The Far Reaches

by Homer Hickam

  “Canoe no belong big sea, Bosun!” Chief Kalapa called. “Too much rain, wind, canoe sink!”

  Ready didn’t care if his craft had been designed for the open water or not. He was a sailor. He would handle whatever came. With a dozen powerful strokes of the paddle, he ran the canoe through the passage between the coral reefs. Then he lifted the mast and raised the sail, which instantly ballooned in the vigorous wind that swept him and the fog along.

  53

  Throughout the night and much of the day, the anxious fella boys kept paddling, each flowing dip marked by their deep grunts, like a terrible war chant. Finally, fearing that they might exhaust themselves, Josh called a halt to the paddling and told the outrigger captains to make their men rest and let the wind do the work. Work it did, and the outriggers swept along, finally breaking out of the blue-gray mist and into the open air. The brilliant sun crept across the sky over the raiding party, while the sea remained empty of Japanese barges or any other vessel.

  Toward dusk, Burr had his boat move so that he could climb across to Nango’s outrigger, which held Josh and Kathleen. He had something he wanted to say. “I feel like Agamemnon, bound for Troy, Josh,” he said. “Do you recall your Homer?”

  “Educate me, Montague,” Josh replied.

  “O excellency, O majesty, O Zeus,” Burr quoted Agamemnon according to the old tale. “Beyond the storm cloud, dwelling in high air, let not the sun go down upon this day into the western gloom, before I tumble Priam’s blackened roof down, exploding fire through his portals! Let me rip with my bronze point the shirt that clings on Hector and slash his ribs! May throngs around him lie—his friends, head-down in dust, biting dry ground.”

  Josh smiled, though grimly. “As I recall, Zeus did not answer. It took ten years for Agamemnon to take Troy.”

  “We will do a mite better on Ruka,” Burr swore.

  “We’d better,” Josh replied.

  Kathleen listened but remained silent, for she had not the words that would tell anyone what she felt—and feared.

  Then the sun, in a shower of fire, fell into the sea, and the little fleet pulled down its sails and waited, waited for the sun to return and the battle to begin.

  During the night, the odd mist came again. A bit unnerved, the raiders floated along a gray, steamy wall. The fella boys, certain the fog had come from the gods, moaned and groaned at the sight of it. “Can we find Ruka, Pangoru?” Burr whispered to his outrigger captain, as they both peered into the great nothingness.

  The big tattooed islander stopped his prayers to the old gods to answer the colonel’s question. “Panua and Juki, they fight,” he informed Burr, speaking of the two major goddesses of the Far Reaches. “Juki, she chase away Panua. She build dream wall. Say Panua no come these islands no more.”

  “Why are they fighting?” Burr asked.

  “Juki say Panua too much jealous god,” Pangoru answered, tapping his head. “But all gods too much crazy.” He rapped the mast with his knuckles to ward off any listening god’s revenge.

  “How do you know all that?” Burr asked.

  Incredulity showed on Pangoru’s tattooed face. “Fella boys all time hear gods.” He touched an ear. “Listen, Curbur. You hear.”

  Burr listened but didn’t hear anything except the slosh of the sea around the outrigger. Then he noticed that a few of the fella boys had cut themselves along the hairline and blood was streaming down their faces. “Pangoru, tell these men to stop hurting themselves!” he cried.

  Pangoru shrugged. “They say Panua, they sorry. They say Juki, they sorry. Gods stop fight so men they fight.”

  Burr sighed at the superstitions of all fighting men, then glanced at the sky. The stars twinkled back at him, but the moon was down. It was satisfyingly dark, perfect for a well-rehearsed raid. In two hours, he knew, the sun would boom from the sea and with it his hope for surprising the enemy. “We must go soon, if we’re going,” he said to the outrigger captain. “Whistle out now, Pangoru. Tell the others to raise their sails.”

  Pangoru nodded, then whistled across the darkness. The trilled replies were instantaneous. “All say, Ruka, we go!” Pangoru exclaimed. Very quickly, the little fleet was blown into the fog wall, the mist swirling around the boats like shadowy ghosts. The sails groaned as the wind became vigorous, adding to the sense that there were spirits all around. The fella boys started wailing, matching the groaning sails, and cast their prayers to Panua and Juki to leave them alone to fight the Japonee.

