Beside a Burning Sea

by John Shors

  “And what about the nursery?”

  “Oh, I suppose there will have to be ships in it.”

  “Even if it’s a girl?”

  “Especially if it’s a girl.”

  Joshua smiled at her response, understanding all that it meant. “And you really want me to teach you how to sail?”

  “Why should you get to have all the fun? I can be a captain too.”

  “You’d run a tight ship. So tight that you’d probably get a few extra knots out of her.”

  “More than a few, I’d say.”

  He grinned, glancing from the sea to the sky to her face. “I’m so lucky to have you,” he said, his voice growing slightly more serious. “I just don’t know how I’d manage without you. I don’t even like to think about it.”

  “You’d manage.”

  He stopped and turned to her. “That isn’t true, Izzy. In fact, nothing could be farther from the truth. And I thought about you a lot,” he said, touching the tip of her nose with his forefinger. “All those long hours on the bridge. You were with me more than you knew.”

  “I was?”

  “I wanted us to be like we once were. When we were young.”

  “Remind me what that was like.”

  “Like this,” he replied, scratching absently at a bug bite. “We took walks. We talked. We laughed a lot.”

  “I remember laughing.”

  “So do I.”

  “Do you think the war changed us,” she asked, “or did we change on our own?”

  “What do you think?”

  Isabelle took his hand and started walking again. “I think . . . I think we let the war change us.”

  “I—”

  “And I don’t want anything to change us again. No matter where life takes us. We could have a sick child, or you could be out of work. But even those things shouldn’t change us, Josh. Not like the war did. I don’t want to keep trying to go back to who we once were. I don’t want to feel myself slipping away from you.”

  Joshua considered her words. “The last thing I took for granted is gone,” he said. “And I miss that ship. I really do. And I’m not comparing you to a ship, but for a long time I’ve taken you for granted, and I’m not going to make that mistake anymore.”

  “But the war. Even once our child’s born you’ll still have a war to win.”

  “And I’ll fight that war. For our child. For us. For Poles and Parisians and Jews and Chinese. For people we’ve never met.” He saw a flat rock and skipped it into the surf. “And then one day it will be over. And, God willing, I’ll come home that day.”

  “You’d better come home, Joshua.”

  He touched her belly. “I won’t leave you two alone.”

  “Promise?”

  “I do.”

  She glanced at their surroundings. “We could wait the war out . . . on this island.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not us. That’s not who we are.”

  Isabelle nodded, knowing he was right, surprised at herself for even mentioning it. “Then I want to ask you something,” she said.

  “What?”

  “After we’re rescued, give me a week. I want a week of just you. A week in a place like this. Then you can go and do what needs to be done. And I’ll have everything ready when you finally come home.”

  Joshua tried to smile, but having grown so used to her presence, the thought of being separated was suddenly hard for him to ponder. “We’ll take two weeks,” he said, reaching over to draw her toward him. He held her tightly, kissing her brow, his hand on her belly.

  “I think we deserve that.”

  “I love you, Izzy. I love you, and I won’t be pulled away from you. I won’t let even this godforsaken war do that to us again.”

  RATU SCRUTINIZED THE NEARBY beach with immense care. Bordered by tide pools, rocks, and the ocean, the section of sand was about forty feet long and twenty feet wide. Deciding on a course of action, Ratu took a spear, set its point into the sand, and began to walk. Dragging the weapon behind him, he created a rectangle that used most of the available sand. At each end of the rectangle he then placed a pair of coconuts set about five feet apart.

  “These are the goals,” he said eagerly to Jake. “If you kick the ball through the coconuts, you score a goal.”

  “And you ain’t gonna use your hands?”

  “Only a goalie can use his hands.”

  “So I can?”

  “You’re not a bloody goalie, Big Jake. In this game, no hands.”

  Jake looked at the round sponge Ratu had found. Nodding toward it, he said, “So I gotta kick that darn thing?”

  “What have I been telling you? Of course you bloody well have to kick that darn thing. If you kick it through my two coconuts, you score a goal.”

