Beside a Burning Sea

by John Shors

  Forcing himself to think about the future and the good it would bring, Roger wondered when the destroyer would return. Edo should arrive in several days, unless, of course, the storm delayed him. Again massaging his throbbing head, Roger resigned himself to the fact that for the immediate future, he’d have to listen to the bitch’s endless musings, the runt’s shrill laughter, the captain’s infuriating commands. He’d have to endure.

  But soon Edo would land and everything would change. The runt and the captain and the Nip would be dead. There would be no more laughter to assault his ears, no more hand-holding to offend his eyes. Yes, once Edo landed, Roger would awaken, sneak into the jungle, and cut the rope that the Jap had dropped into the cave. He’d then meet Edo and lead handpicked men straight to the hiding place. And there would be no escape for his tormentors.

  The thought of this future kept Roger somewhat at ease, despite the cold, the other survivors, and the maddening ache within his skull. Drumming his fingers against his thigh, he continued to look out over the sea, continued to wonder where the ships were. They would arrive in force; he knew that much. The Japs always liked to do things in groups, and claiming an island was no different. They’d send five hundred men ashore, and within a week a landing strip, gun emplacements, and living quarters would be erected. The island would be theirs.

  “But not the cave,” Roger whispered. “The cave will be mine, and if that little bitch so much as looks at me wrong, she’ll watch as I paint a ship with her blood.”

  DAY THIRTEEN

  I thought I knew much,

  Until I saw a new world.

  Songbirds announce dawn.

  A Sanctuary No Longer

  He saw through the eyes of his father. He recognized his father’s hands, which were torn and thick knuckled after years of farming and fishing. Though the hands felt rough, he knew they could also be gentle. They could stroke his brow when needed. They could pull a splinter from his toe. He loved those hands.

  In the world in front of his father, the sugarcane field was the only thing that seemed to move. The tall stalks swayed softly in the breeze. The sugarcane was so dense that passing through it was like trying to move while being tied down. Still, a step was taken, a booted foot falling softly on red soil. Somewhere ahead, a bird rose on uncertain winds.

  His father lifted his rifle and peered down its barrel, looking for whatever had startled the bird. Only sugarcane filled his vision, however, and though the rifle swept back and forth, he saw nothing. He whistled in three short bursts, each as quiet as the crashes of a very distant surf. This message signified danger. Behind him he heard men who made much more noise than he preparing for a possible confrontation.

  His legs trembling, he moved forward into the sugarcane. Squinting so that he could see better, he tried to look for a glint of metal or a shape that should not be in a sugarcane field. He sought anything out of the ordinary. A sound trickled into his ears, and he wondered if the air had stirred, if someone ahead had whispered, or if his mind was playing tricks on him. The sugarcane was slightly taller than his head, and he kept moving forward somewhat blindly. He had tied reeds to his helmet, his rifle, his clothes, and was almost impossible to distinguish from his surroundings. But so, he knew all too well, was the enemy.

  The land radiated heat, and sweat rolled down his neck and face like rain on glass. He’d have liked to scratch his back, to pour water from his canteen on his head. But instead he continued to creep forward. A metallic click broke the silence before him and he paused. Someone was hiding; he now knew that for certain. But where? The sugarcane blocked out everything except a cluttered few feet of space ahead.

  He managed to repress an almost overpowering urge to step backward, away from the danger. Abruptly, he longed to be home. To sing in church with his wife beside him. To watch her braid their daughters’ hair. He wanted to suck on sugarcane with his son instead of creep through it with quivering limbs. He wanted to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this.

  He saw a section of the grass move, and his finger squeezed the trigger. He tried to drop to his belly, but before he could do so, a popping noise erupted and he felt as if he’d stepped on a giant nest of hornets. His arms and belly stung fiercely and he fell on his back, his hands clutching at his flesh. The hornets continued to sting his insides, and he found the holes they’d made and desperately tried to pull them out before they bit him again. He screamed at the overwhelming agony. Suddenly, all that mattered was fleeing this place and the hornets that continued to descend upon him. With great effort he rose. He took a step forward. Then a hornet leapt into his head, and suddenly he was looking at a blue sky. A man seemingly made of grass stood above him. Something long and sharp pressed against his throat.

