by Tad Crawford
He pointed to a scar on his cheek.
“How did that happen?” I asked.
“While training. It was such a small space. Many of us were cut by the periscope. The controls were rudimentary—just enough to steer into the hull of the target. I turned toward a destroyer, increasing my speed to the maximum.”
“What did you feel?” I asked.
“I no longer had human concerns. I had escaped the accidents of life. Illness and old age meant nothing to me. In the moment of my passing, a great service would be done. I had been called and I had answered to the navy, the nation, and the emperor.”
“No regrets?”
“Not then.”
“You didn’t hit the destroyer,” I said.
“I did. I hit it right in the center.”
I opened my hands to express my perplexity at how he could have survived.
“I was knocked out,” he said. “When I came back to my senses, the kaiten was no longer moving. I tried to look through the periscope, but it had been destroyed. I wanted to unscrew the hatch, but I was certain the kaiten had come to rest on the ocean’s bottom. If the hatch stuck, I would suffocate. If I could unscrew it, I would drown. I waited in the darkness, breathing the last of the oxygen. I began to feel faint. At last I placed my hands on the wheel to turn the hatch. It moved, and soon I saw daylight. Squeezing out, I realized the kaiten had run aground on a sandbar. I swam to the beach. I’ve been here ever since.”
“When the kaiten hit the hull …,” I began to ask.
“It didn’t explode. The warhead must have been defective. Because I approached at an angle, the kaiten may have glanced off the hull and continued.”
We sat in silence. All three of us had come to this island because the marvel of a modern machine had failed, leaving us to live by our hands and wits.
“Where is the kaiten now?” I asked.
Tsukino-san pointed to the waves.
“For a long time it was over in that direction, but typhoons have come and gone. The sandbar shifted. The kaiten slipped away. Even if we could find it, there’s nothing we could use in it.”
I hadn’t been thinking of salvage. Somewhere on the ocean’s bottom was the kaiten with its defective warhead, its damaged periscope, and its open hatch.
“Tomorrow we’ll load the supplies and go,” I said, waiting for confirmation from Tsukino-san.
He rose and looked for some time at the raft and its path to the ocean.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
He seemed reluctant, perhaps of two minds about our departure. If he felt that way, I could certainly understand.
“Yes.”
“Shall we see how Tex is doing?” I asked.
“Yes, let’s go back.”
That night we sat on the sand in front of the cave and talked for a long while. The excitement of leaving the next day made us laugh and ignore the growing force of the wind.
“Once,” Tsukino-san said, “I called him Tex-san. Then he told me he was indeed a Texan.”
“Hey, New York–san,” Tex interjected.
“New Yorker,” I corrected.
“What will you do when you’re home?”
“Sleep on a mattress. With a pillow.”
“Ambitious man,” said Tsukino-san jokingly. Then turning serious, he continued, “I will go to the Yasukuni Shrine for those who fell in the wars. To give my respects and my thanks. I will say a thousand prayers.”
After a moment of reflection, he looked at Tex. Their eyes met, and he added quietly, “After I pray for the men I knew and fought beside, I’ll pray for all the dead. For yours and mine. Then I’ll go home.”
Tex didn’t change his expression, but he was quiet.
“Bring your snow shovel,” he finally said, his levity deflecting Tsukino-san’s intensity.
“I grew up in the snow country,” Tsukino-san explained.
“The houses have doors on the second story,” Tex said.
“Yes, the snow can cover the first story. Inside the house, if you look out the windows, you only see a wall of snow. You have to light lanterns or it’s as dark as night.”
“It wasn’t like that in Texas.”
“I want to see the mountains again, snow on their peaks,” Tsukino-san said. “I want to visit the graves of my mother and father.”
We fell silent for a few moments. I wondered how Tex must feel, since he too dreamed of going to his parents’ resting place. Or how he felt to hear Tsukino-san speak of what would happen in Japan. Nothing like that was likely be in Tex’s future. And how long would Tsukino-san live in any case? Was his fate so much better than Tex’s? At that moment, as happened from time to time, I thought about what might occur on the boat after Tex was gone. Having killed and devoured one man, what would stop either of us from killing another? Would I kill Tsukino-san or be his victim?
“Did you know that Tsukino-san writes poetry?” Tex asked.
“Still?” I asked, recalling what Tsukino-san said about the poetry he wrote while training.
“Yes. And I translate it,” Tex said.
I found it easier to believe Tsukino-san wrote poetry than that Tex translated it.
“I give Tex some ideas and images,” Tsukino-san said. “He puts the words together.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Tex countered. “He’s finished with them before I start. And they’re a lot better in Japanese.”
“I’d like to hear them.”
“Okay, here goes,” Tex said, and began a slow, heartfelt recitation:
Long ago I dreamt of what might be.
How I wish to be that dreamer again.
Melting snow
On the slopes of Mount Kirigamine.
“Kirigamine?” I questioned.
“It towers above the town of my birth,” Tsukino-san said.
“Can you repeat the poem?”
Tex did and waited a few moments, then asked, “Ready for another?”
