Rembrandt's Ghost

by Paul Christopher

  ‘‘Another video you saw on your research ship?’’ Billy asked.

  ‘‘Stories my father told me,’’ said Winchester, shaking his head. ‘‘He was an ANZAC . . . Australia and New Zealand Army Corps. He was a prisonerof war in a camp in Sandakan on the Borneo coast.’’ The professor peered at Billy from under the sagging brim of his goatskin cap. ‘‘World War Two wasn’t all Hitler and Nazis and Pearl Harbor, you know. The people down here were a lot more concerned about Tojo and Yamamoto than they were about the Luftwaffe and Rommel.’’

  ‘‘None of that matters now,’’ said Finn. ‘‘What matters is finding out what happened to our friends.’’ She stared at the remains of the giant submarine entangled in the bowels of the swamp below them. ‘‘How many people do we have to be concerned about?’’

  ‘‘Hard to say,’’ answered Winchester. ‘‘I think the submarine was carrying what my father used to call Rikusentai, the Japanese equivalent of Marines. The uniform rags they wear are green, not khaki like the ordinary Jap soldier. There must have been two or three hundred to start with. I have no idea how many survived originally. I’ve never seen more than three or four at any one time, and they don’t seem to have any permanent homes like the Chinese here. They hunt in small groups.’’

  ‘‘How could they possibly have survived?’’ said Billy.

  Winchester shrugged. ‘‘By killing. They had more firepower than the locals originally, but not the numbers. They must have raided the Chinese villages for women and for food at first. Now everyonekeeps out of one another’s way.’’ He lifted his shoulders again. ‘‘There’s never been much love lost between the Japanese and the Chinese anyway. They each think the other is inferior and subhuman’’—Winchester smiled—‘‘rather like the Americans think of the Muslim races and vice versa.’’

  ‘‘Or what the Brits think of the Australians,’’ added Finn, defending herself.

  ‘‘How are they armed?’’ asked Billy, getting back to the point.

  ‘‘I’ve found all sorts of rusty old Nambu pistols and Arisaka rifles lying about, but they must have run out of ammunition long ago,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘The only things I’ve actually seen them carrying are ceremonial katana swords the officers must have had and old bayonets. Spears, bows, blowguns maybe. The locals have a strange sort of crossbow device I’ve seen once or twice.’’

  ‘‘They hunt?’’ Finn asked.

  ‘‘They hunt, and they kill from time to time. Not for sport or as a test of manhood like the old headhunter clans in Borneo and elsewhere in Malaysia and the Philippines. The two groups seem to have made up their culture as they went along. The local Chinese are organized into family units. The Japanese seem to promote complete self-sufficiency, a kind of solitary socialism if you like. I’ve watched small children out hunting with their friends. If one catches something they all share equally. They don’t seem to have specialties, either. Everybody hunts. Everybody cooks. Everyone builds huts, gathers firewood. Men and women alike. Very efficient.’’

  ‘‘You sound as though you’ve studied them carefully,’’ said Finn.

  ‘‘I’m a scientist, so it’s in my nature. And it’s a matter of ‘know thy enemy,’ as well. It’s in my best interests to keep track of them, and to keep away from them,’’ he added pointedly.

  ‘‘Do they know you’re here?’’ Billy asked.

  ‘‘I’m not sure,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘I’ve never had them track me that I know of. As I said I’ve done my best to keep a low profile.’’

  A breeze blew over the dune, bending the pale dense grasses at the summit and bringing the salt tang of the lagoon to their nostrils. Finn turned and looked out over the huge, lakelike expanse, ringed on every side by the high, jungle-shrouded sloping walls of the ancient volcano. The metal and wood islands of the old ships rose like the skeletons of ancient dinosaurs in the dark, flat water. A few hundred yards out the upended fuselage of Pieter Boegart’s floatplane stood like an immense child’s toy, tossed aside and forgotten.

