Ako snatched the writing stick and wrote:
Rain begins morning,
Mist cools my skin.
Teardrops
Whisper
And fall.
“Father taught me that poem. When I see him, I’ll show him how much I’ve learned. I will, Joseph.” I was caught by the sadness in her voice.
Kento nodded. “See, Joseph, writing is like making a canoe.”
“Kento, moon-man, you talk riddles.”
“Joseph, if trees can become canoes, words can become poems. Poems fly us far from here.”
“I’d rather carve a canoe.”
“Words can take us—”
“To the moon? Is that how you’re going to get there? With words?”
“Someday I will, Joseph.”
“You can. You are Japanese!” I threw down the stick.
Kento swept his stick across the dirt. Gone! Canoe and moon were nothing but a pile of dirt.
I moved to the back of the cave, near my sister. Taeyo stirred and opened his eyes.
“What’s wrong, Uncle Joe? Your face is one big frown.”
“Go back to sleep, Taeyo.”
I wanted to hit, to fight, to do something. When would this waiting end? And then what?
Taeyo gave me a poke. “Hey, stop that,” I growled. He grinned and held up my book.
“Read to me, Uncle Joe.” Taeyo opened Sensei’s book to his favorite page. How many times had we read that same poem? How many times had he asked the same questions?
Kori nigaku enso ga nodo o uruoseri …
Bitter-tasting ice—
Just enough to wet the throat
Of a sewer rat.
“What is ice, Uncle Joe?”
“I don’t know, Taeyo.”
“You said your teacher explained it. Remember?”
“My teacher explained many things I did not understand.”
“What is a sewer, Uncle Joe?”
“What do you think it is?
“Where rats live? A cave? Like here?”
My sister must have been listening. She smiled at her son, and I remembered how she used to smile at all of us, at Ignacio, how her eyes sparkled that night she danced alongside our mother. The two of them strutting in front of the men, so funny, dancing the saucy steps of the women’s courting dance. Now, again, after all that had happened, my sister smiled.
Maybe Ako was right, maybe we could survive.
Warm light from the evening sun shimmered on the branches outside. Something flittered from blossom to blossom. The butterflies were back.
I sat next to Kento. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I …”
“War makes us crazy, Joseph.”
“I’m sick of hiding.”
“The fighting can’t last much longer.”
“And then what? When I try to sleep, Kento, I see the cliffs. I can’t get them out of my head.”
“Joseph, the cliffs are done. Focus, like a warrior. Use your mind, your strongest weapon.”
“Your samurai warriors killed themselves.”
“Stop going backwards, Joseph, stop.” He picked up a stick, jabbed it in the dirt. “Listen to me, Joseph. Think about rain. Taste it, hear it falling. Focus.” Kento scratched long lines of kanji in the dirt:
Surf’s
Edges sharpen,
White into
Indigo, folds,
Leaps
Free.
“Soon we will be free, Joseph.”
I shook my head. “If the Americans win, what will happen to us?”
“The Americans are winning.”
I looked out past the cave, closed my eyes, and struggled to see the ocean. First I heard it, smelled the salty air. I sat in my canoe as I had as a child, my father sat in the back. I paddled away from shore, felt the slap of the water and the splash of the sea, and tasted salt on my tongue.
Someone shook me.
“Uncle Joe, when will we go home? Maybe my father is waiting. I want to go home.”
“Soon, Taeyo, soon.”
“You promise? But you make so many promises.”
“Come here. Yes, here beside me. Remember when Father taught us how to dance, how to fly.”
“Uncle Joe, really? Fly?”
“Taeyo, listen. Here.” I tapped my chest. “Do you remember the story of the dance?” I walked my fingers up his arm; he brushed them away. “It came in a dream … in the darkness of the night.”
Taeyo pressed his hands over his ears.
“Okay, little one, but someday we will tell it again. We will sit on the shore and wiggle our toes in the waves. Someday.” I wrapped my arms around my little nephew, held him close, let him cry, and then slept a long dreamless sleep.
