Beside a Burning Sea

by John Shors

  “Good shot, lad,” Nathan said, applauding.

  “It was bloody good, wasn’t it?” Ratu replied happily. Before Nathan could respond, Ratu asked, “Since the captain is gone, you’re the boss, right?”

  “I suppose so. But not really.”

  “Well, since you’re the boss, I was wondering if I could take some old palm fronds, light them on fire, and spear all the fish that come to investigate.”

  Nathan rose from a log. “Fish come to fire?”

  “Of course. I tell you, they’re just like us—full of curiosity. My father and I used to spear them by the boatload. If you let Big Jake and me light the fronds, everyone could eat delicious fish tonight.”

  Glancing into the jungle behind him, Nathan wondered about the whereabouts of the captain and his wife. “I don’t know. Maybe we should wait until—”

  “Oh, you can decide. You won’t get into trouble. It’s only a few palm fronds. If we hear a plane or see a boat, we’ll just throw them in the water.”

  “Can you keep the fires small?”

  “Of course. As small as necessary. Don’t worry, Mr. Nathan. Everything will be fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. Now you go back to your photo and just leave the fishing to Big Jake and me.”

  Despite his reservations, Nathan smiled at Ratu’s obvious excitement. “My son would get along with you so well. He’s about your age, and loves getting into mischief.”

  “We’d be great mates, then.”

  “Mates?”

  “Friends. We’d be great friends.”

  “Ah, yes, you certainly would.”

  Ratu thanked Nathan again and ran into the jungle, collecting almost as many dried palm fronds as he could carry. He then grabbed a burning stick from the fire, and shuffled down the beach to where Jake sat beside a barnacle-encrusted boulder. Ten spears were stuck in the sand.

  “Bloody marvelous work with the spears, Big Jake,” Ratu said.

  “It was hardly hard, my little friend. Now tell me how we get them fish.”

  Ratu pointed to a pair of boulders that stood in waist-deep water. “Easy enough. We put the fronds on the smaller rock. And we light them on fire. And then we just wait. The fish will come. Like they’re coming to a party or something. And when they do, we need to only spear the big ones. Don’t worry about the little ones. Hit the big ones.”

  “Hit the little ones, you say?”

  “Get stuffed, Big Jake!”

  Jake took the fronds and the smoking stick and moved into the sea. After no more than a dozen paces, he came to the smaller boulder. As he started to lay down the fronds, Ratu climbed up the nearby rock. “If this doesn’t work,” he said, “we’ll use the lifeboat. But I think this will work. Now come, light the fronds.”

  When a fire was consuming the fronds, Jake hurried to the other boulder, which was the size of a car. He picked up a spear and stood next to Ratu. The fronds burned quickly, and in the darkening sky cast light in all directions.

  “I reckon we should have brought some logs,” Jake said, an immense blade of grass trembling between his lips as he spoke.

  “Shhh. A fisherman never talks,” Ratu replied. “That’s the first rule of fishing.”

  “I expect that’s a mighty hard rule for you.”

  “It is, Big Jake. It is. Now be quiet and let the fish come.”

  Jake was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the expedition when a fish suddenly broke the surface next to the other boulder. The fish was small, and he didn’t bother to use his spear. Seeing into the dark water was difficult, but the fire certainly helped. Soon another fin sprouted from the sea. Then another and another. Ratu and Jake threw their spears almost simultaneously at a two-foot fish that rose beside the boulder. Both spears hit the fish and it only thrashed for a few heartbeats. Instead of retrieving their catch, they waited for another big fish to arrive. When it did, it also died. This process repeated itself three more times before the flames died out.

  After climbing down from the boulder, they picked up four of the five fish they’d struck. One fish had managed to swim off. Ratu wanted to look for it, but seeing how big the other fish were, Jake promised him that they had more than enough to feed everyone. Jake had also fished as a boy, though the ponds near his family’s farm were filled with blue-gill, carp, and bass. And so after he stuck their catch on the stoutest spear, he asked Ratu what they’d soon eat.

