The Delirium of Negation

by Victor Mahn

  “Well, well! Everyone is saying that, man. Everyone!” Magnus gave out what seemed to be a croon, and he was staring at Rickety, swaying. He was preparing to land on the only available seat in the room: a footstool. Rickety saw that he was taking his time.

  “Doubled your whisky consumption, Maggie?”

  “Whisky’s done, man! Sinnerman! My nights of being spiritual is diminishing… It’s Guinness tonight! The last can, I had ′em like fifteen minutes ago, but Trident promised to get more delivered tomorrow. He always knows the whereabouts of the godowns!”

  “Good on you, Gunnerman,” Rickety said. He could not bring himself to insult anyone, particularly the only several people that he had been around for the past year or so. They were all youngies and were all tuned in to the only idea that seemed worth being tuned into: staying alive. ‘Gunnerman’, because Magnus was known for his excessive polishing of his rifle and bayonet when he wasn’t drinking the only contraband that was tolerated in this sector (and one which could be obtained rather cheaply).

  “Yeah, yeah!” Magnus flicked him the finger, then, “Heard that it was a baby you killed. A real nasty bastard you are, Sinnerman. They say that it was a ghost-baby. Or devil-baby! Aye, a devil one!” Magnus was pointing his right forefinger upward to the heavens as he said this. Rickety did not know what he was trying to say.

  “Hmmm. Yeah, the baby was deformed. It was odd, being in this part of the world. The degree of the deformity too, seemed peculiar. I am not sure if—”

  “Hell, the war has cursed everything, man! Churchill’s said so! And Franklin, and Curtin. Even Gandhi, man!” Rickety could have sworn he saw water welling in Magnus’s eyes. Amazing what intoxication could do to a man…

  “Thought you liked it here, Maggie. Well, yeah, I guess there must have been some inter-family marriages in the past, spanning several generations. The mixing would most definitely have brought out such an outcome. Sorry, offspring.”

  “You stick to your meds, man. You are the man for the job, I’d tell you that! Sinnerman, Rickety… Freaky-Dee!!”

  “Yeah, sure, thanks man.”

  “So, what’s your plan? Heard you goin’ hunting?”

  “Even that has been known? Damn, nothing stays a secret in this camp for long now, does it?”

  “As long as the camp stays a secret from the Japs, man. Heard that they are training dogs to sniff us out.”

  Rickety crushed the paper he was typing on; was preparing himself to toss it into the corner of the barracks where light had not penetrated for the past several months— it was probably a habitat for long-legged and colourful insects already. “Yes, I would need to get this out of my head, Maggie. I need to find out who killed that baby, and why they needed to do that,” he said.

  “How will you get a leave? The CO will not allow it!” Magnus had a point. He always had a point. He could have been a poet or a shipbuilder, Rickety had often thought. He seemed to have the predilection for imagining things in a colourful way and had been always something which was out of the norm. Hell, he would have made a pretty darned good architect, too…

  “I will slip out in a moment or so and will be back before dawn.” Did I make a mistake by telling him this?

  “What?! No man, no! That won’t fly!” Magnus’s eyes went wild. His state of intoxication seemed to be fading to soberness.

  “I believe that whoever did this must be close to us. They were able to place the baby at our doorstep, Maggie. Means that they are close.”

  “Yeah, well… But in the darkness, how would you see? There’s dangers everywhere!” Magnus thought for a moment, then, “Unless… unless you reckon that I tag with you, man. You know I have good eyesight.”

  Rickety was startled by the suggestion; he turned his head toward Magnus whose smile seemed to be brilliant now, and the tears were all gone. He really wants to come! Maybe he is bored just sitting here for the past several days. Well…

  “We leave in fifteen, Maggie. And get your compass, bayonet and your water canteen, filled up. Meet me at the southern entrance. And your camos, don’t forget them. And be sure to be quiet!”

  “Dynamite!” Magnus seemed to be on a roll now.

