He grabbed my hand and pulled me outside. “Before they leave. First we feast. Then we dance.” Taeyo looked at me. “Why such a big frown, Uncle Joe? They’ll come back soon. My mother said so.”
My eyes squinted to keep out the bright glare. The sun was high overhead. How long had I been sleeping? I hurt all over; my arms were streaked with cuts and scratches. And then I remembered. The long climb to the cave … the piles of food inside … the scramble back down alone. Alone. Father was leaving tonight. Leaving.
Taeyo pulled me by my hand. “Look, Uncle Joe. Food everywhere!”
Stacks of food were piled near every door—green coconuts, dried fish, packets of salt. Green bananas hung from the door beams. Why so much food? Then I realized: food for the men to take with them.
“What’s wrong, Uncle Joe? You are still frowning.”
I looked down at Taeyo, rumpled his wild hair, and then stared at our village.
Cooking fires flickered near each home. Men stood in clusters, talking, stirring the coals, adding more coconut husks. The younger boys carried bunches of green coconuts on long sticks balanced across their shoulders. Dogs trotted after the children, sniffing for food, growling at each other until they were chased away with a stone or a shout. Pigs squealed. Chickens squawked.
The sharp smell of fried fish nearly made me faint. My stomach was so empty. The village was like a stirred-up anthill. Soldiers marched on every street, rifles over their shoulders. Wherever they walked, people parted around them like water before a ship.
My mother sat in the shade of a coconut palm, cleaning Father’s ceremonial mat. Usually this special mat was kept rolled up, tied, and stored on top of a ceiling beam next to other important belongings: a basket of fine, nearly invisible fishing twine and hand-carved lures, sacred baskets that held bones of our ancestors, Father’s long smooth dancing stick, and, usually, his machete.
Taeyo tugged at my shirt.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming. Be patient. I need to wash and wake up.”
“What a sleepyhead for an uncle!” Taeyo laughed and ran off to beg bites of food from his favorite aunties or anyone else who couldn’t resist his bright smile.
I wandered around in a daze. Everywhere women were busy, grinding coconut meat, squeezing coconut cream to add to bubbling pots of fish or green banana, pounding roasted breadfruit, rolling balls of boiled rice inside banana leaves. The delicious smells should have meant celebration, but nothing felt festive. People were quiet and especially gentle with one another.
My mother called to Anna Maria. “Go to the beach.” She nodded toward Ignacio. “Take your husband. Find more octopus.”
I understood. Anna Maria looked away, but I could see the glow on her face as she stood up. She followed close behind Ignacio as he walked with long, even strides. She had untied her hair.
My mother turned to me. “Good. You are awake.” She didn’t even scold. “We need pandanus leaves and hibiscus for the dancers, for their head wreaths, the mwaars. But first gather more coconuts. Today, the soldiers said, no rules, no curfews. We can go anywhere.” My mother smiled. “Take Taeyo.”
“Taeyo?”
“Take him. He is pestering everyone.”
“I need a machete. …” I glanced at my father.
“Ignacio gave permission to use his. And today it is allowed.” My father nodded.
“Come on, Taeyo. Let’s go. First coconuts and then pandanus.”
Taeyo bounced beside me like a puppy. Excited, happy, not understanding. He was still a child. We walked past family after family busily preparing for the evening, and I felt as if stones filled my chest.
We headed straight into the thick bush behind the village where the ground was black and marshy, where a small grove of coconut palms grew hidden between thickets of bamboo. Several young ylang-ylang trees also grew here, and their blossoms sweetened the air. A fruit dove sang out, and for a moment I could again see the cave and hear my father’s words: Hide until the storm passes. Remember the turtle; become the turtle. Would our family be safe in such a place?
“What’s wrong, Uncle Joe?” Taeyo asked. “Why are we standing here?”
“Just thinking. Here, want to carry the machete?”
“Really?”
“Be careful. It’s your father’s. Keep the sharp edge pointed down. Don’t drop it on your toes. Remember, it is an honor to carry someone’s machete.”
