The Wind Is Not a River

by Brian Payton

  Warren has no reply. He straightens his tie and tugs his cuffs, then looks up and nods. He touches the brim of his hat, the lantern sparkling in his eyes. He walks out the way he came, swinging the lantern out into the ravine until the light grows fainter and the night fills back in.

  Easley sits up and feels the blood surge to his head. He stands on blistered feet and gropes his way outside.

  The wind has abated. Sleet falls on upturned cheeks. The sea is asleep and the world so remarkably still he can hear the slush as it strikes the land. Easley suspects he’s about to die, or die again—whichever the case may be. He unbuttons his trousers, drains his bladder, then stumbles back into the cave.

  AT DAWN, the distant clang of metal echoes across the waves. Easley puts on wet socks and Karl’s cold boots because they are slightly bigger and because he’s afraid that if he doesn’t do it now, they might never fit again. The pain he knows he should feel from his feet never reaches his brain. He peeks outside and scans the water. After staring long and hard into the fog, he thinks he can hear the sound of engines in the chop.

  A new kind of bombardment begins. One after another, a distant bang then heavy thud in the direction of the village and camp. The attack goes on for the better part of an hour, then silence reigns again.

  Easley spends the balance of the morning cocooned inside the cave, leaving only once to drink from the stream. When he’s had his fill, he stands and catches a whiff of bunker fuel on the wind.

  He studies Tatiana’s photo and opens her precious tin. He stares at the bright white linen, the icon, the harpoon tip, the roll of bills. He touches nothing. Inside, everything is clean and bright and made by human hands. He will not risk contaminating it with his filth. He replaces the lid and slides the tin into his pack. Next, he collects the spent lighter, the knife, the Japanese book where he’s written his tribute to Karl. He places it all neatly inside the canvas, then cinches the pack closed. He slides the photo into his pocket.

  He lies down and gazes out through clouded light.

  THE NIGHT IS WELL ADVANCED when he opens his eyes again. The tingling in his feet is gone and when he reaches down to squeeze his boot he feels nothing at all. The last decision left to him is the choice of place and time. He stands and steadies himself, slips the pack over his shoulders. He removes the boy’s dog tags from around his neck and places them upon the nest, then leaves the cave for good.

  A quarter moon darts in and out of the clouds making it possible, with imagination, to see the land before him. Easley marches along the beach. He makes his way above the high tide line surprised at how easily he travels. His feet no longer give him any trouble. He feels neither the ground beneath him, nor the frigid current as he fords the shallow river. It’s as if he walks on air. He holds this as further proof that he has become a ghost—until he trips and cuts the heel of his hand.

  It is still dark when Easley passes the spot where he left the body, but he sees neither skis nor poles. He sees no sign. He carries on.

  He envisions two scenarios. A bullet, fired from a great distance, will pass through his chest and he will fall back into the grass. His blood will flow into the ground, enriching this forsaken land. On that small patch, the flowers will grow fat this summer. The other possibility is capture, then torture and imprisonment in some hole in the ground. It doesn’t seem all that different from his current situation. At least there will be some kind of regular food. Easley feels no real attachment to either of these outcomes, only a measure of contentment that soon it will be over and he will never be alone again.

  By daybreak, he is within a mile of the village. His clumsy feet have slowed his progress. He will arrive in time for breakfast. What do Japanese soldiers eat for breakfast? When he reaches the rise with its view of the village, there is an unexpected sense of calm. The village and encampment are both silent and still, caught in the deepest sleep. If he walks another hundred yards in the same direction, someone will surely see him. He smiles—so close to the finish line.

  Easley sits down and inspects his feet. They are expanding to new, grotesque proportions. There is no pain, but now a tingling deep inside. He pulls down the sock and pokes the taut skin with his index finger. Although his eyes register the contact, there is no felt response.

  He could walk into their camp with his hands in the air and they might take him alive. Remembering Tatiana’s embroidery, Easley pulls the tin from his pack and holds it in his lap. He pops the top and removes the linen with fingertips, then shakes it open. He grabs his pack and stumbles to his feet.