  Picking up the sponge, Jake tossed it up and caught it. He then dropped it and tried to kick it in midair. Missing badly, he lost his balance and had to step sideways to regain it. “How about a larger sponge?” he asked. “I’d rather peel potatoes with a spoon than kick that thing.”

  “Just kick it, Big Jake. I tell you, it’s not hard,” Ratu said as he walked toward the middle of his field. Setting the sponge down, he turned toward Jake. “You can have the ball first.”

  “I reckon we should call it a sponge.”

  “Bugger off, Big Jake. It’s a ball. Now try to kick it by me and into my goal.”

  Jake stepped toward the sponge. Seeing how Ratu had positioned himself between it and his goal, Jake attempted to kick the sponge around him. However, the kick mainly served to send sand flying into the air. The sponge went almost straight up, and before Jake knew what was happening, Ratu darted forward, kneed the sponge in midair, and sent it sailing over Jake’s head. Ratu raced around Jake, shouting triumphantly. He kicked the sponge several times before blasting it through Jake’s goal.

  “The great Ratu scores first!” Ratu shouted, holding his arms up and spinning around in tight circles.

  “That’s good,” Jake said, “get yourself real nice and dizzy. That ought to help me.”

  “You need to learn how to kick, Big Jake!” Ratu exclaimed, laughing. “How can someone as big and strong as you not know how to kick?”

  “How can someone so little be so darn ornery?”

  “Oh, put a sock in it, mate. Do I need to explain the game to you again? I’m happy to do so. It’s not hard. I tell you, it’s not. Just use that giant foot of yours. If only I had a foot like that! I’d be playing for Fiji in the bloody World Cup!”

  Ratu again placed the sponge in the middle of the field. Though Jake managed to kick it forward ten feet, Ratu quickly intercepted the sponge, kicked it around Jake, and scored. “Ha!”

  “Ha yourself.”

  “And another brilliant goal for the great Ratu!” he said, holding his fist before his face, pretending to be a radio announcer. “Fiji leads America two goals to nil! And the crowd is leaping with excitement at this historic match!”

  Jake smiled, suddenly remembering what it was like to be a boy and play such games. “The Americans have put in their star player,” he added, trying without much success to impersonate another announcer.

  “Yes, Jake the Giant has entered the game,” Ratu replied, laughing. “His left foot is legendary. He’s been known to kick cows from Missouri to the Big Apple Pie!”

  “And the ball’s in play!” Jake said, trying to kick the sponge around Ratu. To Jake’s delight, the sponge rolled over Ratu’s outstretched leg. Jake leapt forward, surprising Ratu with his quickness. After catching up to the rolling sponge, Jake kicked it as hard as he could. The sponge sailed into the air, rising above one of the coconuts that marked the edge of the goal.

  “A miss!” Ratu shouted, giggling deliriously. “A wide-open goal and a miss!”

  “No, no, no,” Jake said, still pretending to be an announcer. “A goal. It hit the post and went in!”

  “Is that the official ruling, Peter?”

  “Yes .
. . William . . . that’s what the umpire said.”

  “The umpire?” Ratu repeated, laughing. “He’s a referee!”

  “A goal! He said it went in.”

  Continuing to giggle, Ratu retrieved the sponge. “Jake the Giant has put the Yanks on the board,” he said, throwing the sponge to Jake.

  Jake placed the sponge in the middle of the field and had hardly removed his hands when Ratu kicked it forward. “I ain’t ready to—”

  “The Fijians have a breakaway!” Ratu shouted, his laughter making it hard for him to run quickly.

  Jake hurried to catch Ratu, who was having a tough time kicking the sponge in the furrowed sand. Ratu’s giggles were infectious, and suddenly Jake was chuckling as his opponent tried to keep him at bay. “Hey, now!” Jake said, trying to get around Ratu. “No pushing with them hands!”

  “Get away from me, Jake the Giant! Get those monster feet away from me!”

  “Stop pushing me!”

  “Get stuffed!” Ratu said, his hands pressing against Jake’s belly. “You’re too bloody big!”

