The Far Reaches

by Homer Hickam

  At the stream, she found herself momentarily perplexed as to how to wash herself and her clothes. She decided she had to get farther from the village and so took a path that paralleled the stream until she came to a small dam of piled-up rocks. Behind it was a pretty little pond, and hanging over it, reminding her of worshipping nuns, were heavy-limbed candlenut trees. On the far end of the pond, there was a little waterfall that gushed in a torrent between two boulders high on a rocky cliff. The water struck stones as it fell, producing a shower of rainbow drops that played musical notes on the surface of the lake. “ ‘Tis a fine place for a wash, Laddy,” she said to the pup, who now had a name.

  She set the pot of soap on the shore and then stripped until she wore only her undergarments. Multicolored birds twittered and hopped in the trees overhead as she dipped her hand into the pot of soap, then vigorously scrubbed the multiple pieces of her habit in the pond and afterward wrung them out and spread them on the rocks of the dam to dry. Then, though she felt most brazen doing it, she took off her undergarments and washed them, too. She looked all around again, still seeing nothing but the little birds and hearing nothing except their singing and the small, singsong notes of the waterfall spray. She scooped a handful of the jelly soap from the pot and carried it to the little waterfall, and there she raised her face to the stream of gushing water and turned and stretched beneath it until the accumulated grime of the voyage was washed away. As she washed her hair, she reveled in the way it squeaked so clean between her fingers. She felt almost as if she were in heaven. For surely, if ever there was, she thought, this is God’s own place.

  She swam and allowed the sun to do its work, then dressed in her nearly dry habit, clucking her tongue at the bloodstains that permanently stained the scapular and the ring of grime that would forever burnish the hem. Then she studied her reflection in the pond, as she had once done in the silver teapot at the convent in Ballysaggart. She smiled at herself, grateful that Sister Theresa was not on Tahila to fuss at her for her vanity. “Sister Theresa would be displeased with me filthy garment,” she said to her pup. “But what else can I do but what I have done?”

  Laddy had no answer except to nuzzle her hand. Then her stomach growled, and she turned back toward the village, though she and the pup had no sooner emerged onto the path than she encountered the two widows. Smiling, they escorted her back to the still-dozing village and thence to their house, where they offered her slices of fresh coconut and juicy, sweet pineapple.

  She shared her meal with Laddy; then the widows led her to a house she had not yet visited. This was the Women’s House, they explained. Inside the octagonal-shaped structure, she was shown an ancient treadle sewing machine and various bolts of cloth, including one of pure white cotton. It was hers, they said, and she was thrilled. “Thank ye, me darlings,” she said, and both widows replied that she was more than welcome and that they would gladly help her make more of her holy clothes.

  They left her then, and Sister Mary Kathleen sat for a while in the Women’s House, breathing in the aroma of the clean bolts of cloth and the sweet scent of the bamboo walls and palm-thatched roof. She called for Laddy, who had stationed himself at the doorway, and the pup came inside and crawled into her lap. She stroked his head, cooing to him, telling him what a nice and handsome dog he was, and for just a moment, Sister Mary Kathleen was happy.

  “Sister?” It was Mori, Chief Kalapa’s first wife, at the doorway. “Would you come with me, please?”

  Sister Mary Kathleen followed the woman to the shack that served as Mr. Bucknell’s headquarters and there discovered Josh Thurlow, unconscious and lying on a mat. Vapors of gin emanated from his open mouth.

  Mori gestured toward the captain. “I overheard my husband and Mr. Bucknell discussing this man. They said he planned on leaving us and taking his marines with him. They said if that was so, we would surely all die. They also said it was because of you. Before now, the Japonee have left us alone. But Give me the nun, the sign said on Burubu. By coming here, you have selfishly put this village in danger.”

  Sister Mary Kathleen absorbed the accusation, then contritely confessed, “Yer right.”

  Mori was not finished. “The symbol carved at the base of the cross. My husband said Nango described it but could not tell more. What is its meaning?”

  “The symbol is Japanese for snow,” Sister Mary Kathleen answered. “Do you know what snow is?”

