Beside a Burning Sea

DAY TWO
Waves march like soldiers,
To bleed upon sun-bleached shores.
I long for old moss.
Friends and Foes


As far as could be discerned, nine survivors had endured the sinking of Benevolence and made it to the island. At first light, those able had made a simple shelter beneath a massive banyan tree, which rose from a tank-sized boulder that looked to have been thrown inland by a god of the sea. The trunk of the tree rested atop the boulder, with scores of thick roots following the contours of the stone into the ground below. The boulder was trapped within the roots in the same way that a dead wasp is cocooned in a spider’s web. Other roots fell vertically from the tree’s giant branches. These roots, which resembled slender saplings, were so frequent and spread apart that the one tree almost seemed like its own forest.
The banyan tree emerged from the border between the sand and the jungle. The sand comprised a curved beach that might take ten minutes to walk from end to end. Beyond the beach, which resembled a half-moon, stretched a protected and docile harbor. From the beach, it almost looked as if the harbor was a lake surrounded on three sides by land. Only a slice of the sea was visible, waves pounding against distant reefs.
Unconscious atop a bed of palm fronds was Akira. His wound had completely opened during the swim, and the loss of blood had almost killed him. Kneeling above their patient were Isabelle and Annie. The nurses, who now wore the shirts of Joshua and Jake, had bound his wound with fabric they’d torn from Joshua’s pants. They’d spent the night lying on either side of Akira in an effort to keep him warm.
Talking a few feet away were the other survivors, who all had minor cuts and burns but were otherwise unharmed. Joshua squinted toward the sea, believing that his eyes were passing over Benevolence’s grave. Jake and Ratu had been inseparable since the attack and now shared the milk of a coconut. Standing next to them was a middle-aged nurse, Scarlet, whose name was apt, as even the sand and salt couldn’t dull her crimson hair. Beside her were Nathan and Roger—two of Benevolence’s officers. Though Nathan didn’t look like a sailor, Roger did. In fact, his features seemed to have been chiseled out of stone by the sea and wind. His face was gaunt, his gray eyes restless, his arms as muscled and bulging as a thick rope. Though Roger was only in his early twenties, he already looked as if he’d seen the worst that life had to offer.
“No matter what anyone else believes, I still don’t see how the pilot could have mistaken our ship,” Scarlet said, looking from face to face. “I don’t think that the setting sun blinded him. I don’t—”
“It doesn’t matter what any of us think,” Joshua quietly interrupted, trying to will himself to lead, knowing that he had to lead no matter how much he wanted to be led. Though grateful that Isabelle and Annie had survived, he felt terribly betrayed—by both God and his own shortcomings. “We’re here,” he continued wearily, “and now that we’re here, we’d better do something about it. We’d better improve our shelter. And collect food and water. And we should walk the beach and see if anything floated here from Benevolence.”
“There’s an empty lifeboat, Captain,” Ratu said, pointing far down the beach to where the sea had a direct passage to land. “Stuck on some rocks. Big Jake and I were going to move it but decided to come here first.”
Joshua looked at Jake, who was broad chested and half a head taller than anyone else. His eyes and short hair were a shade darker than his skin. His face seemed as wide and round as a bowling ball. Despite a large gap between his front teeth, a smile seemed to be an almost permanent fixture on the oversized engineer. “Is it empty?” Joshua asked.
“Just of people, Captain,” Jake replied. “Looks like someone chucked some supplies into it. A few life jackets. Some other odds and ends. Ain’t much rhyme or reason to it.”
Joshua glanced at the sea, wishing the lifeboat had been filled with survivors, wondering why God had let so many good men and women die. “Can you two bring it ashore?” he finally asked Jake.
“I reckon, Captain, that another set of hands would be mighty helpful.”
Joshua nodded toward Roger. “Please give them that extra set of hands. And bring everything in the boat back here. I’d like a detailed accounting.”
The burly sailor nodded. “You’ll get it.”
“Do you have orders for me, Captain?” Ratu asked, his slightly British accent making him sound older than his eleven years. He held his hands against his hips, standing as tall as his small frame permitted.
Though his horror at the loss of Benevolence made him want to disappear from the world, to walk out into the water and not return, Joshua forced himself to consider the boy. “Again, tell me, Ratu, how you got aboard Benevolence,” he said, the fingers of his right hand rubbing together as if he held his favorite rosary.
“It wasn’t bloody hard, Captain. I swam out and climbed up the anchor chain.”
“Climbed up the anchor chain?”