  What the hell are we going to do out there at a time like this? And how can I, the lone medic of the vicinity, leave the camp? What if we don’t make it back? No one here knows how to administer even the simplest of drugs with a syringe, let alone to extract it first from a vial. What then? —just to play a little Sherlock Holmes and Watson in the jungle?

  Rickety pondered upon all these crucial questions as he saw the back of Magnus leaving the light to step into the darkness of the jungles of Borneo.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘…when you eliminate all thoughts about life and death, you will be able to totally disregard your earthly life…’

  The above is an excerpt from a Kamikaze pilot’s manual, which the reconnaissance unit of the Jesselton Camp 12 had been able to retrieve from a crashed aircraft sometime in the last quarter of 1943. It was evident enough that it ordained the scene where the fanatical suicidal attack had failed, for there were no aircraft carriers or armoured tanks in sight for it to have crashed into.

  Derived intelligence from the wreckage had proven to be most useful for the Allied forces, particularly the information that the Japanese had begun to shift the designs of their aircrafts for the purposes of Kamikaze—which translates to the divine wind in Japanese, originating from an ancient poem. The word predominantly referred to a series of typhoons which had ultimately destroyed Kublai Khan’s fleet, as it approached the shores of Japan in the thirteenth century. The Kamikaze unit was part of the Tokubetsu Kōgekitai (Special Attack Unit), and they trained suicide aerial attackers, who ended their lives in the name, and for the glory, of the Emperor of Japan.

  The recovered aircraft made an interesting study as well. It was ascertained to be a Nakajima Ki-43 Hayabusa, codenamed Oscar, though it had resemblances to the renowned Mitsubishi Zero—it bore the distinct bubble-type canopy about the cockpit, and had the possibilities of variants, specifically in the addition of certain electrical devices and armaments.

  However, the Jesselton Camp troopers had been hapless in not identifying a second downed Hayabusa, about three miles southward from the one they did discover.

  The lone Japanese pilot stepped out of the crippled aircraft, with the dark fumes clouding the surrounding area where he had crashed. Delirious from the severe spin of the plane while heading to the ground at nose-diving speed, he paused for a moment, whilst weighing the possibility of the aircraft exploding, for he was aware that the craft had been fitted with additional fuel drop-tanks that resembled a heavy bomb—with about seventy-five litres of additional fuel. He did a gross calculation of the amount of time he may have, still standing on the seat of his cockpit, the canopy shattered, breathing in the deadly effluvium. He then ruggedly lunged out of his crashed iron-Pegasus.

  In this part of the dense jungle, one may not easily ascertain the compass directions. For one, the sun was not always clearly visible through the thick foliage. And the vegetation on the jungle floor seemed to present itself in a similar pattern for several hundred miles, in whichever direction one may choose to walk. So, it is near impossible to find the orientation of the earth. Near impossible, the pilot reminded himself. He was stumbling along the uneven grassy terrain quicker now. The plane seemed to be about fifty yards behind, safe enough to stop and gather his strength and wits.

  While looking downward, panting and sweating, the pilot eyeballed his name on the tag embedded onto his khaki uniform: Ichiro Okajima. A stream of childhood reminiscences passed through his mind, followed by memories of his enrolment into flying school and the subsequent enlisting to the war effort. He noted his Korean origins, and that he did not really know of his, or his family’s, Korean name. With the Sōshi-kaimei ordinance, a new mental framework had been crafted, and another sort of war was waged in the regions about the straits of Japan.


  He made another prompt analytical assessment: that he would turn seventeen the day after tomorrow. The thought was utterly morose and ugly in its way and was dampening his spirit. A true soldier of the realm, he shelved all hopes for a future and was prepared to die for the greatest country in the world.

  But for now, survival is paramount. I must find water and shelter. The trees, they will help, he pruned his thoughts to this baseline now.

  Ichiro scanned his surroundings—the ground, which parts were covered with grass, which were not, the concave parts that would most certainly hold puddles when raining, the appearance and likely tensile strength of the soil around the trees that was within his vision; which trees could be climbed easily—and he swiftly added an opposing synthesis, that if he could climb it easily, so could another person or a predatory animal; the dimensions of the boughs that could support him in a horizontal manner when he ought to sleep. His eyes were quick to assess; his mind quicker still. And he thanked his superiors at military school for endowing him with such expert survival skills. And he thanked and paid homage to his Emperor.

