TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy)

by Timothy James Dean

  Katsu the dreamer, saw his younger self standing in an elaborate garden. Trimmed trees and blossoming shrubs ranged around a grand home. This was the gracious estate that had been in his family for generations. The dreamer looked to the pond where the white swan swam.

  The man he saw there was a younger, more confident, handsome version of himself. His thick hair was brushed back from his clean-shaven, unlined face. His body was muscular, not thin as he was now. He was outfitted in a crisp officer’s uniform, with its decorations and the insignia of a Captain in the Imperial Army. The younger Katsu held a crystal glass of golden liquor and ice, and around him were his fellow officers, each with a drink.

  Senior officers stood to the side and the dreamer searched for a particular face. He saw the stern features and the white hair at the temples. His father was in uniform, his chest ablaze with the Golden Kite, the Rising Sun, and the Order of the Sacred Treasure.

  Katsu saw the women in their splendid kimonos, his mother with her heavy hair and sweet smile. But his eyes were for Koto—his wife was so lovely! He drank in her pale, flawless skin and the long neck. Her shining hair was coiled up, adorned with the mother-of-pearl combs he had given her on their wedding night. The dreamer’s heart swelled as he saw their children beside her—Ryo, his nine-year old son and his five-year old daughter, Yuriko.

  In the dream, Katsu’s father spoke in his authoritative voice.

  “The war has come! The Takano family is samurai and we have waited all our lives to serve the Empire. A toast to our beloved Emperor and his family! A toast to Nippon and our sure victory!”

  With the others, the young Katsu raised his glass and drank. The liquor was his father’s favorite—Talisker Whisky from the United Kingdom. It was very expensive and now impossible to come by, but his father had visited London before the war, and had brought several cases home.

  The dreamer watched his father enter the house and go to an alcove. Here a priceless heirloom rested on its stand. This was the most precious of the family swords in its scabbard, and the man picked it up. It was the katana called “Bizen,” but by the men of the Takano family, “Katsumushi-maru.”

  In his dream, as in life, Katsu’s father returned outside where the guests waited. He approached the younger Katsu and held out the katana.

  “My son,” his father said, his voice solemn. “Tomorrow you leave for battle. Take Katsumushi-maru. It is the spirit of our ancestors. Now it is yours.”

  His father offered the sword and Katsu, overcome with the honor done him, accepted it and bowed low.

  “Use it well. Protect Katsumushi-maru and it will protect you. Never forget this. You are a Captain in the Imperial Army. But more than that, you are samurai in the service of the Emperor. Obey your orders. May you honor your heritage and the uniform.” His father turned to the assembled guests.

  “My fellow warriors, my family, honored friends. I present to you my son, Takano Katsu—and Katsumushi-maru!”

  There were broad smiles and calls of appreciation. The men drank again, this time to him.

  Then in the dream, Katsu was alone with his father in the room where they displayed the five suits of full armor of their ancestors. Ancient paintings hung on the walls, some done by the warriors themselves. Katsumushi-maru was in Katsu’s hands as his father spoke.

  “Many families would not send a priceless heirloom like Katsumushi-maru into battle. A soldier would take an inferior blade so that the katana would not be lost. But to think that way is to defeat your warrior heart before the first blow!” His father studied him and went on passionately.

  “With Katsumushi-maru in your hand, victory is the only acceptable outcome. You must teach the enemy the tune Katsumushi-maru sings.”

  The dream changed again, and Katsu was entering the bedroom as he removed his clothing. His heart rose to find Koto waiting for him, naked in bed, all her lovely hair spilling over her shoulders. Katsu lay beside her, wrapped her in his arms and smelled the scent of her skin. He clutched her beloved form to him, as he had that very last night before he sailed for war.

  The dream was so heartbreakingly vivid Katsu awoke, his hands embracing sand. Koto was gone and he was alone, terribly alone. His cheeks were wet with tears and he yearned for her so strongly that if he could not have her, he desired death. But that respite, once again, would not come.

