‘She tied a stone around her neck, threw herself into a river and drowned.’
‘And what about Goto?’
‘I’m sure he became a daimyo.’
Strickland looked at the sword in Hayama’s hands. He understood why the captain revered it so much.
‘You said your ancestor was a poet. Can you recite any of his poetry?’
‘Of course. He wrote many verses,’ and Hayama began to sing.
Your voice is like the wind in the trees
That whispers to me
As I walk alone in the forest.
My journey is long and arduous
But your voice is heavenly music…
The captain finished his song and laid the katana down on the table. The sun glanced in through the open window, making the swords’ blades gleam. Strickland looked at the weapons that lay before him: these objects of terrible beauty and destruction.
‘You must be proud of your ancestor.’
‘I am. I honour all my ancestors, but Keizo is the most illustrious. Since his death these swords have been handed down from father to son. My father gave them to me before I left for the Pacific. I must be a great disappointment to him,’ and Hayama gazed sadly at the weapons on the table.
‘Why do you say that?’
The captain raised his eyes and the look he gave Strickland was one of profound unhappiness.
‘I come from a family of samurai, but I have never killed an enemy. Where is the honour in that?’
Strickland said nothing and for the first time he felt sympathy for the captain. Here was a man bound by an ancient martial code who, instead of fighting as a warrior as his ancestors had done, had been sent to a remote island in the South Pacific. There was a silence between the two men, like the calm before a storm when the birds stop singing, the sky darkens and the wind drops. Eventually the pilot spoke.
‘Am I the enemy?’
‘You were the enemy. But I did not kill you.’
‘Why?’
Hayama let out a long sigh, the sort a man makes when he sees there is a hole in the bottom of his boat and knows that he is a long way from the shore.
‘I don’t know. And I don’t think that I will ever know.’
Strickland sat there in silence. He wanted to help the captain in some way, say something that would remove his burden of guilt.
‘Hayama, I must thank you for saving my life.’
‘There’s no point in thanking me. You must thank the gods. It was they who saved you.’
‘Then I thank them.’
‘Good. Honour them. They have their reasons.’
The captain managed a smile, but the sadness in his eyes remained.
‘It’s a beautiful day. You should take your walk.’
The pilot understood and saw that it was time to leave Hayama alone with his swords.
Strickland thanked the captain and getting up, he went to the door. He opened the fly screen and closing it behind him, he walked out across the baking compound. The sun beat down upon him and after a few yards, he could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck. The Englishman wiped a hand through his hair, wishing he had a hat and carried on. Ahead the coconut palms grew thickly like a palisade. In the middle was a trail, which led through the forest. Leaving the camp Strickland headed up the track, the shadows of the trees shading the path before him.
The pilot’s presence disturbed a troop of monkeys, which screeched and swooped above his head and he watched as they made graceful arcs through the canopy, swinging from tree to tree. He wondered how the monkeys had come to the island. Had they been brought by earlier visitors as pets and escaped from the ships, or had they come from elsewhere, dislodged by a storm and thrown into the sea where, grabbing a piece of flotsam, they had washed up on the shore? The pilot was sure Hayama would know.
The monkeys disappeared into the forest and the path got steadily steeper as Strickland made his way up the mountain. He noticed a variety of different trees interspersed among the palms, many of them bearing fruit. There were paw-paw and mango, carob and caraway as well as clumps of plantains. Among the boughs were lichens and orchids and plants with great flowers, which oozed nectar and attracted scores of butterflies, as well as the occasional hummingbird. It seemed the island was a tropical larder, a horn of plenty for any animal or Robinson Crusoe who washed up on its shores. There were even goats. Ito tended a pair in the yard and milked them for their breakfast.