“Yes, Captain. As I already said, you should have put another guard at the top. The bloke up there was half asleep.”
Behind Ratu, Jake cleared his throat. “Well, Ratu,” Joshua replied, “why don’t you put those climbing skills of yours to work? After you help with the lifeboat, please go with Jake and gather as many coconuts and fruits as you can.”
“I’m a cracking good fisherman, too.”
“Let’s start with the coconuts, Ratu. We can all live without meat for a day.”
“Yes, Captain,” Ratu said. “Thank you, my captain.”
Joshua edged past Scarlet, knelt beside his wife, and eyed the Japanese patient. “What does he need, Izzy?”
“If his wound becomes infected, he’ll die,” Isabelle said, swatting away flies from the bloody cloth about Akira’s leg. “We need medical supplies.”
“Well, let’s find some,” he said, rising to address the group again. His bloodshot eyes darted uneasily from face to face. His fingers continued to move as if they twirled the rosary beads that once brought him peace of mind—the solace that he so desperately needed now. “A lot of those bottles float,” he said, “and there are bound to be some ashore. We’re going to look for them. We’re going to look for everything we’ll need, and then we’ll get a good shelter built.” Joshua paused, pointing inland toward a surprisingly large and steep hill that was dominated by what seemed to be an infinite number of trees. “For the next hour, I’ll be up on that rise. I want to get the lay of the land and to see if other ships are about.”
After Joshua gave each survivor specific instructions, he strode from the beach, fleeing the stares of those he’d so miserably failed. Beyond the beach, the island was extremely dense with vegetation. Trees twisted and reached skyward, fighting for sunlight. Vines dropped from the canopy above and spread atop the soil. Ferns and flowers and knee-high grass seemed to cover every inch of the jungle floor.
Unfamiliar sounds rose and lingered in the jungle, reverberating eerily, as if trying to escape the labyrinth of trees. A recurring hoot seemed to follow Joshua’s footsteps. Insects of all colors, shapes, and sizes buzzed in the canopy. Birds fled his approach, while rustling leaves revealed lizards and hermit crabs as they scurried about.
Heat and humidity dominated the unmoving air. Sweat glistened on Joshua’s bare chest as he climbed the rise before him. Though he’d grown up exploring the Rocky Mountains, he felt insecure in the jungle. He was used to either open spaces or the comforting steel of ships. He was a stranger to this land, and though he felt no malice from it, he sensed its overwhelming indifference.
Joshua climbed to the top of the hill, which provided him with an unrestricted view of every direction but north. As far as he could tell, the island was shaped like a fishhook. The beach on which they’d landed was located on the inside part of the hook. The large harbor bordering their camp appeared to be deep.
The blue-green water of the harbor faded into a darker blue that ultimately merged with the sky. Not a single cloud hung above the sea, and its waters were unblemished by shadows or waves. In another life, Joshua would have appreciated the beauty of the scene. Instead, he looked to where Benevolence sank, and once his eyes settled upon the area he shook his head in profound sadness and made no effort to wipe away his sudden tears. On the evening that she’d been torpedoed, Benevolence carried five hundred and sixteen souls. And Joshua had failed all of these people—even the very few who managed to survive. As he thought about the unburied corpses at sea, he leaned against a tree, trying to steady himself.
“Why, Lord, did you . . . did you take them?” he whispered, feeling nauseous and empty. He closed his eyes as memories of their deaths flooded into his mind much the way the sea had consumed Benevolence. He had tried to save those unable to save themselves, but his ship had sunk too swiftly.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
The voice caused Joshua’s heart to skip, and he turned toward its source. “You . . . you followed me?”
Isabelle stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”
His tears began anew as she drew him closer. He was reminded of the previous night, of running through the shallows to pull her from the water, of his body trembling with relief at the feel of her against him. The elation of discovering her alive had been the only thing that had kept him from swimming out into the blackness and never returning. “I was . . . I was their captain,” he finally replied. “I was supposed to take care of them.”
“And you did, Josh. You did.” When he only shook his head, she placed a hand against his face, which was thin but bore a somewhat oversized nose and ears that protruded slightly too far from his head. His curly brown hair was damp with sweat and stuck against his long forehead. Isabelle wiped his brow. “You did take care of them,” she repeated, all too familiar with the vacant look of his eyes. She’d seen such looks on hundreds of her patients—soldiers who’d been numbed to the present by memories of the past.
“No,” he softly replied. “No, I didn’t.”
“Don’t be—”
“I didn’t . . . take care of them, Izzy. Please . . . please don’t tell me that I did. Don’t tell me that.”
