Under the Sun Read online

  The pilot nodded. Hayama had not mentioned his impending birthday and he wondered what he could get him for a present.

  ‘I shan’t say a word, I promise,’ he said and taking up his rod, he left Ito to his salting.

  The Englishman walked out of the yard and made his way down to the beach. At the shore he wandered along the water’s edge towards the promontory, his footsteps leaving a trail of wet bruises in the sand. Approaching the spur he climbed up the great boulders and holding his rod with one hand, he put the other out for balance and leapt from rock to rock, until he reached the end. He clambered down onto a flat piece of basalt which formed a natural platform, then unhooked the lure and let it swing freely in the breeze. Strickland held the rod over his shoulder and with a flick of his wrist, he cast the weight into the sea. It landed with a splash and he paused briefly before reeling it in, occasionally flexing the rod from side to side to make the lure appear more fishlike. When it was at the water’s edge, he raised the strip of metal and repeated the process. The waves broke against the pilot’s legs as he cast and he had to steady himself as the rollers came thundering in, the water foaming white about his feet and dissipating into the rock pools behind.

  Strickland enjoyed the solitude of fishing, whether he actually caught anything or not was unimportant. It was the sense of peace and isolation that he loved. It took him back to his childhood when he used to fish for pike in the cold, dark lakes near his home. He admired Britain’s often maligned fresh-water predator. They were elusive to catch and, if the fisherman could be bothered, were delicious to eat once the bones were removed. Most people never tried and if they found a pike on the end of their line they simply knocked it on the head and threw it into the bushes. But the pilot actively sought out esox lucius, rather than the more favoured carp or trout which shared its water. The pleasure for him was not in the killing or even in the eating, but in catching his prey and playing with it before it finally tired and allowed him to reel it in. He would coax the fish into the shallows and watch as it lay exhausted in the peaty water, its mottled body camouflaged amongst the reeds. The problem was getting the lure out of its mouth, without hurting the fish or losing your fingers. After removing the hook Strickland would place the pike back in the water, his hands beneath its belly as he waited for it to recover. Then, with a flick of its tail, the fish would be gone.

  There were stories of pike living up to two hundred years or more. The pilot believed them. He had heard one tale where a female pike weighing almost fifty pounds had been caught in a lake in North Yorkshire at the turn of the century. A thin gold band encircled its throat with the date 1706. It had been part of a breeding stock that had somehow managed to evade capture for all those years. The pike was a most remarkable fish, a survivor that deserved better than to be treated as some sort of piscine vermin. The largest one Strickland had ever caught had weighed sixteen pounds. It took him almost an hour to land. He had to kill the fish as the pike had swallowed the lure whole and it was after dark by the time he got home. Even so his guests were impressed by his catch. Later he gutted and cleaned the fish and baked it in a copper kettle with fennel and onion, garnishing it with parsley and new potatoes. He and his companions dined like princes that night, toasting the quenelled pike with glasses of claret.

  The sun beat down upon the water, the shifting sea reflecting its shattered light. The pilot found the constant motion of the waves almost hypnotic as they broke across the reef and charged in a pale battalion towards him, finally dashing themselves against the rocks. After a time Strickland clambered up the spur and stood on top of the boulder where he and Ito dived. He could cast the lure further from here, but if he caught anything he would have to scramble down to the water’s edge to retrieve it. The pilot tried a few casts above the wreck, hoping to attract the bigger fish, which chased the minnows among the coral. But he had no luck and after an hour Strickland decided to stop and reeling in his line, he hooked the lure against the rod and made his way back along the promontory.

  The pilot jumped down from the spur and walked along the shell-strewn beach. He needed to get Hayama a birthday present and as he wandered across the sand, he searched for a suitable piece of driftwood. He wanted to carve an icon for the captain who showed a particular interest in John of the Cross, the subject of many of their discussions. It had been a long time since the Englishman had studied the friar and his works and he could only remember a little of his life and teaching and some of his poems, but Hayama was fascinated by the mystic whose ascetism, holiness and quest for spiritual enlightenment resembled the Shinto priests of his own faith.