  He trailed about a path he thought would most likely lead to some source of fresh water, made some adjustments to his shirt sleeves as the sweat continued to roll down his skin. He was elated as he found what he sought: a small stream which was certainly a tributary of a larger river. The day was not lost yet, things were working out in his favour. I am meant to survive, I will see through this day! Praises be to the Empire of Japan!

  He immersed cupped hands into the body of water, gulped it down, and enjoyed it as it began rejuvenating every organ in his body. He drank some more, then dampened his neck and hands with the icy-cool water. It was just an hour or so after dawn, and he had crashed in a totally remote zone, where there was no fighting, nor any form of action whatsoever. But he wondered if the sound of the crash could have travelled some distance and alerted an enemy recon unit. Perhaps not; today is a day of good fortune, anyhow.

  Ichiro stood upright, stiffening his spine to a near-linear posture. He ventured to touch the handheld weapon that was provided to him by the ordnance corps, a pistol nicknamed the Type-14 Nambu, produced by the Koishikawa Arsenal. This had been provided by the government exclusively to non-commissioned officers but was available for purchase by any officer of the military. And he deemed it to be a strategic decision to own a semi-automatic Nambu. He acknowledged the holster which held the weapon therein, caressed the leathery top.

  With his jitteriness almost nulled, he closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders. The ordeal of the crash had been a most daunting experience. He had been prepared to end his life just over three hours ago, at the tarmac of the airstrip that was hidden from most aerial angles. Some of the other pilots, very unlike himself, were afraid of the suicide mission they were to undertake that morning and had been moving about limply as if death had already invaded their bodies. They eventually had to be carried into the cockpit of their planes by the ground crew. Such dishonour, Ichiro had thought.

  But over the course of several hours since, he felt reborn: a certain phoenix that had emerged from the ashes. He perceived that his thought patterns were altered, that they were optimistic now. He was even thinking of the possibilities of heading home to his family sometime soon. Really soon. It might be a reality…

  The sun was now faintly visible through the green blankets several hundred feet above. And the temperature was rising, though only a degree or so. His eyes could better make the outline of the surroundings now. He looked ahead and saw a tree that would hold his weight if he climbed to the top branches. He could rest there through the day and avoid the searing tropical sun. A disparaging smile touched his lips as he started towards it.

  He had been an agile climber since he was a child of four; he jumped confidently, as high as he could manage with his tiredness, and hugged the trunk with its jagged bark. He raised his right knee, lodged his boot into a position which seemed to offer some sense of firmness. Then the other foot, and the other, while kinetically positioning his arms upward of the tree trunk. Within seconds, he was at the designated bough. A little twist of his torso, and he was now balancing himself on it. He noted that the tree grew still higher over his head; another hundred feet or so. He crouched, and placed both legs onto one side of the bough, like a Mimizuku...

  Ichiro leaned his back toward the trunk and wriggled his hips until he was comfortable. He touched the holster of his pistol again, just to be sure that it had not fallen off during the climb. Satisfied, he closed his eyes yet again, and let everything drift away from his wearied mind.

  He could not deduce how many hours had lapsed, when a dark, sun-hardened palm grabbed his face and yanked him off the tree. The effects of gravity played on him for the second time that day, and he fell, as he saw another figure falling alongside him. The figure seemed to be a harrowing picture of utmost evil. It had a body with womanly features – a pair of breasts, long, lustrous hair – yet she was very hairy, with enough hair to make her look like a black sun-bear; hair stretching from her collarbone to her navel.

  But that was not what made him cry out, breaking the rules of jungle warfare and divulging his existence and position. He jolted as he saw that the figure had only its upper torso, the parts below her belly seemed to have been ripped away from her, and she had nothing from her pelvis down. Her entrails were visibly pendent, swaying with the turbulence of the fall. And she had an appendage-type bulge on her neck, with snaky fingernails poking out of it, almost a foot in length.

