No Surrender Soldier (11 page)

A monsoon raged above Seto’s cave. Pain seared through the marrow of his bones. His swollen joints throbbed. His head ached. The dank earth smelled of mildew and smashed snails.

Water seeped through hatch and chimney. He worried the roof would collapse. Or would water fill up his cave and drown him?

Seto climbed out of his grave naked. Better to face driving rain than drown underground like a rat. Besides, this might be a good night for hunting. At very least no natives would be out in thunder and lightning.

Seto caught frogs—many frogs, big frogs. The frogs jumped and squeaked and fought to get out of his burlap bag. Seto knew that suffocating feeling of wanting to be free. But his hunger proved stronger than his pity for captive frogs.

He took refuge among spirit tree roots until rain lessened.

Once underground he could not get a fire going. His fire sticks were damp.
What a waste
, Seto thought. He had finally caught dinner but could not cook it. There were many things Seto would eat raw—fish, snails, even eels—but not frogs.

He lay down on a wet mat to the sound of thrashing, squeaking frogs. Seto laid his arm against his throbbing head, and waited until his sticks dried.

Time was indiscernible underground. But that night, each second listening to rain and frogs was agony. Rain sounded like bullets firing overhead. Frog squeals turned to soldiers screaming. Seto curled into a ball, covered his head and ears, and cowered in his foxhole.

He could stand it no longer. If he ate frogs, the screams would stop and his ghostly comrades would leave him alone. He got up and struck two rocks together. Again. Again. A spark flashed. Seto pushed the rocks closer to paper and oil and struck them together furiously until a flame ignited his stove. Smoke roared out and choked him. The fire died. There would be no frog dinner tonight.

Hungry, exhausted, Seto coughed in spasms until he could do nothing but lay helplessly on the ground. His cave sweltered like a sauna. He pulled over his body moist newspapers and the only blanket he owned—one drab scratchy army blanket he had retrieved from the
Amerikan
dump. It had been so long ago Seto could barely remember living in the open. There was a certain comfort at times being cocooned in a tunnel. This was not one those times. His blanket weighed heavy on his body. Everything felt clammy, and stunk of burnt coconut oil and urine and mold.

As he lay still with the itchy blanket over his head, Isamu Seto tried to transport his mind to a pleasant memory of a time of winter when he shivered so bad his teeth clattered and goose bumps rose on his flesh. Such coldness with its crisp dry air might be welcome compared to the steamy jungle.

There were many winter days to choose from, having grown up in Japan. There were fond memories of snowball fights with classmates on the long walk home from school, and ice fishing with his Uncle Kenta Seto who drank too much
sake
. He had loved his uncle, who could be funny when not fighting with Isamu’s father. Finally, Father forbade Isamu to ever see his uncle again. He knew not why, only that his father said Kenta shamed their family name. His father’s stony heart never forgave, nor did he speak to his brother again.

Other less fond memories crept in; memories when lakes froze and Isamu Seto went on ice runs one winter for his mother. That frigid winter of ice storms, it became Seto’s responsibility to cut ice blocks from the lake and haul them out with tongs to a sled. He slung leather straps over his shoulders and pulled ice blocks to his home. Curled in his cave, Seto’s shoulders ached and feet felt numb as he remembered that cold winter. Seto buried his head under the army blanket, then took deep practiced breaths—in, out, in, out—to feel moisture warm his nose and cheeks.

Surely there was a more pleasant memory of ice and snow and cold. One that would warm his heart and settle his soul in this frog-screaming, smoke-filled grave.

Ah, hai,
Seto thought about the time the priest had gathered him and his classmates in an ancient purification ritual. It was January and Seto had turned twelve the summer before. He would be a man soon, but he needed to prove himself first.

Snow blanketed his village and wind howled against his door like an evil intruder. Still, Seto stripped down to his loincloth and ran outside to battle the elements. New-fallen snow and ice formed a crust that stung Seto’s feet as he stomped to the shrine to join his classmates. When he arrived other boys were jumping around, trying to get warm.

(An image of leaping frogs threatened to pull him out of the shrine and into his cave again, but Seto frowned, burrowed deeper into his blanket, and imagined red columns on a shrine. It was not difficult to remember what the bitter cold felt like.)