  In the far distance Finn could see the hazy, funnellike entrance to the hidden lagoon. Above her little puffballs of fleecy cloud moved slowly across the bright blue sky. She tried to imagine what the island would look like from a satellite. Winchester was right. A speck in the middle of an empty sea. At best it would look like exactly what it was: the jungle-covered remains of an old volcano with an inner lagoon and a ring of dangerous, protective reefs.

  She was pretty sure that people had come here out of curiosity from time to time over the years and she was just as sure what had happened to them. Sailors, desperate for food or water, would have found a way to bring a small boat through the reefs and they would have paid the price once they reached the shore. Kids looking for Leonardo DiCaprio’s beach or the perfect place to scuba, a childless couple sailing around the world—the locals almost surely posted lookouts, and except in the storms like the ones that had brought Winchester and the Queen here, they would be aware of any unwelcome visitors. In the end it was the center of a spiderweb and she was trapped in it.

  ‘‘I wonder how Willem Van Boegart managed to do it,’’ said Finn. He’d been shipwrecked here exactly the same way as she, Billy, and Winchester. ‘‘He was washed up here and he managed to get away again. Not only that, he managed to escape with a fortune.’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure I catch your meaning,’’ said Billy.

  ‘‘How did he do it?’’ Finn asked rhetorically. ‘‘The professor says it’s impossible, but Willem managed it four hundred years ago, loaded down with treasure. There must be a way off the island that you don’t know about, Professor. One that the locals are unaware of, as well as the survivors of that submarine down there. It’s the only thing that fits.’’

  ‘‘There is no way,’’ said Winchester emphatically. ‘‘Believe me, my dear, I would have found it by now.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you haven’t looked hard enough,’’ said Finn.

  ‘‘Maybe we should put that aside for the moment,’’ whispered Billy. ‘‘We’ve got company.’’ He gestured with his chin.

  Five figures walking in single file were trudging down the beach. The one in front was dressed in a pair of ragged shorts and an equally ragged shirt, salt bleached but still holding a bit of faint green coloration. A Japanese army kepi with a sun flap down the neck was perched on his head. There was an embroidered star on the crown, once red, now pale pink.

  He carried a sword freely in his right hand and a bamboo spear in his left, the tip edge with some kind of copper-colored metal that glinted in the sun. His jet-black hair was shaven to the skull. He wore heavy boots and puttees like Winchester’s although his were made of what appeared to be cotton, not goatskin. He was clearly the leader of the group and the forward lookout, his eyes scanning back and forth carefully.

  Behind him two more figures carried a heavy-lookingnet on a pole between them. The net looked as though it was closely woven from some kind of coarse string. Probably rattan, Finn thought; she’d seen the stubborn vine growing around lots of the forest and jungle trees they’d passed. A useful crop in a place like this. Both were women dressed in simple sarongs and ragged shirts the same green as the man in front. They wore hats made of broad leaves and they were barefoot and unarmed.

  A fifth figure came behind, dressed in a rough patchwork loincloth and carrying a bamboo spear. He appeared to be much younger than the others, barely more than a boy. Across his shoulders on a thin bamboo yoke, he carried the day’s catch— a dozen large fish strung with the bamboo through their gills.

  ‘‘If they turn up off the beach, we’re toast,’’ whispered Finn, watching the group approach. Her heart began to pound.

  ‘‘Then we’re toast,’’ said Billy, ‘‘unless they happen to be going into the swamp over there.’’

  ‘‘Follow me,’’ said Winchester. He slithered down the backside of the dune and ran toward the mangroves, keeping to the heavy grass and trying his best to avoid open
areas of sand where his tracks would show. He paused at the edge of the swamp, gesturing for them to hurry. They ran down the slope of the dune and into the tall grass, not stopping until they reached Winchester, crouching low with his back to the dark, putrid water of the mangroves.

  ‘‘Down!’’ Winchester hissed. ‘‘Cover yourself with the mud!’’ He looked at Finn’s flaming hair. ‘‘Especially that!’’ he said.

