The Far Reaches

by Homer Hickam

  “Pretty, ain’t they?” Spurlock grinned. “Gertie, whiskey, if you please. Now, Tilly there, shaking her delights for your edification, is from the island of Yap where they have money made out of round stones big as tractor wheels. You want to buy a loaf of bread, you roll your money to the store! Haw! Tilly—you can stop tossing your stuff around now, sweetheart—was a stowaway. I was trading on her island at the time, and she snuck aboard. Guess she liked me. I married her first preacher-man I found. At least, he claimed he was a preacher-man. Hard to say, considering I was in a gin shop.”

  “And Gertie, sir?” Tucker asked while enjoying the view of the breasts of the half-naked black woman as she set tumblers out, then poured them full of whiskey.

  “Be careful admiring a man’s wife, young man,” Spurlock warned, then chuckled. “Give us a smile, Gertie! No? Oh, well. You know what she is? I’ll tell you. She’s an Aborigine. You ever hear of them? They’re the native stock of Australia and wild as any animal in the forest. I was prospecting in the Outback, you see, and got took in by her tribe when I ran out of food and water. Despite their reputation as warlike, I found them to be the most hospitable of people. In fact, Gertie’s husband lent her to me on the odd cold night.”

  “Percentage of truth, Spurlock?” Bucknell asked.

  “One hundred percent, you doubting Thomas of a limey! Anyway, when I decided to leave, I bought her from her husband for a bone-handle knife he’d admired. In town, I washed her from head to toe, then got one of the town fancy ladies to teach her how to dress and go to the toilet and such. By and by, as you can see, she turned out to be quite the lovely lady, though she will eat about any bug known to man. Show ‘em, Gertie. Get that treat you been saving. Yes, you can have it now.”

  Gertie nodded and went to a jar, unscrewed the cap, and plucked something from within. It proved to be a big brown hairy spider wriggling between her fingers. She put it in her mouth, chewed it up, and swallowed the whole thing, running her pink tongue across her lips with unalloyed pleasure.

  Bucknell chuckled. “How long have you and Gertie practiced this trick, Carl? Just waiting for the right guests to disgust, eh?”

  Spurlock laughed, then scratched the hole that was his awful ear, prompting Ready’s curiosity. “How’d you lose your ear, Mr. Spurlock, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not at all. It was in Yokohama. That’s right. In old Japan itself. I was married to a Jap maiden at the time. Sweetest little girl you ever saw. It were her brother what did this to me, stole into our bedroom one night and cut it off. He was Yakuza, you see. That means he was a Japanese mobster. Yes, just like Baby Face Nelson, only a thousand times worse. You can always tell Jap mobsters, usually got a finger or two chopped off. That’s their way of showing loyalty to their boss. Boss says cut that off and they do it with a smile. Anyway, my honorable brother-in-law took umbrage that a white man might marry his exalted little sis and sliced off my ear while I was sleeping. Of course, I gave more than I got when I tracked him down.” Spurlock grinned with satisfaction. “Ah, that was a sweet death. My wife, God bless her—her name was Miki—left me after that, though I never understood why. I barely got out of the country with all them chopped-finger bastards after me. I trust it wasn’t she who set them after me.”

  “Percentage of truth, Spurlock?” Bucknell asked tiredly.

  “One hundred percent, you rat bastard!” Spurlock roared, “and I’ll thank you not to insult me in my own house! What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

  Bucknell smiled. “I have news of Colonel Yoshu, Carl,” he said and then told him what had been discovered on Burubu.

  Spurlock rubbed his beard and, after a moment of frowning, shrugged and winked. “Well, then, we’re next.”

  “What’s your take on the Japanese around here, sir?” Ready asked. Spurlock gave the question some thought, then answered. “Colonel Yoshu’s a gangster, just like I was talking about. He’s got two truncated fingers, the little ones on each hand. I don’t think he got those chopped off in Sunday school, nor even a Shinto shrine. No, he’s likely a boss mobster back in Japan. He definitely ain’t one of those ‘die for the emperor’ types. I doubt if any of his men are, either. Sumiyoshi Rengo Kai, I’m thinking is what Yoshu is. That’s a Tokyo offshoot of the Yakuza, very dangerous and ruthless. They control every little gaming parlor in town, act as loan sharks to the poor people, run prostitution rings and every dodge you can name. Little Miki’s brother was part of a rival gang, and I recall he was terrified of the Sumiyoshi bunch.”