He had been embarrassed, standing in his loincloth exposing his pale scrawny limbs. This had been the winter before he hauled ice. Instead he had spent hours after school helping his father. A tailor shop is not a place to build brawny muscles, not like the son of a farmer or logger or builder.

The priest called for the boys to gather around him. For Seto, it was as if his name was the only one being called. Yet he felt intimidated when the priest held a wooden icon aloft.
“Ichi, ni, san, shi…”
Seto could not really say whether or not the priest had said the numbers first as a prelude to tossing the statue. But as Seto lay on his
tatami
underground, it comforted him to hear a voice—any voice, even his own—call out the warning numbers to give him a chance to retrieve the statue.

Instead, Seto would always wonder, what if he had been swifter, pushed harder, actually grabbed the statue and held on for dear life? Would he have been strong enough to climb the rope with it and ring the bell? His father might have been proud of him. Yet Seto could not climb the rope on the school grounds. Everyone knew it. Even when his headmaster caned his legs, it did not make his arms strong enough to pull his own weight to the top of the rope that hung from a tree.

It was not that Seto did not try to retrieve the statue. He did. At least he thought he did. Boys jostled and shoved him. Frigid water doused him. None of it made him strive to overcome his timidity. And then there was the loincloth. He must not have tied it tight enough because without his trousers to keep it in place, the cloth felt as if it was slipping, slipping. Seto kept tugging up the white strip covering his emerging manhood.

In the end, Mori, the butcher’s son, retrieved the icon, climbed the rope, and rang the bell at the top of the shrine. Afterward, Seto ran with all the boys down to the lake where they plunged through rippling caps and submerged beneath icy water.

Seto shook uncontrollably at the memory. When he had tried to emerge again, he came up underneath ice. He pressed his face against ice and gasped air from pockets. He swallowed water and his lungs burned as he kicked and swam for an opening. Finally he burst free, breeching the surface like a whale being hunted by whalers.

The rest of his classmates were already on shore, wrapped in white sheets like burial cloths and being blessed by priests. Seto was last to resurrect from a watery grave and come to shore. He almost missed the blessing.

“Domo…”
he whispered as he did so many years before. Seto craved the blessing from the priest. For a boy needs to be tried, purified, and blessed to become a worthy man.

The memory was a sad but fulfilling one. Seto fell into a deep, deep sleep. Later, as he fought between sleep and wake, he heard muffled squeals. At first he thought it was frogs still struggling to be free. But this frightful squeal was faint, yet shrill.

Seto sat up and listened closely. His heart raced. Could it be he caught something in his snare?

Bang!

Seto clutched his chest at the sound of gunfire. No more squeals. Silence. The suspense of not knowing was killing him.

Simon looked very handsome dressed for dinner. Our smoked pig lay on the banquet table between kelaguen shrimp and ginger chicken.

Tasted good, too. I snatched a piece of pork from near the ribs. I smeared the grease from my mouth on the back of my hand and wiped it on my black trousers before pinching a shrimp. Tatan swiped a taro tip from the table. He was still on a roll, having a good day. Maybe Nana had gotten it wrong about his
lytico-bodig
growing worse. Maybe like Tatan had it wrong about Nana being raped. I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to get all this crazy thinking to go away. I couldn’t deal with it. This was going to be a fun night. Fiesta. Why ruin it by thinking too much?

“Boys!” Nana hissed. I downed the shrimp and scooted out of Nana’s reach before she playfully swatted my hand. Tata laughed.

I heard Daphne giggling with the women and girls dressed in long flowered Filipina dresses. I still had not had a chance to explain and clear things up. She’d been busy getting her project ready for the science fair. So that cut out lunch hours. Then I was stuck rushing home after school every day to check on Tatan. Maybe tonight we could talk. I bent forward enough to look down the table. Daphne was stirring ambrosia, the nectar of the gods. I raked my fingers through my hair. Daphne glanced sideways at me. Could she guess I had it bad for her? Just looking at her in that yellow dress gave me a rush.

