Eventually the Streaked Shearwater’s head became visible. Its small black eyes darted fearfully around its surroundings. It had a sharp beak, which the woman adroitly avoided as she grabbed its neck in her strong hands and dragged it reluctantly out of its nest. The bird frantically spread its brown wings spanning almost a meter, and let out a shrill squawk, but at that moment the woman braced her legs and with all her strength twisted its neck, her hips again quivering from the effort. Her daughter produced a knife, and the woman used it to slit open the bird’s belly. Blood spurted out and stained the surrounding grass and soil dark red. The woman was sweating profusely as, without a word, she deftly cut out the entrails and slung them into the freshly dug hole.
I was enveloped by the sickly smell of blood. It was as if the surrounding air had become permeated with its stench. Their work done, mother and daughter gave a satisfied smile and put the dead bird into a bamboo basket before setting off in search of their next quarry.
The woman’s hands were still caked with blood, now drying to a dark red in the strong sun. Once again I was overcome by nausea. The other women were also killing birds, slitting open their bellies with knives, and pulling out their entrails. I knew that was probably the best method for preserving the meat, but I felt increasingly unable to bear the scene unfolding before my eyes. The image of the entire village turning out for an enjoyable picnic was erased from my mind. Being a doctor, I was accustomed to the smell of blood. But then the blood spurting from the birds’ slit bellies was entirely different to the blood I had encountered in the operating theater.
The sun was as bright as ever, but my nausea just would not go away.
That evening a welcome party was held for me at the island’s only inn.
It was called an inn, but its main business seemed to be that of general store, and provisions brought by boat from the main island were piled up in a dimly-lit earthen floored space, and from the eaves hung a cardboard sign on which was clumsily scrawled, “Just in: bread, soap, cigarettes.”
The landlady and a young maid served the feast of Streaked Shearwater washed down with sugar cane liquor. However, the scene from that afternoon flitted before my eyes, and I was utterly unable to touch any of the meat.
True to form, there were long drawn-out welcome speeches from the leading personages, during which cups of sake were exchanged. I disliked this Japanese way of toasting one’s health, which from a doctor’s point of view was extremely unsanitary. However, as guest of honor I could hardly refuse, and so I grudgingly went along with it.
At some point the traveling salesman, who was staying at the inn, had slipped into the banquet. He seemed to be particularly fond of this island. He slapped the shoulders of the mayor and headmaster and, frequently raising the sake cup to his lips, proclaimed loudly, “This is the best island I have ever been to!” The banquet was becoming increasingly rowdy. Once the salesman began dancing naked, his corpulent belly thrust out, I fled outside to the garden.
I could hear the sound of drums in the dark night. Looking in their direction, I saw the red glow of a fire halfway up the mountain we had climbed that afternoon. There had indeed been a small shrine around there, so perhaps that was the shrine to the island deity. It looked like they were holding an all-night festival to celebrate the day’s harvest of Streaked Shearwaters.
Even though night had fallen, the heat still lingered. I was just lighting a cigarette when the salesman called out behind me, “What’re you up to out here?” He was in high spirits, and reeked of alcohol. When I replied that I was watching the fire, he smirked. “Arriving on a festival day, it’s bound to be a lucky year for you,” he said happily. “How about coming up to the shrine with me now? It’s quite spectacular.”
With a lewd smile, the salesman explained that in the past there had been women ama divers on the island, and their customs had been retained in this festival. The women, in the style of the ama, bared their breasts and danced as though possessed around the fire.
“It’s pitch black. But all the women have great tits,” he commented, grinning.
I tried imagining the half-naked women in the light of the fire. It was a healthy, erotic scene that I should have enjoyed, but it just left me cold. It was inextricably connected with the image of the woman slitting the Streaked Shearwater’s belly that afternoon.