  In Nango’s outrigger, Kathleen prayed to her Irish child-saint. “Saint Monessa, let us find our way, we beg ye!” she said aloud, and her prayer was immediately seconded with a booming “Amen!” by Nango. Under her breath, she added, “Please give me the strength, dear Monessa, to do what I must do.” She reflected then how different she was now that she had put her veil aside, how she saw humility and even inner serenity as her adversaries, perhaps even the reasons for her greatest sin. For had not her constant striving toward humility and a nun’s natural subservient inclinations been the twin causes of her downfall? After enduring the greatest of humiliations, was it natural that she might accept the hand reached out to her, even though the bearer of that hand had abused her? She thought perhaps yes, though she was not certain, nor was she likely ever to be. That was part of her frustration, her pain, and her fear.

  Kathleen forced herself to stop thinking along those lines. must not rationalize what I did! she raged inwardly. Most of all, more than anything, she knew she could not allow herself to recall the sweetness of surrender. For it had been sweet and, in its own way, so terribly good. I am damned beyond recovery, she thought, then bowed her head. Sweet Saint Monessa, save me. Stop me mind. Let me do what I must do!

  “Kathleen,” Josh said, coming up beside her. “The fog is lifting.” Kathleen raised her eyes. It was as if someone were lifting a curtain on a stage. Clear air lay ahead, and somewhere out there, surely, the lights of Ruka Township.

  The outriggers flitted along, and just before sunrise the town condensed in front of them. Exactly as they had rehearsed, the raiders swept into the big harbor without stopping, sailed past the pier where a bullet-riddled barge sagged into oily water and past a seawall of palm logs, and then landed hard on an open beach a hundred yards to the west. Just as the sun pushed itself completely from the sea, bathing the village in a harsh orange light, the raiders jumped from their outriggers and rushed into the town. Only one Japanese guard was found at the harbor, and he was asleep on the pier. At the sound of bare feet running down it, he rose only to be struck down by a machete. Silently, he died.

  The raiders moved into the town built of plastered concrete and bamboo. They were prepared for violent combat, but nothing moved. Not even a dog barked. Burr was disappointed. He had planned his invasion carefully; they would seize one position, then move on to the next, until there was a crescendo of destruction. But there were no positions, only a slumbering, quaint little village built on two small hillocks. “Get out here, you damned lazy fools!” Burr finally yelled. He punched out a round from his pistol, then another. Japanese soldiers, most rubbing sleepy eyes, emerged tentatively from their houses only to be met by the machetes and spears and bullets of the fella boys.

  “Never saw Japs like these,” Burr said to Nango. He knelt beside one of the bodies. The man was dressed in a silk robe, and there were gold rings on his fingers. Two of those fingers were truncated. He had tattoos up and down both arms. “Little Al Capones, every one, I swear,” Burr said, shaking his head. “Just ain’t a proper war to be had with these fellas.”

  Within fifteen minutes of the landing, Burr knew the battle was essentially over. The Japanese had been caught completely by surprise and weren’t much interested in fighting anyhow. All they wanted to do was run away. They were chased through the streets, not only by the raiders but by their house servants. When any Japanese was caught, he was knocked down, punched, kicked, and then killed in whatever horrible way the mob decided. None of it was
pretty. Japanese heads rolled down the streets, kicked by laughing, chirping fella boys.

  Burr watched it all with a bemused expression, then followed Nango and his friends to the house where they said their abusers stayed. Nango pushed open the door and charged inside, followed by the other Rukans. Burr watched from the entry as naked Japanese men rose to meet their former prisoners. Bellowing revenge, the fella boys knocked them down and slit open their stomachs. While the Japanese shrieked and clutched their spilled intestines, their misery was increased by the sudden sharp removal of their manhood. Blood flowed across the floor of the house like a river, drenching Burr’s boots. He lurched back into the street, such mutilation too much for even a marine to bear, only to meet a Japanese soldier, perhaps the only one on the entire island who had decided to fight. The little man was in full dress uniform and clutched a rifle tipped with a long bayonet. Burr dodged his lunge, but his bayonet still got a piece of him. Gasping from the wound in his side, Burr jammed his pistol into the face of his attacker and pulled the trigger. Spattered with the man’s blood and brains, the colonel sagged into the filthy street. “Nothing went as planned,” he said to himself, but then the shrugged and added, most philosophically: “Thank you, General Sherman. You were absolutely correct. War is indeed hell, and not a little unpredictable.”