  He rolled on his back and looked into the cold countenance of the moon. Koto filled his heart, as did his children Ryo and Yuriko, and all the people he loved. He wondered if they were staring at this very same face of the night. Perhaps they asked it if he, Katsu, was somewhere under it, or had died long ago. There had been no communication for so long.

  His hand went to the katana at his side and clutched the hard comfort. It was the last shred of his pride, the one thing that connected him to his family and tradition.

  It occurred to him then, even though he had made a solemn promise otherwise, it was impossible to go home without Katsumushi-maru. Yet he had given his word. He had promised the Australian that when the time came, he would surrender it to him.

  The cosmic light allowed no lies. Katsu admitted he no longer hated Footy, but at the same time, he was gaijin and unworthy of a prize he could not understand. Katsu imagined the sword hanging on the wall of a peasant house, dusty and unloved. He saw Footy grown old, handing the rusted blade to profane hands as he recounted his threadbare war stories.

  Katsu rolled over and stared at the man himself, a sleeping form outlined in moonlight. How easily the katana could reach over and stroke the life from him! But even as the thought came, Katsu was flooded with the certainty that his war with these two men was finished.

  Unthinkable as it was, he had promised to surrender Katsumushi-maru to the Australian, and this he must humble himself to do. But not before the time—not until the last second, he promised himself. After that I may live, but my warrior heart will be dead.

  Sleep had deserted Katsu and he sat up. The South Pacific had grown gentle in the night and it seemed to steal softly like a lover to kiss the beach. He saw the path the moonlight made across the water and was struck by the fancy that he could travel it. He would run and never stop until he was home.

  But as Katsu’s yearning eyes traveled that wavering light, they were tripped up by darkness. Out perhaps three hundred meters, a wedge of blackness moved across the beam and broke it into fragments.

  It might simply be the ocean tossing in his sleep. But perhaps something huge moved out there, that was more than a trick of the light. He strained his eyes, but could not make it out. And now the moon sank into the water, and the path home was gone.

  What was it? Was it the crocodile? The ocean of stars continued to glimmer, but it was not enough. Sharply, he recalled his first confrontation with the Father. It had taken his rifle from him and batted him as a man would strike a fly. He had been knocked unconscious, and that is how the soldiers had taken him without a fight.

  I have not finished with the beast, he thought.

  He stayed awake for some time and smoked a cigarette. He was unsettled, because the monstrous animal frightened him. That was the only sane response to such a dragon of the deep. But now he became aware of his pains. His body throbbed from the crash, and his brain was bruised by the brandy. He yawned hugely and lay back on his side.

  He put his hand on Katsumushi-maru and at last he slept.

  Katsu woke when the stars were fading in the east. He had forgotten what he had dreamed, except that Koto was in his mind. She retreated as his consciousness returned, and he ached with her absence. He cherished the memory of her as he rose and began to prepare breakfast.

  In Katsu’s home, there had been servants to prepare the food, but since he was a boy, his secret passion had been to cook. He had haunted the kitchens and the workers had indulged the master’s son. Now here with his former enemies on the beach, the humble work gave him something practical to do, in a world that was almost too much to bear.

  In
truth, he was in agony this morning, and walked like an old man. This was the legacy of the very serious American game called “chicken.” Its object, colored by the strong drink, had seemed obvious to him. The combatants only turned away because they were afraid. And Katsu had known he was no longer fearful, not even to die.

  At that moment yesterday when he left the jeep, he had flown toward the end with something like gratitude. It was with regret that he awakened with sand and a loose tooth in his mouth.

  Then, as Katsu limped to put the coffee on, he remembered the moving darkness that had carved the moonlight. His eyes flashed to the ocean, but all he saw were the eternal waves, rising in the dawn to do battle with the land once more.

  Katsu cooked and watched the play of the ocean. Gulls rose in the breeze to hover above it, while others huddled in groups on the sand, preening their feathers.

  He was in the fleeting moments when it was not night, but not yet day. Katsu saw the other men sleeping. They are my captors and yet I am free!