Taeyo grinned, stood straighter. He walked by my side, his head held high like mine, stretching his legs to match mine, and for a few wonderful quiet minutes he did not say a word.
“There. See those two young trees hidden among the bamboo? I’ve been keeping an eye on them. They’re heavy with ripe nuts. Perfect for today.”
“Good eyes, Uncle Joe! They’re hard to see.”
“Good eyes, yourself! Okay, let’s see how strong you are. Climb up, and I’ll hand you the machete. Just don’t drop it on my head. Cut enough coconuts for today. Then toss them to me. The rest we’ll save for some other time.”
Taeyo slipped through the bamboo like a skinny lizard, then shinnied to the top of the first palm. “Watch out—here they come!” He threw down one heavy nut after another, aiming for my head, laughing each time I ducked. How long had it been since I had felt silly-happy like that?
“Enough! Enough! Come back down. We have plenty to carry.”
Taeyo wiggled down, leaped the last few feet to the ground, and stood straight, chest out, and grinned even wider.
“Good work. Give me back that machete. We’ll cut two bamboo stalks, tie on the coconuts, and you can carry them home!” I teased and then thought of the dozens of coconuts my father had stacked in the cave. For an instant I saw them, saw the cave, the rat escaping out the entrance. The machete fell from my hand, barely missing my foot.
“What’s wrong, Uncle Joe?”
“Nothing, Taeyo, nothing. We forgot to give thanks to the spirits for all this food.” Taeyo solemnly bowed his head and crossed himself as if in church. How strange to be the older one, the teacher.
I stooped over to pick up the machete. Thunk!
I looked up and heard it again. Thunk! Then the bamboo stalks began clattering. Someone was moving through the thicket. Soldiers weren’t supposed to bother us today, but … I glanced at Taeyo and raised my eyebrows: don’t move. Thunk! Something was being whacked. Hard.
“Who’s there? Show yourself!” I pushed Taeyo behind me.
Clackety, click, click, click. Bamboo knocked and rattled.
“Speak!” I ordered with the machete held high.
The bamboo separated; a face peered out.
Taeyo laughed. I breathed out and lowered the machete.
Two dark braids tied with yellow ribbons framed Ako’s face. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Ako-chan! What are you doing here?”
Ako slipped out between the last few stalks. She held up a large coconut crab with a cracked shell.
“You’re too little to be out here alone. Where’s Kento?”
Ako grinned even broader. “Kento is afraid a coconut crab will pinch his toes. And I am not little! Most every morning when it’s still dark I come here with Mama-oma to find the healing plants. The medicine inside them is stronger before the sun heats them. Sometimes I come here by myself when soldiers order Oma to stay at the house.”
I shook my head. “It’s too dangerous here, what if—”
“I’m not afraid. Not like Kento, even though he’s older. Anyway, it is better to be little. I can slip into places where coconut crabs hide.” She held her prize catch over her head. The crab’s legs dangled down past her nose.
“You caught that big crab yourself? Those big ones are mean!”
“And delicious.”
Taeyo reached to touch a wiggling leg.
“No!” Ako cried. “That claw could snap off your finger.” She frowned at Taeyo, then held the crab so he could take a close look. “Isn’t it beautiful? Yesterday I left b
ait here. Coconut meat. Today—whack! A few hits with a rock and … supper!” She grinned. “Why are you here?”
I pointed to the stack of coconuts.
“For tonight?” Her voice was suddenly serious and sad.
“Yes, for tonight.” I didn’t want to talk about it. “Okay, Taeyo, our mothers are waiting. Quick, pick some flowers for the wreaths. There’s some hibiscus—choose only the biggest blossoms, only the red ones—and I’ll get the ylang-ylang.”
“What about her?” Taeyo frowned at Ako.
I looked at Ako. “Walk back with us. Taeyo can carry that crab for you.”
“I can carry it myself.”
Taeyo gave me a disgusted look. I raised my eyebrows. He didn’t say anything but snatched blossom after blossom, frowning the whole time.
“Ako, where is Kento?”