  As the bayonet was thrust downward, Ratu finally awoke screaming. He stood up unsteadily and almost ran into the nearby fire. He stumbled past the flames and through the cave’s entrance. The vision of the bayonet against his father’s throat still fresh in his mind, he fell to his knees on the sand. Weeping, he began to crawl, as if he could somehow find his father, as if he could flee a cruel world that was not of his making.

  Ratu hadn’t gone far when Jake dropped to the sand beside him. Picking up Ratu as if he were a toddler, Jake gently set him on his lap and rocked him back and forth. Ratu was besieged with fear, and Jake could do little more than hold him tight and tell him that everything would be fine. Ratu shuddered as he sobbed, clinging to Jake as if terrified of being yanked away from him.

  “He’s dead!” Ratu wailed miserably, pressing his face against Jake’s chest.

  “It was just a little old dream, Ratu. Nothing more.”

  “I saw him die! I tell you, I saw—”

  “He ain’t dead,” Jake said, stroking Ratu’s head. “I promise you, he ain’t—”

  “But I saw him! I saw him! They killed him, and he didn’t even get to run.”

  “Shhh, Ratu. You’ll see your daddy again. I promise.”

  “You can’t promise a bloody thing! No, no, you can’t!”

  Jake kissed the top of Ratu’s head, hating to see him distraught. Jake was so accustomed to his jokes and laughter that at times he forgot Ratu was so far from his family. “You’ve had bad dreams before, right?” Jake asked, stroking Ratu’s shoulder. In the distance, Jake saw Isabelle and Annie approach. He thought about asking them to help, but decided to politely wave them away. “Ratu, ain’t you had bad dreams before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did people die? People you loved?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you woke up, were them people really dead?”

  “But this dream was different,” Ratu replied, continuing to shudder and weep. “I saw him die.”

  “I saw myself die in a dream once. A darn bus ran me over, and my head popped open like a dropped watermelon. But I ain’t dead yet. And sure as sunshine, I ain’t been splattered by some old bus.”

  Ratu shifted against Jake, drawing himself even closer. “I want to go home, Jake.”

  “Tell me about that home of yours. What’s it like?”

  “I really want to go home.”

  “Well, tell me about it. Maybe telling me about it will get you closer to it.”

  “How?”

  “How don’t matter. Just tell me and see what happens.”

  Ratu rubbed his eyes. “It’s . . . it’s up on stilts, Big Jake. It’s wood. There’s one . . . big room and we all sleep on the floor.”

  “It sure sounds nice.”

  “It is, Big Jake. It is.”

  Jake squeezed Ratu tightly, then wiped sand from his chin. “Can I tell you something, Ratu?”

  “What?”

  “If I had a son, if I was so darn lucky to have a son, I’d want him to be just like you.”

  “You would? But why? I’m not strong or smart. I can’t . . . I can’t do what other boys can.”

  “Why, you can tell a good yarn. You can make me laugh. And you taught m
e to spear big-eyed fish. Whatever else would a daddy need?”

  Ratu’s tears began again, and Jake continued to cradle him. “I miss them, Jake,” Ratu said. “I miss them so bloody much.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you really think my father is safe?”

  Jake nodded. “A few months ago, I dreamt that I kissed my sister. That don’t mean that I did, or that I’m gonna. At least I hope it don’t.”

  “That’s disgusting, Big Jake.”

  “I reckon so. But there I was, kissing her.”

  A faint smile rose on Ratu’s face. “Maybe you should keep that a secret, Big Jake. I tell you, if that was my dream, it would be a secret.”

  “Well, I trust you.”