  “Two yellowfin tuna,” Ratu replied, “and a dolphin fish and . . . I don’t know what that big-eyed, ugly one is. I’ve never seen it before. You can eat him.”

  “Why, ain’t that real neighborly of you?”

  “Oh, put a sock in it, Big Jake.”

  Jake chuckled, pleased by the weight of their catch. “Did your daddy teach you to toss a spear like that?”

  “My father could throw a spear across this harbor. Even you, Big Jake, are not as strong as my father.”

  Jake’s foot struck something hard and he grunted. “Darn coconuts.”

  “Just watch where you put those giant feet of yours.”

  “Simpler said than done.”

  A strong fire burned at camp, and they walked toward it. As they approached the massive banyan tree, Joshua and Nathan strode in their direction. Both men smiled when they saw the catch. “And how did you manage that?” Joshua asked, still thinking about Isabelle’s news.

  “Easy enough, Captain,” Ratu replied. “It’s not hard to throw a spear. I could teach you, if you wanted.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think we need any more hunters with you and Jake around.”

  “Well, that’s certainly true.”

  The four of them walked to the fire, and Jake set the fish down on some fresh palm fronds. As other members of the group congratulated them on their catch, Jake used the machete to clean the fish. Before long, strips of fish were cooking atop saplings. The smell of the fish permeated the air, and people gathered around the fire, eager to fill their bellies. Jake was proud of Ratu and was quick to tell everyone how good he was with a spear.

  Soon each survivor had a sizable piece of fish. And though mosquitoes still bothered them, they still lamented Benevolence’s dead, and their fear of the unknown remained strong, for the moment spirits rose. Ratu’s excitement about the catch was infectious, and as he spoke of the lobster and tuna and crab that they’d eat each night, the mosquitoes seemed a bit less troublesome, and the sadness and fear were momentarily pushed away. For the first time since Benevolence sank, quiet laughter mingled with the crack of the fire and the crash of distant waves.

  Pleased with how the night was unfolding, and aware that Ratu’s enthusiasm had affected the group, Annie made her way toward him. He was in the midst of telling Nathan about the fish of Fiji. When Annie was a few paces away from them, Isabelle moved toward her and asked with a twist of her head if Annie would follow her to a somewhat distant log. Wordlessly, Annie did just that, brushing some sand from the log and taking a seat. Isabelle grinned, prompting Annie to lean close. “What?” Annie asked. “What on earth are you so aching to tell me about?”

  Isabelle playfully put her finger to her lips. “What do you think?” she whispered.

  “I have no idea. I don’t even—”

  “I think I’m pregnant,” Isabelle quietly interrupted. “I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s true.”

  Annie leaned closer to her sister and tightly hugged her. “Really? That’s wonderful! Just wonderful, Izzy! When? When are you due?”

  “Seven—”

  “And how does it feel? How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine. Great, in fact.”

  “No morning sickness?”

  “Not at all. Just a bit tired.”

  “You’ve been trying for so long,” Annie said excitedly, taking Isabelle’s hands in her own. “I’m so, so happy for you. I couldn’t be any happier!”

  “We’re happy too.”

  “What did Joshua say?”

>   Isabelle smiled. “He couldn’t keep his hands off my belly.”

  “He couldn’t? You’re not showing, are you? I don’t see anything.”

  “Oh, maybe just a bit.”

  Annie put her arm around Isabelle, pulling her closer, hugging her again. “I’m so ready to be an aunt! I wonder if you’ll have a girl. There are so many girls in our family. I bet you’ll have a girl and I’ll . . . I’ll teach her to paint. I’m not good, as you know, but I’ll teach her anyway. We’ll paint with our fingers and make fabulous messes.”

  “That would be lovely, Annie.”

  “There’s so much that I’ll want to show her. Or him.”

  Isabelle kissed her sister on the cheek. “Let’s keep it quiet for now. Joshua isn’t sure how he wants to handle it. And I’m not either. I like . . . most of these people. But I’m not ready to tell them about my private life.”