Before I opened my eyes, I could smell the rain. A hush spread through the trees. Not even a gecko chirped or a kingfisher squawked. All became still.
The fronds of the tallest palms trembled. Bamboo stalks clattered. Even the broad breadfruit leaves began to sway in the wind, back and forth, like giant green hands begging for water.
In the distance, water splashed. I could hear raindrops falling on leaves, branches, and rocks.
My mother sat up, and Kento’s mother next to her. Anna Maria raised her head and looked around. I crawled to the entrance and searched the night sky. No stars. Only black, beautiful storm clouds. Raindrops fell on my face, first just a few, then more and more. I stuck out my tongue.
“Rain! It really is raining. Come and drink it.”
The rain stopped. We waited, praying and watching as another gray curtain blew closer, splashing louder until rain thundered down like a waterfall. We became silly schoolchildren, our heads tilted back, our tongues out. We hugged each other, laughing, as wet, wonderful rain poured down. We clapped and sang and made cups with our hands, caught raindrops, and drank handful after handful.
“The gourds, the bottles! Get them. Fill them up.”
Everyone but Anna Maria ran to the back of the cave. She stood at the edge of the opening. She stood with her hands held up to the wet sky and let the rain splash her face. Wonderful cool water splashed everywhere.
I watched her. Kento was counting the empty bottles and gourds and dividing them up.
“Help me, Joseph, we’ll fill every single one with water!”
I stepped back into the cave but stopped. Everything stopped. The rapid pop-pop-pop of gunfire pierced the air. “Get down. Everyone, get down.” I pushed Ako down into the dirt.
A volley of bullets pitted the rock, spewed metal and gravel. A shrill whistle and then a blast shook our world. A blinding light exploded behind my sister. The trunk of the breadfruit tree shattered. The entire cave shuddered.
And then silence.
The stink of sulfur and scorched rock filled the cave. More gunfire sounded, this time from a distance. A wet breeze blew through the broken branches. Rain continued to fall.
Afraid to my very core, I listened.
Ako cried behind me. Her head was buried in her mother’s lap. Kento grabbed my arm and held on tight. My mother rocked Taeyo back and forth, her lips again moving silently in prayer … and at the hour of our death, pray for us.
I scrambled to my sister, who lay where she had fallen. Blood pooled in the mud around her head. Dark red oozed around her beautiful black hair. I stared.
Please be alive.
My mother took my sister in her arms, carried Anna Maria inside, and carefully laid her on a mat.
“Don’t go!” Kento pleaded.
“Anna Maria’s wounds are deep. She is weak. Medicine and herbs are needed to stop the bleeding.” My mother repeated to Kento what she had already said to me.
Kento’s mother had washed and cleaned my sister’s wounds. One bullet had pierced her neck, another had punctured her side.
Ako stared from the back of the cave and hugged herself to hide the trembling. My aunt described what was needed: leaves from the shore vines, gathered at dawn whe
n the leaves are still cool and damp with dew. I should pick them when their healing strength is strongest and bring the fresh leaves to make a poultice to cover the wounds. This and fresh green coconuts so their milk would give my sister strength to heal. I picked up Father’s machete and blackened the blade.
“Joseph, listen to me,” Kento pleaded. “Wait until morning. Now is too dangerous.”
“I cannot let my sister die.”
Around my waist I knotted a strip of cloth to fill with leaves. “Kento, make my mother drink, even if she refuses. Her mind is sometimes confused. Keep Ako away from the ledge. And Taeyo … read to him. It quiets him.” We looked at each other. Kento bowed. I bowed back.
“Take care of our families, my friend. Let Ako sit next to Anna Maria. Her chatter soothes her.” I placed my hands on Kento’s shoulders. “I should be back before tomorrow night.”
“Joseph!” Ako ran over, pulled loose one of her hair ribbons and looped it around my wrist. “This will keep you safe.”
“Thank you, little warrior.”