  He is disappointed to see no smoke rising from the buildings or tents. Without a hot fire, it will take them forever to warm his bath. Easley raises the white flag above his head and lets it flutter in the clammy breeze.

  The clouds shift behind him and the sun paints the mountains a flattering pink. He remembers the omen: red sky in morning, sailor’s warning.

  His arm gets tired before he reaches the ruins of the first building. He has given up singing for calling “hello”—soft enough to be heard but not so loud as to cause alarm. Easley rests his arm by letting it fall across the top of his head, the white cloth dangling by his ear. His heartbeat quickens.

  The bombs have scattered the place. Easley stops and surveys abandoned vehicles, tire tracks still fresh in the mud. Houses with open doors, walls torn away, roofs opened to the sky. Walking past the home where he hid those weeks ago, he sees no signs of life. No hint of Tatiana or her people, no troops or their laundry. Only splinters and shattered glass. Where has everyone gone? He continues up the road to the oil drums and bunkers. There is no smell of coal or smoke of any kind. He stops at the first tent.

  “Hello,” he says. “I give up.”

  Easley squints and hunches his shoulders like he’s about to receive a blow. Nothing. He reaches out for the canvas, slowly pulls it back, and sees a mess of papers inside. A smashed box and a blanket tossed on the gravel floor. Sticking out from under the blanket is a broken fishing pole and a tangle of line.

  He walks from one tent to the next, politely offering his surrender, but finds no one to accept. Instead he finds foxholes and gaping tunnels, all dark and mute. Every shelter is strewn with paper, empty crates, heavy tools discarded on the run. Outside, he finds a shoe—even wetter than his own—and a spoon, dry and clean.

  Easley picks up a damp, official-looking paper with Japanese characters printed at the top of the page in blue. Below dangle columns of runny black ink and a seal in the bottom right corner. He folds it and puts it into his pocket. Then, changing his mind, he pulls it out and tosses it away. Better not surrender with stolen documents.

  He walks to the edge of the tents and looks down the abandoned paths to the desolate beach, then back to the mountains above. The lifting clouds reveal patches of snow and the gray-black shale beneath. The only sound is wind, waves, and the ongoing complaint of gulls. Easley holds the linen up over his head and shouts, “I . . . fucking . . . WIN!”

  No hail of gunfire or lobbing of grenades, no enemy faces rushing from the shadows—just a new loneliness that’s somehow even larger than before. Easley walks back to the tent where he saw the blanket. He lies down on a mildewed tarp and removes his boots and socks. He wraps his feet in Japanese wool and falls fast asleep.

  A herring gull is busy giving him the eye when he finally comes to. It stands at the entrance of the tent, gawking in. When Easley sits up to grab it, the pain in his head is such that he is forced to lie back down again. The bird hops back a few feet, then waddles away.

  Judging by the light in the sky, the better part of a day has come and gone. He will black out again if he doesn’t eat and drink something soon. Easley sits up, but falls back over with the throbbing in his head. The pain is slow to subside.

  His feet are now too big for boots. He pulls out his knife, cuts a hole in the blanket, tears off a strip. It takes all his effort to accomplish this task and he waits awhile before attempting it again. When he does,
he has two long strips of wool to wrap around his feet. He pulls the bootlaces out of his pack, wraps them around the wool, then struggles to stand up.

  He finds a photograph of a young Japanese boy smiling in front of a dark mountain, plus the tail and bones of a fish. He picks up the skeleton and holds it to his nose. It is foul, gray with decay, reminding him of his feet. He finds a soiled undershirt and mountains of spent shells. Between drifts of debris are the craters of recent bombs. He finds nothing to eat, but plenty of abandoned tires, glass, wire, artillery. Then treasure: a half-full bucket of coal.

  Where are the Japanese? Are they truly gone, or is their disappearance merely proof that he has passed to the other side? No, he decides. The gull has confirmed his existence.

  The cloud lifts and the peaks loom over the village—the ruins of which Tatiana would scarcely recognize. Something moves at the edge of the snowpack. A thin river of white spills out along the black rock and travels uphill toward the pass. It is alive. The white line grows thinner and then separates itself from the larger pack of snow, traveling slowly along the rock until a cloud drifts across, obscuring it from view. This is no product of his imagination, no trick of shadows in his eyes. The Japanese are on the move.