  Ratu shifted his body so that his head rested more comfortably against Jake’s chest. For the first time since his dream, he glanced at his surroundings and noticed that it had stopped raining. Though clouds still dominated the sky, like him, they seemed to have shed their tears. “Will you . . . will you sleep next to me tonight?” Ratu asked. “Right next to me, Jake?”

  “Ever seen a pair of salamanders sleep?”

  “Salamanders?”

  “They’re like lizards, except they live in the mud.”

  “No, I haven’t seen them.”

  “Well, them salamanders sleep so close together that their tails get all twisted up. And I reckon that’s just how I’ll sleep with you.”

  Ratu wiped his eyes, then leaned back against Jake. “You’re my best mate, Jake.”

  Jake smiled, his thick hands rubbing Ratu’s back. “You ain’t gonna tell anyone about my sister, are you?”

  “I’d be too embarrassed for you, Big Jake, to say such a thing.”

  Jake chuckled, noting how the sky had lightened. “Let’s sit here a spell and wait for first light,” he said. “A couple of salamanders on a beach.”

  THE SEA FELT GOOD against his feet. Akira sat at the edge of a tide pool, his toes creating patterns in the sand beneath them. Dawn had come and gone, and a slate-gray sky hung listlessly above. After two days of wind, rain, and surf, the day was still. The only movement, in fact, seemed to rise from the creatures within the pool at Akira’s feet. Black mollusks opened and closed. A pair of trapped fish darted about. Miniature crabs gathered atop a dead starfish, their claws constantly bringing bits of flesh to their mouths.

  Akira watched the creatures with interest. He found each to be beautiful in its own way, and he wondered if his appreciation stemmed from the rapture he felt about his relationship with Annie. After all, the thought of her provoked what almost seemed to be a new life within him. Even during his best years, when he’d been a professor and helped guide wonderful minds, he hadn’t felt such an abundance of energy and zeal. He’d never realized that the experience of sharing thoughts and feelings with another human being could have such a profound effect upon him. Even in Annie’s absence, his mood was buoyant; for he anticipated seeing her the way a child awaits the opening of a special present.

  For much of his life, Akira had studied poetry. And poets, especially Western ones, often spoke of love. But until now, Akira had only been able to guess at what such an emotion might actually feel like. And this lack of a real experience had always troubled him, for he knew that guessing about the taste of sugar was entirely different from actually savoring its flavor on his tongue.

  As he’d told her, Annie had captured a part of him when she’d wiped his face clean aboard Benevolence. He had thought about her for hours afterward, imagining what she might be like. But he’d never fathomed that she could creep deeper and deeper into his heart until it seemed that she belonged there. He’d known her only a short time, and yet, to his amazement, he felt he knew how to make her happy. And she certainly pleased him in ways almost beyond his comprehension.

  Though a part of him worried about what would befall them once they left the island, he tried not to think about Annie returning to her fiancé. The hole this event would create in him would be so overwhelming that he forced himself to ignore its eventual possibility. Comprehending his world without her in it was like imagining the sky with no sun. He simply couldn’t and wouldn’t do it.

  Musing over what kind of beauty she saw within him, Akira continued to dangle his feet in the water. So oblivious was he to the realm beyond his thoughts that he didn’t sense Roger walk up behind him. Suddenly, Roger’s reflection materialized in the tide pool. Though Akira’s heart skipped, he turned around slowly. Roger carried a spear in his right hand and was shirtless. Akira quickly noted his muscles, surprised that such a big man could move so quietly.

  “How did you do it?” Roger asked, standing just a few feet away.

  “Do what?”

  “How does a monkey bastard like you get a skirt like her?”

  “A skirt?”

  “A woman, you stupid Nip. A woman like that little nurse.”

  Aware of the spear and the precariousness of his position in the tide pool, Akira said, “I did not do anything.”

  Roger shook his aching head, his fingers whitening upon the spear. “You Japs are such good liars. If you only fought as well as you lied, you’d win the war.”

  “Why are you—”

  “But you won’t win the war. You and your stinking kind will be driven back to that piss pot you call a country.”

