Under the Sun (14 page)

‘You see everything, but you cannot speak,’ he said.

The commander turned away and began to undress. He put his oil-smeared clothes on a chair and pulling aside the
mosquito
net, he got into bed. The submariner blew out the lamp and as he lay there in the darkness, he wondered about Hayama. Why had the captain lied to him about the identity tags? And if he had lied, which he was sure he had, what had happened to the pilot? Was he on the island? And if he was, then where was he? It just did not make sense. Shimura closed his eyes. He was too tired to think clearly. His recent ordeal had exhausted him and glad of the respite and the comfort of a bed, he quickly fell asleep.

Dawn broke over the island, casting shadows across the
mountain
, the sea’s dark stain diminishing as night fell from the heavens and the stars extinguished their fires. As the light increased the sun rose like a nymph from the deep, naked and tender as a newborn, flames flickering and falling from her shoulders in a burning watery garment, the sea coiling and writhing like a serpent beneath her feet. On the island a mist rose from the forest as dew evaporated in the heat, trailing an ethereal hand across the green canopy. Among the trees birds sang, the forest reverberating to their cries as they filled the air with their voices. As the birds chorused, the rest of the island awoke and a new day began.

The pilot lay hidden in the depths of the undergrowth,
listening
to the sounds of the forest as the sun rose above the treetops. Nearby he heard the sound of scratching and turning his head, he saw a jungle fowl pecking and scraping at the dirt. He lay still, the bird unaware as it foraged for insects among the fallen leaves. The jungle fowl continued its quest and moved away, leaving Strickland alone in his bower. He sat up and reached for the bag behind him, opening it to see what Ito had provided. He emptied the contents into his lap and an array of neatly wrapped parcels fell out. There was also a water bottle and the pilot unscrewed the cap and drank. He replaced the top and began unwrapping the parcels of food. There were fillets of salted fish, some rice balls, a handful of green beans, some limes and a fresh papaya. Enough to keep him going for several days, if he was careful.

Strickland peeled the papaya and ate half of the fruit, putting the rest of it back in the leaf that had wrapped it. He then ate a
couple of the rice balls and washed them down with some more water from his canteen. The pilot replaced the remaining food in the bag and put it to one side. With his eyes accustomed to the gloom, he looked about his bower and realised that he could not have picked a better hiding place. He was a long way from the camp and a fair distance from the mountain path. In order to find his hideout someone would have to come looking for him with dogs.

As the Englishman sat alone in his forest cell he felt the
solitude
of a hermit and his thoughts turned once again to the little friar. Although Fray Juan had been incarcerated in a bare room with only a single window high up in the wall, he had used his period of isolation for his own enlightenment. Strickland thought it would be a good exercise for him to try and
remember
in detail everything that he had learned about the saint, to see if he could retrieve the man’s writings and poetry from the recesses of his memory. It would occupy the hours and he would have something to tell Hayama when he next saw him. The captain admired the friar and always wanted to know more. It was as if John’s own example of self-abnegation and
compassion
had blown upon some ashes that lay deep within the
captain’s
soul and kindled a fire within. As the mystic himself had written: ‘
And when the Divine fire has transformed the substance
of the soul into itself, not only is the soul conscious of the burn, but it has itself become one burn of vehement fire.
’

And yet the more that the pilot discovered about Hayama’s faith, the more he was captivated by the philosophy of
reincarnation
; being constantly reborn until such a state of grace was obtained that man became a Buddha. It seemed as though
reincarnation
was the oriental version of purgatory, that life had to be lived again and the soul cleansed until it was pure.

There was also ‘karma’, a word Strickland had first heard about from the captain, who explained that every desire and action has a necessary reaction. Just as a pebble thrown into a pond made ripples, so whatever a person did also entailed a consequence.
Yet karma was not only a tenet of Buddhism, but also of
Christianity
. St Paul had said precisely this in his letter to the Galatians when he wrote, ‘
whatever a man sows, he shall reap
.’ The two faiths had many aspects that complimented each other. They were like two halves of the same fruit and in the middle were the pips, the seeds of faith. The pilot wondered what John the mystic would have made of the contemplative Buddhist life and was sure that it was not so very different from his own.