“But how could you have known?”
He pulled away from her, shaking his head, unwilling to meet her gaze. “How could I have known? It’s my job to know.”
“But you can’t see the future. How could you possibly have—”
“Scarlet’s right,” he said, looking again to where Benevolence rested. “She was on deck and she saw what I saw. We were sunk deliberately.”
“Sunk deliberately? But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would the Japanese sink a hospital ship?”
“I don’t know. Something in our hold, maybe. Something that was there that shouldn’t have been. Ammunition or fuel. Probably fuel. That explosion was far, far too massive to have come from a single torpedo. For the love of God, it ripped Benevolence in two. That’s why she went down so fast, why hardly anyone survived.”
“But we’re a hospital ship. We can’t carry ammunition or extra fuel.”
“And why not? You think things like that haven’t been done in this godforsaken war? The Germans and Japanese and Italians have done them. So have the Russians and the British. We’re not above it. Not by a long shot. I promise you, something other than hospital beds and a single torpedo caused Benevolence to blow up like that.”
Isabelle tried to recall the explosion. “It was large,” she admitted, unconsciously rubbing the side of her sore hip.
“We’re at the end of our supply lines out here,” Joshua said softly, almost as if talking with himself. “We’re thousands of miles from home or even Pearl Harbor. And I’m not surprised that some fool decided to have Benevolence loaded with . . . whatever blew her up. Maybe that same fool betrayed us to the Japs. Someone did.”
“But wouldn’t you have been told about the cargo? You’re the captain, for goodness’ sake.”
“Which is why I was kept in the dark. I wouldn’t have let it on board.”
Isabelle shook her head in disgust. “What a horrible, tragic waste. Of people. Of skills.”
“God help me for that.”
“It’s not—”
“I should have looked,” he interrupted, continuing to stare at the sea, unaware that a mosquito drew blood from his bare back. “I should have walked every inch of her before we sailed. I should have operated Benevolence like any other ship—running emergency drills until everyone knew them by heart. Until people hated me. I didn’t, and now . . . and now five hundred and seven bodies are out there because of me.”
“You’ve saved a lot more men than that, Josh. A lot. And you didn’t kill anyone aboard Benevolence.”
“I killed Benevolence. She’s out there. Torn in two and full of the dead.”
Isabelle realized nothing she could say would comfort him, and so she pulled him closer. At first she felt him lean away from her, but she gripped him tightly. She’d lost enough patients to understand what he was going through. Was he seeing their faces? Could he hear them crying out to him?
“I love you,” she finally said. “And I need you. Annie needs you. And I know that this hole . . . this awful hole will never leave you, but you have to remember that we need you.”
“You don’t need me, Izzy,” he replied softly. “You’re the strongest of us all.”
“I’m strong . . . when I have to be. Just as you have to be now.”
“I don’t want to be strong.”
“But you have to be. You have to lead. You were born to do it, and you can’t quit now.”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know. But you can’t rest. Not now.”
Joshua nodded reluctantly, understanding that she was right, knowing that eight people still depended on him. She depended on him. Though he wanted nothing more than to sit motionless and mourn the dead, lament the demise of his world and almost everything in it, he knew that he could help the survivors. Once he helped them, once he ensured that Isabelle survived, he could mourn as much as he wanted. I’ll pray for the dead later, he promised himself. I’ll remember as many of their names as I can and I’ll pray for each soul.
“What do we need to be doing?” Isabelle asked. He made no response, and she gently squeezed his arm. “Joshua, what do we need to do to survive?”
He willed himself to address the present, the needs of the living. Sighing, he gestured toward the harbor. “What’s out there?”
She studied the sand and sea. “Nothing extraordinary.”
“Nothing? Look at the harbor, and then the land behind the beach.”
She did as he asked, her eyes sweeping about. “It’s a nice harbor. And . . . and there’s some flat ground behind the beach.”
Joshua nodded. “The harbor is perfect. It’s deep and big and amazingly protected. And the land behind the beach is suitable for a runway.”
“So?”
An image of Benevolence’s helm flashed before him—piles of broken steel and glass and bodies. He remembered stepping outside to watch the bomber soar toward his ship. By the time he realized that it had dropped a torpedo, and that the weapon was gliding through the water toward Benevolence, all he could do was shout a series of futile commands.
“Joshua? What does the harbor matter to us? The land?”