I looked around our crowded cave, not wanting to leave. I bowed, hurried to the ledge, and climbed down the splintered tree until once again my feet touched the ground. I did not stop or look back.
At the grotto, I rested briefly and drank. Memories flowed with the water: I saw my sister’s face when Ignacio returned from fishing, the pride in her eyes and mischief in her smile. I heard my father’s voice when he whispered that Ignacio was gone. I saw the longing and hope in my sister’s eyes as she stared out from the cave.
I followed the ravine and stayed low. Swaths of ground were singed black, smoking in the ghostly light of the moon. I stopped to stare at the butchery: bodies blown apart, overturned jeeps, bloated soldiers. I picked my way around, then ran the last part, down the long, steep slope. Our island was rotting with death.
I heard the surf before I could see it, the roar from the tide rushing in and crashing. My father was right: The sea survives. I ran to the shore and waded in. The ocean’s skin rippled alive as light spread across the waves. Slips of white birds soared high overhead, winging toward deeper ocean. They had survived.
Searching, I picked my way along the shore. Vines once covered this beach. When we were children, Kento and I had picked armfuls of vines and seaweed and then chased each other, teasing and piling them on ourselves until we smelled of sea and fish.
A terrible buzzing stopped me. I followed the sound and discovered a tiny marsh. Backwash had piled bloated bodies ashore in tangled heaps. Black flies crawled everywhere. I ran, seeing soldiers with bodies swollen like dead fish and empty eyes that stared upward. I fell to my knees and vomited, then covered my face.
I held my knees and rocked, the waves rolled in, crashed along the shore, and slipped out.
I had to cleanse myself of the rot and stench. I ran into the waves, then pulled and kicked through the water. Light danced around me. Below me was darkness. Remember the dance, and you will know … know what, Father?
I had promised.
I returned to the shore and walked away from the death and flies. I searched until I found vines that were still alive and green with leaves. I fingered Ako’s ribbon and gave thanks to our ancestors. Then I sat and rested, listening to the endless singing of the sea, watching the sunlight dance on the waves.
Plumes of smoke curled above the north end of the island where the cliffs lay. The southern horizon was clear. Was it over? A plane buzzed low over the reef. On its side was a large white star, not the red circle of Japan. Would the Americans kill us all?
Though the sun was bright overhead, I could not wait. I climbed back to the grotto, gulped water, then slapped mud over my head, arms, and body. The mud soothed the scratches and cooled my burning skin. Maybe when I got to the cave, Ako would laugh and tease, “Mud man!”
Again I drank, swallowing slowly, staring at the steep hill that rose before me, with its walls of bushes and vines. If only I could rest.
Something flickered in the bushes. My throat tightened. Then I smiled. A black butterfly. Two of them, dipping and fluttering like the pair outside the cave. I watched, my eyes holding onto them even after they were gone. I will keep my promise.
I never heard the soldier.
Cold metal pressed against the back of my head. I closed my eyes and waited. How strange! I was no longer in my body but a spectator, watching. Would I hear the explosion or feel the bullet shatter my skull?
My entire body began to shake, and I could not make it stop. A firm hand grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. I looked up at a dusty face with black lines under the eyes, a face half-hidden by a helmet. A face with blue eyes.
An American soldier, a man who eats children. Would he hit me across the face or just pull the trigger? I didn’t want to die. Who would bring Anna Maria these herbs? The bleeding had to stop; her wound needed to heal. Who would tell Taeyo the story of the dance? Who would sit with Ako and watch the butterflies?
I didn’t want to die.
I stared at the blue eyes. Blue like the sea. I want my family to live.
He spoke words I did not understand and then reached into his pack and pulled out a small book with kanji on the cover. He opened it and pointed: Are you hungry?
I tried to answer. My body would not stop shaking. What kind of a warrior was I? I stared at his rifle.
He set his rifle down and took something out of his pack. He broke it in half, put one piece in his mouth. “Daijobu desu, it is okay. It is safe.” He handed me the other half. Sweetness filled my mouth. Chocolate! Ako had once brought this strange food to share with us at the cove. I swallowed, felt sick, and covered my face with my hands. What kind of warrior vomits in front of his enemy?
