by John Shors
Though her grandmother had been dead for many years, Scarlet missed her, and memories of the pigeons were suddenly bittersweet. Her mood soured, as it often did on the island. The stress of being stranded and unable to hear about her brothers had started to affect her. She incessantly worried about her siblings, imagining how Rommel’s tanks might maim them. Such imaginings produced an anxiety that gripped her so tightly that the only way she could flee its grasp was to sleep. And even then, nightmares often plagued her—visions of her brothers’ lifeless eyes and torn bodies. Scarlet hoped that atop the hill she’d at least be able to temporarily forget such visions as she focused her binoculars on distant ships and birds.
The jungle was hard to navigate, but she moved forward steadily, like a patient eager to be rid of crutches. She flinched as giant cockroaches scurried beneath her or bats stretched their wings within shadowed havens above. Her pulse started to race, and she had a sudden desire to see the sun. But to her dismay, she couldn’t locate it through the jungle’s canopy.
Fortunately, the hill wasn’t far and she was soon climbing, soon free of the suffocating trees. Though the climb was relatively gentle, Scarlet continued to pace herself, pausing occasionally to wipe her sweaty brow. Upon reaching the summit, she sat atop a flat rock. The view felt liberating, as if she’d just been released from a cage and was gazing upon a world without bars. She could see most of the island and the sea beyond. The Japanese destroyer hadn’t moved. Lifting the binoculars, she looked for other ships but saw none. She then sipped some water and started searching for birds. At first she saw nothing of interest, but after focusing on the treetops, her world came alive. Birds of seemingly every size, shape, and color darted about the verdant canopy.
For the first time in two days, Scarlet smiled. She’d been right about this place, right about coming here. Perhaps this hill would be the sanctuary that she so desperately needed. Perhaps here she’d experience a sense of serenity that had avoided her by the beach.
An immense gray-and-white-feathered bird suddenly sailed into view from the sea. Scarlet followed it with the binoculars, marveling at how the bird didn’t even need to flap its wings to soar. She expected the creature to drop into the jungle, but instead it flew to a steep and rocky hill in the middle of the island. The bird landed amid a nest of driftwood, tucking its wings against its body.
Scarlet aimed the binoculars back and forth between the ship and the birds. And at least for this moment, with a breeze on her face and a new world to observe, she stopped thinking about Rommel and what his awful tanks might do to her brothers.
DEEP WITHIN THE JUNGLE, at the bottom of a gulley that ran between two rises, Roger carefully pushed his shovel into the earth. The shovel was his creation. He’d used the machete to chop a large tree branch until it somewhat resembled a canoe paddle. He’d then hardened the shovel with fire. Knowing that Joshua wanted him outside camp, Roger had said that he’d seen a wild boar and that he hoped to fashion a trap to catch it. Predictably, the captain had been delighted to send him away.
Roger had been digging for what he assumed to be several hours. His hands trembled as he dug, for he hadn’t savored a cigarette in days, and his body was in turmoil. The headache that assailed him had been growing in intensity since not long after he’d set foot on the island. It radiated forward from the back of his skull, and his eyes felt as if they’d pop from his head. Moreover, his heart often raced and his feet tingled. His throat even ached.
These maddening symptoms reminded Roger of living alone in Philadelphia at the peak of the Great Depression. Like so many others, he’d been jobless. Unlike most others, he’d thought the soup lines beneath him, and stole what food he could. Still, very few coins had rubbed together in his pockets, and he’d no money to spend on luxuries. Limiting himself to one cigarette a day had led to his first experience with the headaches.
For many years, Roger had hated the Japanese. But it wasn’t until returning to America and experiencing the Great Depression that his hate followed him across the ocean and spread like the plague within him. He quickly grew to detest America, to despise his country of birth for how it had failed him. He could still remember his father telling him and his mother that the banks had collapsed and what precious little money they’d saved was gone. His mother had wept quietly while his father shrugged and said that though the Devil was hard at work, God would see them through. Roger had thrown his father down at these words, sickened by his weakness and blind faith. He’d cursed the man and woman who’d brought him into the world. He’d screamed at them for all his pains and wants and memories. His spittle had struck his mother’s face. His booted foot had caused his father to beg for mercy. And he had seen neither parent since.