He dragged himself away from visions of the dead in the same manner that a car is towed from an accident. “This island won’t be ours for long,” he finally replied. “It’s too perfect. Too strategic. Both navies are in these waters and both navies will slug it out here or near here. Whoever controls the Solomon Islands will put airfields on them and will control the skies of the South Pacific, will have the airpower to maybe win the war. And because of that someone’s going to claim this island. Maybe us. Maybe them. If it’s them we’re going to have to hide. Hide for as long as we can. That’s what we need to be doing. Figuring out how and where to hide. Because if the Japs come here and find us . . .”
“What? What, Josh?”
“We don’t want them to find us. You. Your sister. Me. We’d all be in great danger.”
She felt her heart quicken its pace. “Where will we hide?” she asked, glancing about the island.
“I don’t know. But we’ll find someplace. We’ll find someplace and we’ll wait. And no matter who comes here, we’ll be ready.”
“But . . . but couldn’t we take the lifeboat? Take it and find another island?”
“Another island could already be full of Japs. Or we could easily be captured at sea.”
She tugged at his hand. “Then let’s get ready. We need to organize everyone and start searching.”
He took a half step with her and then stopped. “Could we spend another few minutes here? I want to say good-bye. I . . . I need to say good-bye.”
Isabelle nodded and then gazed toward the sea, which shimmered as the strengthening sun beat down upon it. She wondered what lay beneath the waves inside Benevolence. She cringed at the memories that quickly invaded her—visions of the doctor she’d tried to save, of Annie almost drowning. Like other such memories, she forced them from her, turning her attention to Joshua. She watched a tear drop from his lashes. She saw his lips move, and when no sound came forth she knew that he was praying.
Her husband was a strong man, Isabelle knew. In that way, they were quite alike. In that way, she was drawn to him. But she couldn’t help but ask herself if she was right for him now. Could she best support him when she herself only knew how to press on, how to endure? Wouldn’t he be better off with a woman who could cradle his head on her lap and simply listen? A woman like Annie?
A year ago, Isabelle could have been that woman. But not now. Not after seeing so many die such hideous deaths. Not after smelling the foul stench known as war. She couldn’t sit and whisper that everything would be fine, because if truth be told, she’d said such words to boys who had needed to hear them. And she’d lied to those boys, because they had died before her eyes—died pleading for their mothers or lovers, morphine suppressing their pain but not their memories, not their tears.
Isabelle couldn’t lie to Joshua. As much as she wanted to comfort him, as much as she yearned to make him feel whole, she couldn’t be that woman. She couldn’t be that woman because she didn’t know if the end would be what he and she wanted, what they struggled and suffered to achieve. How could anything end well when an entire world was at war? When millions of men, women, and children were already dead and mostly unburied?
Isabelle put her head against his shoulder and cried with him. She cried for those aboard Benevolence. She cried for her husband. And she felt so very alone until he turned and kissed her lightly upon the brow.

SEEING THAT HER rescuer was asleep, Annie decided that the time was right to inspect his wound, and carefully untied his soiled bandages. Her patient’s thigh was swollen—the torn flesh red and oozing blood. Afraid of infection, Annie leaned forward and smelled the wound, which, had it gone bad, would have likely emitted a pungent odor. To her relief, she couldn’t detect any sign of decay. Of course, she needed to clean the wound properly and restitch it—otherwise an infection was almost inevitable. But she needed supplies for such a procedure.
Hoping the boy and the engineer would find what she needed, Annie carefully rebandaged the wound. As she worked, she looked at her patient’s face, wondering why he’d saved her. Though his face was the color of an old newspaper and though it was the face of the enemy, she found his features to be strong and likable. His skin was smooth and almost flawless—marred only by faint lines near his eyes and on his forehead. His cheekbones and chin were prominent, hinting at the strength she knew he harbored. She’d never seen hair as straight and black as his. Not even on any of the other Japanese patients. His hair reminded her of a cloudy night—thick, dark, and dominant.
Annie studied him for a few more minutes before rising. She then looked for others in their party but could see no one. She hoped people were discovering the supplies they’d need, that medicine would be found. It certainly needed to be. If it wasn’t, she’d have to simply boil water, clean her rescuer’s wound, and hope.
A large white bird dropped into the water before her, diving for an unseen fish. Annie looked toward the gap in the harbor, which revealed the azure vastness that was the sea. She couldn’t believe that something so beautiful was the surface upon which so many men died such bloody deaths. Even though she knew that the Germans and Japanese desperately needed to be defeated, she also knew that war was repulsive and she wondered why it wasn’t fought upon something equally unsightly. After all, war turned beautiful things—whether men or forests or cities—into scarred remnants of what they once were. How was the sea alone able to resist this change?
