swimming with Ito out by the wreck and whiled away the evenings with Hayama, where they would talk long into the night. Sometimes he would go for walks alone in the forest and come back with his arms laden with fruit. He would take whatever he had picked around to the yard at the b
ack and would often find the orderly there, either tending the chickens or filleting and salting fish and hanging them out to dry on long bamboo poles. The pilot also made himself a rudimentary fishing rod, which he used with some success. Ito had given him an old reel which he no longer used, preferring the harpoon, and Strickland had gone and cut down a length of bamboo from the forest. After stripping and sanding the wood, the pilot had hammered some nails along the shaft and using a pair of pliers, he bent them over to make the eyes. He then attached the reel to its base with some twine and threaded the line through the metal hoops. It was not perfect and the line occasionally snagged as he cast, but it worked well enough. He used either a lure, which he had cut from a tin can and hammered flat, or a cork and a hook which he baited with fish. Once he caught a wahoo that must have weighed seven or eight pounds.

  Early one morning Ito was standing in the sunlit yard, wearing nothing but a loincloth as he salted his catch. He rubbed the flakes firmly into the fillet before hanging it on a bamboo pole, which he placed in the sun. One of the goats cried and turning around he saw the Englishman coming towards him.

  ‘Ohayo gozaimasu, ogenki desu-ka?’ he said, making the smallest of bows.

  ‘Ohayo gozaimasu, oke domo arigato,’ answered Strickland, who now spoke a few rudimentary words of Japanese. He bent down and stroked one of the goat’s brown ears and the animal bleated contentedly. He patted the beast and stood up.

  ‘Working hard?’

  ‘Yes, today is special day,’ said the orderly in a hushed voice, tapping his lips with his forefinger and indicating the commander’s quarters behind him.

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’ whispered the pilot.

  ‘Captain Hayama. His birthday is today. He think we do not remember. But we have big surprise.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, in evening we will make performance and sing.’

  Strickland smiled at the prospect.

  ‘I’m sure the captain will enjoy it.’

  ‘I hope so. But you must say nothing. The captain-san does not know …’