  “I have heard of it. It is white and pure. As you are, Sister. Why did this Japanese colonel carve this symbol on Burubu’s cross? And why does he de-sire you so much?”

  Sister Mary Kathleen’s hand went to the medal around her neck. “I spoke to your husband about this already, Missus Mori.”

  “He told me what you said, but I believe you must have left a few things out.”

  “If I did, it was only because there are things it is not decent to tell.” Mori lifted her eyebrows. “You must tell me, for if you do not, I assure you the women of Tahila will drive you off this island and will not care if you drown. We may do so anyway if your reason for being here is not great enough. Besides, there is nothing so indecent that a woman cannot tell another woman.”

  The nun dropped her face into her hands. “I cannot!”

  “You must. Take what I am offering to you. At least unburden your soul.” Sister Mary Kathleen raised her head and looked into the uncompromising eyes of the first wife. “I have already unburdened my soul to a priest, and to God.”

  “What did the priest say?”

  “He said I was lost.”

  “And your God? What does He tell you?”

  “He remains silent.”

  Mori smiled knowingly. “The priest is a man, and so, you believe, is your God. Tell me, Sister. Tell me everything and let me understand what you have done.”

  “You won’t understand,” Sister Mary Kathleen predicted miserably. “Ye will detest me, and then ye will force me to leave. But I cannot go, you see. I must stay and somehow devise a plan to make the Japanese leave Ruka.”

  “How is such a thing possible?”

  “I do not know, yet I must try,” she answered. “I must.”

  The nun’s pain was terrible to see, and Mori’s heart went out to her, but it was not enough. Her children, all of Tahila’s children, were at stake. “I will ask you one more time. If you want to stay on Tahila another day, tell me everything.”

  So Sister Mary Kathleen, seeing that she had no choice, told Mori everything except her greatest sin, the one she could never voice to anyone save a priest, no matter if she was driven into the sea. After she had told the part that could be told, Mori wept. Then, beside a gin-soaked Josh Thurlow, the first wife of Tahila, tears rolling down her cheeks, knelt before the Irish nun and took her hands and kissed them and asked for forgiveness, and then she took her in her arms and held her tenderly, as a mother holds a child. “You may stay, my dear,” she whispered as Sister Mary Kathleen wept bitter tears. “I will help you, for now I understand. And if any man says otherwise, especially this big drunkard, I will defend you. Of this, you may be certain.”

  34

  Mr. Bucknell left Chief Kalapa’s house, where he had been summoned to speak with the chief and his first wife. He carefully placed his widebrimmed Panama hat aboard his head and walked down the common road to the boathouse, where he knew Bosun O’Neal and the marines had spent the night. They were sitting cross-legged on the porch and cradling their rifles. “Good day to you, gentlemen,” he greeted them. “I trust you had a pleasant evening.”

  “Have you seen Captain Thurlow, Mr. Bucknell?” Ready asked.

  “He is asleep in my headquarters,” Bucknell replied. “I think he might have had a little too much gin. Chief Kalapa’s first wife has been tending to him.”

  Ready absorbed the information and picked out the part that was most interesting. “How many wives does Chief Kalapa have?”

  “Three, at last count. Anyhoo, I fear your captain will probably be a bit drow
sy for the rest of the day. I shouldn’t bother him.”

  Ready shrugged. “He said he didn’t want to talk to me unless the Japanese were attacking, which they don’t seem to be doing.”

  Bucknell smiled. “No, not yet—but from what I understand, they may. The nun, you know. Mad Colonel Yoshu seems to have it in his head to retrieve her.”

  “We know that, Mr. Bucknell. We saw that sign on the cross, too. I guess the captain is right. We should leave before we get attacked, but I’m afraid Sister won’t go with us.”

  “No. I dare say she will not,” Bucknell said. “A question, Bosun. Would you leave without her?”

  “I took an oath to follow orders, sir. But would I be happy about it? No, I wouldn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t like it, neither,” Garcia said. “But then I ain’t too thrilled about getting massacred. I think we should leave, Bosun.”

