-They’ve lit a signal fire, he stammered. Lester’s boy told me he heard it in town and I went’a see for myself and sure enough, it’s blazing. Something’s wrong if they’ve abandoned the kerosene lamps and gone for a fire. Let’s take the boat out now, Mr. Robinson. Navy be damned!
Robinson grabbed his hat and coat. He whistled for a stable hand to saddle up his favorite horse.
-We can’t take a boat, warned Robinson. They’ll shell us from the air.
-But…
Robinson shook his head and put out a hand to calm his ranch manager.
-Stay here. I’m going to the base.
The MP at the gate shone a flashlight first at his horse’s face and then at Robinson’s own. Back to the horse. Another mainland haole, thought Robinson, about to make a crack about cowboys and Indians. For the past two days, they had come in droves, stuffed into the cargo planes that arrived hourly. The planes were large-bellied beasts with huge wingspans that heaved and groaned on landing, as if defying gravity was, in the end, too tiring. Once the men were disgorged, their pale skin and unstreaked hair marking them as mainlanders, the machines squatted on the tarmac in long, dark rows, like crows waiting for carrion. Then they lifted off again, bound for the next load.
The MP didn’t make a crack, just waved him in. He recognized Mr. Robinson from his other futile trips to the base.
Just after midnight, on Niihau, six men did what their Old Lord could not. They pushed a boat into the water. Anyone nearby might have thought it was just the quiet antics of night animals—the snuffle of a swimming monk seal, the splash from a school of passing fish. The men knew how to be quiet, having hunted for years with only a knife and a nose faced into the breeze.
There was but one set of oars and Howard volunteered to go first. He rowed quickly for a few minutes, from the excitement and adrenaline and a real fear that perhaps they would be fired upon. The others watched Niihau slowly recede, a low-slung shadow on a light gray ocean. The bonfire was no longer lit, and the waning moon meant the stars were brilliant. Quickly the initial adrenaline it had taken to run to the beach, gather the oars and a jug of water, and drag the boat along the sand disappeared. The men turned to one another in bewilderment.
-We sure about this? Captain said. He would be the navigator to Kauai.
-My wife’s pregnant, another said. I shouldn’t leave.
Someone coughed.
-The Old Lord will be angry.
-Yes, agreed someone else. Better if we wait for Mr. Robinson to come to us.
Howard dropped the oars so that they slapped suddenly against the water.
-No choice, he hissed indignantly. No one’s coming to help, we’re on our own. What’s to fear, our kupuna have done this for centuries. Even our grandmothers helped to row. You talk like this, their spirits cry in shame!
-That was in an outrigger canoe. Not some haole contraption, mumbled Captain.
Someone laughed. Howard did then too. He slapped Captain’s knee.
-You guide us there safely, we take turns rowing. Easy as herding cattle. You’ll see.
Captain navigated by the stars. He used Akau in the Large Bear, and then as it rose, the Cat’s Cradle. Once a pod of whales swam by, exhaling loudly. Early on, when the men were still relatively fresh, Howard told stories, and invariably they were exaggerated, and he felt especially glad when one or more of the men scoffed and told him it wasn’t true. In the dark and the wind, a small argument would break out and they would forget their aches and their blisters and their fear. And he prayed. He prayed that they were doing the right thing, he prayed for safe passage, but mostly he prayed that the water would stop splashing over the gunnel, soaking them all. He was wet and cold. Cold! he thought. When was the last time a Niihauan complained of cold? Despite his growing misery, or perhaps because of it, his senses sharpened; the tilled-soil smell of Kekuhina’s sweat was distinct in the wind, he heard the tiny scratch of a misaligned oarlock. At one point while it was his turn to pull on the oars, he thought of horses, and then, for no reason, the thick taste of condensed milk. His hands burned from blisters. Now and then the air suddenly smelled of peppermint and he thought he saw a shark swimming just to one side, a broken, refracted shadow that slipped in and out of the dipping oars. All the men had long fallen silent, and only the occasional guttural windup of saliva aimed carefully overboard broke the wind’s moan and the rustle of the water.