“Pounding rice into mochi. Father came home early this morning, but he has to leave already tonight. Kento is making mochi for father to take with him. Mother and I are cooking this crab.” Ako paused, then spoke very seriously. “My family thanks you again. You saved Kento from the sea.”
“How do you know about that? Kento was not to tell anyone.”
Ako looked surprised and stared at me. Strange how sometimes she looked so much older, her face serious like an adult.
“Joseph, are you blind? Don’t you see there are no secrets? Not on this island.”
“Uncle Joe, did you really save Kento from the sea? When, Uncle Joe?”
“Never mind, Taeyo.”
My little nephew scowled like an old man. “Nobody ever answers my questions anymore!”
Ako stared at me. “Think about what my mother said. The caves are not safe.” She nodded. “Come with us.” Ako bowed then slipped through the thick bamboo and was gone.
“What caves, Uncle Joe?”
“I have no idea,” I lied.
“I’m hungry, Uncle Joe.”
“You’ll fill your stomach soon enough. Let’s gather up everything and head home.” Home … my father would not be at home after tonight. I pushed that thought as far away as possible. Still, I felt as if someone had punched me hard in the stomach.
Our arms full, we started back. Taeyo barely kept up; he was tired. We bundled up his load, and he held it on his head, but with each step, flowers or leaves slipped down, leaving a trail behind us. He’d stop to pick them up. Then more would fall. “Taeyo, keep walking or we will never get home!”
Already the sun sat low in the sky, a hazy ball of fire pouring across the water and transforming the waves into glowing embers. This was the time of day Father and I should be wading out to fish the reef. He would laugh each time the surf lifted us up and dropped us back down, and then he would tease because my eyes kept watching for a dark fin slicing across the surface. How childish my old fears seemed.
“Taeyo, we dance as warriors tonight. I need to prepare my mind, my spirit, all of me, for the dance. You go on ahead home. I need to be alone.”
Taeyo frowned again but started toward the village.
I turned and faced the sea.
The tide was coming in. The surf rolled over the reef, curled higher, the inside dark blue, the crest thin and white. Then crash!—the surf crackled, froth spilled, tumbled, and then slipped back. I longed to make this day stop, make time pause, let the endless singing of the surf soothe my fears, but nothing stopped the sun … nothing stopped the sea.
“Joseph, my son.”
I spun around. My father stood before me, tall and proud. Lines of red paint streaked down each cheek; pandanus leaves hung from his arms, wrists, and thighs. His dark skin glistened with oil.
“You are preparing yourself for the dance. Good. Sit with me. Tonight I will tell you the story of our ancestors one more time.”
He began as he had so many times before. But tonight it felt different.
“It came in a dream,” my father said. “It came in a dream to one of our long-ago ancestors. Clansmen had been warring. Too many had died from the fighting, from the starvation that followed. Too many people, gone.”
My father lowered his voice, hesitated, then continued. “A stranger came, and this spirit commanded, ‘Get up! In the darkness of the night, get up!’”
My father paused, swallowed hard, stared at the horizon.
“Yes, I remember, Father.” I picked up the familiar string of words. “And then the spirit began to dance, chanting and inviting—‘Dance with me. Leap and strike your warrior spears. Faster, faster, yes! Strike harder, leap higher!’” Now I paused, trying to remember the chants, the rhythm of the stamping and slapping, the striking of the sticks.
My father nodded for me to continue.
“All through the night they danced, and then again the spirit spoke. ‘Teach your people. Learn these dances. Protect your clan. This is your hope for survival. Light the fire within you. Light the bonfire that we might see. Learn to sweep, to leap, to fly—’”
My father placed both hands on my shoulders. “Yes, Joseph, tonight we will light the bonfires that we might see. I will blow the great conch shell. Our people will gather. We will leap and shout, hit against each other’s warrior spears, call to our ancestors, dancing faster, whirling, leaping higher until our lungs burn … our bodies shine with sweat. But we will not fight. We will put down our warrior spears, our weapons. This is our hope for survival. We will hold our heads high as we walk into the night, into the darkness.
