Under the Sun (12 page)

‘Will you show me the wreck?’

‘Of course … come on,’ said the orderly and he got up.

Ito hopped barefoot across the burning sand and the
Englishman
followed. They walked round to the edge of the harbour and climbed the great boulders along the promontory. Once on top of the spur, Ito leapt from rock to rock with
sure-footed
grace and Strickland jumped after him as best he could. When he reached the end the orderly stopped and waited for the pilot to catch up. Strickland arrived a little out of breath and looking back, he could see the pale beach curving like a blade towards the jetty on the far side. Before him the sea echoed and boomed. He watched as the waves pounded the coral, the surf exploding in a white cannonade across the reef. The wind whipped the tops of the waves so that a fine mist rose from their crests, before they came crashing down upon the coral. The air was thick with salt and the pilot breathed in deeply, filling his lungs.

‘The wreck is down there,’ said the orderly, pointing at the surface which shimmered a few feet below.

Strickland peered into the water, but could see nothing except the sunlight wobbling on the waves.

‘How deep is it?’

‘Not much. Maybe twenty feet. I show you,’ and Ito picked his way down the rocks to the shore.

The pilot followed and joined him on top of a large, black boulder which stuck out above the water.

‘There … now you see it,’ said his companion pointing into the depths.

The water was as clear as
sake
and the pilot could see schools of brightly coloured fish swimming below. The fish would flit back and forth and suddenly scatter as a predator swam by. There was an abundance of coral of varying shapes and hues, some waving like fans, others static like the branches of petrified
trees. And yet, as the pilot gazed at all the marine life below, he could not see any sign of the sunken vessel.

‘There’s plenty of coral, but where’s the ship?’

‘It is beneath. The coral grow above wreck.’

Strickland looked again and as his eyes became accustomed to the variegated mass of marine life, he could make out a large shape lying perpendicular to the shore. It was the Dutch
merchantman
. The seabed was so shallow that when the ship sank its main deck must have been above water. Over the years the tide and storms had levelled the vessel, so that only its hull remained on the bottom. He wondered what had happened to the crew. Had they been rescued? Or were they forced to survive on the island until they finally perished? Perhaps that was how the monkeys had arrived.

‘You are ready?’ asked Ito, grasping the harpoon in one hand and holding his mask in the other.

‘You go first. I’ll follow,’ the pilot replied and the orderly hopped in, his body barely making a splash. Strickland waited until he emerged and stripping off his clothes and sandals, he dived after him into the sea.

The Englishman swam beneath the waves and then broke the surface, shaking the water from his hair. He saw Ito
grinning
at him and suddenly they both started laughing. Neither of them knew why they were laughing, perhaps it was just the sheer pleasure of being in the water. The sea echoed to the sound of their happiness, their voices rising above the crashing surf.

‘Go on, show me the wreck,’ said Strickland, still smiling.

‘
Oke
,’ replied Ito and putting on his mask, he flipped over and disappeared beneath the surface.

The pilot followed and together they swam down towards the merchantman. Strickland did not have a mask and opening his eyes, he found the underwater world oddly translucent, shapes and colours melding together in an aqueous light. He lost sight of Ito and continued on towards the wreck. Strickland grabbed a piece of coral on the ship’s deck and hung onto it, marvelling
at the seascape around him. He felt he had been transported to another world, a silent numinous kingdom full of strange delights. A variety of fish surrounded him, quite unafraid of this interloper and stretching out a hand they nibbled curiously at his fingers, before dashing away again. He looked down and saw a giant clam gape by his foot, a wave of colour pulsing across the fleshy opening of its mouth. As the oxygen in his blood
diminished
the pilot felt his chest beginning to constrict and looking up, he could see the waves rippling above him like a patch of sky. He let go of the coral branch and kicked off, rising in a single glide. His head broke the surface and exhaling he opened his eyes, the sun’s glare making him squint. Strickland trod water and soon Ito appeared beside him. In his hand was his harpoon, a blue angel fish twitching on the barbs.

‘Take this,’ he said, removing the mask from his face and handing it to the pilot. ‘You can see wreck much better.’