In John’s work ‘Living Flame’ Strickland remembered how the friar had described the Holy Spirit as penetrating ‘
the soul
continually, deifying its substance and making it Divine’
and as absorbing
‘the soul, above all being, in the Being of God
.’ Such insights appeared in Christian metaphors used by mystics for their descriptions of divine union: the two candle flames, the window and the ray of sunlight, the log burning in the fire. All of these images were continually used by John and none of them implied a loss of personality, except that the log was eventually united with the fire and became ‘
one living flame within it.
’ Again this echoed Buddhism’s own pantheistic imagery of salt
dissolving
in water and rivers flowing into the ocean.

The pilot was glad his memory served him well and thought the captain would be pleased to know about this latest
juxtaposition
of their faiths. He sat back against the narrow boughs of the spinney and closed his eyes. He was exhausted after his dash up the mountain in the middle of the night. His mind turned to the concert party and the orderly dressed as Sweet Pea singing her songs, and he smiled to himself. Strickland had always been comfortable with Hayama and Ito, but now he felt that he had been accepted by the rest of the camp. He was no longer an
outsider
, but a companion. And yet, while the pilot trusted
Hayama’s
men implicitly, he knew he was not safe so long as the submarine and its crew were on the island.

The Englishman remained in his self-imposed purdah for the next three days, venturing outside only after dark in order to stretch his legs and gaze at the stars. He would stand beside the
spinney looking up at the full moon as it hung like a lantern in the heavens. Later, Strickland would go down to the stream and fill his canteen, which would last him for another day. After drawing in a last few draughts of the night air, he would return to the dim recess of his hiding place.

On the fourth day, the pilot was eating breakfast in his bower when his foot knocked over his water bottle, spilling the contents onto the ground. He cursed quietly and picked it up, but there was barely a drop left. Strickland looked at the patch of damp earth and wondered whether he should risk going out to refill it. He decided to wait until dusk, when the men stopped work and gathered for their evening meal. It was unlikely anyone would venture up the mountain at that time. It also meant he would not have to go out in the middle of the night. Besides, the pilot had become confident about his hiding place and had not seen, nor heard of anyone since his arrival. There was also another reason why he wanted to leave his bower while it was still light. A large mango tree grew nearby, whose fruit was beginning to ripen. The pilot had finished his papaya and limes and with only salted fish and a few rice balls left, he yearned for something sweet. It would only take a moment to climb the tree and pick some fruit.

As the evening sun lowered in the sky, Strickland crept out from his bower. He waited by a rock and listened. Except for the low murmur of water and the occasional cry from a troop of monkeys, there was silence. He crept down the mountain path towards the mango, treading softly as he went. He spied the tree a short way off, its branches framed by the light of the
descending
sun. The pilot looked about and saw that everything was quiet, and approaching the tree he grabbed a branch and began to climb. The mango’s leaves rustled and shook as the
Englishman
shinned up the bough, the cloying smell of fruit assailing his nostrils. He reached the canopy where the mangoes were the ripest and holding onto a branch with his left hand, he selected one burnished by the sun, which he plucked and put inside
his shirt. Strickland had just picked another and was about to descend, when he heard the sounds of footfall and the voice of someone singing. His heart jolted in his chest and peering down, he saw an elderly Japanese sailor walking up the trail. The pilot’s concern turned to consternation when the sailor left the path and began to walk straight towards him. The crewman reached the tree, but did not look up. Instead, he sat down at its base and took out a packet of cigarettes. He struck a match and lit one, the smoke drifting away on the evening air.

The pilot remained hidden in the upper branches of the mango, praying the man would not see him. The old sailor took his time enjoying his cigarette and admiring the view from the mountain. He was so close Strickland could see the lines of his face, the man squinting as he looked at the setting sun. With a sigh the sailor finally stubbed out his cigarette on a rock. It was time to return to the submarine. He got to his feet and was about to leave when he spotted a mango on the ground. He took it, sniffed the fruit and smiled. He would share it later with his crewmates. Then the crewman looked up into the tree to see if any others were ripe and his eyes widened in disbelief when he saw a bedraggled, blond-haired man staring at him. Whoever it was, he certainly was not Japanese and the sailor dropped the mango and bolted towards the path.