Strickland came to a glade and sat down on a smooth boulder to rest. He looked about and marvelled at the forest around him, the trees towering above his head. He could hear water cascading in the distance and assumed it was the stream, which the captain had told him about. He was thirsty and needed a drink and he stood up and followed the sound of rushing water. As the noise grew louder the ground descended sharply and the pilot was careful as he picked his way over the tangle of roots at his feet. Stepping out from behind a great banyan, Strickland saw the bright water tumbling over the rocks as it made its way towards the sea, sunlight flashing on its surface. He went over and bending down, he put his hand into the stream and raised it to his mouth. The water was cold and clear and tasted of flint.
As the pilot drank, he heard another shriller noise above the rushing water. He stopped and listened. There was nothing at first, just the burbling of the stream. Then it came again, a small whimpering like a child’s. Strickland stood up and made his way towards the noise. As the whimpering increased, so did the pilot’s curiosity. Surely there were no children on the island? The cries came from beneath a low plant, its broad leaves obscuring whatever it was that lay beneath. The pilot bent down and cautiously raised one of the leaves, revealing something small, brown and hairy beneath. He reached out a hand and touched the creature, which was curled up in a ball. It did not flinch, but simply whimpered some more and putting out his hands, Strickland picked it up.
It was not a child, but a monkey. The little macaque must have fallen from its mother’s back as she swung through the trees. The pilot raised his eyes to the canopy above him, but could not see any other monkeys, just the fronds fanning a hot blue sky. The baby macaque shivered in his arms and made small plaintive noises. It looked cold and probably needed feeding. Strickland opened his tunic and put the monkey inside, feeling its soft fur against his bare skin. With the macaque tucked safely inside his shirt, he set off up the path towards the mountain top.
The path got steeper as the pilot climbed and the vegetation thinner and sometimes he had to use his hands to haul himself up the rocky slope. He was careful not to let his new companion fall out, but the monkey seemed quite content and had stopped crying. Soon the forest fell away, the coconut palms and banyans replaced by clumps of bamboo and elephant grass. As Strickland walked through the grass he disturbed myriads of white butterflies, which rose in a pale cloud and flitted about his head before settling again. Eventually the grass gave way to bare rock, until there was only the escarpment left to climb. One half was sheer and fell away to the sea, which dashed itself against the rocks hundreds of feet below. It was impossible to traverse and so the pilot walked round to the other side, hearing the sound of falling water as he approached. Turning a corner he saw the cascade tumbling from the bare rock and beneath it the pool Hayama had told him about. The stream poured out from a fissure in the cliff and Strickland assumed there must be a subterranean spring. It was clear and bright and the water looked invitingly cool. The pilot’s thirst had returned after his steep climb and he bent down and dipped his hand into the pool and drank. It tasted less flinty than further down the hill, but it was just as cold.
Strickland wiped his mouth and stood up. With one hand holding the macaque inside his shirt, he jumped across the stream and walked around the escarpment. Standing before him beneath a roof of palm fronds was the observation platform. It was well hidden and would have been almost impossible to spot from the air. He could only have been a couple of hundred feet away when he had flown past i
t and yet he had seen nothing. He wondered what the Japanese observer had thought with his Spitfire coming so close. A soldier stood smoking a cigarette, which he put out when he saw the pilot approach. The private bowed and the Englishman nodded and said ‘good morning’ and the Japanese smiled and returned the greeting in his own language.
The pilot stepped onto the platform and looked out across the ocean. All around the sea’s skin stretched away before him, its scales glittering beneath the sun. Here and there bright green patches ringed with white indicated other islands and atolls. In the distance a solitary ship steamed, its wake cutting a pale swath through the dark blue water. The ship was most likely American or at least an ally, but it was too far away to distinguish clearly without binoculars. The destroyer was doubtless hunting for the last remaining Japanese submarines in the area. Beyond the ship the silver sea crawled towards the horizon, the sky a wall of blue behind.
The monkey woke up and started to cry and Strickland decided to return to the camp. He left the soldier to his solitary duty and jumping across the stream, he made his way back along the escarpment.