  He picked up Johnny’s clasp knife, and took soap, a towel, and the largest cooking pot. He made his way to the pool of water. There he filled the container, then sat and scrubbed himself thoroughly under the spout. He had seen that Johnny had shaved, and now he lathered his head and face and did the same with the blade, over his scalp, lip and chin, using touch to tell him when the skin was smooth. He brushed his teeth with a twig and returned to camp.

  When breakfast was ready, he woke the other men. This morning’s new offering was fried bananas. Johnny climbed out of his hammock and groaned. He, too, hurt all over. Somehow he had gashed both shins and his body was covered with bruises and abrasions. The wound in his chest hurt again, but at least it had not torn open.

  Footy hunched by the fire pit and Johnny dragged himself to sit nearby. Cat brought coffee and plates of food and the men ate in silence, staring at the day.

  Johnny tried not to look at the wrecked jeeps, although they loomed large. Cat ate with them and Johnny saw his hangdog look. It hadn’t been the prisoner’s idea to play “chicken,” but his own, and the Asian could hardly be blamed for not knowing how it went. Even the brandy had been Johnny’s idea.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” Johnny told him.

  “Yes, ta,” Footy mumbled.

  The captive nodded and gathered up the dishes. Johnny and Footy went to the radio where the Aussie broadcast the call for rescue.

  After that, the men went fishing. It was not for sport. They needed the meat. The sun seemed particularly harsh this morning, glaring in their eyes. They cast for a couple of hours, but with the surf up, nothing was biting, and they gave it up. Johnny’s stomach was queasy and he thought Cat looked half dead. All three had headaches and they returned to camp and tried to sleep it off.

  In mid-afternoon, clouds drifted over the sun. Johnny got up feeling only marginally better. Barefoot, wearing his shorts, he took his pole and went to fish the wall. He prepared his lure and began to cast. Eventually the other men awoke and came down to watch. They sat some distance apart, their shadows stretched long down the beach.

  They sat for an hour before Johnny got the huge strike. His rod bent double and he shouted and spilled line as his catch hauled out to sea. It felt like he’d hooked a tow truck, and he knew he had to slow it or it would take his whole spool. To keep from burning his fingers, he pinched the line in the material of his shorts and squeezed. Footy and Cat called and pointed as the filament cut across the waves.

  Finally Johnny managed to slow the creature, but when he glanced down, he saw only a few loops left around the can. Using the rod as a lever, he dragged the weight in, dipped the tip and wrapped up the slack.

  He’d muscled the fish in twenty yards when it launched another rush, and he lost everything he’d gained. Over and over, he and the fish repeated the contest of strength and wills.

  Finally, Johnny dragged it over the drop off and caught his first glimpse, a dark shape hovering in the water. Worn out as he was, the sight gave him strength. But the fish got a second wind as well. Again, the pole slammed over, and Johnny could not spill off line fast enough. It hummed and he knew it would snap at any second.

  He ran into the ocean up to his chest. For long moments he fought the swimmer, muscles bulging, locked in a standoff. Then, foot-by-foot, he levered it in. Gradually, he was able to back onto dry land.

  Then the glorious fish jumped. It came up dark green, flashing water and light. It tossed its massive head with the prominent hump, and tried to shake the hook out of its lip. The men shouted hoarsely, and the fish splashed down and pulled hard away. Johnny was forced to pay out line.

  “Did you see?” Johnny called. “Napoleon Wrasse!”

  “Maori! Maori Wrasse mate!” Footy yelled. But Johnny knew this fish. When a Hawaiian fisherman caught one, he could trade it for a stack of dollars at the best restaurants in Honolulu. And they got big. Johnny had seen one on the scales, six feet long and four hundred pounds. The one he’d hooked was not a Goliath like that, but it was giant enough.

  “Napoleon!” Johnny called back. “See the hat on its head?”

  “Maori!” Footy insisted. “See the tattoos on its face?”

  Another half hour, and Johnny was played out. But so was the fish. It finned on its side in four feet of ocean. Johnny’s arms quivered, but he kept the pressure on.

  Footy and Cat went in after it. The fish saw them coming and made its last break. Again, Johnny ran into the water while his rod went berserk. He mustered all he had to drag it back into the shallows.