  Ready landed his canoe on the beach beside the outriggers. He had sailed directly for Ruka and waited offshore through the night. Shortly after sunrise, his wait was rewarded by the sound of a gunshot, then another. He sailed into the harbor, then spotted the beached fleet. Hearing screams, he ran into town but saw no fighting, only dead Japanese lying in the streets. A few Tahila fella boys emerged from one of the houses, their machetes and spears blooded. They ignored him and kept hacking at any Japanese they encountered. Then Ready came across Colonel Burr, sitting with his back against the plastered wall of a building and clutching his side. “Welcome to the battle, such as it is, Bosun,” Burr said, in an ironic tone.

  Ready knelt beside him, then gently pulled open his shirt to inspect his wound. It was not deep, but it had the potential for infection and Ready had not thought to bring his medical kit. “You’re going to be fine, Colonel,” Ready told the plucky little man, “but we’d best clean out that wound.”

  “Pour some alcohol on it,” Burr said in a swaggering tone. “Surely a lot of sake around here. That will be the ticket.”

  Nango emerged from the doorway of the house. “Nango, come here,” Ready said. “Take care of the colonel. Clean his wound. Use alcohol. Whatever you can find. Then bind it with clean cloth. You savvy?”

  Nango nodded. “We kill too much Japonee,” Nango proudly announced. His legs were drenched in blood that did not appear to be his own.

  “Good, fine, Nango,” Ready answered. “But now we fix Curbur, yes?”

  “Nango savvy, stop along Curbur, makem OK,” the outrigger captain replied and went back inside the house, soon returning with a white sheet, which he began to tear into strips, and a bottle of sake, which Burr snatched from his hands. The colonel took a long suck on the bottle, then poured it down his side, only wincing a little.

  “Is good, Curbur?” Nango asked solicitously.

  Burr smiled. “It’s good, my boy. We won the battle, didn’t we?”

  “Colonel, where’s Kathleen?” Ready asked.

  “With Josh,” he answered. “Gone to find Colonel Yoshu. If you hurry, you might still catch them.”

  Ready hurried.

  54

  Josh held his pistol and cautiously led the way down the empty streets. Tucker and Garcia, carrying their Japanese rifles, were just behind. Following was Kathleen with her M-1 Garand. Josh was taking them around the killing ground of the central town, through the empty streets of the native quarter, bound for what had once been Mr. Bucknell’s house, now occupied by Colonel Yoshu. When he turned a corner, Josh saw he had indeed reached his destination, a gingerbread island-style house with a wide front porch.

  Josh and the marines rushed up the steps and kicked in the door. Only silence and the ticking of an ancient grandfather clock greeted them inside. “Spread out, search the place, and be careful!” Josh ordered the marines. He started to tell Kathleen to be careful, too, but then he saw she was not with them. He went out on the porch. All he saw was an empty street.

  As she ran past an alley, something caught Kathleen’s eye. She stopped and backed up and saw that it was a girl, a very young girl. Remarkably, she was a white girl, and Kathleen could not imagine what she might be doing in Ruka Township. Her costume was also a little odd. She wore a golden robe and headpiece and looked, Kathleen thought, as if she were a little nun except she was underage and her habit much too gaudy. When Kathleen walked toward her, the little girl turned and ran away. Against all reason, Kathleen ran after her.

  Kathleen caught only a wispy sight of the child’s robe as she flitted around corners, but it was enough to keep track. Then Kathleen emerged in the town square, a grassy rectangle fronted by the chapel. The priests had built the chapel “of plaster and love,” as Father Ballester had laughingly told her when she had marveled at its construction, majestic for such a tiny town on such a small island.