Now, as Roger dug deeper into the black soil, the temptation to climb the hill, uncover his box, and smoke cigarettes all afternoon was frighteningly powerful. He hadn’t felt so vulnerable since those unbearable months in Philadelphia, and his feebleness enraged him. If only he were alone on the island, as he was meant to be. Then he’d have a cigarette between his lips right now, drawing sweet smoke into his lungs and watching it disperse into the day.
Trying to ignore his cravings, Roger continued to work on his hole, pausing only to pull apart or smash insects that he uncovered. Such insects had tormented him during his stay on the island, and he found it gratifying to watch beetles try to walk with half their legs missing or centipedes writhe after he chopped them in two. These sights briefly obscured the ache behind his eyes, as they reminded him of how boys had struggled and squirmed after he’d hurt them.
The soil was quite soft, and if he labored with care he didn’t think he’d break his shovel. The hole was already as deep as his chest and as long as his outstretched arms—bigger than it needed to be to catch a wild boar. Working with determination—for his discomfort and anger gave him immense resolve—he continued to widen and deepen the pit.
Finally satisfied, Roger climbed from the hole. He closed his eyes for a few heartbeats, trying to ignore the throbbing pulse in his head by listening to the jungle. Its familiar cadence filled his ears and, knowing that no one was looking, he picked up the machete. With a backhanded strike he cut a sapling in half. He then made two-foot spikes out of the young tree. He felled a second sapling and a third, cutting them low enough to the ground that ferns hid whatever remained of their trunks. More spikes followed, their tips as sharp as possible.
Roger tossed the spikes into the hole and carefully climbed down, drops of sweat striking the torn earth. He used both hands to press the dull ends of the spikes into the ground, set no more than six inches apart. Anyone who fell into the hole would likely be impaled by at least ten spikes. Though Roger didn’t believe that he’d ever need the trap—after all, when the Japanese landed, he’d retrieve his gun—he liked having options. And if he was somehow forced to run, he could lead his adversary here.
As Roger worked, he held a slender, cigarette-shaped stick between his teeth and imagined Akira and Joshua chasing him through the jungle. He saw himself lead them into the gulley. He then jumped over the trap and, after rounding a nearby corner, grabbed a pair of spears. By the time he turned back to the trap, the Jap and the infuriating captain had already fallen into it. They were pierced in a dozen places and dying quickly. With no need to use his spears, he set them down, put his legs over the edge of the pit and listened to his enemies plead for mercy. He laughed, picked up several stones, and began to hurl the stones into their faces, killing them the same way criminals had been slain for thousands of years.
His breath quickening at the prospect of such a moment, Roger climbed from the pit and with his trembling fingers began to lay long and slender branches over it. Once he’d placed enough branches so that they were almost touching, he tossed leaves atop the branches. The gulley was covered in leaves and twigs, and Roger was easily able to replicate the look and feel of the jungle floor. Finally content with the concealment of his trap, he picked up a blood-color
ed boulder and set it next to his pitfall. He pretended to run and jump over the trap, repeating the sequence several times until he felt comfortable with how he’d recognize the rock and then leap over the hidden pit.
Carefully skirting the trap, Roger followed the gulley around a bend and hid a spear. Though this was the first such trap he’d created, he had already concealed a variety of weapons and supplies all over the island. Despite his assumption that it would be easy to find the Japanese once they’d landed and take them directly to the cave, he’d learned that in war anything was possible. Prudence demanded that he prepare for every contingency, and he believed he had.