“Thank you.”
She turned toward the voice, surprised to see that her patient had rolled to his uninjured side and was looking at her. “For what?” she replied.
“My leg.”
Annie wasn’t sure what to say and so she said nothing. Finally, she glanced at his eyes. “In the water . . . you knew my name. May I ask yours?”
“Of course,” he answered, bowing his head. “I am Akira.”
She tried to silently repeat his name and found that it was easy. “May I ask another question?”
“Please do.”
“What . . . were you reaching for? At the end, when we made it to the beach. You were reaching for something.”
Akira turned toward the water. He suddenly remembered his vision of the little girl. He felt chilled without her before him and longed to see her again. “So sorry, but I do not know for certain,” he replied quietly. “But perhaps . . . perhaps I saw a spirit. Or as you might say . . . an angel.”
“An angel?”
“Hai. I . . . I mean, yes.”
Annie had spoken to many dying men and had heard many such things. She’d been told of angels and darkness and tunnels of light, and believed in these visions. “Did she . . . did this angel save us?”
Akira nodded. “She saved me.”
“And why . . . why did you save me?”
He smiled briefly. “You ask many questions, yes?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
“Please do not worry,” he said kindly. Though once highly proficient in English, Akira spoke slowly, as more than five years had passed since he’d tried to think in the language he adored—to him the language of Shakespeare and Dickens and Yeats. “I like questions,” he added. “Very much. But no one has asked me such things for a long time.” He paused to stretch his leg, grimacing in pain.
“Don’t move it. You should keep it still until I restitch it.”
He bowed slightly. “A pity that . . . they broke. You did an excellent job on your first attempt.”
“Thank you,” Annie replied, looking around, wondering when the others would return, nervous about being alone with the prisoner. She wished she had something to give him for his pain, which she knew must be considerable. “And thank you for saving me,” she added. “Thank you very much for that, and for being so . . . brave. I’m sorry I was weak. Sorry that you had to carry me.”
“There is no need to be sorry.”
“I wanted to swim. I tried. I really did. But I’m still recovering from malaria. And I just . . . I just didn’t have the strength.”
“I did not carry you far. And you do not have to thank me. You helped me, yes? I merely helped you.”
“You almost died helping me.”
He shrugged. “Such a death . . . would have been honorable.”
Annie wasn’t sure what to think of his words. “So why . . . why did you do it? Why didn’t you just save yourself?”
Akira looked upward, searching for a trace of the little girl. Finally, he replied, “Once, I saved myself. And once was . . . a mistake. A terrible mistake. It is much better to save others.”
“Are you a doctor? How do you save people?”
“A doctor? No. Once I was teacher. But . . . so sorry to say, not now. I have fought in this war for five years. Five years too long.”
Annie wondered if he’d killed Americans. She wondered if she should be talking to him in this manner. Perhaps she should simply leave him alone. He was a prisoner, after all. He was Japanese and foreign and seemed so different from anyone she knew. However, in light of the fact that he’d almost died saving her, she decided that leaving him would be an act of betrayal. Also, as a nurse she was accustomed to chatting with her patients and believed that such conversations did them a great deal of good. “Sorry,” she finally replied, “I think you told me that before.”
“I think you were almost drowning at that time.”
“And what was it you taught?” she asked, no longer wanting to speak about the previous night.
He smiled, happy that he’d saved this kind nurse who had treated him so gently. “I was most fortunate,” he said. “I taught Western history and advanced English to university students. And, of course, haiku.”
“Haiku? What’s that?”
Akira wanted to ask her to sit and, after hesitating for a moment, politely motioned for her to do so. Though his leg ached, the sudden thought of teaching someone something other than the art of war was immensely appealing. For the first time in five years, he didn’t have soldiers to direct, didn’t have to focus his mind on creating plans that would maim and kill. And not thinking of death, even for this single moment, was completely liberating. “Do you like poems?” he asked.
She shrugged, wiping sweat from her eye. “I don’t know, really. I suppose so.”
“In Japan, haikus have been told for centuries. They are our most famous kind of poems.”
“Isn’t a poem . . . a poem?”
Akira smiled again, pleased by what he sensed was her growing interest in the subject. “You would like, yes, to know more?”
Unsure, she looked around and saw no one. Her eyes drifted back to his ugly wound. Certain that it ached, and believing that he wanted to talk and presumably take his mind off the pain, she nodded. “Yes, please.”