  “I hate to think Sister Mary Kathleen lived with them for over a year,” Ready said. “She must have been really scared.”

  “You know her, Carl,” Bucknell interjected. “The little Irish nun the other nuns treated like a slave.”

  Spurlock raised an eyebrow. “She’s here? I figured her for dead. How did that come about?”

  Ready explained. He began with the first time he’d seen her on Tarawa, then backed up and told about the battle there, then the voyage across the sea and Sampson’s surgery. He finished with his interpretation of the tragic discovery on Burubu, including the sign on the cross, and finally their decision to come to Tahila.

  Throughout it all, Spurlock leaned forward with interest. At the end of Ready’s discourse, he sat back and said, “So the wrath of Yoshu will soon be on this island. Well, it was only a matter of time, nun or no nun.”

  Bucknell nodded toward Ready and the marines. “Fortunately, Bosun O’Neal and these young fighting men have consented to help defend us.”

  “Actually, Captain Thurlow may decide to leave in a few days, sir,” Ready said quickly.

  Bucknell smiled. “We hope to change his mind, Bosun.”

  “Yes, sir.” Then Ready spotted a most interesting artifact on a shelf. “Is that a violin case, Mr. Spurlock?”

  Spurlock nodded. “Sure enough, and there’s a violin inside. I found it in the shack at the old mine. Guess one of the miners left it behind. Or maybe he died. Do you play, Bosun?”

  “Not the violin, no, sir, but I can saw on the fiddle a bit.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Not much. Just the way you hold the instrument and place the bow. And the music played, of course.”

  “You’re welcome to take it,” Spurlock said. “Ain’t no use to me.”

  Ready opened the case and found the violin wrapped in newspaper. Gently he pulled the knot holding the twine around it and then carefully unfolded the newspaper, which, it turned out, was Australian. Within, he found a violin with its bow. Ready sniffed the violin and said, “Whoever owned it loved it, so I reckon he’s dead or he’d never have left it behind. It’s been worked with wax and oils. That’s why it’s not falling apart with dry rot.”

  “Can it be played?” Spurlock asked.

  Ready ran his thumb along the strings, feeling only a few marbles of corrosion, easily worked off. “Well, let’s just see,” he said and cradled the violin along his collarbone, an inch below his chin, and drew the bow across it. The note was sour, so he adjusted the strings and tried again. This time, the note was sweet.

  So Ready played, and Tilly and Gertie threw themselves down on the floor, ecstatic at being entertained. The tune was the first thing that came to Ready’s mind, a favorite on Killakeet Island, an old ditty called “Buffalo Girls.” Then he played one of his own tunes, which he called “Killakeet Heaven.” Spurlock sat cross-legged with his wives, immersed in the music, while the marines admired the women and Mr. Bucknell read from Spurlock’s library of moldy novels. Of special interest was a Jack London novel titled Adventure, which he devoured, turning page after page with obvious delight.

  On the hike back to the village, Mr. Bucknell kept going on and on about the famous, prolific, and colorful author. He concluded with “Jack London lived large, wrote well, and died young. What better can be said of any man?”

  Ready wasn’t certain that he had an opinion about authors, but he did have one concer
ning the fiddle he was carrying. “I don’t feel right, taking this from Mr. Spurlock,” he said.

  “You paid for it with your tunes,” Mr. Bucknell replied. “Spurlock will be especially pleased as I think you put Gertie and Tilly into a romantic mood.”

  “I think I saw Gertie smile.”

  “When you make an Aborigine woman smile, my boy, you have accomplished no mean feat. Be content with that.”