Thinking about the cave, and how the idiot captain was convinced that it would protect everyone, Roger smiled for the first time all day. That cave will be the fool’s tomb, he thought excitedly. He’ll hide in it like a coward, hide with that annoying, know-it-all bitch of his. He’ll think he’s safe, but I’ll lead Edo’s men straight to his door. I’ll tell him that the women can go free, and when the skirts come out, we’ll open fire on the men. They’ll burn and scream and they’ll never leave that worthless cave. And when those maggots are dying, I’ll let them know what will happen to their whores.
Pleased with his trap and by thoughts of the future, Roger decided that he’d reward himself with a cigarette. As he had several days before, he’d climb to his secret stash, strip off his clothes to keep them free of smoke, enjoy several cigarettes, and later swim in the ocean and remove all scents but salt from him. If smoking presented a small risk, so be it. It was far better, he reasoned, to take a slight chance at discovery than to continue to suffer from an intolerable headache and to have the trembling hands of an old man.
Making his way through the jungle, his mind euphoric over the prospect of his reward, Roger again thought about what the near future would bring. In less than a week, he said to himself, I’ll have everything I want, everything I’ve worked for. I’ll have it because I’m smarter and stronger than anyone else on the island. And though now they laugh at me and hate me and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it, soon enough they’ll know that I betrayed them, that I sold their souls, and they’ll understand that I won. And when they look into my eyes before they die, when their pain’s so great that they beg for an end, I’ll drag them to the sea and let the waves wash them away.
ANNIE WASN’T USED to walking the beach alone, having spent most of her time on the island with Isabelle or Akira. And though she didn’t need constant companionship or distractions—as she sometimes thought her sister did—creating poetry with Akira or talking with Isabelle about her baby had provided her with much-needed escapes. She’d initially told herself that she was fleeing nothing more than the horror of Benevolence sinking. But as the days passed, and she continued to seek diversions, she realized that she wasn’t running from the past, but from the future.
The future, after all, had been almost determined for her. She’d return from the war, marry Ted, bear and raise children, and spend the rest of her life playing tennis and bridge. That was the future that Ted saw, that he wanted. And to be fair, at one time she’d wanted that future as well. It had seemed safe and decent. But not long after Ted had proposed, Annie started to have misgivings. She’d started to panic.
As Annie walked down the beach, she tried to remember the good times she’d experienced with Ted. Almost immediately, she reflected on how easily he could make her laugh. No one had ever prompted her laughter like Ted, and the many smiles he put on her face endeared her to him from their very first date. After the seriousness of her childhood, it felt so wonderful to laugh. And the discovery that laughter could temporarily obscure difficult memories had been extremely cathartic.
To Ted’s credit, he clearly enjoyed provoking her laughter. Her smile made him smile, and he seemed happiest when she was grinning because of something he’d said. In this way, he did his best to encourage her to forget her past, to enjoy the present. In this way, he succeeded in giving her bliss. At times she laughed so hard with him that she felt as if she were once again a little girl, giggling at her puppy’s antics.
Ted also treated her parents well. He smoked pipes with her father and complimented her mother on her cooking. And Ted came from money. He’d once shown Annie the house he had already purchased for them. Though she’d hoped for something quaint and cozy, he’d bought a large, ranch-style home on twenty acres of land. He’d get her a horse, he promised, so that she could ride alongside him.
Annie had slowly come to realize that to Ted, life was a series of great adventures. In some ways, he reminded her of Fitzgerald’s Gatsby, for Ted loved to hunt, to fly, to host lavish parties, to buy the latest cars. He’d been a strong advocate of America joining the war in Europe, even while the vast majority of his countrymen argued that one world war was enough. When the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor, Annie thought Ted to be actually happy, for suddenly the nation had no choice but to join in the fight against fascism. Like Roosevelt, Ted would finally get his way.
The last time Annie had seen Ted was in New York. He’d been granted a week of leave, and with only a day’s notice, she’d packed up and taken a train from California. They’d met in his hotel’s bar, and he told her all that he’d done during his time in Europe. She’d heard of how he had been one of a handful of American pilots to help the Royal Air Force engage the Luftwaffe during the Battle of Britain. He’d flown mission after mission over a burning and shuddering London, attacking the Luftwaffe with great success. He’d been shot down once but was hardly scratched.