I was getting ready to go talk to Daphne when Nana said, “Tata’s waiting for you. Get down to the procession.” I hesitated and sniffed the lemon Nana was squeezing over tuna. “I’ll join you later,” she said.

I looked at Daphne again. Was she smiling at me? I chucked my chin and took off for the procession.

Tatan, Tata, and I hitched a ride in the back of a pickup to the other end of the beach. We joined thousands of Catholics gathered to honor Diego Luis de San Vitores, a Spanish Jesuit missionary. A Chamorro chief ordered him beheaded four hundred years ago because the priest baptized the chief’s baby daughter without his permission. I guess I could see both sides. Nobody should go against the chief, especially not concerning his own family. But the priest was probably worried about the baby’s soul if she died. It’d be a hard call. But beheading? Whoa, that’s some seriously deep doo-doo. I wouldn’t want to mess with any of that chief’s daughters.

The pickup parked beside nuns. I never got why people called them penguins. Not that I’ve ever seen a penguin. But the nuns looked like a pod of dolphins in their gray cloaks.

“Care if I find Tomas, eh?”

“Go ahead,” Tata said. “We’ll see you at Saint William’s Chapel.”

I squinted into the setting sun, looking for Tomas. Padre Flores led the faithful down Tumon beach, his large gold cross beating against his chest steady as a drumbeat. Behind him twelve robed altar boys cupped their hands around candles. I imagine in the olden days they would have been carrying tiki torches. The tallest boy hoisted high a teakwood cross perched on a staff.

Ah, there was Tomas, walking behind the monks in brown robes, crunching seaweed and crushed coral under their sandals. I ran to catch up to Tomas, and my thin black tie—more like a noose Nana made me wear—flapped over my shoulder.

“Hey, bro,” Tomas said, “seen Daphne? She’s looking mighty fine.”

I flicked my eyebrows, then looked out over the ocean instead of at Tomas. I flushed hot every time I thought about Daphne possibly seeing Tatan naked. I had to quit thinking about it, especially during this holy procession. Communion fell before the fiesta feast, so I tried to put Daphne, looking fine, out of my mind. I didn’t have time for confession tonight, and I didn’t need to spend the night with a boner.

I craned my neck back to see Tata walking alongside Tatan.

“Who you looking for, eh?” Tomas said.

“Oh, Tatan.”

“Don’t worry none. He’s probably back with the
manamkos
chewing the fat about old times and whose obit is in the paper.” Tomas laughed.

“Yeah, you probably right. Tatan’s kay-o. Besides, Tata’s keeping an eye out for him.”

Waves lapped the shore and amber streaked the sky. We marched onward like Christian soldiers to the grotto.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” the priest chanted once we huddled at San Vitores’s shrine.

I crossed myself. Tomas fingered the crucifix around his neck. We responded, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death. Amen.”

Tomas’s stomach rumbled. I started to laugh, but put my hand over my mouth.

Tomas tried to hold back snickering, too, but it snorted through his nose.

Daphne glanced over from across the aisle with her eyebrows knit together. I cupped a fist to my mouth like a conch shell.
Ga-humph,
escaped through my fist
.

The priest droned on.

Daphne smiled shyly and Tomas nudged me with his elbow and smiled back at Daphne.

“… which gives food to the hungry,” the priest recited.

I looked at Tomas, which set off his snickering again.

“The Lord sets prisoners free,” we responded.

I flicked my eyebrows at Daphne.

She giggled into cupped hands, but I could see her eyes dancing. Man, she was beautiful. What I wouldn’t give for one dance with her. Maybe I’d get lucky and work up the nerve to ask her. Then I could talk to her and set things right. I might even tell her I like her.

The priest said, “The Lord takes care of strangers.”

I shifted my eyes and caught sight of Tata and Nana, responding, “The Lord comforts the fatherless and widows…”

“Praise ye the Lord,” the congregation ended.

Finally, Communion. Then we could eat. Then the music and dance. Maybe then I could spend time with Daphne.

The Father placed on the altar one gold chalice and one thin wafer the size of a tortilla. Inside the chalice sloshed a liquid the color of Simon’s blood.

Smoke billowed from an oil incense burner, anointing my hair and clothes and skin with scents of musk and sandalwood, like the musty smell after a rain.