He slid swiftly down the volcanic clinker, a fine grey dust rising up into the air as he went. The rocky path levelled out and soon he had left the clumps of elephant grass with their clouds of butterflies and entered the cool shade of the forest. The journey down the hill was much easier and the pilot did not need to stop and drink from the stream as he passed the giant banyan where he had found the little macaque. With one hand cradling the monkey he wandered down the trail, the sunlight glancing through the trees, leaving bright pools across the path.
A few minutes later Strickland emerged from the forest and walked out across the burning compound. He carried on past the soldiers’ quarters and the mess hall and went up to Hayama’s hut. He ascended the steps and could see the captain working at his desk. The pilot tapped on the frame and pushing the fly screen open, he stepped inside. The captain stopped writing and looked up.
‘Enjoy your walk?’
‘Yes, thank you. You can see for miles.’
‘I know. I sometimes go there myself. It’s good to get away from the camp occasionally. Have you been collecting coconuts?’ Hayama pointed to the bulge in the pilot’s shirt.
‘Not exactly,’ and putting a hand inside, Strickland produced the monkey.
‘Oya maa! Where did you get that?’
‘I found it under a bush. It must have fallen off its mother’s back,’ said the pilot, offering the captain the macaque.
Hayama took the monkey and held it, tickling it with his finger as if it were a small child. It had large sympathetic brown eyes and naked fleshy ears, which jutted out like a clown’s. The monkey whimpered softly and the captain turned it over in his hands, looking for any signs of injury. But there were none, the macaque having had a soft landing when it fell. He gazed down at the fine white hair on its stomach and saw the genitalia between its legs.
‘It’s a boy,’ he announced, like a proud parent. ‘What shall we call him?’
Strickland smiled. He thought Hayama the naturalist would take an interest, but he did not think he would go so far as to adopt the creature.
‘Well, if Hitler is the organ grinder, who’s his monkey?’
‘Mussolini?’
The pilot looked at the brown furry ball in the captain’s hands.
‘I think that’s a little unfair.’
‘What, to that idiot?’
‘No, to monkeys. I was thinking rather of Neville Chamberlain.’
‘Wonderful! Chamberlain it is!’ the captain exclaimed and he bent down and kissed the monkey’s soft fur. ‘Do you think he’s hungry?’
‘Probably. What are we going to feed him?’
‘Let’s try a bit of fruit to see if he’s been weaned. I’ll give him some mango. It’s very digestible.’ Hayama handed the monkey back to the pilot and went off to the kitchen.
Strickland held the warm bundle, which seemed quite content and soon the captain returned with a small bowl of diced yellow fruit. He dipped his fingers into the mango and picked up a piece and held it in front of the monkey’s nose. The macaque sniffed the morsel, then took it with its tiny paw and ate it. Hayama repeated the action and the monkey did the same again, slowly chewing the mango, its brown simian eyes fixed trustingly upon the captain. Soon the bowl was empty and the Japanese officer put it down and taking the macaque from Strickland, he spoke soothingly.
‘There we go. How was that? Did you like the mango? Delicious, isn’t it? Now you must rest. Where would you like to sleep?’
The pilot watched all this with a smile on his face. Hayama seemed transformed, his earlier despondency having apparently vanished. Now that he had something to care for, his melancholy and lassitude had been replaced by a cheerful ebullience. The captain searched for a suitable place and saw a box by his bed, where he kept his charts. Holding the macaque with one hand, he tipped the charts out onto the bed and picking up his pillow, he put it in the bottom of the container. He then placed the monkey on the pillow and put the box back in the corner. He watched over it for a while and satisfied, he picked up the charts and turned to the pilot.
‘I think he’ll be fine. He’s been weaned, which is a relief. We’ll let him sleep.’
‘He liked the mango.’
‘They do. They’re not fussy, they like anything really. Roots, leaves, nuts, fruit. Just like us,’ and the captain grinned. ‘How about some lunch? Ito’s prepared a picnic. I thought we’d go down to the beach and eat it there.’