  Tucker said, “It’s nice of these folks to let us stay even overnight. I mean, considering what happened on Burubu and all. If I was them, I’d chase us off.”

  “The people of Tahila are by nature quite hospitable,” Bucknell agreed. “Well, it don’t much matter since we’re leaving pretty soon,” Garcia said. Bucknell nodded, then offered a small shrug. “I’m not so certain of that. When Captain Thurlow wakes, Chief Kalapa and I will try to persuade him to stay. I think you should make yourself at home in the meantime.”

  The marines looked at each other. “Does that include fraternizing with the women, sir?” Tucker asked.

  “If one should take a fancy to you, of course. Tahila is very open to liaisons before marriage. The people here believe practice makes perfect.”

  “What a fine belief!” Sampson enthused. He was standing, leaning on a crude wooden crutch.

  “How is your foot, young man?” Bucknell asked.

  “Missing, sir,” Sampson replied, “but Nango brought me this crutch, and it works pretty well.” He touched his stomach. “Mr. Bucknell, you got any chow? I guess we’re all pretty hungry.”

  Bucknell did have chow, indeed, and so invited Ready and the marines to breakfast with him beneath the shade of the spreading monkeypod tree that stood beside the boathouse. Various women brought baskets of fruit and jugs of fresh, cool water. “Now, gentlemen,” Bucknell said, after they’d eaten, “I have a proposition for you. How would you like to have an adventure? There’s an American with two wives who lives across yon mountain. Would you like to visit them?”

  “Sure!” Tucker answered. “Sounds like fun.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Bucknell,” Ready said. “What if the Japanese come today?”

  “I don’t think they will, Bosun. According to the sister, she knows this colonel very well. She is certain he has gone back to his lair, at least for now.”

  Sampson was also doubtful. “I don’t know if I can climb a mountain yet, Mr. Bucknell.”

  Bucknell thought it over, then raised a finger, and a pretty girl swung by. Bucknell spoke to her, and she smiled enticingly at Sampson. “Valua has agreed to show you the nearby sights, Private. Would that do as a substitute?”

  Sampson stared at the girl in openmouthed wonder. “Yes, sir!”

  “Pick a girl out for me, too, Mr. Bucknell,” Tucker said.

  “And me!” Garcia volunteered.

  Bucknell chuckled. “Patience, gentlemen. I’m certain your charms will not go unnoticed for long. But for now, I’d like for you to see the island and meet the American. Our adventure, yes?”

  Their adventure, yes, and no more than an hour later, Mr. Bucknell, his umbrella laid on his shoulder, led Ready, Tucker, and Garcia up the mountain that rose behind the village. The path they followed led through a thick, luxurious tropical forest of mahogany and banyan trees, their thick limbs draped with hairy vines. Squawking and fussing exotic birds hopped among the branches. Along the path, mats of passion flowers draped rock outcroppings, and plants with slick green leaves as big as an elephant’s ear waved in the slight breeze. It was a glorious jungle, filled with a million sweet scents. After the flat ugliness of Tarawa and the bloody mess of Burubu, Ready and the marines were awestruck by its beauty.

  When the crest of the mountain was reached, Bucknell told them to take a moment and enjoy the view. Though the others looked ahead, down into a pretty lowland valley, Ready instead looked back to the village. Somewhere down there was Sister Mary Kathleen, and he wondered what she was doing. He wished more than anything he were with her.

  “Glorious, isn’t it?” Bucknell asked him.

  Ready nodded. “Sure is, sir. The people seem nice, too.”

  “You might want to think how to defend them. Let me make a proposition to you. I have discussed this idea with Chief Kalapa. We think you should take charge of defending us from the Japanese.”

  Ready was astonished. “Me, sir? But we’re not staying. Even if we were, such would better be handled by Captain Thurlow!”

  “Captain Thurlow is drunk. Or sick. Or both.”

  “He’s been drunk before. Sick, too. But when he wakes up, I’m sure he will want to leave.”

  “Perhaps or perhaps not. Let’s worry about that later, shall we? Come now, what do you say to our proposal?”