  Finn and Billy did as they were told, following Winchester’s example and dropping full length into the shallow, stinking water. Finn reached both hands into the muck and quickly plastered it into her hair and over her face. Keeping low in the water, and trying not to think about what might be swimming around in the slimy ooze, she raised herself just enough to keep her eyes on the top of the dune. A moment later the little troop appeared, one by one, and marched down the near side of the sandy hummock. They appeared to find some path or trail into the jungle beyond, but suddenly the lead man stopped. He looked around, raising his glance to the canopy of trees just in front of the group, then briefly stared into the swamp.

  ‘‘He’s seen something,’’ whispered Billy, his voice thin.

  ‘‘Don’t move a muscle,’’ warned the professor.

  Finn kept watching. The lead man barked a series of instructions and the rest of the group disappeared up the jungle path. The leader stayed where he was, continuing to look around, keeping his attention on the trees overhead. He cocked an ear, obviously listening for any signs of movement.There was nothing except the faint sighing of the wind in the trees and the thudding of Finn’s heart within her chest. Finally, he turned slowly through three hundred sixty degrees, the long ceremonial sword pointing like the extended hand of a clock, searching. Then he turned and followed the other four into the protective shadows of the jungle.

  ‘‘Wait,’’ Winchester said softly. There was only silence.

  ‘‘Now what?’’ Billy said.

  ‘‘Wait,’’ repeated Winchester. ‘‘It may be a trick.’’

  ‘‘We should go back to the cave,’’ said Billy urgently. ‘‘We shouldn’t have come out here without weapons. We should have had a plan.’’ The only thing they had that could have been considered a weapon was a long, thick piece of bamboo that Winchester used as a staff.

  ‘‘I think he’s gone,’’ the professor said finally. He rose up out of the mud, dripping. Billy helped Finn up and they stared at each other, grinning.

  ‘‘Very attractive,’’ said Billy, laughing. Finn used both hands to slick the soggy mass of her hair away from her face. She swept away as much of the ooze from around her eyes, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

  ‘‘I’m afraid your friend is right,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘Our little voyage of discovery was ill advised. We should return to the cave at once. If that man spotted something we could be in serious trouble. They may send out a patrol to look for us.’’

  Finn quickly checked herself over, looking for evidence of leeches, but Winchester’s goatskin puttees seemed to have done the trick. They moved through the grass to the foot of the dune.

  ‘‘We’ll leave tracks if we go down the beach,’’ said Finn.

  ‘‘Not if we stay in the shallows. The tide is coming in,’’ said Winchester. ‘‘It will wash away any tracks.’’

  ‘‘Let’s get moving,’’ said Billy. He stepped forward out of the tall grass. There was a sudden, startling shout from only a few feet away.

  ‘‘Otaku! Teiryuu! Sate!’’ The partially uniformed leader of the little band of fisherman stepped out of the shadows, sword at the ready. Behind him came the others, including the young boy with the spear. They eased to the left behind the leader, cutting off any chance at escape toward the dune. Finn, Billy, and Winchester were trapped; they either moved forward onto the point of the sword or backward into the dense mangrove swamp.

  ‘‘Now what do we do?’’ Finn said.

  The man with the sword took a step forward, the sword moving back and forth hypnotically. The young boy swung farther to the right, flanking them, his spear raised. Winchester moved to the right, making a small feint toward the dune.

  ‘‘Yamate kudusai!’’ screamed the Japanese man in the hat. ‘‘Wakamare-wasu?’’ It wasn’t really a question. Finn couldn’t understand the words, but the intent was clear. ‘‘Da-me!’’ the young boy with the spear yelled. Both he and the man with the sword moved closer. Finn took a step back toward the swamp.

  ‘‘We’re in big trouble,’’ said Billy. ‘‘He’s not interested in negotiations here.’’

  Suddenly the man with the sword made his move, charging toward Winchester, the blade up-raised, an incoherent scream of rage erupting from between his clenched teeth. Winchester raised his stick to block the savage cut, realizing a split second later that the overhead blow had been a trick. Instead of bringing the blade directly down the man spun on his heel like a dancer, swinging the blade around in a sweeping arc aimed at cutting the professor in half from the side.