  Then she saw Yoshu. He was on the steps of the chapel. He wore his dress uniform, braid and brass, a dandy even now. Calming herself, she called out to him, and he turned in her direction. When he saw it was she, he made a slight bow and put his hand to his heart.

  “Where is our daughter?” she asked him in Japanese, though even in that language she had an Irish lilt that had often made him laugh. She was careful not to make a demand. Japanese never responded well to harsh words. She made her question a polite query.

  “She is safe,” he answered in the melodious soprano voice she recalled so well. “I have her here. Why are you wearing that uniform and carrying that rifle?”

  “I have become a soldier.”

  His laughter was bubbly, like a woman’s. “You are no more soldier than I.”

  “I want to see me daughter.” This time it was a demand.

  “She is inside the chapel,” he answered. “Waiting for you. We’ve both been waiting for you for such a long time.” Then he went up the steps and through the chapel’s open doors.

  Kathleen hurried across the square and followed him inside. Just as promised, Yoshu was there and so was Monessa. He had placed her on the altar of the chapel, where she lay naked, looking so small and vulnerable, atop a white silk cloth. The gossamer wisps that had been her hair when Kathleen had last seen her had grown out, full and thick and dark. Her little pink arms and legs were wiggling, and Kathleen could feel the fear and confusion of her beloved child. Yet Monessa did not cry. She was a good baby, so very good and innocent of all sin.

  Now Yoshu raised a curved dagger over their baby, its wicked edge gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the chapel windows. “I wish I didn’t have to kill her,” he said dreamily, and Kathleen realized he had probably recently smoked his pipe. “But it seems I have no choice.”

  “Oh, Yoshu,” she said conversationally, as if they were merely having an argument. “Ye have so many choices. I am here now. We will choose together.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You abandoned us. Why would you care what happens to her or me now?”

  “I care more than life,” she said.

  Tears began to leak down his face. He had always been so emotional around her. “I’m sorry,” he said and raised the dagger higher as if for a killing swipe across Monessa’s neck. But then she reached up to her father, squeezing her tiny hands open and closed, as if pleading to be picked up. He hesitated, holding the dagger quivering above her.

  Though she was deathly afraid, Kathleen spoke to him in as soothing a voice as she could manage. “Our child needs ye, m’love.” The candlewood floor of the chapel creaked beneath her boots as she took a cautious step forward, then another. “Just as I need ye. Come, now. We will be a family again.”

  Yoshu, who had bee
n staring at the child, raised his tearful eyes to Kathleen. She had forgotten how striking his face was—thin, with high cheeks and full lips. He wasn’t handsome so much as he was pretty. His eyes were deeply almond, and his lashes unnaturally long. She realized with a shudder that he could still enthrall her with a glance.

  “Snow,” he said, sniffing. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  Her finger crept to the trigger of the rifle. “Yoshu, I know ye are frightened,” she said, taking another step, “but I will not let them hurt ye. Trust me.”

  “Why should I?” he whined in the little boy’s voice he sometimes used around her. “You left me.”

  “I left because I made meself remember what ye did to the priests and me sister nuns.”

  “I explained that to you. I had to kill them. My men would have killed me if I hadn’t shown strength. I made certain the sword was very sharp. They felt nothing. I love you, Snow.”

  “I am married now. To a fine man.”

  Yoshu’s face registered disappointment, then resolution. He let the hand that held the dagger fall to his side. “It doesn’t matter,” he sniffed. “You were married before. To Christ, a god. Yet even a god for a husband was not enough to keep you and me from being lovers. We will be lovers again. I know you still love me. Confess it, Snow. To yourself as well as me.”

  She prepared herself. She wasn’t that far away now, but she would have to shoot from the hip, and Yoshu was behind the altar with Monessa in the way.

  He seemed not to care that she was drawing closer. He smiled, though his lips trembled. “Just like the snow, you were so light, so pure, and so easy to melt.”

  Kathleen’s finger pressed against the trigger. She felt the resistance, knew if she only pressed a little harder ….

  “Do you recall the first haiku I wrote you?” he asked.