  Jake made a halfhearted attempt to kick the sponge, and then could only laugh as Ratu sent it sailing between the coconuts. Falling to the sand, Jake watched Ratu collect the sponge. Ratu then threw it against Jake’s stomach. Sand went flying in all directions, spraying Jake’s face. Ratu laughed while Jake tried to spit out the sand, and Jake reached out and tripped him, sending him sprawling. Jake took the sponge and rubbed it on Ratu’s head.

  “Stop it!” Ratu shrieked.

  “And a fight’s started between the Fijians and the Americans!” Jake shouted in his fake accent, pretending to punch Ratu.

  “Get off of me, you big, bumbling Yank!”

  “Jake the Giant is hammering away at the great Ratu!”

  Ratu rose to his knees and dove into Jake’s stomach. Jake acted as if the blow stunned him. Grunting loudly, he dropped to the beach and appeared to fall unconscious. Ratu shouted jubilantly, and once more kicked the sponge through Jake’s goal. “A four-to-one victory for the Fijians!” he said, his laughter causing his voice to rise in pitch. “It’s over. The game is over, and Jake the Giant is done for the day!”

  Jake continued to chuckle as Ratu pranced and shouted around him, then leapt upon his back, pretending to hit him repeatedly in the upper body. Throwing his arms behind him, so that they encircled Ratu, Jake stood up and began to run toward the sea.

  “No!” Ratu yelled, still laughing. “I don’t fancy getting wet!”

  “I reckon you don’t!”

  “No, I tell you! No, Big Jake! Please don’t—”

  Jake plunged into the sea. When it was up to his waist, he turned around and fell backward so that Ratu was thrust underwater. Ratu immediately surfaced and dove at Jake. Ratu was laughing and shrieking, and Jake caught a glimpse of what it must be like to be a father. He reveled in that glimpse, rejoicing in the simple but perfect pleasure of playing with Ratu. For the first time since he’d been a child, Jake felt like a child. And that feeling of youth, of forgotten memories being reborn, bound him to Ratu with a strength that he hadn’t known.

  Since he’d become a man, Jake had loved no one beyond his family. While he’d delighted in the land beneath his feet, and once touched a woman’s face and felt drawn to her, he’d never met a stranger and had that stranger run into his heart. He hadn’t sought such an experience and hadn’t expected to celebrate its passage. But now, as he threw Ratu high into the air, Jake realized that he loved this boy. He wanted to protect him, to hear his laugh, to feel his touch. He wanted to watch him grow, and to take pride in his journey.

  This was Jake’s secret—that he’d discovered a boy who made him feel like a father, made him realize that the greater good didn’t solely apply to a nation at war. Perhaps the greater good was also making a boy smile. Perhaps it was ensuring that this wonderful boy returned to his family.

  Jake had left his farm to join the fight against fascism. He’d left expecting to see death and pain and misery, and though he’d seen such sights, he hadn’t expected his most profound experience to be a simple and unexpected discovery—the realization that his greatest hope was that a boy would survive the war and be reunited with his family.

  I’ll bring him home, Jake promised himself. Whatever happens on this darn island, ain’t nothing gonna stop me from bringing Ratu home.

  ROGER KNELT NAKED atop the hill, a cigarette between his lips, his fingers fine-tuning the radio’s dial. “Ronin to Edo,” he said. “Repeat. Ronin to Edo. Over.”

  The static that assaulted Roger’s ears disappeared. “Edo here. How are the cherry blossoms?”

  “Always best under a full moon.”

  “Agree. How was the storm?”

  “Fine. Nothing’s changed here.”

  “Mother coming to roost in two days. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rendezvous at north side of landing area. At highest ground. Stay hidden. I will find you.”

  “Understood. What should I expect after rendezvous?”

  For a few heartbeats, the static returned. Then Edo said, “You will lead me to the eight chicks. They will be terminated.”

  “Good.”

  “I will wear a sword and a pistol. Look for me.”

  “Understood. Over.” Roger waited for a reply, and when one didn’t come, he removed his headset. “Two days,” he said happily, filling his lungs with the rich, glorious smoke.