  At the village, the marines were met by women who clearly fancied them. After introductions from Mr. Bucknell, they were taken in hand and were led off toward the beach for a “swim-swim.” There was a woman, a very lovely woman, who took Ready by his hand as well, but he pulled back. “No, me work-work,” he said. Disappointed, she pressed her hands to her eyes, an expression of sadness, then trailed after the others.

  “The women of the village are most democratic,” Bucknell advised. “While you were gone, they gathered together, discussed which of them wanted the new men for romance, debated, then came to an agreement as to who would get whom. The young woman who took your hand, Bosun, is one of Chief Kalapa’s daughters. A very intelligent and beautiful young woman, indeed. The chief will be disappointed you rejected her.”

  Ready handed Bucknell the violin. “Would you keep it for me, sir?” “Of course. It will be right here any time you care to play it. And Bosun? Perhaps you might consider building yourself a house. The boathouse, you see, is a village center and often used for ceremonies. Though he is always hospitable, I think the chief would prefer you were elsewhere.”

  Ready nodded, then said, “I’d like to build a house like Mr. Spurlock’s.” “Splendid idea. Perhaps one for the nun, too.”

  Ready lit up at the prospect. “That would be fine.”

  “You like her, do you not?”

  “Very much, sir. But don’t give me a hard time about it, please, like Captain Thurlow.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it, dear boy. You are a grown man and surely know what is best for yourself. But the maidens here are comely, and they will continue to entice you.”

  “You’ve asked me to take a job, sir, and I intend to do it. That comes first.” Bucknell smiled. “And if, when he comes around, Captain Thurlow objects to your new job?”

  Ready pondered his question. “Are you certain the villagers won’t leave?” “They will not leave, Bosun. Chief Kalapa has made that clear to me. This is their home and they will defend it, although I fear they are not warriors by nature. They will need a great deal of training.”

  Ready nodded. “Then I’ll stay here for a little while, Mr. Bucknell, and help set up a defense. Don’t matter what the captain wants.”

  “You are indeed a brave man. I know this must be difficult.”

  Ready considered the charge. “You know what, sir? It ain’t difficult at all.” Then he went on down to the beach, there to begin organizing the defense of the island of Tahila.

  PART V

  The Family Man

  O voice of the Beloved!

  Thy bride hath heard Thee say,

  “Rise up, My love, My fair one,

  Arise and come away.

  For lo, ’tis past, the winter,

  The winter of thy year,

  The rain is past and over,

  The flowers on earth appear.”

  —JACKSON MASON, A HYMN

  35

  One eye slowly opened, a very raw, dry eye, pink on the inside and out, fogged over, though clearing until Josh Thurlow could discern his surroundings, which included a curve, the very definite, curvaceous curve of a young woman lying beside him. The young woman appeared to be naked, which, no matter the man or his scratchy eyes, is always at least an interesting view. Josh’s other eye now opened, and he blinked both of them in an attempt to improve his focus. Then he slid his gaze down the curve of the woman’s back to the curve of her hip and the curves of her legs. Then he slept some more. When he woke, he discovered the woman had moved, though she was still with him. She was crouched at his feet and appeared to be studying him. Lifting his head, which hurt very much, he carefully observed her, at least as much as he could in the scant light that filtered through the bamboo walls of the house. He could see well enough to note that she had an oval face, full lips, a small nose, and large brown eyes. A classic Polynesian woman. She had very long and straight black hair, an attribute Josh had always admired. Her hair also happened to frame an intelligent expression on her pretty face. “Do you live, husband?” she asked.

  Josh considered her question. “I am not your husband,” was the answer he finally provided, each word an effort since his skull felt as if it might explode with each consonant and vowel.

  “You are my husband,” she replied and continued in a conversational tone in remarkably good English. “I asked you to marry me, you said yes, and Chief Kalapa performed the ceremony Therefore, I am your wife and you are my husband.”

  “Let me guess,” Josh replied, then waited with gritted eyes until the little hand grenades in his head quit exploding. “You attended missionary school, and this accounts for your excellent English.”

  “In New Zealand,” she confirmed. “Every year before the war, the missionaries selected a child to be sent away for schooling. I was sent when I was six and allowed to return when I was fourteen.”