  Ready scratched his head. “You’re talking about mutiny, sir.”

  “Nonsense. Your captain is in a stupor. The situation is dire. It is your duty to step up to defend yourself and us.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Look, I think you’re the perfect man for the job.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. Your leadership is unquestioned. I’ve noticed how the marines defer to you.”

  “Well, I led them for a while back on Tarawa.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  Ready was flattered. It was the first time in many days someone of the stature of Mr. Bucknell had said something nice about him. Certainly he’d heard nothing good out of Captain Thurlow for more than a long while. He nodded, saying, “Well, all right. At least until Captain Thurlow tells me otherwise.”

  “Splendid! I feel safer already. Now, let us continue our adventure.”

  Bucknell led them down the mountain and through a bamboo grove, behind which they found a large hole in the ground surrounded by various machinery, orange with rust. “The gold mine, gentlemen,” Bucknell said. “And there is Mr. Spurlock, who appears to be waiting for us. Halloo, Carl! How did you know we were coming?”

  “You bloody bastards make more noise than a herd of elephants!” a man in khaki shorts standing on the edge of the hole roared. He pointed at a little green bush covered with pretty lavender blossoms. “Skirt around that violeta bush there and then walk straight at me. Take care. I’ve got traps about.”

  “What kind of traps?” Bucknell called over.

  “Camouflaged traps, holes in the ground with sharpened bamboo stakes, in case Colonel Yoshu comes by for an unannounced visit. Now, look sharp, come the way I told you, and you’ll be fine.”

  Take care they did, walking as required near the violeta bush, and made it safely. Spurlock was a tall, weathered man with a square face, fringed by a trim gray beard, and a pugilist’s broken nose. Shockingly, he also had only one ear, the other but a hole in the side of his head. He shook hands with Bucknell and then Ready and the marines, who did their best not to stare at the awful orifice. “American boys! Who’da thunk it?” Spurlock boomed. “Glad to meetcha. The girls are proper excited to receive visitors. Come on, but don’t wander. You don’t want bamboo stakes in your arse!”

  Spurlock led the retinue along a path that led up a heavily forested knoll to a happy little stream. “Here is our home,” Spurlock proudly announced.

  Ready saw no home until he looked up and saw a most remarkable treehouse, sitting in the crook of a giant banyan tree. Spurlock pulled what looked like nothing more than a hairy vine and down fell a rope ladder. “Gentlemen, follow me,” he said grandly, and up they climbed into a world Ready had never imagined.

  Spurlock w
as pleased to play tour guide. The treehouse, built nearly entirely from bamboo, consisted of a living area, a bedroom, and a kitchen. The living area was decorated with scattered pillows. “We read a lot in here,” Spurlock said, nodding toward several shelves loaded with books. “Found all them old novels at the gold mine. Read most of them. Some good, some bad. Don’t matter. Just like to read. Let’s have a look at the bedroom.”

  Three individual mattresses lay on the floor of the bedroom, draped with a single mosquito net hanging from a hook attached to the vaulted roof. “The mattresses are filled with chicken down and kapok, and they’re soft as a bunk in a San Francisco whorehouse.” Spurlock tapped the bamboo floor with his boot, then grinned. “Springy, you’ll note? This gives us a little fun when the girls are frisky, which is often, as you may imagine in these tropical climes.”

  Spurlock led the tour into the kitchen, which was decorated with pretty little painted pots and bowls. A variety of carved wooden utensils were hung on pegs. “The girls do the cooking in a stone oven on the forest floor, and the food is raised on a pulley system. Hark! I hear my ladies now. They’ve been out gamboling.” Spurlock stuck his head through a window and yelled down. “Tilly! Gertie! We got guests. Come on up!”

  The two women clambered up the ladder. “Gents, meet my girls. This one’s Tilly,” he said, nodding toward a brown, plump young woman with ample breasts. “And this one’s Gertie.”

  Gertie was striking, and Ready and the marines frankly gaped. She was tall, dignified, black as ebony, with short, curly hair.