“The head priest here is known as the ‘Chief.’ He’s a small, feeble old man.” The salesman continued his account of the festival. Knowing nothing about the island, I must have been the ideal audience for him. The only reason I was tamely listening to him now was not because I had any interest in the festival itself, but because it was preferable to remaining in that dull banquet with the mayor and the rest of them. “As its name suggests, there is a legend that this island was created by a god. South Kamui’s version of Ninigi’s heavenly descent, I suppose you could call it. The Chief is descended from the god and is apparently able to hear him speak. He has tremendous authority. In the olden days it seems he had the customary privileges, too. Lucky bastard.”
“Customary privileges?”
“Surely you know what that means? He got to sample all the virgins. Although it’d be wasted on an old body like his.”
The salesman sniggered and nudged me in the ribs. He was completely absorbed in his own story.
“At the festival, several of the island’s youths are chosen to don devil masks and they become the god’s messengers. Apparently, if the old Chief ever gave them the order to ‘Kill!’ they would grab the arms and legs of the person to be sacrificed and mercilessly rip them apart, you know.”
His words made me think again of the Streaked Shearwater’s white belly slit open by the woman.
“That was long ago, wasn’t it? They can’t do things like that now, not with the police officer here.”
“No, I guess not.”
The salesman ran his hand smoothly over his shiny face, flushed red with drink. I got the impression he was almost disappointed that it was a thing of the past.
“How about it? Won’t you come up to the shrine with me? Tonight everyone will go crazy with the festivities, and you’ll get your pick of the women. All you have to do is put your arm around a woman, like this, and say ‘Let’s do maguhai,’ and most times she’ll accept. Magu is a woman’s you-know-what, by the way.”
The salesman illustrated his invitation with hand gestures. I had nothing against women. I had thoroughly enjoyed the extraordinarily soft body of the Chinese girl I’d held in my arms in Hong Kong. The women on this island, though, with their sunburned skin and cruel laugh just did not whet my appetite. And I was tired.
I declined, and the salesman set off for the mountain grumbling to himself, probably about what a bad sport I was. It seemed he had stronger nerves than I did.
I did not feel like going back go the party, so I left the inn and went back to the dispensary.
In the back of the dispensary there was a six tatami-mat room that apparently served as a bedroom. I switched on the light, a naked bulb, and lay down fully dressed on the sunbleached tatami. The electricity supply on the island was shut off at eight in the evening, but the hands of my watch indicated that it was nearly nine. An exception was probably being made on account of the festival. Or perhaps it was a special privilege granted to me as the doctor.
It was hot and I dozed fitfully. The monotonous drumbeat was setting my nerves on edge. Drumming at festivals on the mainland was rousing and had a gaiety entirely befitting a festive occasion, but the drums I heard now were dull and cheerless, like dripping rain.
As I turned over, the sound of a cat mewing came from the direction of the dispensary. I hated cats. I tutted to myself, got up, and went down into the dispensary and switched on the light. There under the desk cowered a white kitten.
“Tssss!” I hissed at it, trying to drive it out, but the creature just bared its fangs and made no attempt to move from under the desk. I was beginning to lose my temper. It was not just tha
t I disliked like cats, but rather that everything I had encountered on this island since arriving here today had rubbed me the wrong way. I reached out a hand, grabbed the animal by the scruff of the neck, and roughly threw it outside.
I went back to the other room and lay down. I felt terribly tired.
I don’t like this island…
Muttering this over and over again to myself, I fell into a light doze.
I had no idea how long I had been asleep. When I awoke, I sensed the presence of someone in the room. The electric light had been switched off, and in its place, blue-white moonlight shone in through the open window. Perhaps it was because the air was clearer than in Tokyo, but it felt as though even the night air was tinted blue-white, and although I knew I was awake, I had the strange sensation of still being in a dream.