He bowed slightly. “I am honored to tell you.” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Though many different forms of haikus exist, usually a haiku has three lines. And usually the first line has five syllables. The second has seven. And the third has five.”
“Why in that form?”
“A haiku poem has a rhythm—five, seven, five.”
“A rhythm like a song?”
“Sometimes yes. Sometimes no.”
“What else?”
Not used to being so quickly questioned but enjoying her inquisitiveness, he smiled. “A haiku often has one word that describes a season. That way, the listener can imagine what the scene looks like.”
“So many rules,” Annie replied. “I didn’t know that poems had so many rules.”
“Yes. And one more. A haiku has two lines that are connected, and one that is . . . how do you say? . . . independent. But each thought gives the other deeper meaning.”
“Can you . . . it’s all so confusing. Do you have an example?”
Akira studied her, the conversation reminding him of his teaching days. Had he really spent years talking like this? Teaching bright minds and watching them bloom? How fortunate he had been. How utterly foolish to have not realized his profound blessing. “One moment, please,” he replied, trying to quickly conjure a haiku. “Maybe something like this, yes? ‘No end to the sea, / But a beginning spreads west. / Warm her face will be.”
Annie smiled for the first time since Benevolence sank. “I like it. And another? Can you talk about people?”
He nodded, closing his eyes to remember someone from his past, someone free from the taint of recent memories. He thought of his mother. He saw her slide open the door to his room. She wore a kimono and had brought him a sweet from the city. She’d always brought him sweets. He smiled at the memory and said, “She wore red that day, / A day of ice and limp trees. / I so miss such sweets.”
Annie repeated the little poem in her mind, counting out the syllables. As she was counting, she noticed figures in the distance. They carried wood and other objects. Standing up, she said, “I should help them. It looks like they’ve got more than they can handle.”
“I think so.”
She started to leave but then stopped. “Thank you, Akira. Thank you for teaching me about the poems.”
He nodded, pleased to have shared his old passion. “Tonight,” he said, “before you sleep, please think of one. Better to think of one, yes, than to ponder these times?”
Annie nodded and then hurried off to help the others. Watching her run, Akira contemplated the ways in which to describe how her feet took flight.

LESS THAN A HUNDRED feet away, Roger also watched Annie run. He’d returned from pulling the lifeboat ashore and, crouched in some underbrush, had been observing Annie chat with her patient. As she now hurried to help the others, she approached Roger’s hiding position, passing close enough that he could hear her feet kicking up sand. The long shirt that Annie wore rose and fell as she ran, exposing most of her legs.
Roger had scrutinized Annie off and on since he’d first seen her on the island. Though he usually preferred women to be tall and contoured, he was drawn to Annie. She was petite and beautiful, and without question he craved her. As she now ran past and he glimpsed her thighs, he felt himself growing aroused. Clenching his fists, he imagined her naked body held still beneath him.
Roger watched her until she reached the other survivors. He then blended deeper into the jungle, quietly backtracking until he arrived at a coconut tree that seemed to loom above all else. He looked to where he’d buried the box in the darkness and was pleased to discern almost no trace of his efforts. Roger hadn’t expected any survivors from the attack, and the past night upon hearing voices he had been forced to quickly hide his supplies. He’d considered using his pistol to kill the newcomers, but had decided that too many unknowns faced him.
Comforted by the knowledge that his pistol and radio were nearby, Roger moved even deeper into the jungle, looking for a break in the canopy that would provide him with a glimpse of the hills above. He’d need a high, secure, and secluded place to radio the Japanese. His contact, Edo, would be awaiting his call.
As Roger quietly made his way through the underbrush, he pictured Annie and her patient. They’d spoken at length and, amazingly, had even seemed to smile at each other. Roger had been immediately jealous of their rapport. Though he’d sought out many women in many lands, he’d never cared to actually talk to them. In fact, he’d thought such talk beneath him. And yet the sight of Annie and the Japanese soldier chatting so contentedly had perturbed him. Perhaps this displeasure stemmed from memories—visions of being the son of a missionary, of living in humiliating conditions in Tokyo, of being tormented by a boy who’d vaguely resembled Annie’s patient.