Strickland jumped down and landing on all fours, he sprang after the sailor as he disappeared through the trees. The crewman ran quickly, but he was not as young or as fit as the pilot, who soon gained on him. A moment later the Englishman caught up and tackling him, they both fell to the ground. The sailor cried out in fear and put up a tremendous struggle, as the pilot
wrestled
with him in the dirt.

‘
Tomare!
’ Strickland shouted, as the man thrashed and wriggled beneath him like a trapped eel. ‘
Tomadachi! Tomadachi!
’ he repeated.

‘
Iie
! Iie! Iie!
’ cried the crewman, refusing to give up.

The two men continued their desperate struggle, with neither
gaining the upper hand. The sailor managed to slip partly from the pilot’s grasp and reaching down, he pulled his bayonet from its scabbard and struck his adversary on the side of the head. Before he could deal another blow Strickland grabbed his hand, the bright blade inches from his face. The bayonet shook before his eyes as they remained locked in their deadly clutch. With both hands grasping the hilt, Strickland gradually drew the knife away from his face and forced it down towards the man’s chest. With a final effort, he plunged it deep between his ribs. He twisted the knife and the crewman quivered like a stricken animal, his grip on the bayonet loosening as his life ebbed away. The pilot held him tightly in a dying embrace, the man’s eyes looking directly into his. The sailor almost smiled at him before his body went slack, the light in his eyes fading into infinity.

Strickland rolled away exhausted, his energy sapped by the fight. His breath came in thin rasps and he sucked air down into his lungs. His body was covered in sweat and his limbs shook from exertion. As his breath returned he got to his knees and looked at the body which lay beside him. The man was quite still, his eyes staring blankly at the sky. The pilot remembered that look. He had seen it before, a long time ago. When he was a boy he had once shot a blackbird with an air rifle, while it sang in the branches of a rowan. As the dying bird lay at his feet, it had the same look in its eyes. The look of death. Strickland did not know why he had killed the bird and confronted with his childish crime, he had stood there and wept. He never told anyone and buried the bird secretly in the rose garden. Now he had done something far worse and he felt sick. The Englishman turned away and feeling a sudden surge in the pit of his stomach, he vomited into the long grass.

The pilot stood up and wiping away the bitter taste of bile from his mouth, he looked at the corpse beside him. The sun had left the sky and the shadows lengthened. Soon it would be dark. Strickland wondered what he should do with the body. He could not leave it here and yet he did not want to take it back
to his hiding place. The idea of sleeping next to a dead man was abhorrent and besides the body would soon begin to smell. It could be several more days before the submarine left and they were bound to come looking for the sailor. He had to hide the body where it would never be found. The pilot thought he knew of such a place and putting his arms under the man’s shoulders, he began to drag the crewman back along the path.

By the time Strickland reached the ravine it was dark. The
constellations
were scattered in a brilliant dust across the heavens and the moon glimmered coldly like a coin in a fountain. The pilot heaved the sailor’s corpse towards the edge of the
escarpment
, his limbs aching from the effort. The cliff was covered by thick scrub, so that it was impossible to see down into the gulley. Strickland picked up a stone, threw it in and listened, hearing its dull echo as it struck the rocky floor below. It was deep enough and hauling the corpse to its feet, he pitched the dead man head first into the ravine. There was a rushing sound as the body plummeted through the fringe of thorn, followed by a low thud as it hit the bottom of the crevasse.

The pilot made his way back to his hideout, stopping briefly to fill his canteen in the stream. He crossed over to the far bank and getting on his hands and knees, he crawled through the spinney and into his bower. He sat there in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the stream as it burbled away. Strickland knew the submarine’s company would come looking for the crewman. He was sure they would never find the body and he doubted they would ever find him. But how would Hayama explain the
sailor’s
disappearence? His eyes searched the impenetrable gloom vainly seeking solace, but there was none. The pilot had never felt so desperate and so alone, and clasping his hands before him, he prayed to the little friar.