  Akira said nothing, keeping his eyes not on Roger’s face, but on the spear. Though he didn’t think that Roger would attempt to kill him so openly, he wasn’t about to take unnecessary risks.

  “What’s wrong with that little bitch?” Roger asked, leaning forward. “Is she in heat? Does she like to take it like a dog? Isn’t that how you Japs do it?”

  At these words, Akira’s mood began to change. He could ignore taunts against him and even his country. But to hear Annie insulted was more than he was willing to endure. Maintaining his eyes on the spear, he rose slowly. He stood and faced Roger, who was a full head taller than he. “Do you know what five years of war have taught me?” he asked quietly.

  “That monkeys can’t fight?”

  “They taught me that it is men like you, men who pretend to be strong, who always die with the least honor. They are the ones who soil themselves when the fighting becomes fierce.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You understood me.”

  Roger moved closer to Akira, desperately wanting to kill him but knowing that now wasn’t the time. “Do you see your death, monkey man?” he asked, his face inches from Akira’s. “Do you look at me and see your death? Because I’m going to kill you. And I’ll do it with my own hands. No gun. No knife. I’m going to beat you, you Jap bastard, to death with my own fists. And how do you think that’s going to feel?”

  Akira’s eyes didn’t leave Roger’s. “I have already died once in this war. Nothing you can do to me would be worse than that. Nothing, so sorry.”

  “I can do plenty worse.”

  “You can talk, yes? You can insult a woman who is ten thousand times your better. But you cannot frighten me.” Out of the corner of his eye, Akira noticed Jake and Joshua approaching. Switching to Japanese, Akira said, “A coward is all you are, and all you will ever be.”

  Though Roger understood perfectly well what Akira had said, he managed to somewhat subdue his sudden rage. “What did you say?”

  Akira smiled. “Only that it is a beautiful day. And I think that I will take a walk now.”

  Roger’s hand fell upon Akira’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly. “I asked what you said.”

  For a brief moment, Akira thought about slamming the side of his hand into Roger’s throat, about watching him die in the tide pool. But he realized that if he killed Roger in such a manner, Joshua would have no choice but to lock him up, and his days with Annie would be over. And so he said, “I am leaving. If you wish to try to beat me with your fists, please do so now.”

  Roger pulled his hand away from Akira so that his nails left deep scratches on the smaller man’s s
houlder. “I’ll kill you. And then I’ll find Annie. I’ll make that little bitch wish you hadn’t saved her.”

  “You—”

  “And I wonder if you’ll hear her screams.”

  Akira looked at the scratches, felt his flesh sting from rents made by Roger’s long nails. He raised his gaze to meet Roger’s. “Do you know what seppuku is?” he asked, his voice soft but suddenly quite intense.

  “No,” Roger replied, lying.

  “Seppuku is how Japanese samurai would take their own lives after being disgraced. They would stick a sword in their own belly and make a series of cuts until they died.”

  “I bet they cried like women.”

  “When you threatened Annie, when you brought her into our quarrel, you committed seppuku,” Akira said, his tone so menacing that he hardly recognized his own voice. “You are still alive, but believe me, you just thrust a sword into your belly. And I will make the cuts.” Brushing past Roger as if he didn’t exist, Akira walked toward Joshua and Jake. Though he debated telling Joshua about Roger’s threats, for the time being he walked in silence, wondering if he could still ponder love and happiness with Roger’s blood on his hands.

  NOT LONG AFTER Akira’s confrontation with Roger, Annie sought out her lover. He had walked far down the rocky beach, trying to determine how to deal with the threat Roger posed without risking everything. Akira now sat atop a massive rock that served as a rampart against the waves. He watched the sea and debated a variety of options at his disposal. He still hadn’t made up his mind when Annie stepped to the rock. “Are you looking for ships?” she asked, trying to climb up.

  He moved to help her, his hand grasping hers and pulling her up beside him. “I am just thinking,” he said.