That boy had been the leader of the first group to follow Roger from school. Unbeknownst to him, they’d watched him enter the cinder block room that his parents rented a few feet from the train tracks. As trains rumbled past, Roger’s mother had soon ushered him outside to the cement steps rising to their room. She’d put a small cooking pot atop his head and proceeded to cut away any hair that emerged from beneath the pot. Her own prematurely gray tresses had twisted in the drafts of wind made by the passing trains. Her dress was not only dirty—for they could never keep dust from seeping into the room—but seemed to be held together by a variety of patches. The scene had greatly amused Roger’s classmates, who were rich and pampered and eager to ridicule someone of a different ilk. Over the next few weeks, the boy had led many groups to Roger’s home, and though the trains obscured much of their laughter, the tracks hadn’t rumbled nearly often enough.
Continuing to move deeper into the jungle, Roger promised himself that he’d put Annie’s patient in his rightful place—just as he had the boy so long ago. He’d waited for that joyous day for more than a year, preparing for it in secret. When he’d finally been paired against his tormentor in a kendo match, he’d experienced his first taste of what it was like to see someone terrified of his presence. Roger had often since recalled the stunned silence among the students of the dojo. They’d watched, utterly transfixed, as he had wielded his wooden sword with such skill that within a matter of seconds his adversary was bloody and begging.
Ever since that day thirteen years before, Roger had coveted the power that he’d first felt in the dojo. When his family had returned to America, he had to establish himself once more, and again he saw fear in the eyes of his enemies. He’d reveled in such moments, for when he was feared no one could question him, no one could laugh at his oddities. Japanese couldn’t snicker at the self-conscious foreigner, and Americans couldn’t mock his awkwardness on the football field or basketball court. More important, no one could deny him what he had wanted. And he had wanted so many things.
Progressing stealthily through the jungle, sweat oozing from seemingly every pore, Roger reflected on the fact that only a few men had survived the sinking of Benevolence. The temptation to shoot them was quite powerful, for with the men gone, he could do as he wished. He could be the king of the island, the lord to whom all others would kneel and obey. He believed that such a lord could push painful memories aside, that the present could overwhelm and obscure the past.
Roger envisioned killing the captain first—forever silencing his infuriating demands. He’d then take care of the burly engineer. And the rest could fall into whatever order the situation dictated.
Ultimately, Roger decided not to use the gun—at least not for the time being. No, it would be better to call Edo and have the Japanese take the island. They would kill the others—everyone, that is, but Annie. Roger wanted Annie for himself and would claim her when the Japanese landed. The little nurse would be his and his alone.
Wishing that he could return to his precious box and remove and enjoy a cigarette, Roger continued to advance deeper into the jungle—which was dark and thick and omnipotent and much to his liking.
THE SWELLING SUN momentarily lingered above the sea, bleeding into the sky, infusing the clouds with its hues until they themselves glowed with a rich luminescence. The clouds were long and graceful and resembled rust-colored serpents that slept above the sea. As the sun dropped below the horizon, the serpents slowly darkened—as if they blended into the night to confuse predators above. For a few heartbeats the clouds continued to smolder with memories of the sun. Then the sky merged into the sea.
Beneath the banyan tree that served as their shelter, the survivors gathered around a small fire. Palm fronds had been lashed to the branches above and to a makeshift wall toward the water. These fronds ensured that no eyes aboard passing planes or ships would see the fire. Though some debate had occurred on the subject, ultimately Joshua had said that more Japanese than American vessels patrolled these waters, and so the group would stay hidden for the time being.
The banyan tree provided a seemingly infinite supply of branches, and it hadn’t been terribly difficult to weave palm fronds around these branches until a ceiling of sorts had been fashioned. If the banyan tree were an umbrella, and its haphazard branches the spines that supported this umbrella, the palm fronds had been woven around the spines until a second layer of foliage was created. This ten-foot-high layer was relatively square and parallel to the ground.
The survivors had dragged the lifeboat to the rear of the shelter. Upside down, the craft now served to protect everything that they’d found inside it or on the beach. And they’d found plenty—life jackets, medicine, clothes, and canteens. Perhaps most important, the lifeboat had carried a machete. Ratu had thus been able to climb palm trees and cut down scores of the fronds that now served to protect them from the elements.
Exhausted from a day of hard labor, the survivors encircled the fire, eating bananas but doing little else. Aside from the distant crashing of waves, the air was alive with the sounds of the jungle—hoots and screeches and buzzes and the occasional flutter of unseen wings. Logs had been positioned around the fire and, for the most part, people sat silently atop the logs, staring into the flames before them.
Suddenly Scarlet slapped at her neck. “Will they ever leave me alone?” she said angrily, scratching herself.
“You need smoke,” Ratu proclaimed, pointing downwind of the fire.
“Smoke?”
“No animal likes smoke. If you give an animal smoke he’ll run from you like he kissed your little sister. Bloody mosquitoes run the fastest. Stand in the smoke for a while and they won’t bother you again.”