Back on the beaches of Niihau, villagers pulled Kalima into a cave and untied his hands.
-They’re gathering enough ammunition to kill each one of us, gasped Kalima.
-They’ve got Little Preacher? someone cried.
-Lord have mercy! Little Preacher’s mother began to sob.
The villagers spoke at once, until Kalima finally raised his hand and said, Enough!
Ella sat in the shadows to one side of the cave and listened to Kalima’s story with a growing horror. Her right leg was beginning to go numb. She closed her eyes to try to sleep but saw only the plane, rising like a wounded animal, with Mrs. Harada on its back.
-We can sneak back and steal the guns, said Kalima. Who’s with me? Ben?
Ben didn’t answer. He sat on his haunches at the cave opening. His arms were wrapped around his knees, his head was erect, and he stared outward to the sea.
-Ben? They have guns, but we know the island. We could steal the cart—
-Heard you, Ben interrupted.
Kalima was silent. He ran a finger along the dirt in quick, nervous movements.
-Who would think, Mr. Harada, Ben said quietly.
-No one was more surprised than me when he stuck out that gun.
-He’s being forced by the pilot.
-Believe me, he looked like he enjoyed it. Almost broke Little Preacher’s spine, the gun into his back like that. He kept saying beg, beg, and laughing a kind of crazy laugh.
Ben sighed.
-Okay, he said, pushing himself carefully to his feet. His hips hurt, his back was stiff. His head was light with hunger and thirst. We go.
Nishikaichi stared at the coils of ammunition on the floor of the cart. He picked one up and felt its weight. Once the guns had been successfully removed from the plane, they had let Little Preacher go. He would be of little use, and his frightened prayers had only agitated Yoshio even more.
-We’re going to have to nail this down somehow, he said jiggling the gun and frowning.
-You shoot that?
-Maybe.
Yoshio looked at its thin, dangerous snout, its splayed legs. The shotgun was ominous enough, the machine gun gave him the veritable shivers.
-None of the Niihauans are armed.
-So you say.
Yoshio laughed bitterly.
-If you knew Robinson, you’d believe me. You think he wants guns in the hands of children? Robinson views all the Niihauans as children.
The pilot shrugged.
-I am well aware of the ai that a superior feels for his inferiors. Funny, isn’t it, how much your island here is like Japan.
He looked at the machine gun.
-This will help us destroy the plane. For now, let’s find those papers.
Nishikaichi strode down the dirt road toward the church once more. Yoshio ran to catch up.
They both saw the light in the third house. Guns in hand, they entered, Yoshio calling loudly in warning to drop all shovels and knives, lest they be shot without remorse. There by the lamplight sat old Mrs. Huluwani, a woman Yoshio barely knew because she couldn’t walk and rarely left her home. She read the Bible by lamplight. She looked at them calmly when they entered.
-Are you going to shoot her? asked Yoshio in a strangled voice as the pilot raised the shotgun. He looked wildly from the gun barrel to the old woman.
-Ke Akua ke hiki ke pepehi, said Mrs. Huluwani evenly. Only God can kill. She looked back down at her Bible.
-What did she say? asked Nishikaichi.
-She said—she said nothing here, no papers. Yoshio licke
d his lips. Come on, we go.
Nishikaichi raised the gun and fired it into the ceiling. Mrs. Huluwani didn’t move her eyes from the page, nor did her hand jerk quickly to her throat. It was as if she had heard nothing, and Yoshio thought, after he rose a second later from the crouching position he had flung himself into, that she was deaf, or that there was something to her devout faith in her God that allowed her an implacability he would never understand.
Nishikaichi turned on his heel and left. Yoshio bent over and waited for his heart to stop pounding.
-I’m sorry, so sorry, sorry, he murmured to the old woman as he backed out of the house.
He could see the shadow of Nishikaichi beyond the porch. He stumbled down the stairs. He would say something. This craziness had to stop. But as he approached, Nishikaichi raised his gun to the stars.
-Should I shoot down another plane, Harada-san? And he fired.
Yoshio dropped to his knees again and waved his arms.