A woman was standing by the window, and it was only the eerie atmosphere that prevented me from crying out. Feeling that it was a continuation of my dream, I gazed blankly at her. She was very slowly removing her pantaloons. Her upper body was already naked, and her breasts swung heavily in the moonlight. Once she was completely naked, she knelt on the tatami. Finally I was released from the moon’s spell and hastily got to my feet. The woman looked as if she was praying with her arms stretched out to me. As she drew her dark, tanned face close to mine, I realized that I had seen her before. It was the woman who had slit open the Streaked Shearwater’s belly right in front of me that afternoon.
I had no idea what she was doing here, naked. She sidled up to me and put her arms around my neck and, as if intoning an incantation, said playfully, “It is the god’s will.” Her dark skin smelled of the sea. She wore a crimson flower in her hair, a southern bloom with a bright, venomous redness. The bittersweet fragrance of its large petals enveloped me.
I tried to break loose, but her muscular arms held fast around my neck.
“It is the god’s will.” Repeating the same words, the woman pressed her heavy breasts tight against my chest, forcing me down onto the tatami. Her plump, sturdy hips bore down heavily on me. Her skin was damp and clammy.
“I’ll show you a thing or two…” She grinned.
Just then, I caught sight of a demon outside the window, his whole body bathed in the blue-white moonlight. He stood staring down at me and the woman.
“Otaki!” the demon called to her, in a low, faltering voice.
“So the god is pleased, huh?” As if spurred on by his voice, the woman pressed her body against me all the harder and started unbuttoning my shirt. I was overwhelmed by her weight, her body odor with a hint of the sea, and the cloying fragrance of the southern flower.
The demon’s face disappeared abruptly from the window, but the shock had drained all the energy from my body. Even so, the woman continued to thrust against my private parts and ground her hips with a seriousness that truly befitted serving a god.
I felt as though I had been caught up in a nightmare, but it was two days later that the real nightmare began.
Life on the island was monotonous and dull. And there was also something ominous about it, although I could not put my finger on exactly what. I knew the demon I had seen was just a young man wearing a devil mask, but it still gave me the creeps.
The natural beauty was the island’s one saving grace, but the fierce sunlight made me feel dizzy. I did not go out all that much, but my face and arms still smarted with sunburn.
It was almost midday by the time I finally awoke. The strong sunlight dropped white spots up as far as my pillow, promising another hot day.
I got up and went through to the dispensary to find that breakfast was already laid out on my desk. The mayor had taken the trouble of arranging for the woman called Otaki to bring me breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
The dishes were arranged on an old-fashioned black lacquered tray. It was an extravagant feast for an island as destitute as this. The rice was from the mainland, and the miso soup with pork was not made from the local sago palm miso, but from real soybean miso. That alone was probably out of consideration for me, but I did not have much of an appetite.
I ate a little, but soon threw down my chopsticks, left the dispensary, and headed for the seashore. On the beach near the wharf the women, cotton towels covering their hair, were hanging out fish, their bellies split open, to dry in the sun. The smell of fish permeated the small beach.
As they worked, the women sang to a slow rhythm. It was the same song they had been singing as they hauled the fishing boat up the beach when I first arrived on the island. I sometimes heard that song carried on the breeze when I was in the dispensary. The salesman translated the lyrics for me.
C’mon, let’s have a ball
Until the strings tying the pantaloons of all the women rip.
C’mon, let’s have a ball
Until the strings tying the loincloths of all the men rip.
And when we’ve finished our work
Let’s all enjoy doing maguhai.
Yes, let’s all revel in doing it.
If I had heard about this song in Tokyo, I would probably have admired its rugged simplicity. At least I would not have found it offensive. But on this island, when I thought about how many more times I was going to be forced to listen to it, the monotonous, melancholy melody grated on my nerves. My urbanized ears were just not on the same wavelength.
I walked past the women to the small inlet from where I could see the coral reef. Two canoes were moored there, one painted red, the other white.