  Josh slowly propped himself on his elbows, then managed to sit up, though it hurt his head terribly. He rubbed his temples and allowed a short whimper. “How long have I been like this?”

  “Two days.”

  Josh was certain he hadn’t heard her quite right. “Two days? I’ve been unconscious for two days?”

  “Not at all. For instance, you attended our marriage ceremony.”

  Josh held his face in his hands, vaguely remembering a crazy ceremony he’d taken as a joke. Chief Kalapa was there, and Mr. Bucknell, and Ready and the marines. He’d seen this woman before, too. He recalled ogling her breasts and acting the fool. But, no, that was all a dream fueled by the gin, wasn’t it? He spoke through his fingers. “I must have gone off my gourd. That damned fever, then all that gin. Not a good combination. Though I fear the answer, how is it that we came to be married?”

  Her reply was to the point. “It was determined that you required assistance since you insisted on drinking all of Mr. Bucknell’s gin, and also because of all your injuries from the war. Since I of all the women speak English the best, and since I am a widow with two children, it was also determined that it would be to our mutual benefit to be married. You readily agreed to the arrangement.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who did all this determining?”

  “Chief Kalapa, his first wife, Mori, and Mr. Bucknell approached me.”

  Josh rubbed his temples again, the only thing that seemed to help alleviate the pain, and did some rapid thinking. “I presume you have a name.”

  “Ranumu, although my English name is Rose.”

  “Well, Rose, what if I am already married?”

  “You are not. I asked one of your men, and he said you were a single man.”

  “Which of my men did you ask?”

  “Bosun O’Neal.”

  “I’ll have to remember to thank Bosun O’Neal for his honest answer,” Josh replied. Then, still thinking as quickly as he was presently able, which was similar to dragging his thoughts through molasses, he countered, “I am not a citizen of these islands and therefore not bound by your traditions or laws.”

  “That is true,” she calmly replied. “You may ignore the requirements of our society, but if you do, I shall have no recourse but to commit suicide, considering the dishonor.”

  “Suicide? But what of your children?”

  “They will be parceled out to more deserving women.”

  Josh knew he’d met his match, at least as far as he could play it while still nursing what was apparently the gin hangover of all time. “We’ll talk more later,” he suggested.

  “So we shall, husband. May I provide you w
ith breakfast?”

  “Is there a possibility, any possibility at all, in which you might provide me with a gallon of coffee?”

  She smiled, and he noted she had a very pretty and radiant smile with very white teeth. “A nice species of coffee grows on this island,” she said, “though, as British subjects, we prefer tea, which also grows here.”

  “Are you saying there is no coffee?”

  “I am saying I do not have any.”

  “Ask Bosun O’Neal. I trust he will have picked some beans by now. Please also ask him to visit me at his first opportunity.”

  “Of course. As your wife, I will be happy to accomplish this and other chores. You will find there is no more obedient woman anywhere in the Pacific than a woman of the Far Reaches.”

  “Well, hooray for that,” Josh murmured, although he supposed she hadn’t heard him since she was off like a shot.

  Ready found Josh sitting cross-legged on the sleeping mat inside Rose’s house. In one of Ready’s hands was a steaming mug of black coffee and in the other a coffeepot. Without preamble, Josh snatched the mug and poured the scalding coffee down his throat. Ignoring the pain, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and held out the mug. “More, much more,” he croaked.

  Ready refilled Josh’s mug, then set down the pot and sat beside it. “How are you feeling, sir?” he asked solicitously.

  Josh didn’t answer because he sensed Ready had asked the question with a certain amount of obtuse satisfaction. “Tell me the latest,” he growled.

  “Yes, sir. I have agreed to take over the defense of the island.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Bucknell asked me if I would command here, and I said I would.”

  “You command? ” Josh cocked his head, squinted a bit, and then said, “Let ’s hear it all. What else? ”

  “The marines and I have decided to stay on Tahila. I guess you will, too, now that you have a wife.”

  Josh absorbed the information and desired to yell at the bosun but refrained, fearing it might blow the top off his skull. “You know, of course, this is mutiny,” he said quietly, though menacingly, “and she is not my wife.”