-We’ll check the Kanaheles’ house, he begged. Perhaps the papers are there. Then the Niaus’ house. We’ll check that too. Just stay calm, Nishikaichi-san. Please.
But they found nothing. By the fourth house Nishikaichi had sunk into an expressionless trance. He said they would return to destroy the plane.
But when they got to the cart, the ammunition was gone. The machine guns were useless now. Nishikaichi howled in frustration and let himself kick the dirt in a rare display of boyish temper. Then he put his head in his hands, breathed once or twice, and when he next raised his head his expression was still and unreadable, shadowed into a strange geometry by the lantern at his feet. Yoshio felt the small hairs rise on his neck.
-We burn it all, Nishikaichi said.
27
There was something fascinating to Yoshio about the flames that now destroyed Howard’s house. They were sinewy, bright, gaudy. And for a moment, watching as the roof collapsed in on itself with first an unwilling wheeze and then a great crash, Yoshio understood that any part of him that thought that he was in control of his life, that things today would progress as he decided, and not with the inevitable march of a force much bigger than he, had disappeared. He wanted to run back to Irene, to face what he had mistaken for faith. He knew now that it was a certainty in his flaws and not her belief in his strengths that she had used to get him here. Irene knew that he was not helping the pilot out of conviction, but because she wanted him to. He had come up with the excuses later—best for Niihau, best for everyone—to hide what must’ve been obvious to her (but not to him, not until now) at the time—that he was desperate to please his wife. To make up for past mistakes. To undo what could never be undone.
He wanted to feel angry with Irene, to curse and blame her for where he was now. He wanted to roar like Howard’s house was doing, in fury and discontent, in righteous anger. But instead he felt only the thin, persistent smoke of self-loathing strangling his gut. He could not hate Irene, nor blame her. At least Irene did what she did with conviction, with relentless faith. She would save her family, even if it meant manipulating her husband. Well, that was understandable. It was he who had once again blundered.
The heat from the fire was suddenly too much, and Yoshio turned his head away. He thought of how the Niihauans worshiped Robinson, and how Nishikaichi worshiped his emperor. He worshiped Irene. In this way all their lives were tightly circumscribed—the Niihauans by the perimeter of the island, the pilot by his sense of duty, and Yoshio by the defining moment of his life, when he saw what he had become: a coward in front of the luna. Irene was the only one who worshiped no one, and who fought gamely all the boundaries that held her in. Her belief? In herself alone.
The pilot stared at the burning house without even raising a hand to deflect the intense heat. The flicker of shadow and light on his face gave the impression of conflicting emotions parading across his features, but in fact his expression was impassive. He had seen houses burn before, from the vantage point of his plane, and he had always watched with a boyish fascination for spectacle. He would let his mouth drop and his eyes widen. He would sometimes exhale loudly at an extraordinary burst of color. But today he had emotions he could not let out at all. This burning house was different from the others. It was right in front of him, so close he could feel its furious heat, its betrayed, anguished cries. And it had context. Here, he had been fed and cared for. He had sung Japanese songs, the people had laughed. As the porch dropped from its foundation, sending sparks in the air, he gritted his teeth. He kept staring without turning his head. Keep looking straight on, he thought. Straight on, like a soldier.
Finally the fire began to settle. Nishikaichi allowed himself to wipe the ash from his face. There, he thought. If the papers were inside, they were destroyed now. He would commence to burn every house in the village. If the papers were instead buried in this hard, red soil, he was sure someone would tell him before their house was destroyed. But first there was something more important to which he had to attend. He stepped forward and yanked a partially burned piece of wood from a smoldering pile. He lifted it above his head, the burst of oxygen bringing the flame to life. Without a word to Yoshio, he turned and headed back to his plane.
Yoshio kicked at the pile and hesitated. Howard’s house was heaving a final sigh, the remnants of one wall leaning precipitously. It didn’t feel right to leave it, a funeral that was not yet over. But he’d had enough of the black smoke, the sound of things giving way, the smell. He walked sideways toward the sagging, smoke-swirled house, warding off the heat, keeping his eyes on the ground for an apt torch. He found a burning balustrade and picked it up. There was no turning back now. It was time to burn the plane.
