Under the Sun

by Justin Kerr-Smiley

  The pilot filled the bowl with water and began to wash his face, the coldness reviving him and dissolving the bonds of sleep which enveloped his body. There was a small mirror above the basin and Strickland peered into it, seeing his reflection for the first time in almost a week. He was shocked at what he saw. The face that stared out at him was in stark contrast to the one he knew. His nose was broken and his blue eyes were sunken. Under the left eye was a dark bruise the size of a plum. The clean shaven jawline had gone and was replaced by a scraggy blond stubble. His face was sallow and gaunt and he had lost weight. Strickland rubbed his grizzled chin. The rough beard and his sunken eyes aged him and gave him an ascetic appearance, like an Old Testament prophet or a desert father.

  He looked away from the mirror and picking up a towel, he dried his face. The pilot replaced it and walked over to the chair and put on his clothes. His uniform, or what remained of it, was grimy and stained with salt, but it was still a uniform. Despite his dishevelled appearance, the tropical flying kit and the RAF insignia above his breast pocket were a vivid reminder to Strickland of his identity. He put his shirt over his head, then put on his shorts and fastened them, noticing that he needed one less hole in the canvas belt. He found a pair of straw sandals by the bed and placed his feet in them. They were too short and his toes stuck out over the end, but they would do. He checked his appearance in the mirror, ran his fingers through his hair and turned away. The pilot went over to the mesh door, opened it and stepped onto the sunny porch.

  The cicadas sang shrilly in the heat and the compound was white in the sun. Strickland surveyed his surroundings and looking up, he saw the mountain rise above the green mantle of forest. He remembered how, only a few days ago, he had flown over it as he had made a final turn and prepared to head for home. If he had not seen the wake of the submarine, he would have continued on and doubtless he would have arrived safely back at base. Instead fate ensured that he discovered the submarine, attacked it and was shot down. All this he knew. But he wondered what had happened in his absence? Back at base the officer in the control tower would have spent the rest of the day vainly searching the skies for his plane and when the sun went down that evening and he had still failed to return and having no other information as to his whearabouts, the wing commander would have posted him as ‘missing’. A notice would be pinned to the operations board outside the mess hall, informing the men of the news and they would shrug their shoulders and shake their heads, as yet another comrade was claimed by the war. The CO would wait for any further news and if there was still none after a week, he would write a letter to his parents informing them that their son had failed to return from patrol and that he should be considered to have been killed. Perhaps his CO had already written the letter. The pilot prayed that he had not and that when he did, it would somehow fail to reach his parents. The thought of his mother opening that small brown envelope was almost more than he could bear. He wished he could reassure her that he was still alive.

  Strickland stood there gazing up at the mountain, which shimmered above the forest in the heat and did not know whether to curse or bless the island. He looked away and closing the door behind him, he walked over to Hayama’s quarters, his sandals scraping across the dusty compound. He ascended the steps of the captain’s hut and seeing that the door was open, he pushed open the fly screen and went inside. Hayama was sitting at his desk annotating his collection of butterflies in a large leatherbound ledger, a pen in his hand. He looked up and saw a tall figure framed against the light of the doorway and put down his pen.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. That was a fine supper last night.’

  ‘Well, you must congratulate Ito for that. He is an excellent cook. Breakfast?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ said Hayama. He called out over his shoulder, telling his cook to bring some tea and to prepare breakfast for his guest.

  Strickland took off his sandals and sat down on the tatami and the captain got up from his desk to join him. He was not in uniform, but instead wore his white kimono. Embroidered across the front panels were red silk peonies. The heraldic flower was divided into four petals and surrounded with a hexagonal border. Sitting there smiling and cross-legged on the tatami, Hayama looked like a Meiji lord content in his surroundings. With his collection of butterflies arranged on one wall, the painted silk screen behind him and the pair of swords on the rack above his bed, you could imagine the captain was sitting at home in Nagasaki, rather than on a remote tropical island thousands of miles away.

  ‘Forgive me for not being in uniform. It’s Sunday today and everyone here rests.’

  The sense of time had completely deserted the pilot since he had been on the island and the idea that actual days, let alone weeks and months, existed had become alien to him. It had been the case ever since his watch had been smashed during one of his interrogation sessions.

  ‘I had no idea what day it was.’

  ‘I insist the men take a day off on Sunday. They don’t have leave and cannot get away from the island, but at least they can relax. They usually play games on the beach, or else they just rest and play cards in their quarters. What would you like to do?’

  ‘I thought I might explore. I need the exercise.’

  ‘Of course. I quite understand. There’s a trail that leads up to the mountain. It’s hard work, but when you get to the top there is a wonderful view. You can see for miles. We have an observation platform there. But I won’t expect a report.’

  The pilot smiled at his companion.

  ‘A trip up the mountain sounds good.’

  A noise came from the kitchen and Ito emerged from behind the screen with a tray of breakfast, together with a pot of tea and two cups. He laid the tray on the table and set a bowl of chopped mangoes and a glass of goat’s milk before the pilot. He then placed the teapot and cups in the middle and taking the tray, he departed without a word. Strickland drank the glass of milk and putting it down, he picked up a pair of chopsticks and began to eat the mango. The fruit was ripe and juicy and tasted as if it had just fallen from the tree.