  Then the veil drops away and he can see this for what it is: the abandoned camp and village, the enemy taking to higher elevation . . . The smell of fuel, the clang of metal across the water, the lack of planes in the air.

  Karl explained weeks ago that the Navy would not risk a landing on the well-defended village shore. To avoid the heavy guns, the infantry would probably land beyond the rise, a half dozen miles south of the village, perhaps at Massacre Bay—a place-name that stuck from Easley’s own research. Two hundred years ago, fifteen Aleuts were executed by Russian fur traders there, perhaps daring to resist the invaders, or their subsequent state of slavery. The other choice would be to approach from the west of the village. They could land on the wide beach not far from his cave. He had so often imagined this day but gave up hope long ago. And now, as the moment arrives, has he walked in the wrong direction?

  Easley slings his pack over his shoulder and limps along the beach—away from shelter, blankets, shiny lumps of coal. He goes back the way he came.

  The rain is light but quickly finds its way down his neck. He exhales in raspy clouds.

  A FEW HOURS ON, not far from where Tatiana buried her tin, Easley falls for a third time. He lands face-first in old brown rye. The numbness has migrated up from his feet to his knees. Above that, his thighs are buzzing warm. He turns over on his back, closes his eyes, shakes with the wet and cold.

  His hand does not reach for the small picture in his pocket. It is Helen’s face that appears to him now, hair hanging down, warm sun full behind. But he blinks and she is gone.

  Which birds will be the first to arrive and take their revenge? Stand on his chest, pull at his lips and eyes. When his body is found, no one will know who he was or what happened here. All this will be lost. Perhaps they will think he is Karl.

  These are the thoughts of a coward. Get up! Time’s wasting.

  “Helen?” He calls her name aloud.

  She has a head start down the beach, barefoot through hot sand. He must jump up now, run after her just as fast as his legs will go.

  But the body won’t obey. A short rest is all he needs.

  Get up! Open your eyes!

  Then the warm rush comes, followed by a sense of sinking. The cable cut, the elevator in free fall. The flailing, inescapable plunge.

  EIGHTEEN

  SHE LIES BURIED IN BLANKETS, PILED THREE DEEP, the wool rough against her neck and cheeks. They smell of dust and mildew, and the sweat of men who’ve lain here before. She stares up at the ceiling, listening for signs of Gladys’s breathing. She can detect none. There’s no human sound to comfort her, no laughter or murmur of conversation. No whine of a passing jeep. Only wind. She peers into the darkness and marvels at how the view barely changes whether her eyes are open or shut.

  Following the Navy’s abrupt cancellation of their final show, Judith, Sarah, and Jane were flown out yesterday afternoon on the only three seats available. Stephen made such a scene, puffing his chest, declaring he’ll be damned if he’ll let any of his charges out of his sight ever again. They will neither travel, nor remain behind without him. Look around, they said. The accelerated pace of bombing runs, the sudden arrival of ships in the harbor, the relentless pace of the ground crews. Something has changed, there is no hiding the fact. The war is closing in. Because of this, and Stephen’s outburst, the remaining members of the troupe have been confined to quarters pending evacuation. Helen insisted she be allowed to remain with Gladys and Stephen. Weather and space permitting, they will be flown out tomorrow.

  Gladys turns over in her cot, unseen in the dark.

  Before their house arrest, Helen learned from the clarinet player that a plane out of Adak was forced to make a successful crash landing on an uninhabited island. This was three months before John’s plane took to the sky. The crew was promptly rescued with no lives lost. Helen took this news as evidence, a shield of reason to help protect her faith.

  All day she wondered, is John on some similar island, surviving off the land with members of the crew? Each plane that leaves this island is stocked with survival equipment and supplies. She was told his plane was a flying boat. Perhaps they were able to make a water landing close to shore. She let the thought germinate and bloom. And now, at three o’clock in the morning, it withers in hungry shadows, the unrelenting cold, and the thought of John coming to the conclusion that no one is looking for him. She sits up, pushes the blankets aside.