  “Well, you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to. Unless we’re here for a few more months, of course. Then people might start to wonder about that belly of yours.”

  Isabelle smiled, pleased that Annie seemed to be in such good spirits. After all, she worried about Annie a great deal. Ever since they were young girls, she’d tried to protect her. And little had changed through the years. “I should go back to Joshua,” Isabelle said. “He’s watching me and waiting for me.”

  “Then go. We’ll talk later. But can we start thinking of names? That’s going to be such fun.”

  “You think I haven’t started already?” Isabelle asked, grinning, making her way back to Joshua.

  Annie brushed sand from her legs and walked to Jake, who was handing out more pieces of cooked fish. Seeing that Akira had finished his first portion, Annie took a piece to him. As usual, she looked at his leg first. The bandage bore no blood, and she felt relieved. “Hello,” she said warmly, thinking of Isabelle’s news, buoyed by her sister’s good fortune. She knelt beside Akira on his bed of palm fronds. He was about ten paces from the fire and everyone else, and Annie couldn’t help but wonder if he felt this distance. “Would you like to be closer to the fire?” she asked.

  “No, this location is suitable for me. But thank you.”

  “I brought you some fish.”

  Akira eyed the tuna, wishing that it were raw. How he loved raw tuna. “Thank you,” he said politely.

  She smiled. “It wasn’t terribly difficult.”

  He watched a spark from the fire travel up into the night, flickering as if it had metamorphosed into a firefly. “May I tell you something?” he asked, prompted by her obvious good cheer. “Something about you?”

  Suddenly self-conscious, Annie brushed sand from her cheek. “About me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I suppose if you’d like to.”

  He nodded, noticing how the blue had faded from her eyes now that the sun had departed. Her eyes are like the sea, he thought to himself. He then wondered why he continued to seek her out, why he so wanted to talk with her. Before answers emerged, he heard himself say, “I do not think, Annie, that you are unable to hear.”

  “What?”

  “Your poem. In it you said that you are unable to hear. I do not think this is true.”

  “But you . . . you don’t really know me.”

  He blew an ant from his shoulder. “Of course, I agree. But still. I think you hear very well.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you listen. And people who listen are able to hear.”

  Annie glanced at Ratu, who ran into her view as he chased something in the sand. She then looked for Isabelle and smiled when she saw her sister laugh. “I listen . . . because I don’t have any answers,” she finally replied. “And so I ask questions. Lots of them. And sometimes I’m impatient for answers.”

  Akira stretched his wounded leg. “Would you like to hear an old Japanese saying?”

  “Please.”

  “It says that patience is the art of letting life carry you.”

  Annie let the words echo in her mind. “That’s nice. Beautiful, really. But maybe easier to say than to do. For me, at least.”

  “For most people, I think.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Akira, for teaching me about the poems. Maybe I’ll come to you tomorrow with another.”

  He bowed slightly. “I would most enjoy that.”

  Still buoyed by the thought of the new life within Isabelle, Annie reached out to gently touch his knee. “Sleep well tonight.”

  Akira said good night and watched as she walked back toward her sister. Much to his surprise, he suddenly felt alone in her absence. It was as if a present had been stolen from him—something beautiful and wondrous and enchanting. Though he’d coveted this gift for so very long, and though now he could almost touch it, he felt as if it lay beyond his outstretched fingers and was impossibly outside his reach.

  DAY FIVE

  A silk flower seeks

  To rise from a hardened ground.

  Light falls on gold skin.

  Uncertain of Tomorrow

  The city smoldered about him. He had seen cities die before, but something was different about these torn streets and buildings. It was the screams, of course. They should have ended long ago. Usually the screams stopped a few hours after the fighting stopped. But here in Nanking, a city that should never have been defended, screams rose from gardens and temples, homes and public squares. These miserable, often inhuman sounds made him wince as if they were bullets striking his flesh—small pieces of hot steel that pierced him from all angles.