  Roger closed his eyes, thrilled by the prospect of leading Edo and his men to the survivors, relishing the thought of the resulting confrontation. Such conflicts had been the best part of his life for nearly two decades. He’d gone to great lengths to manufacture them and was rarely disappointed with how they unfolded. In this case, he’d get to witness the deaths of those who so incessantly tormented him—the skirts who scorned him, the Nip who wasn’t afraid, the runt who never shut his mouth. He’d even kill one or two such oppressors—surely the Nip and perhaps the maggot captain. And everyone would know, just before they died, that he’d betrayed them, that he was stronger and smarter and more cunning than they’d ever imagined.

  Roger sucked hard on his cigarette and started to stow his radio. As he did, he noticed a distant flash of light. The flash came from atop a faraway hill. Recognizing the location as being close to the cave, his heart plummeted as he squinted toward the glare. Almost immediately, he realized that someone, most likely Scarlet, was watching him through the binoculars.

  Cursing himself for his appalling carelessness, Roger leapt upward—his cigarette dropping to the ground, his muscles and instincts sprung from the cage that had confined them for so long. His shoes and shorts he swiftly put on; his shirt he left where it lay. He began to hurry down the hill, running in great bounds, moving more like a mountain lion than a man. The land blurred beneath him. The wind tugged at his hair. Jumping over boulders rather than circumventing them, he kept his arms outstretched for balance. Though reeling with misgivings about his recklessness, overconfidence, and stupidity, as the chase unfolded, he became increasingly calm and even happy. It felt good to be running again, exhilarating to be approaching someone who’d soon die at his hands.

  Roger entered the jungle as swiftly and precisely as a needle piercing cloth, aware that she’d be running by now, but that she wouldn’t be fast enough.

  FOR SEVERAL DAYS, Scarlet had enjoyed watching the large bird that nested near the top of the distant hill. Though she hadn’t recognized the species, she’d grown to understand the gray-and-white-feathered creature, which liked to dive into the sea, to clasp a fish within its talons, and return to its nest to devour its prey. Scarlet had decided to keep a mental diary of all such birds she’d seen, and upon returning to America, research which species she’d been fortunate enough to study. If she was going to remain stranded in such an awful place, she was determined to leave with at least one positive experience. And that experience would be birds.

  With more curiosity than s
urprise, Scarlet had turned her binoculars from the nesting bird to Roger. Like her, he often seemed to want to escape the confines of the cave and the conversations inside it. So when she had first seen him climbing, she’d thought that he was merely seeking quieter ground. However, she’d been immensely perplexed when he’d taken off his clothes and started to dig; further so when he removed what looked to be a case of some sort. Focusing the binoculars, she’d risen from beneath the shade of a stunted tree and watched as he opened the case. To her surprise, he’d started smoking a cigarette.

  It had taken Scarlet some time to comprehend that he was talking on a radio. When she’d finally realized what was happening, she became quite confused. Who was he talking to? And why did he have a secret radio? She had finally come to the awful conclusion that Roger wasn’t who he appeared to be, and with trembling hands, she’d watched him remove his headset. She’d then lowered the binoculars to wipe the sweat from her eyes, and when she’d placed them back against her face, she saw that he was looking directly at her. And then he was running, moving like a madman down the hill, his arms and legs swinging to and fro.

  Her heart leaping, Scarlet hurried toward the jungle below. The way was littered with loose gravel and large boulders. Grunting, she climbed over the boulders as quickly as she could. The gravel proved treacherous, and several times she slipped and fell. Though the hill wasn’t as tall as many on the island, it was steep, and she was forced to occasionally slow lest she tumble to her death.

  Even though the cave was fairly distant, Scarlet screamed for help. She knew that Roger was coming to kill her, and she continued to shout in hopes that someone might be nearby. Thinking of her brothers and how they’d always looked after her, she began to cry. She frantically called their names, as if they might somehow protect her again. Her thoughts and movements growing clumsy, she stumbled down the hill. Unable to stop, she ran directly at a boulder, spinning away from it at the last second and twisting her knee in the process. Though her terror was overwhelming, an immense pain suddenly consumed her.

  Limping, Scarlet struggled downward. “Joshua!” she screamed, her crushing fear causing her voice to tremble. “Jake! Nathan! Akira! Help me! Please help me!”