“Joseph, our ancestors’ dance happened hundreds of years ago.” He waited, watched my face. “Still they dance.” My father asked, “Did it happen at all?”
I stared at my feet, dug my toes into the cool wet sand, but did not answer.
“Keep the words within you, Joseph. When you are lost in darkness that you do not understand, listen for them. Do you understand?”
I still could not answer.
He nodded to the sea, to the waves that washed over our feet. “You will hear them and you will know.”
COURAGE
Old turtle,
Little crab,
Where should I go?
Where can I hide?
One week passed. No word about anyone: not my father, not Ignacio. Nothing.
The buzz of airplanes became part of our world. Planes streaked low and spat out fire, stinking the air with black fumes. Ships—steel sharks—appeared along the horizon and waited. In our village there was no food. There were more soldiers. To the south, explosions sent orange smoke toward us. We could smell war.
Suddenly, the soldiers left. We could think of no good reason for this. Their absence felt stranger than their presence. Soon new soldiers patrolled the beach but only at night during curfew. These replacements were strangers and marched with straight backs, eyes narrowed as they scanned the shoreline. Were they looking for enemy soldiers or spies from our village? Their hands gripped rifles. They did not speak, but they were no older than my classmates.
Each day I became bolder. We needed food. I took Taeyo with me to secret places to show him where to dig taro. I told him, “Remember this place.”
“Why, Uncle Joe?”
“Remember it, Taeyo. See it in your mind so you can find it.”
The women gathered, anxiously talked more openly—in front of the closed church, the boarded-up stores, even in the middle of the road in front of the patrols. Who had news of the men? Was it true that the Japanese had guns longer than coconut trees? Had the other islanders, the Chamorros, even the priests and holy sisters been taken as prisoners … or put to death! Could that be? Someone had seen many planes marked with the round red sun of Japan, flying low, burning, falling from the sky. Was that possible? The women chewed every splinter of news like starving dogs gnawing on bones.
Then news came from a surprise visitor. I had wandered far from the village toward town to gather healing leaves from a special vine. “In case we need medicine for wounds,” my mother had instructed. I had followed the shoreline and began to feel uneasy. Someone wa
s following me, someone who didn’t want to be seen.
I left the open beach and took a shortcut back home, a path that led through heavy foliage.
“Joseph.”
I turned.
“Don’t be alarmed. I am here as a friend.”
“Sensei!”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I waited until we would not be noticed.”
I had forgotten my manners and quickly bowed. “I … I hope you are well.”
“Listen carefully, Joseph. I must return to Garapan before my absence is noticed.”
“But—”
“No, just listen. Last week a major air battle was fought and lost. Soon many American planes will begin bombing.”
“Bombing? I don’t understand.”
“Bombing this island. Saipan is strategic to the American military, one island closer to their invasion of Japan.” Sensei’s eyes never stopped glancing and searching.
“Please, Joseph, tell no one you saw me here. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” The rumors were true. Burning planes had fallen from the sky.
“After bombing the beaches, the Americans will invade. Go somewhere away from the sea, far from the shore. The first battles will be fought along the shoreline. Don’t get caught in the crossfire.”
I thought of the cave. Was it far enough from the sea?
Sensei looked down, then cleared his throat. “Yesterday I saw your father and Ignacio at the airstrip. I could not speak to them—”
“They are alive! Do they know about the bombs, the invasion?”
He did not answer. Sensei shook his head and handed me a small package. “For you, Joseph. Always remember what a fine student you are. I have marked my favorite poem, ‘An ancient pond. A frog jumps in. The splash of water.’ That is your challenge, the splash of water.” Sensei bowed. “Now I must go. I have my duty, I must obey.”
When I returned home, I feared it all had been a dream. But hidden under my sleeping mat, my fingers touched the small book and told me the truth. Bashö’s book of poems was safe.
The days were long, the nights, longer. Often I awoke from the same nightmare. I watched my father walk away. Come back, but he would not stop. He was swallowed by dark, swirling surf. I tried to reach out, to pull him back; I could not move.
Warriors in the Crossfire Page 5