  He carried some rank and was known as a man of war. Thus he tried to walk the streets as often as possible. On this walk he’d already saved a pregnant woman from being bayoneted, and had also shot a soldier who refused his orders to untie a dying boy. Of course, even with his rank and reputation, he stayed far from the large concentrations of soldiers and civilians, as most of the screams came from such gatherings and the bloodlust could not be stopped by one man alone.

  At the edge of the city, where a few families still hid and were still found, he walked with his hands on his pistol and sword. He moved past many sights known to him—piles of ruined armaments and animals and people. Houses had collapsed atop the street, and he often climbed over these stony, dismembered skeletons to continue on. High above, unchallenged Zeros darted to and from distant battles.

  He heard them laugh before he saw her, heard her cry from within a group of boisterous soldiers. A booted foot rose and fell, and a female voice pleaded. His heart suddenly skipping, he hurried forward. Eight men surrounded her. They must have just discovered her, for her clothes were somewhat intact, though her face was bloodied. She likely had not seen ten years come and go. Her delicate hands clung to a toy horse that she protected rather than herself.

  Though two of the men bore higher rank than he, his horror at her looming fate propelled him onward. Speaking forcefully, he used lost words—ancient sentiments of the samurai—to try to shame these men. They paused, and he moved between them. The little girl looked up at him, pleading with terror-stricken eyes and a quivering mouth. Her face was already swelling from their beating, and through bleeding lips she begged him to help her. She was young and innocent and desperate, and he leaned forward, reaching for her.

  A pistol pressed hard against his temple. The barrel was still hot. He froze. She continued to beg him as his flesh burned. His assailant ordered him to rise. She frantically shook her head at these words, her fingers clinging to his hand, her toy horse caught between them. The gun pushed violently against his skull and he was given a choice—to stand or die. He did not want to die, and so as his tears dropped on her leg, he rose. Someone then took his weapons and roughly pushed him away. The little girl screamed. He heard fabric tear and he hurried forward like a beaten dog. As he started to run, her screams grew louder—screams that ravaged him until he blindly stumbled into a deep bomb crater and was knocked unconscious.

  Akira awoke from his dream with her screa
ms still reverberating within him. Silent sobs wracked him, and he put his balled fists against his eyes. He saw her precious face and he started to crawl, as if he could flee his dream, as if this past could be expunged from his memory. He crawled until his tears mixed with the sea. His fingers dug into the sand and he squeezed fistfuls of this gritty wetness until his knuckles whitened and his hands shook. He wrung the sand with all his might—each granule a demon to be smothered, each ounce of the earth he held something upon which he could thrust his horror and grief and rage.

  “I’m so . . . so . . . so very sorry,” he whispered in Japanese, bowing until his forehead touched the sea, his hands finally unfurling and clumps of compressed sand dropping. “I . . . I should have stopped . . . those beasts. They should not . . . I should not have let them touch you. Oh, how lovely and pure and good you were. How beautiful. And how . . . how terribly I failed you.”

  Akira remained on his hands and knees for some time. When he finally ceased to tremble, he sat up. He remembered the girl’s fingers against his and, moaning, he looked to the stars for her. To his dismay, no trace of her was present. In fact, nothing of any solace existed at that moment. No girl. No peace. No religion. No hope. In this void he saw her pleading eyes, saw himself turn away. He cursed himself then, cursed his entire being. How he hated who he had become.

  Gradually, Akira’s tears subsided and his heart slowed. His thoughts wandered. He realized that if he were alone on the island, he’d do the only honorable thing left to him and end his life. He’d read the death poems of samurai—haikus written just before noble men forced their own swords into their own bellies. Beauty dwelled in those words, and were he alone, he’d write a haiku in the sand for the little girl and then begin his journey toward rebirth.

  But Akira was not alone. And though he cared nothing for the men nearby, he felt strangely linked to Annie. She had somehow briefly brought him back into his former life, into a place that once gave him the peace and religion and hope that he so lacked now. Without question, she reminded him of his past—when he helped people instead of hunted them—but she also kindled a part of him that he’d not known.