  The Wrasse rolled sluggishly. Footy and Cat approached from each side and rammed a hand through the gills. They half carried, half dragged it out. A wave broke over its back and left it stranded.

  “It must weigh five stone—about seventy pounds, mate!” Footy crowed. Cat grabbed driftwood and cracked it over the hump. The great fish quivered and died. Johnny sat down, panting. Footy rolled it on its side. Cat slit it, anus to jaw, and began to haul out the substantial guts, arms in to the elbows.

  “Jolly good show!” a British voice called behind them.

  “Now, kindly turn around—and be so good as to raise your hands.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Johnny looked sharply over his shoulder and saw a man in khaki shorts and a loose cotton shirt. He wore an old bowler hat and had a patchy, curly black beard. A kerchief was knotted around his neck and oriental sandals with curled toes set off his ensemble.

  The newcomer’s most conspicuous feature was the revolver he held. Johnny raised his hands. Footy and the Japanese stopped their work and put theirs up as well, Cat’s draped with fish guts.

  “Splendid,” the newcomer said. “Who’s in charge?”

  “I guess I am,” Johnny said.

  “Let’s have the introductions, shall we? You first.”

  Johnny turned to face his interrogator.

  “I’m Sergeant John Willman, US Army. The Aussie is Glen Carmichael, formerly Australian Army, now private citizen.”

  “And the Nip?” the Englishman asked.

  “He’s our prisoner, an enemy officer we captured up the river. His name—say the whole thing again, Cat?”

  “I am Takano, Katsu,” the Japanese said.

  “We call him Cat,” Johnny said.

  “Cat, I see” the Brit said. “And your purpose here?”

  “Allied operation,” Johnny said. “Rescue mission to Kissim at the headwaters of the Raub. We were to find some priests and neutralize any hostiles. He’s the only one left.”

  “Name of your assignment?” the man asked.

  “Operation Teeth,” Johnny said.

  “Alright then,” the man said, lowering his pistol. “Who I expected—the chaps on the wireless.” He turned to the Australian. “That would be you, Footy, from your voice.”

  “Right you are,” Footy grinned. “Wireless Op.”

  “And who are you?” Johnny asked.

  “Yes of course. Charles Rutherford, formerly C
aptain in the Royal Marines, at your service.” The man gave an ironic salute.

  “Or rather, formerly with the British Forces. Demobbed—all that. You can call me ‘Chas.’

  “I came here by way of Asia, and at present I reside at my plantation, inland several days. You’ve brought me on quite a chase. I served his Majesty most recently in Burma. For the last few months, I’ve been what the Aussies call a ‘Coast Watcher.’ I report on the nefarious activities of his crowd,” he nodded at the Japanese. “We’ve been quite busy. You know the war is over?”

  “We heard,” Johnny said. “We dropped some new bomb on Japan and they surrendered. But that’s all we know.”

  “Quite right,” Chas said. “The atomic bomb. At this very moment, gentlemen, the greatest Allied armada of the Pacific War is sailing for Tokyo Harbor to accept the formal surrender of the Japs. The war is over and the new American Emperor is on his way to Japan,” he said. “By that I mean your Douglas MacArthur,” he winked at Johnny. “His High and Mighty Supremacy, long may he live.”

  “The war is over?” Katsu asked. “This is certain?”

  The Brit looked at the prisoner. He did not realize until now that the man spoke the King’s English.

  “Yes.” Chas spoke directly to him.

  “Today is August 25th. About ten days ago, your Emperor Hirohito went on the wireless and told the nation Japan had surrendered. I heard the translation on the news. He said something to the effect that should Japan fight on, the new bomb would result in the extinction of civilization.

  “There are tens of thousands of your countrymen still in New Guinea,” he told the Japanese. “Mobs of them in the Wewak area. But now, no doubt, the unpleasantness will draw to a close. I imagine you’ll be joining your fellows on the ships home.

  “I’ve just returned from a walkabout with my one-talks, spying out enemy activity. It’s clear some refuse to believe Japan has lost. I returned to my village only to hear your cry for help on my wireless. Voilà—here I am. Rutherford to the rescue.”