  Is this it? Is this all she has to show for her lies and schemes, for leaving her father behind?

  John would want her on that plane tomorrow, heading home and safely removed from whatever danger is headed this way. Of this, she has no doubt. Just as surely she knows that if it were she who had gone missing . . .

  Helen lies back, draws the covers close, takes refuge in a memory suddenly close at hand. A hot August day. A small canvas tent pitched on the British Columbia coast. The sky textured with a cloud filigree, the sea a placid blue.

  She followed his lead through the understory, past sheltering cedar and fir, until they emerged into bright sunlight. Spread a picnic on a dry hillside and uncorked a bottle of wine. Before he had a chance to pour, a pair of eagles tumbled from the sky. They landed less than fifty feet away. One tried to dominate the other—wings outstretched, flapping, posturing as if preparing for battle. The second bird finally relented, and its mate swiftly mounted. It was over in a matter of seconds. The eagles separated, but flew off in the same direction. John filled their glasses. They toasted the amorous display, the birds that mate for life. On the way back to camp, he tugged at her pants, then pinned her against a tree.

  TWO HOURS LATER, Helen shakes herself awake. The aircrews can be heard warming engines and loading bombs earlier each day. She wipes the sleep from her eyes, then swings her legs over the edge of the cot.

  The wind is on furlough. Beyond the windowpane, wisps of smoke can be seen floating up from the tents, passing fat flakes of snow coming down. Helen bundles up by the stove, stokes the coals, waits for the heat to rise. From her bag she retrieves a file and grinds her nails down to the quick.

  Gladys lies on her back in the dim light with the covers up to her chin. Her face is pale, clean of all makeup, and Helen thinks it makes her look a good five years younger than twenty-eight. To fight the chill, in want of a cap, she wears a white sweater over her head and ears, tied in a big bow under her chin. She looks ridiculous and sweet. Helen carries over two of the blankets from her own cot, lays them over Gladys, then returns to the stove.

  She must find a way to stay. If John can be found, these are the men who will find him. This is where they will bring him. But she will not stand idly by—she will make herself of use.

  HELEN SITS ALONE, dressed, and waiting. The morning is a
lready slipping away. Gladys is out at the airfield, posing for snapshots and signing autographs, covering for Helen’s absence.

  Stephen appears in the doorway nibbling the inside of his lower lip. Helen has developed the ability to read the thoughts written on his face before he has a chance to cloak them. In this, he is not so different from her father or brothers, from John or most any man closely observed. Stephen spends nearly half an hour pointing out the unlikeliness of her new plan, the certainty of her husband’s fate, the peace she must make with the facts. The trouble he will face if she’s not on that plane. He is determined to change her mind.

  Helen looks up at Stephen, backlit in rare sunlight, realizing how much she’ll miss him.

  “So that’s it,” he says at last. “You don’t even want to come out to the plane.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Well. I don’t know what more to say.”

  She gets up and throws her arms around him, feels it at the back of her throat. His friendship was unexpected. Given instinctively, without reservation. If she were to utter a single word, she would unravel at his feet. Instead she kisses his cheek, runs her fingers through his hair. She is pleased to see him smile.

  “If I don’t go now,” he says, “I’ll get sentimental, and then everyone will know I’m soft.” He turns and steps down into the mud. “I’ll write, and I expect a reply.”

  Helen watches him walk down the road toward the airfield, aware that she’s letting go of something precious and rare. She keeps him in her sights until his path bends round a tent, then suddenly—he’s gone.

  WHEN HELEN ARRIVES, she is offered a seat across from the number two man on Adak. She shakes his hand, settles in, and tries to compose her opening argument. The room’s low ceiling results in a kind of forced perspective, making Rear Admiral Styles and his tin desk appear disproportionately large. Maps the size of bed sheets cover the walls. Roosevelt beams down from his frame with that earnest look of optimism most everyone finds reassuring, saintly even. Helen tries to take courage in the president’s gaze as the rear admiral flips back and forth through a ledger.