  Strickland continued to look about the beach, picking up the odd piece of jetsam and inspecting it, before discarding it as unsuitable. Then, a few yards away, he saw a piece of timber half-buried in the sand. He put down his fishing rod and pulling out the plank of wood, he saw it would make a perfect panel for his icon. It was the size of a small chopping board, and had been bleached by the sun and worn smooth by the tides. With the timber in his hand, the pilot picked up his fishing rod and made his way back through the trees to the camp.

  When he arrived at his hut, he left the rod on the porch, pushed open the door and stepped inside, relieved to be out of the sun. Strickland kicked off his sandals and padded over to the desk in the corner and pulling open a drawer, he took out a penknife which had belonged to the hut’s previous occupant. The pilot sat down at the desk and began to whittle away at his piece of wood, while Ensign Aoki looked on impassively from his place on the bookshelf. Strickland remained unaware of the man’s presence as he continued with his carpentry, scoring at the soft wood with the knife, before blowing away the shavings. He had no idea what Fray Juan actually looked like, only that he had been bearded and small even for his times. His contemporary and spiritual adviser Teresa of Avila had referred to him as her ‘little friar’.

  Theirs had been a curious relationship. When they first met Teresa was already well known as a doctor of the church and by then middle-aged. The diminutive Juan de Yepes was only twenty-two and had just begun his religious life. But it was a life to which he was well suited. He came from Castile, a land of barren plateaux and endless blue skies, whose silence was echoed only by the wind and the cry of eagles. To the visitor it seemed as if they had come to the edge of the world. This was the country of John of the Cross and, by a happy coincidence, it was also where the Carmelite abbess belonged. When Teresa first met the friar she was impressed not only by his intellect – he had already completed his first degree at the University of Salamanca – but also by his sanctity and immediately accepted him when he asked to join her new ‘Discalced’ order, finding a house for him and his fellow friars. The Discalceds (literally barefooted) had split from the original Mitigated Rule in order to lead a stricter and more simple life. It was precisely what John had been looking for as he searched for a suitable order in which to practice his faith. He resolutely believed that without constant physical privation, it was impossible to achieve the necessary state of self-abnegation required to attain true holiness. It was only when temporal desire had been properly subsumed into a religious life, that man could truly become a saint. This idea in particular appealed to Hayama.

  He told Strickland about Tsunetomo Yamamoto’s Hagakure or ‘Book of Leaves’, the samurai master’s own collection of maxims, which the captain used for guidance. There were indeed many similarities between the two writers, despite the obvious differences between their respective cultures. Although one was a soldier and the other a monk, both men desired to attain a state of pure enlightenment and devotion. John through prayer and self-denial and Yamamoto through obedience and self-sacrifice. Hayama said the essence of Yamamoto’s teaching lay in the first sentence of his work: ‘The way of the samurai is found in death’.

  The pilot saw another parallel with Ignatius of Loyola, the soldier saint who founded the Society of Jesus. As a young man Ignatius had fought against the French at the siege of Pamplona an
d had been badly wounded. During his long convalescence he read much Christian theology and decided to give up soldiering and devote his life to the church and good works. With the blessing of Rome he established his order, whose followers, the Jesuits, eventually spread as far afield as the captain’s own country. Ignatius’ dramatic conversion of life made perfect sense to Hayama, because the concept of the warrior monk was at the heart of Yamamoto’s teachings. The samurai master had written that a monk could not fulfil the Buddhist Way if he did not have compassion on the outside and courage within, and that if a warrior did not have courage on the outside and compassion within, then he could not become a retainer. The monk therefore had to pursue courage with the warrior as his model, and the warrior had to pursue the compassion of the monk.