  Altogether, it was petrifying. Evil, with its menacing smile and devilish eyes. Ichiro really wished he was a Mimizuku, as he saw the ground approaching.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Decisions.

  It is extraordinary how certain decisions can define your outcomes, or of your life and what it is worth, or if the chosen decisions would assist in crafting out your life's work.

  We decide whether or not to exercise after we have risen in the morning, whom we forgive today, which song to hum to, whether we would like to add sugar to our evening tea, and which memory to invoke. A memory that could either bring solace to the moment, or one of despair of such great magnitude that one could not handle it. I must choose which memories to bring forth, and which to hide, even from myself, for the pain is too great…

  Decisions are also limited within the boundaries of what is within our present consciousness. We perceive certain inputs through our senses, and we try to understand them using our senses. The decision-making process then takes place after the sense-directing process, which takes less than a second (for a healthy person). And we would also need to account on the health of any individual’s consciousness, which is not constant among people. Perceiving life through consciousness—now that is real magic, sustained and brought on by the brain. Could an organ truly do that? Or is it something beyond human physiology? Can a person with a powerful, conscious-self make better decisions?

  Rickety was dumbfounded at his grip on the screwdriver he had recovered from the shed next to the barracks. When Magnus walked out, he surmised that he would need a weapon of sorts that would not be loud and cause an alarm, thus, a screwdriver would do nicely, if he was quick enough to drive it through an assaulter’s neck, or groin, or thighs. He quickly bagged the tool with its rusted metal end and darted out. The jungle ahead looked dark, a stage for a masterful horror story of ghouls and banshees.

  Just several yards ahead, he saw Magnus and Annand. They were fiddling about with the dysfunctional Mercedes truck. The motor was still functional, though, and it was now used as an expedient grinder of flour and wheat, and the occasional rice, which was then baked into puffy cakes that went well with curry or tangy gravy made of legumes.

  “Aye, there, mate! We were hoping to get some fuel out of the baby. Annand here thought that a few sprinkles of it would be enough to light up our lanterns for several hours. And he, brilliant lad, pointed out that no one would check on what’s inside this motor her
e, as the fuel stock at the depot there should not be touched. Smart lad, this one!” Magnus exclaimed. Rickety was glad that the alcohol in his system had been metabolising since they spoke several minutes prior.

  “Yeah, he’s a smart one, Maggie,” Rickety said. Annand, however, did not look pleased at the benevolent praises from two personnel who are his superiors in the chain of command in this Godforsakenlandofterrors. He sighed as he retrieved the required volume of diesel from the tank.

  “Sir… Sir, you want to go look for something. I don’t know what you intend to find… But, but it sounds crazy to do this,” Annand-Sri said as he faced Rickety. “We have pressing things to look into, Sir, not to go gallivanting in the darkness of the jungle with the Japs lurking in every tree-hole!” His Indian accent was showing in this last exclamation of fear he made. His self-revealed bravado in his barracks earlier was all for naught now.

  “Look, Annand,” Rickety wanted to be sure that what he was going to say would bring about some level of calmness, “as you say, I do not know what I am looking for. Or why I even bother, for that matter. It is something that is out of the ordinary. We’ve been here in this jungle, what? Slightly more than two years now? And all we have heard was gunfire, bombs exploding, cries and death. And defeat. This just seems to trail off to some other direction, is all I am saying. I want to do something different, Annand. This just came at the right time for me. For me. I do not wish it upon anyone else to think or behave like me—that is plain wrong. But this is for me… something like a sign.”

  Magnus cocked his ear to capture all (or most) of the conversation taking place in front of him. The night was becoming cool, as it always seemed the case during the high runs of the monsoon. He noted that Annand was relieved with what Rickety just said, but there was a need for further assurances—after all, Annand was one for taking charge of a superstitious lot. Come on, Rickety, drive deeper into this ‘sign’ of yours…