“Sure.”
“This one needs a little explanation.”
“Speak it first,” Tsukino-san interposed.
Tex complied:
Mother, my mother,
A thousand stitches you gathered
To bring home
Your wandering son.
“My mother waited near the temple,” Tsukino-san said, “and asked a thousand women to each sew one stitch on a senninbari.”
“That’s a sash,” Tex offered. “It goes around the soldier’s middle to protect him.”
“The red stitches bring good luck,” Tsukino-san went on, “and mine included the words ‘eternal good luck in war.’ I wore it under my uniform on the kaiten.”
Tex continued with another:
On the seventh day
Of the seventh month
Ten thousand wings
Forge the bridge of love.
“Explain,” Tsukino-san encouraged Tex.
“It’s from a folktale. The Sky Emperor had a daughter named Orihime, who was a weaver. She met a herder of cows named Hikoboshi. Orihime and Hikoboshi fell in love at first sight, but they were so much in love that they neglected their duties. This angered Orihime’s father, who separated them with the Milky Way. But Orihime wept so long and bitterly for her lover that her father relented. One night a year, on July 7, he allows kindhearted magpies to build a bridge across the Milky Way so the lovers can be together,” Tex finished. “I was a cowherd too. Wish I’d been in love like that.”
“One more,” Tsukino-san broke in. “We’ll go at dawn to load the raft. When we have it loaded, we’ll come back for Tex.”
“You don’t have to get me,” Tex protested. “I’m walking out of here on my own two feet.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tsukino-san admonished him. “You know we have a litter for you.”
We had made the litter from two strong branches and a piece of the parachute. It had the shape of a triangle, and the pointed end dragged
on the ground. Tex was bigger than Tsukino-san or me, so we couldn’t simply carry him. It would be a bumpy ride for Tex, but we would only have to do it once.
Tsukino-san said something in Japanese.
“He wants you to hear this one,” Tex said.
In the great-trunked tree
My father sits
Beside his father.
Wind over buds and branches.
After this last poem, we entered the cave for our final night on the island. Soon I fell into a deep sleep.
31
My nose quivered with the delicious odors of cooking. I followed these scents like clues in the darkness until I could go no farther. Turning my light back on, I saw a shining black door ahead of me. I hesitated a moment, then knocked.
“Come in,” called a woman.
I stepped through the door into a kitchen like no other I’ve seen. It had giant refrigerators, large tables for food preparation, stoves with a dozen burners, and an oven with a door like the opening to a barn. As my eyes adapted to the light, I looked at the woman, who stood beside a rectangular table with a butcher-block top. It was Numun, the gemlike woman, with her rubious skin aglow. She wore a dress, cape, and hood of immaculate white. Covering much of the floor were large woven baskets shaped as cornucopias, which overflowed with corn, squash, yams, melons, beets, turnips, carrots, artichokes, and more. Before her, on the table, an equally white sheet covered a shape that might have been a body. In fact, seeing her this way, I imagined her like a priestess of some ancient cult.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “This kitchen is so extensive that you can ask for almost anything. Perhaps a ragout of kangaroo tail or bird’s nest soup?”
“What’s that?” I interrupted.
“The nests are made from saliva of the cave swift. The soup aids digestion, alleviates asthma, and raises libido. Or you could have a steak of camel’s hump, raw or roasted termites, maggot cheese … ”
“No no,” I demurred.
“Ant stir-fry?” She raised her eyebrows with the question. “Take three hundred large, female red-bodied ants, add one tablespoon of vegetable oil and one medium-sized chopped onion. Heat the oil in a skillet, then stir-fry the onion and ants together until the onion is well browned.”
I shook my head.
“Or locusts? The book of Leviticus allows the eating of locusts. In Mark and Matthew we’re told that John the Baptist nourished himself on locusts and wild honey.”
“I don’t think so,” I managed to interject.
“What a shame,” she said. “Perhaps golden salamander en papillote? The recipe calls for fennel seeds, black peppercorns, powder of rhinoceros horn, coriander seed, red pepper flakes, bay leaves, oil of sperm whale, lemon slices … ”
She continued, but I was remembering walking by a stream as a child. One by one I turned over the flat rocks, curious about what lay beneath them. I saw worms, ants, grubs, centipedes, and tiny dark salamanders that scattered in fear. But under one rock I found the golden salamander of which she spoke. It was enormous in comparison to the others, three or four times as big, and on its golden skin were black dots. It didn’t try to run but looked unblinkingly at me like a king who finds an intruder in his domain. I wanted ever so much to pick him up and take him with me, but something in his dark eyes deterred even my boyish enthusiasm. So I lowered the rock and restored him to the darkness he ruled.
“I’m not really hungry,” I offered.
“Yes, you are,” she contradicted me, moving closer. “You’re afraid to eat what I offer you.”
“No no.”
“Salamanders are immortal.” She stepped to within a hand’s reach of me. “Eat, and become like them.”
“They aren’t immortal,” I said, uneasy with her closeness.