  Strickland continued his carving into the afternoon, the knife scoring away at the sea-softened wood. The image of the friar gradually began to appear before him, bearded and with a halo, his right hand raised in a blessing, the forefinger pointing heavenwards. Above the portrait the Englishman had written ‘John of the Cross’ and below it one of his maxims: ‘And where there is no love, put love in and you will draw love out.’

  The pilot blew at the last remaining shavings and wiping away the dust with his fingers, he inspected his work. It was crude and rudimentary and hardly art, but he thought the captain would appreciate the gesture. He put the carving to one side and scooping up the shavings, he put them in the waste-paper basket by his desk. Strickland got up, went over to the door and stood there looking out at the camp. It was late afternoon and the place was quiet except for the cicadas’ incessant sobbing among the trees. He turned away and walked over to the bed where he lay down, deciding to rest before the evening’s entertainment.

  Presently he fell asleep and began to dream. The pilot dreamt that he was out fishing by the wreck when he saw something swimming in the water. At first he thought it was a man, but it swam with too much suppleness and grace to be quite human and he noticed that it had a tail, its scales flashing silver in the sun. Perhaps it was a porpoise. But what was that head? He suddenly realised it was not a porpoise at all, but a merman. He called out to the creature who seemed to hear him, but would not come any closer. It looked as if the merman was in some sort of distress as he swam this way and that, constantly calling. It was a strange noise, a terrible wailing sound, such as a fish would make if it had vocal chords. Strickland realised the merman was crying. The creature stopped swimming and looked directly at him, his pale eyes filled with tears, his sealion voice half yelp, half croak. The pilot called out, he wanted to help, but the merman came no closer. Then with a final cry, the manfish slipped beneath the waves.

  Strickland woke with a shudder and sat up, the merman’s face still vivid in his memory. He lay there on the bed looking up at the rafters and wondered what, if anything, his dream meant. But he could find no answer. The air at least had cooled and he got up and went over to the basin to wash his face. The water refreshed him and the pilot dried his hands on a towel and glancing in the mirror, quickly combed his hair. Then he put the icon in his pocket and left the hut to see his friend. The captain had just returned from making his daily report at the signals hut and was sitting at his desk with Chamberlain on his lap. He seemed to have a natural affinity with animals; the chickens always came when he called and the goats bleated happily at the sound of his voice. Hayama put his pet down and watched as the monkey scampered off into a corner, picking up a piece of coconut. He turned to the radio behind him, switched it on and began to adjust the dial. He wanted to listen to the Home and Empire service and hear that evening’s news. The radio crackled and whined before the voice of the announcer emerged from the ether. The reception was tinny but clear. Satisfied, the captain looked away and saw the pilot standing at the door.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said.

  ‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ asked Strickland as he entered, removing his sandals and leaving them on the porch.

  The captain smiled and shook his head.

  ‘No, no, it’s just the news … what’s going on at home.’

  The pilot felt a sharp pang of guilt. He had hardly thought about ‘home’ in the last few days, it seemed so far removed from his life on the island.

  ‘Anything happened?’

  ‘Well, the Americans are still bombing Tokyo. They used to bomb only at night, but now they bomb during the day as well. It seems half the city has been razed. So much destruction and for what?’

  The question hung in the air like an unanswered prayer, hopeful and hopeless at the same time. The two men said nothing as Chamberlain chittered away in the corner, gnawing on the coconut husk. The captain shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing they could do.

  ‘How about some sake?’

  ‘Why not?’ answered the pilot.

  The Japanese officer called out to his orderly, asking him to bring them some rice wine, the radio’s voice playing behind him.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said and Strickland pulled up a chair.

  Hayama continued to keep an ear on the report and a look of anguish passed across his face.

  ‘How can you bomb cities?’

  The voice behind him carried on, the announcer reading out a litany of destruction across Japan.

  ‘It’s madness, I know.’