“Tomodachi, friend.” He showed me his canteen, drank from it, and handed it to me. “Drink … it is safe. I am a friend, tomodachi. Drink.”
When the soldier took me by the arms to pull me up, my knees buckled. I almost fell. He pointed down the hill and motioned to walk that way.
I pulled back, shook my head, and sat down.
He sat next to me. My father had warned, Trust no one, but he had shown Kento the grotto. This soldier had food and water, and maybe medicine.
His blue eyes watched me. Again he pointed at his book. “Food.” He pointed down the hill. “Many tomodachi, many friends, plenty food.” He mimicked eating, and again he pointed and ordered. “Ikimasho. We must go.” He took my arm and pulled. I twisted loose but fell backwards. I had so little strength.
He took out a thin leather envelope, opened it, and showed me a picture of a woman holding a little girl, then pointed to a different kanji in the book—kasoku-ka. He pointed to himself and then to the picture. “Family.”
I understood.
A stranger came to our ancestor. In a dream … our clan was dying.
What should I do?
“What do you believe, Joseph? Someday when you are lost in a darkness that you do not understand … you will know.”
What should I do?
Listen to the fire within.
I could hear nothing, not even the sea.
I stood up, held out my empty hands. See, I have no weapons. I am harmless. Aim your rifle, shoot me … or let me return to my family.
Today I had seen flies feasting on war. I had seen butterflies … black butterflies.
I stared at this soldier, at his strange blue eyes, a stranger, an enemy who took out a book, not a weapon, and pointed to a picture of his family.
I listened for an answer and heard my own.
I turned and walked uphill to my family.
The soldier followed.
TO SEE, PEACE
After darkness
We see
What had been
Un-seeable.
My sister lay across the laps of my mother and aunt in the back seat of the jeep. She was wrapped in a soft blanket, and Taeyo sat huddled next to her. My mother cradled Anna Maria’s bandaged head. Ako sat perched on
one side, looking, pointing, or sometimes only staring. Kento sat between the two soldiers in the front seat, stiff and straight as he once sat in the canoe. Someday we would paddle back over the reef.
Once down the hillside, we skirted around our village, Tanapag, and then followed what was left of the coral road, pocked from bombs and explosions. We were being taken to a “camp” where they said there were already many natives. Was Ignacio waiting for us there? Kento’s father? The soldiers said we would be given tents for shelter, food, clean water, and medicine for Anna Maria. They talked to us through a translator, a young Chamorro man from Guam who knew Japanese and already some English. They addressed him as Ranger. Whenever his eyes met mine, he nodded.
The jeep bumped along. I looked at Ako. Her lips whispered, “Butterflies.”
Yes, we had survived.
The jeep stopped. We all lurched forward.
“Is there a problem?” I looked at the ranger, my heart already racing.
The ranger shook his head. “Just looking for a place to cross this river. It’s running high from yesterday’s rains.”
The soldiers walked up and down the bank, searching out a shallow area where they could drive the jeep across. I whispered to my sister, “We are back. Look, Anna Maria, the ocean.”
She tried to sit up but was too weak. My mother lifted her just enough so my sister could see the ocean.
“Ignacio,” she whispered, then looked at me. Her eyes said everything.
“Yes, maybe we will find him.”
My mother rewrapped the blanket and took my sister’s hand in hers.
I climbed out of the jeep and stared at the place where Kento and I had met secretly after school … long ago … and where I had carried my father. Many of the breadfruit and mango trees were gone, broken and ripped apart, but some were still standing.
Father, like the turtle, we waited.
A line of coconut palms swayed with the breeze, chattering with the wind as if nothing had changed. I followed the river’s bank to the shoreline and then stopped. The tide was changing. Surf crashed along the reef, leaping white and high.
Our ancestors were dancing—spinning, sweeping, flying.
The sea continues.
Our family had survived.
Warriors in the Crossfire Page 9