  Winchester tried to back away from the swing, but it was hopeless. At the same time the young boy raised his spear, cocking his arm back, aiming the copper-tipped weapon at Finn’s midsection.

  There were three harsh cracking sounds in quick succession. The man with the sword stopped in midswing, his hat flying back off his head in a fountaining spray of blood and tissue as the whole top of his head from the bridge of his nose upward vaporized in a gory blur.

  Magically two patches of rose-red color appearedin the center of the young man’s ragged uniform blouse and he crumpled to the ground. The man with the sword, dead on his feet, fell backward in a heap, the sword still clutched in his fist for the killing blow. The sound of the shots echoed all around the deep expanse of the Punchbowl.

  ‘‘What the hell?’’ said Billy, astounded, staring at the bodies. He turned to the equally startled Winchester. ‘‘I thought you said these people ran out of ammunition a long time ago.’’

  ‘‘They did,’’ said Winchester.

  ‘‘I did not,’’ said a voice in heavily accented English. From the jungle appeared a squat man wearing camouflage with a long bolo machete on his belt and carrying a very large automatic pistol in his right hand.

  ‘‘My name is Fu Sheng,’’ said the man. ‘‘Come with me quickly if you wish to free your friends.’’

  23

  Fu Sheng told his story. It was much like their own. He was a castaway as well. Caught in the typhoon while piloting Pedang Emas toward the position the fat pirate Lo Chang had finally revealed to them, he’d let the boat ride out the storm only for it to be thrown through the secret island’s funnel like gap on the lip of the sweeping storm surge and then dashed to pieces on the far shore of the lagoon. According to him, he and his master, a man the Chinese man called Khan, were the only ones on board the old sardine boat who survived the storm and its aftermath.

  After recuperating from their near drowning, the two men had separated to look for a source of fresh water. Returning to their rendezvous point, Fu Sheng had been just in time to see his friend and fellow survivor being carried off by what he first took to be wild men of some kind. Following them at a distance, Fu Sheng watched helplessly as his friend was taken to a compound close to a river that flowed down from the mountains and emptied on the far side of the original mangrove swamp Finn had seen when she’d awakened on the beach. According to Fu Sheng, the village was occupied by at least two hundred of the natives.

  ‘‘Is he talking about the Japanese or your so-called locals?’’ Billy asked Winchester quietly.

  ‘‘The locals,’’ answered the professor.

  ‘‘How are we supposed to take on two hundred people?’’ Finn asked.

  ‘‘Not to mention the Japanese,’’ added Billy. ‘‘Those shots must have woken up everyone on the island.’’

  ‘‘Those shots also saved our lives,’’ said Finn. ‘‘I don’t much like his looks, but he’s got the gun and he seems to have the know-how as well.’�
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  ‘‘We still need some sort of plan,’’ said Billy.

  ‘‘I rather think this Fu Sheng fellow makes it up as he goes along,’’ murmured Winchester, following the squat man in his camouflage fatigues as he moved quickly through the dense undergrowth. They climbed steadily through the jungle, keeping the Punchbowl at their backs and moving west, skirting the perimeter of the swamp.

  They kept walking for more than an hour, pausing every few minutes to listen for anything other than the constant screeching chatter of the island’s birds and monkeys. There was nothing; if the Japanese had sent out patrols to look for the missing fishing party they were being quiet about it.

  Eventually they reached a wide, boiling stream that surged down from the Punchbowl’s high rim, its course strewn with large tumbled boulders. The banks were steep and slippery looking, turned to slick eroding mud by the constant spray of water dashed onto the rocks.

  ‘‘There,’’ grunted Fu Sheng, pointing. Finn looked. There was a heavy rope tied to a protruding tree root and dangling down the stream bank. It was made out of several tightly wrapped strands of rattan and knotted at foot-wide intervals. Through the spray Finn could also see another rope contraption that spanned the stream itself. It was a crude bridge with one strand of rattan rope to hang on to and a second lower strand to put your feet on, the lower strand twice as thick as the upper. At intervals were heavy-looking lengths of bamboo woven between the top and bottom ropes to keep them taut and separated.