  And Strickland did know. He had seen the damage the Luftwaffe had wrought on London while he had flown sorties above the burning entrails of the city, the sun almost obliterated by dust and smoke. Nor were his own side blameless, Germany had also suffered. In the end it was like for like, a constant war of attrition that led nowhere. For the first time the pilot felt responsible for the destruction, even though he had never dropped a single bomb. He could not pretend that it had nothing to do with him. It was his war too.

  The report continued and the officers sat there in silence, listening to a voice that seemed to come from the depths of the underworld. An oracle that spoke of tragedy and sorrow, but which bore no actual relevance to their own lives. All around them the world was being decimated by an extraordinary hurricane, while they remained safe on the island. The eye of this terrible storm.

  The pilot shook his head and leant back in his chair.

  ‘When will it ever end?’

  ‘It depends upon America.’

  ‘America?’

  The captain nodded, picked up a paper knife and began to turn it in his fingers.

  ‘I am sure America wants to destroy Japan. There can only be one power in the Pacific.’

  ‘But is that possible?’

  ‘To destroy Japan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hayama shook his head.

  ‘Frankly, no. That is why I am hopeful the Allies and Japan will see sense and make an honourable peace.’

  The voice on the radio finally ceased and after a paean to the Emperor, some martial music was played.

  ‘Come on, let’s forget about the war and have a drink,’ he said, switching off the radio and together they went and sat down on the tatami. As they waited for the orderly to bring them their sake, Strickland put a hand inside his pocket and produced the carving.

  ‘I have a present for you,’ and he laid his gift on the low table in front of them.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked the captain, picking up the piece of wood and examining it.

  ‘It’s an icon. It’s meant to be John of the Cross.’

  ‘Really? The little friar? Thank you. How did you know it was my birthday …?’ and he grinned as he answered his own question: ‘Of course, our friend Ito.’

  ‘He only told me this morning.’

  ‘Well, he shouldn’t have, but thanks for the thought.’ Hayama got up and placed the icon on the shelf above his swords. He stood back and admired it. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘He looks just how I imagined. He can be my guardian and watch over me.’

  The pilot smiled. The present was more successful than he had hoped.

  ‘By the way, how old are
you?’ he asked.

  ‘Thirty-four,’ replied his host as he sat down again at the table. ‘Too young for wisdom, too old for youth. How about you?’

  ‘Twenty-five,’ said Strickland.

  ‘Really? You look older. I’m sure I do too.’

  ‘It must be the war.’

  The captain nodded. It was true. War aged men considerably. If not in their faces, then in their souls. You could see it in their eyes.

  There was a clink of china and a smiling Ito appeared with a tray bearing a jug of hot sake and three cups. He put it down on the table and on a plate was a cake with a solitary burning candle in the middle.

  ‘Congratulations, captain-san,’ said the orderly, bowing.

  ‘Private Ito, you have deliberately disobeyed an order! I should have you flogged!’

  The orderly shrugged and smiled. In spite of Hayama’s tone of voice, he knew he was joking.

  ‘Most sorry, captain-san.’

  Strickland began to sing ‘happy birthday’ in English and Ito joined him in his own language, as Hayama sat there with an amused look on his face. The pair finished singing and he leant forward and blew out the candle to applause. The captain then picked up a knife and cut three slices from the cake. He offered up the plate and both the pilot and orderly took a piece, with Hayama taking the last. They all began to eat their portion, the officers complimenting Ito on his baking. The sponge was light and buttery and tasted of vanilla and almonds, with a hint of lemon. The captain then poured out the sake and Strickland took a cup and raising it, he proposed a toast.

  ‘To friendship,’ he said.

  ‘Friendship and long life,’ added the orderly and the three of them clinked cups.

  ‘Kanpai!’ said the captain, before downing his drink.

  ‘Kanpai!’ repeated his guests.

  The trio sat there enjoying their sake and birthday cake, when a noise arose from the compound and a chorus of voices could be heard.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked the captain, hearing the carousing outside. ‘What’s going on?’