  Hayama had already had his breakfast and as his guest ate the mango, he took the pot and filled their cups. The pilot soon finished the fruit and together the officers sat there, sipping their tea. The room was quiet, the only sound being the cicadas’ singing and the occasional rustle of the palm trees in the breeze. Strickland noticed the pair of swords above the captain’s bed. Both were encased in brown leather scabbards, but one was larger and the other more like a dirk.

  ‘Are they yours?’ asked the pilot, looking at the weapons. Hayama turned and followed his gaze to the rack above his bed.

  ‘Yes. They’re from Kyoto where all the best swords are made. They’re very old and have been in my family for many generations. Here, let me show you,’ and getting up the captain went over to his bed and took the swords from the rack. He returned and sat down and removed the weapons from their scabbards, laying them both out on the table. The pilot could see that despite their undoubted age, the swords were well kept, the hilts carefully polished.

  ‘They’re in wonderful condition.’

  ‘The climate is not good, but I try and keep them as best as I can. They’re sacred.’

  ‘Like family relics?’

  It was an apt description and the captain nodded.

  ‘Yes. All samurai families have at least one sword in their possession. Sometimes they have several and they are always kept in the family shrine. We pay homage to them just as we honour our ancestors, because the sword is the soul of the samurai. The two cannot be separated.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Englishman.

  ‘This shorter one is the tanto,’ and Hayama drew it and presented it to Strickland. ‘It’s more a dagger really and is kept in the warrior’s belt. Sometimes it is used together with the sword. But you must be a skilled samurai to do so.’

 
The pilot admired the blade and the embossed gold motif on the hilt.

  ‘The other one is the katana,’ and the captain drew it and offered the weapon to his guest. The pilot put down the tanto and took up the longer sword. The katana was heavier and yet it was perfectly balanced. He ran his eye along the elegant curve of the blade, towards the sharp point at the end.

  ‘This type of sword has no peer. If it were ever used against another weapon, it would break it in half.’

  Strickland turned it over and inspected the inlaid hilt.

  ‘The katana has an illustrious history. The first Mongol invasion of Japan by Kublai Khan was driven back by warriors using their swords. The Mongols had never seen anything like it. The katana could cut down a horse and rider with one blow. Can you imagine? Such was the fury of the samurai’s attack, the enemy were routed and retreated to their ships. Later that night a storm blew up, damaging many of the vessels at anchor.’

  ‘Did the Mongols return?’

  Hayama shook his head.

  ‘They were in no state to face the samurai again and they sailed back to Korea, taking a whole month to complete the journey. They had lost 13,000 men, which was one third of their total, including a high-ranking Korean general. But the Khan had never been thwarted and vowed revenge, this time to take all of Japan. He was patient and for seven long years he prepared his invasion force. Six hundred warships were ordered from southern China, in addition to a further 900 from Korea. The force consisted of 140,000 men, divided into two armies which set sail, intending to land at Hakata Bay in the north. But the samurai were waiting for them and under the cover of darkness they rowed out to the enemy fleet in small boats, boarded the vessels and cut the invaders to pieces.

  ‘On one occasion thirty samurai swam out to a ship, decapitated the entire crew and then swam back. One samurai named Jiro Kusano led a raid in broad daylight and set fire to a ship, even though his left arm had been completely severed. The battles raged for days until a further Mongol force arrived and anchored off the island of Takashima. The samurai launched wave after wave of attack against this new force, but were beaten back by the sheer number of the invaders. By now they were exhausted and outnumbered and had lost many men, and it was plain the Khan’s forces would now be able to land. So the people prayed and made offerings to the gods who heard them and sent a divine wind, the kamikaze, which destroyed the ships. The entire Mongol fleet was obliterated by a typhoon.’

  ‘What happened to the great Khan?’

  ‘I presume he went back to his harem in Xanadu,’ replied Hayama with a shrug.

  Strickland cradled the weapon in his hands. The same weapon that had so nearly beheaded him. Even holding the sword made him feel like a samurai.

  ‘How do they manage to make the blade so strong?’ he asked, handing the katana back to its owner.

  The captain took it, running his fingers down the steel.

  ‘Each swordsmith has his own particular method whose secret is jealously guarded and handed down from father to son by word of mouth.’

  ‘Do they still make them in the traditional way?’

  ‘Yes, but there are only two or three men left in Japan now who could make such a sword. In times gone by there would have been many such men. A good swordsmith was as valuable to the daimyo as the samurai they armed.’

  Hayama turned the sword over so that its blade gleamed coldly, like moonlight on a wave.

  ‘The sword itself is welded from two pices of metal, one of wrought iron and another of tool steel. The iron gives it strength, the steel gives it its edge. The swordsmith would first heat a lump of crude iron and flatten it into a number of thin plates, which were then forged together into a heavier piece of steel called uagane. This was welded together many times with the soft iron core called shingane.’