Scarlet rose from her log. “You’re sure?”
“Am I getting bitten? Not once, I tell you. And it’s because I smell like smoke. You . . . you probably smell like flowers or something.”
Still scratching, Scarlet moved into the smoke. As she did, Annie looked at Ratu and then nodded toward Akira, who was asleep nearby on a bed of fronds. “The bugs must be devouring him,” she said. “Could we do the same for him?”
“A stick,” he replied. “A burning stick will do the trick. I’ll see to it.”
As she thanked him, Ratu removed a branch from the fire and hurried over to Akira. Ratu held the branch upwind of Akira so that smoke drifted onto him. As he covered her patient in smoke, Annie wondered about him. “Do you have sisters?” she asked quietly, thinking of his earlier words.
“Five!” he replied, trying to whisper, pleased to have stepped from the silence that seemed to oppressively surround the fire. “Can you believe such a thing? It’s bollix, I tell you. Five little sisters. And she thinks mosquitoes are bad!”
“Oh, they can’t be that bad.”
“Well, I tell you, Miss Annie, it’s a cracking good thing that I like talking so much. If I let them do all the talking, my head would spin faster than a . . . than something very, very fast.”
“Why on earth would your head spin?” Annie asked, smiling faintly.
Ratu turned to look at her, his small face tightening in consternation. “All the talk of dresses? Of pretend weddings? Of cooking and sewing and boys? You don’t think such talk makes your head spin?”
“Is that . . . is that why you snuck onto Benevolence? Too much talk?”
Continuing to move the burning branch in small circles, he nodded. Her words reminded him of his search for his father, and the night abruptly seemed to darken. Was his father lonely? Ratu asked himself. Was he being careful? Had he been hurt? Such questions scared Ratu so much that he suddenly needed to speak. Turning to Annie, he said, “My father is a guide for you Yanks. He fights with them, island to island. He takes them through jungles and leads them to Japanese.”
“And . . . you wanted to find him? That’s why you came aboard?”
Ratu nodded slightly. “I wanted . . . to see him. And I thought that I . . . that I could find him. I left my mother a note . . . and . . . and I snuck onto your ship.”
The pauses between his words made Annie think that she shouldn’t further pursue the topic. She wondered what it was like for a boy to have a father at war. Did Ratu want to be beside his father, leading soldiers into the jungle? Or would he rather have his father home, doing whatever it was that fathers and sons did?
Annie pondered such questions until the fire on Ratu’s branch vanished. The branch smoked for another minute before he tossed it into the darkness. He was about to leave when she touched his arm. Wanting to make him feel important, and seeking his help, she pointed to Akira’s leg. “His wound needs to be restitched,” she said softly, “and I’ve nothing to restitch it with. All day I’ve tried to think of something. You found the medicine. And you probably saved him by finding that little bottle. But can you find something else? Something that I can stitch with?”
Ratu looked at Akira, remembering how ugly the wound had looked. “Not bloody likely,” he replied. “Do you need a needle?”
“Something like that. Something strong and sharp.”
“A piece of wire? A splinter of bamboo?”
“Maybe. Yes, maybe the bamboo would work.” Annie looked into the jungle, recalling that she’d seen groves of bamboo. “If you can get me a needle, I’ll think of the thread. Could you do that? Could you please do that?”
Ratu nodded. “You’ll like my needle. It will be strong and sharp and you’ll wish you always had one.”
“That would be wonderful. Just wonderful, Ratu.”
She’d said his name for the first time, and he smiled at the sound of her saying it. He missed the way in which a female voice gave life to his name. And the mere sound of his name on Annie’s tongue made him feel warm. He was about to reply when Akira groaned in his sleep. Not wanting to wake the injured man, Ratu whispered good night and proceeded to move back to the fire. Looking into its restless flames, he was again reminded of his father, for he wondered if his father was also sharing a fire with strangers. Ratu hadn’t seen his father in almost six months. He missed the smell of him, the touch of his scratchy face. He longed for the stories his father told him—stories of great fish and great chiefs.
His father had taught Ratu about the importance of bravery, and as he cast twigs into the fire, he hoped that his father wasn’t being too brave. Ratu didn’t want to be without the stories, without the man who carried him on his shoulders, whom he loved so much. The thought of not seeing his father again caused Ratu to tremble, to move nearer to the fire—as if it could somehow bring him closer to his father, as if sitting next to it would draw him into the memory of sharing his father’s warmth.