“Yes, they certainly are.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they cast no shadows.”
I pictured that golden salamander. It was many years ago, but I didn’t remember a shadow, just the dark intensity of its eyes.
“Anyway,” I replied, “I really have no appetite.”
“But you’re my guest. Tell me what I can do to please you.”
With this she stepped forward and touched the shells of my ears. I trembled as first she rubbed the tops and then the bottoms and the lobes. She was against me, her stomach pressing into me. Pleasure quivered in the base of my spine. It rose ever so slowly, vertebra by vertebra, like an exquisite flower lifting toward the ecstatic light pouring in through the openings of my eyes.
“Are you pregnant?” I gasped when I could speak again.
She had moved away from me and stood by the table. In her flowing garments, I couldn’t be certain whether her abdomen rose in a mound.
“If I were, would you marry me?” she teased with a smile. “This kitchen is tiny compared to my house, which is filled with wealth and things of beauty. You can share all I have.”
“I can’t stay here.”
“But your choices are limited,” she replied.
“What do you mean?”
“You can either remain here or you can go back the way you came. Nothing more.”
“But … ” I’m not sure why, but I couldn’t believe those were my only choices. The impulse that made me come all this way … I felt it still. I wanted to continue.
“Of course, each alternative has its nuances, its special attractions,” she continued.
“What are they?”
“This is a large kitchen, very large. I could use help here. Perhaps you would like a job.”
I had a recollection of once wanting employment of this kind. I frowned, but the details eluded me.
“What do you think?” she inquired when I failed to respond.
“What would my title be?” I asked to gain a little time.
“Sous-chef. You would oversee the transformation of raw vegetables and meats into edible and delicious foods. I know you have the training for it.”
“You do?”
“From the CIA.”
How could she know about my visit to the Culinary Institute of America?
“You have a knack with recipes, with the processes that change one thing into another.”
“No, not sous-chef,” I answered.
“Choose your title,” she offered grandly, “and you have a place here.”
“Thank you, but no.”
“No?”
I didn’t know what to expect. She turned to the massive oven, reached up to grasp its silver handle, and pulled open the door. Her white garments were silhouetted by the orange flames leaping inside that inferno. I came closer, expecting a searing blast of heat. But the flames had the quality of ice as well as fire. The immense oven had no floor, and the flames leapt above a column of magma that must have risen miles from the mantle of the earth.
“Here you can prepare your recipes.” She encouraged me with a wave of her hand. “Won’t you reconsider?”
I stared into this conflagration. Once I would have been delighted at such a job offer. But why should she care about my recipes?
“I have to keep going forward,” I answered at last.
She shook her head.
“There is no forward from here,” she said sharply, “only back.”
Moving to the butcher-block table, she rested her hands on the sheet covering the form beneath it. I wanted to remain gazing into the depths of the magma, but I went to face her across the table.
“The question is whether you’ll go back alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take someone with you if you want.”
“But who?”
“What about … ”—with a dramatic sweep of her arms, she pulled back the sheet that covered the form on the table before her—“… this man?”
I looked at the tall and slender body of a pale-skinned, elderly man clad in a loincloth. His eyes were closed as if in a peaceful dream. I felt a glimmer of recognition. Gently I placed my hand on h
is forehead, but he felt neither warm nor cold.
“Why is he here?” I asked her.
“He’s between,” she answered.
“Between what?” I waited for her to reply. When she said nothing, I haltingly added, “He was my mentor and … my friend.”
“Here”—she gestured to the four walls of the kitchen—“he’s in transition, unless you take him with you.”
Slowly she lifted her open hand, and the body creased at the waist and rose like a cobra to the melody of a fakir’s flute.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
“I told you,” she answered, her gesture bringing him off the table and onto his feet. “He is between. If you choose, he will follow you wherever you go. Sunlight will waken him. Then, for a time, he will be as he was before.”
“Only for a time?”
She gave a fleeting smile but didn’t answer.
“And there is a condition.”
“What?”
“Until the sunlight opens his eyes, you must not think of him as he used to be.”
I considered this.
“And if I do think of how he was?”
“He will vanish.”
“And go where?”
“You know the answer to that.”
I thought of the first cemetery, with its innumerable headstones.
“How can you hesitate?” she demanded as the aged body stood slackly beside her.
“No,” I said.
“No?”
I repeated the word more loudly. In response, she raised an arm and pointed the body toward the open door of the oven. Without opening its eyes, the slender figure followed her direction. Step after step it advanced toward the flames. I wanted to cry or reach out as it paused at the mouth of the oven. Then it stepped forward and vanished in the flames and molten magma.
Turning around, I was shocked to see Numun lying on the butcher-block table. She rested on her back, her legs bent and her white gown pulled up around her waist. She wore no underclothing. Between her legs, in the opening of her vagina, I could see the crown of a baby’s emerging head.
She caught my expression and laughed despite her exertions. Suddenly I connected the body that had vanished in the oven to this baby being born before me. In that moment I saw an option beyond staying here with her or returning in the darkness through which I had come.