  ‘That’s a lot of work for a single weapon.’

  ‘Yes, but this was only the beginning of an even longer process, which gave the swordsmith two grades of steel to work with. He used the laminated steel for the core, and the tool steel for the exterior. The sword was then subjected to a series of heating and quenching processes to produce the cutting blade. Finally, it was polished with ever finer grades of abrasive stone, which produces this pattern,’ and Hayama tilted the sword in the light, so that Strickland could see the wavy lines running down the blade. ‘This effect is called yakiba and only the finest swords have it.’

  The pilot pointed to the other weapon on the table.

  ‘What about this one?’

  ‘The tanto?’ asked the captain, putting down the longer weapon and picking up the other. ‘This is made using the same method, but it is not as strong. Even so it’s very handy and easier to conceal.’

  Hayama put the dagger down and refilled both their cups from the pot and the officers sat there drinking their tea, the swords lying on the table between them. The paradox was not lost on either man.

  Their countries were at war and their traditions could not have been more different. But what had begun as enmity had been transformed if not quite into friendship, then at least into an understanding. Strickland remembered how little animosity his father held for the Germans, even though he had spent four years fighting them in the trenches of Flanders. It was as if the world had to go through such convulsions in order for humanity to rediscover civilisation. Attila the Hun had reached the gates of Rome and Europe was laid waste by the Barbarian tribes, putting an entire civilisation to the torch. The Palmyrans celebrated their sacking of Egypt by immolating the libraries at Alexandria, which burned for three days and nights. Centuries of scholarship and learning reduced to ash and scattered by the four winds. War, it seemed, was a fire which raged unchecked until there was nothing left to burn and it finally extinguished itself.

  The pilot’s gaze fell on the gold emblem on the swords’ hilts.

  ‘Is this a particular type of flower?’

  ‘It’s a peony. Our family crest,’ and the captain pointed to the design on his kimono.

  ‘What’s the significance?’

  ‘Well, it’s a sad tale and possibly apocryphal, but we abide by it nonetheless. One of my ancestors, Keizo Hayama, was slain by a rival samurai called Ko Goto. Legend has it that Goto was furious with my ancestor for taking his favourite geisha, who was very beautiful. In fact my ancestor had merely offered the woman protection, because her master was crazed with jealousy and would beat her if she so much as looked at another man. Anyway, Goto demanded that his honour be restored and he challenged Keizo to single combat. Whoever won the contest would have the geisha. It was a foolish thing to do because my ancestor was an excellent swordsman, but Goto would not back down and my ancestor was obliged as a samurai to accept the challenge. Sure enough when the day of the fight came the man was soundly beaten and my ancestor was within his rights to kill him, but he refused. He had not issued the challenge and he had no particular argument with the idiot Goto. Unfortunately, that was his mistake because what the other samurai lacked in courage and chivalry, he more than made up for in deviousness and cowardice.

  ‘Some time later Goto pretended that he wanted to make it up with my ancestor, to let bygones be bygones and asked him to come to his house for supper. He told Keizo to bring the geisha too, just to show that he had no hard feelings. Well, my ancestor didn’t want to go, but he couldn’t really refuse a fellow samurai’s offer of hospitality, especially after what had just happened. Then, the night before my ancestor was due to visit his adversary, the geisha had a dream. She dreamt that Keizo went to Goto’s house and was offered a bouquet of peonies and as he accepted them, he was ambushed by his enemy’s henchmen who charged at him with their swords. Mortally wounded he managed to escape, but only out into the roadside where he lay beneath a tree. Weeping, the geisha tended to him as he bled to death. The next morning she told Keizo about this dream. My ancestor listened patiently and did not dismiss it as the ramblings of a hysterical woman. He was a poet and often his poetry came to him in dreams. H
e told the woman that she did not have to go, but that he must fulfill his duty. And so he put on his best suit and set off on a cold winter’s day. The geisha, however, ignored his order to stay behind and instead followed him through the snow. When Keizo got to Goto’s house he was alone and the samurai asked him where the geisha was and my ancestor told him that she had a chill and couldn’t come.

  ‘Goto looked disappointed, but only because he wanted to slaughter them both. Instead he would have to make do with my ancestor and so he laughed and told Keizo that he had a special gift for him: a beautiful bouquet of flowers even though it was the middle of winter. And, just as the woman had predicted in her dream, Keizo was offered a bunch of peonies by one of Goto’s family. As he held them to his face, Goto’s thugs leapt from behind a screen and attacked my ancestor, running their swords through him time and time again. Nevertheless, Keizo managed to beat them off and staggered out into the road, where he lay down beneath an oak tree. The geisha had been waiting outside and seeing him collapse, she ran to his side and tried to staunch his wounds. Sadly, it was to no avail and he bled to death. The geisha hurried home to tell the family what had happened. But when they arrived there was no sign of Keizo’s body, just a patch of bright red peonies in the snow. So they built a shrine in his memory and that is why the flower is our emblem.’

  ‘What happened to the geisha?’