Captain stood up in the boat and pointed. Someone yelled. Howard’s chin had fallen to his chest and he’d begun to snore, but he jerked awake at the noise. Instantly they saw what had caused the alarm. There was a fire on Niihau. But it wasn’t on Mount Paniau. It came from Puuwai.
The sky slowly lightened. Dawn was near. It was Saturday, December 13.
The pilot balanced on the wing, his torch held high above him. He stared down at the cockpit where he had spent so many hours. They had been lonely hours, yes, but also, when he’d looked from one side to the other as he flew in formation with his squadron, hours when he had felt a part of something bigger than himself. It had given him meaning, this plane. He wanted to sit in the now crumpled seat and put his hand on the stick and close his eyes. Instead, he ran his hands along the dashboard, leaving a smear in the dust and a glimpse of the dials and numbers that had once helped him across the sky. He wanted, one more time, to feel the hum of the powerful engine, see the corona of propeller. But it was his duty to destroy his Zero, and he would do it.
-Everything okay, Nishikaichi-san? Yoshio called from below. Nishikaichi had not realized that the man had followed him, his own torch held above his head.
-Everything’s fine.
-We’d better hurry. Yoshio nodded at the plane.
-Yes.
Yoshio clambered onto the wing. Nishikaichi stared at the seat.
-It’s going to be hard without explosives, he said.
-Everything burns in the Niihau heat, said Yoshio, and with that he unceremoniously dipped his burning piece of wood into the cockpit. Black smoke scurried sideways. The flame jumped. But Nishikaichi swung his arm into Yoshio’s and the torch skittered over the door and into the sand below.
Yoshio, wide-eyed, stepped backward.
-It’s mine to destroy, said Nishikaichi. And with that he pushed his own torch into the seat as if thrusting a sword into a heart.
The leather curled and shrank before it finally began to burn. Yoshio kept his distance; Nishikaichi watched the growing flame with his mouth pressed closed and his eyes narrowed against the smoke. The fire grew higher and smokier. Suddenly a sense of relief washed over him, as if the grief he’d felt had found a hole in his foot and leaked away, and in its place was this new feeling, and the realization that finally, h
e would complete his mission.
28
Howard watched the sky turn pink, then yellow, then blue. He no longer shivered. They had forgotten their hats in their haste and now their lips felt dry as stone. Their hands stung from salt and raw skin.
The water had run out hours ago.
But Kauai finally seemed to be getting bigger, and the currents in their favor, or perhaps it was just that they were all so tired they had acquired the feverish optimism of men in the desert who see mirage after shimmering mirage and still are sure the next one is real. The ocean had taken on a hallucinatory quality; each shadow became a fish, a bird, a man, a god. When it was Howard’s turn at the oars again, he rowed with his tongue hanging out shamelessly and his eyes squeezed shut. Only the Captain kept watch now; he spotted his herd of merino sheep just off the bow, but he was quiet about it. He didn’t want to startle either his shipmates or the animals.
Someone took Howard’s place at the oars and he sat with one hand into the wind, palm skyward, to soothe the pain.
Despite the lack of water, the exertion, and the blinding heat, the greatest danger—and the Niihauans did not realize this—came from the air. The United States military had orders to destroy any ship on the sea. But miraculously no one saw the bedraggled crew and their tiny craft. After rowing for eleven hours, the Waimea dock came plainly into view. On it were a crowd of people who, with guns sighted, waited tremulously for the Japanese invasion to begin.
When the boat pulled within shouting distance, two haole police officers waded in until knee deep and demanded in English that the rowers give their names and destination. Howard stood up in the boat and waved joyously. The man on the oars found a second wind and Howard, caught unaware by the sudden change in speed, almost fell overboard. Ignoring the drawn guns, they sped by the police officers and, when the hull hit the sand, tumbled over the gunnels, waving at the Kauaians. One police officer waded back onto shore and shouted.
East Wind, Rain Page 20