‘OK,’ said the pilot. Not only was he hungry after his long walk, but he also felt hot and clammy and wanted a bathe.
The captain put the charts down on his desk and went into the kitchen, returning with two small parcels in his hand and a canteen. Hayama and Strickland left the macaque in its box and together they made their way down to the beach. As they approached the shore, the pilot could hear cries and laughter echoing through the trees and as the palms gave way to the sand, he saw the soldiers playing volleyball. The men did not notice the officers at first and carried on with their game, until one of them shouted out and the entire troop stopped and standing to attention they all bowed as one, the ball bouncing away across the sand and into the sea.
‘Tsuzukeru shinshi,’ said Hayama.
‘Heitai-san!’ replied the men and one of them ran off to retrieve the ball bobbing in the surf.
The soldier dashed into the water and picking up the ball, he ran back to his comrades and they started their game again. Hayama and Strickland sat down beneath a palm tree to watch, their bento boxes on their laps. The pilot opened his and found some dried fish, a ball of rice with green pepper, some bean curd and a small pot containing soy sauce. Using his fingers he dipped the fish in the bean curd and put it into his mouth, finding the saltiness of the dried fish leavened by the sweetness of the curd. He took the lid off the pot and picking up a lump of rice, he dabbed it in the sauce and ate it. The captain also began his own picnic and together the two of them ate their lunch and watched as the men threw the ball about, leaping at the net to smash it over the side, or else trying to prevent it from coming into their own half. Sometimes the strike would beat the opposition and a new game commenced; a man would dive across the sand and punch the ball to a teammate, who would flick it on to cheers from his own side and shouts from the other.
‘They’re good,’ said Strickland.
‘I know. I taught them myself,’ replied the captain, proud of his men’s ability. ‘I learned to play in Hawaii.’
‘It wasn’t all spying then?’
Hayama laughed and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
‘Some of my best work was done at the beach!’
The pilot looked out towards the reef and saw the breakers crashing white against the coral barrier.
‘Did you ride the waves on those long wooden boards?’
‘You mean did I surf?’ asked the captain and the pilot nodded. ‘I did try, but it
takes a lot of practice. To be any good you really have to start from the day you can swim.’
‘You liked Hawaii then?’
‘Yes I did. They’re an island race too.’ Hayama smiled. ‘They have an interesting history. Like the Carolines, they began as volcanic eruptions in the sea and life evolved in its own unique way. It really was a paradise. There were no mosquitoes, reptiles, or rats. Almost everything unpleasant in the islands was brought by man. The first settlers were the Polynesians, the greatest seafaring people on earth.’
Strickland picked up a piece of fish and popped the morsel in his mouth and swallowed.
‘With the possible exception of the Vikings,’ he said.
‘Ah! The Norsemen. How could I forget? That’s why your country became such a great naval power. All that Viking blood!’
‘There are many Norse names where I come from. A chronicler of those times called Bede lived in a monastery by the sea. From the window of his cell he looked out onto the ocean. Over the horizon lay Denmark and the Vikings. The English never knew when they would come, but when they saw the ships’ sails appear on the horizon, everyone fled to the nearest castle. Those who didn’t perished. Eventually, the Vikings stopped raiding and stayed and mixed with the local population.’
The captain looked at the pilot and grinned.
‘Of course they did. Look at you. Tall, blue-eyed, fair and with that beard!’
The pilot stroked his jaw. The beard no longer itched and he thought he might keep it.
They continued eating their lunch, watching the soldiers play and Strickland thought how similar these men were to his own comrades, as they whiled away their afternoons on the cricket field. Everyone happy under heaven. He finished his food and lay back under the palm trees, watching the rustling fronds swaying in the ocean breeze.
‘You must have had mixed feelings about leaving Hawaii.’
‘Yes I did. I’d like to go back there. Who knows, maybe after the war?’
The pilot turned onto his side and faced the captain.
Under the Sun Page 10