There was nobody around. I could no longer hear the women’s singing, perhaps because I was upwind. White wave crests rose like bared teeth over the coral reef some two hundred meters out to sea, but the inlet itself was as calm as a mirror. A breeze blew over the reef, yet standing there motionless I broke out in a sweat. I stripped down to my undershirt and dipped my toes in the water. It felt good. But as I watched a shoal of richly colored tropical fish swim past in the limpid water, I recalled the police officer’s warning not to paddle barefoot in the pools or go swimming. There was apparently a highly poisonous fish that had been known to kill people with its sting. For all the natural beauty, it did not strike me as much fun.
I lit up a cigarette, but I suddenly felt a wave of nausea. I hurriedly threw away the cigarette and clamped my hand over my mouth. Cloudy white spittle stuck to the palm. I washed it off in seawater. Why was the nausea continuing, I wondered.
There was no way I should feel seasick any more. Perhaps the overly strong sun was to blame? Here it was the heat of midsummer. My nerves could also have something to do with it. No doubt that accounted for my lack of appetite, too.
I moistened my handkerchief in seawater and was just wiping my flushed face and arms when I heard a loud voice calling, “Doctor!”
I turned to see the officer racing towards me. Gasping for breath, he said, “Doctor, they’ve fallen sick.”
I tensed, forgetting my nausea. I did not much care for this island, but as long as I was here I had to fulfill my duties as a doctor.
“Who are ‘they’?”
“The mayor and the people from the inn.”
“What are their symptoms?”
“A touch of diarrhea and a slight fever. They all say they feel unwell.”
“Sounds like food poisoning.”
“Well, please come,” he said before hastening back.
I returned to the dispensary, stuffed some medical supplies in my bag, and headed for the inn.
It was the mayor, the landlady of the inn, and the young serving girl who had fallen ill. I had no idea why the mayor should have taken sick at the inn, but seeing the officer’s odd smile I inferred there must be something going on between the mayor and the landlady.
All three patients were presenting practically the same symptoms. They all had a temperature of almost thirty-nine degrees, and the mayor also complained of painful joints, probably due to the fever.
At first I dismissed it as a simple case of food poisoning. The islanders ofte
n ate raw fish, so probably that was the cause. But then I discovered red spots on the landlady’s breast that were not consistent with this diagnosis. The spots were livid and round, quite unlike hives. Furthermore, if it was hives then it was unthinkable that three people would present the same symptoms all at once.
“Does it itch?” I asked.
“A little,” the woman responded in a small voice.
“How did it start?”
“To begin with I felt something awful queasy—”
When she said this, the officer next to her said to me, as if backing up her story, “Come to think of it, the mayor was retching at the washbasin earlier.”
Nausea?
I recalled the nausea that had plagued me ever since arriving on the island.
“Can you think of anything you ate that might have been bad?” I asked all three of them, just in case, but they all replied that they could think of nothing.
The mayor suddenly started vomiting at the sink next to his bed. The officer hastily rubbed his back. It seemed his stomach was empty, for all that he vomited was cloudy white sputum.
I examined him again. On his scrawny old chest, I saw the same red spots as on the landlady’s breast. I hurriedly brought to mind a number of clinical cases and compared them. I felt a growing sense of unease.
“Do you know what it is, Doctor?” the officer asked me with a worried look.
To put his mind at ease, I told him, “It’s probably something they ate. I’ll prepare some medicine for them, so please come and collect it later.”
I went back to the dispensary for the time being. The sun was blazing down as fiercely as ever, and it was stifling inside the room.
I sank down into the wooden swivel chair, which made an unpleasant grating noise, and cast my eyes over the medical supplies shelf. There was a jumble of bottles of medicine, boxes of bandages, syringes, and suchlike. The medicine log appeared to include just the standard medicines. No doubt they had hastily sent away for supplies from the main island two hundred fifty kilometers away in preparation for my arrival. If what we were dealing with were an infectious disease, however, these medicines would be of no use whatsoever.
The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories Page 2