When Ted had finally finished regaling her with tales of his dog-fights, Annie had applauded his bravery and given him a present. The silver flask bore his initials and was filled with fine bourbon—which she knew he loved. He’d smiled at her gift and though he hadn’t meant to hurt her, had told her how impractical it was for someone at war to carry such a flask. He had handed it to her and asked that she keep it. He’d then apologized for having nothing for her. Of course, she hadn’t minded the oversight. But she was bothered when a group of pilots he’d trained with stumbled into the hotel, sat down beside them, drank his bourbon, and took him by the arm and vanished from sight. When he’d returned four hours later, though she was already asleep in their room, her slumber hadn’t kept him from telling her amusing stories from the war, and from later undressing her with clumsy fingers and making love to her as if he were in some sort of race.
Will it always be this way with Ted? Annie wondered as she stepped around the bloated body of a dead lionfish. Yes, he could make her smile and occasionally warm her heart, but his ability to touch her beyond his humor and charm was limited. Parts of her existed that he would never fully understand. And this gulf between them troubled her even though its presence wasn’t his fault. She didn’t blame him, because their experiences were so different. After all, how could he grasp her fears if he’d never felt fear himself? How could he appreciate her uncertainty if he’d always stepped firmly on a path of his making?
Though Annie knew from Isabelle that marriage wasn’t perfect, she wanted more than laughter and children. She wanted true companionship. She wanted something beautiful.
Can Ted give me what I need? she asked herself as she walked back to camp. Yes, he can help me enjoy the moment. And he can please my parents and provide for me forever. But what can we teach each other? What’s going to bind us together when life isn’t so amusing?
Annie absently said hello to Nathan—who was using the airman’s dagger to finish a wooden carving that he’d been making for his daughter—and walked toward the banyan tree. Akira was sitting at his usual spot, picking meat from the bones of a burnt fish. Seeing him grimace as he ate, Annie was reminded of how her Japanese patients had occasionally asked if any raw fish was available.
An idea quickly blossoming within her, she walked farther down the beach, where Jake was spearfishing. Annie was surprised that Ratu was nowhere to be seen, as he often seemed to be Jake’s shadow. “Where�
�s the namesake of Ratu Junior?” she asked, smiling at the memory of swimming with Ratu and the dolphins.
Jake set his spear next to a large tuna that he’d killed and removed a stem from between his teeth. “That darn shark spooked him, miss. Spooked him like a rattlesnake rattles a horse. I reckon he’s looking for shells for his sisters. We already found a handful of them, but he wants an armful. I’d be with him, but the captain asked me to catch a few more fish in case people don’t fancy shark. So here I am.”
Glancing at the ocean, Annie saw that the Japanese destroyer hadn’t moved. “Are we sure they can’t see us?” she asked, suddenly frightened.
“Even with them binocs we can’t see much of that big boat, miss. They sure ain’t gonna be able to see us.”
Annie nodded, turning her gaze to the fish that Jake had speared. “May I have a piece of that, Jake? Do you need it all?”
“A piece, miss?”
“A piece of meat. Believe it or not, Japanese like to eat raw fish, and I thought Akira might enjoy some.”
Jake smiled, the gap between his front teeth somehow serving to make his other teeth appear even whiter. “I hear them Japs eat anything from the sea,” he said, using the machete to cut away several strips of cherry-colored meat. “Snakes and slugs. Things like that. I reckon I’d sooner eat my own foot than a raw fish.”
“Could you cut them even smaller?”
“I suspect so. Ain’t only one way to skin a cat, or in this case, a fish.”
“Perfect,” Annie said, holding out her hands.
“You wanna put it on something? Maybe a rock? A big old leaf?”
“A leaf. Yes, that’s a great idea, Jake.” Annie hurried to the edge of the jungle and quickly returned with a leaf the size of a cookie sheet.