Strickland took the mask and put it over his head,
adjusting
it to fit his face. Through the watery pane of glass he saw Ito smiling at him and giving him a thumbs up, he turned and dived again. This time the seabed appeared in sharp relief, the colours no longer unfocused, but varied and bright. Beneath him lay the wreck with its verdant foliage of coral and he swam down towards it, a school of tiny silver fish scattering in his path like bullets. With his hand upon the coral the pilot pulled himself along the wreck, until he came to the shattered mizzen mast encased in a mass of green and red fans waving idly in the current. Before the mast lay the open hatch of the main deck, an ominous black square where fish came and went. The
Englishman
swam over the opening and felt a chill across his body. He continued on to the bow and with the air in his lungs beginning to fail, he took a final look along the wreck before pushing off and swimming towards the surface.

Strickland emerged with a gasp and removed the mask from his face. He took a gulp of air, looked about and saw that Ito was paddling near the shore and swam towards him.

‘Wonderful!’ he said, as he approached. ‘All those fish!’

‘Yes, there are many fish!’ agreed the young Japanese.

‘Here take this.’ Strickland handed the orderly his mask. ‘Go and catch your octopus. I’m going to have a rest.’

‘
Oke
,’ said Ito, slipping the mask over his head. ‘I hope I catch one,’ and with that he ducked, disappearing like a cormorant beneath the surface.

The pilot turned and headed back towards the promontory. With a few strokes he reached the wave-spattered shore and trod water as he selected a suitable rock and grabbing one, he hauled himself out of the sea, the waves trying to drag him back. With a final effort Strickland rose clear from the water and climbed up the boulders towards his clothes, but he did not put them on and instead lay down, using his shirt as a pillow. He stretched out on the sun-warmed rocks and soaked up the heavens’ rays. The pilot closed his eyes, listening to the surf roaring in his ears and in a short while he dozed off.

He had not been asleep long when a splash of water woke him. He looked up and saw Ito standing over him, an octopus squirming in his hand. The orderly turned the mottled mass inside out and bit it. He then put the dead octopus in his bag and sat down next to him.

‘We’ll eat well tonight,’ said the pilot, raising himself on his elbows.

‘Yes. Captain Hayama like octopus very much. But he like this even more,’ and he made a snapping motion with his fingers and thumbs.

‘Crab?’

‘Yes. He love crab. But they are difficult to catch. The crab hide deep. They live out by reef,’ and the orderly pointed to the foaming line of surf.

Strickland smiled and lay back again and Ito joined him, taking off his bag. The two men lay there on the rock, sunning themselves like lizards as the waves pumelled the shore. The sky above them was blue and empty and a breeze blew in from the
ocean bringing a taste of the sea. The air was soporific and soon they fell asleep. As the afternoon wore on, the sun made its slow way across the heavens, the wind dropped and the sky deepened.

After a while Strickland woke again. His head felt light and his limbs heavy from sleeping in the sun and he decided to have a last swim before returning to the camp. Ito dozed quietly beside him. The pilot left him to his slumber and padded over to the large rock and standing on its edge, he flexed his knees and dived in. The water was refreshingly cold and the
Englishman
struck out towards the reef. As he drew closer, the noise became almost deafening. The pilot went as near as he dared and watched in awed fascination as the waves detonated across the coral, before rising again and rolling in a phalanx towards him. Finally, he turned and swam back to the shore and saw Ito sitting up on the rock.

‘You are strong swimmer,’ said the orderly, as Strickland hauled himself out of the water.

‘I grew up by the sea,’ the pilot replied, picking his way towards his companion.

‘Ah … like me.’

‘Captain Hayama told me that you’re from Nagasaki.’

‘Yes,’ said Ito. ‘I’m half man, half fish.’

Strickland smiled and observed the young Japanese. Hayama said that he had compassion, but if that were true it was nothing compared to the orderly’s. If it had not been for Ito he would have died in the punishment box. Both of them knew what had happened and both of them realised they must never mention it.

‘It’s getting late,’ the pilot said as he looked out to sea at the westward sun and began to put on his clothes. ‘We should get back to the camp.’

‘I hope the captain-san will be happy with my fish,’ replied the orderly, picking up the bag which contained his catch.

‘I’m sure he will,’ answered his companion and together they made their way over the rocks towards the beach.

When they reached the camp the two of them parted. Ito went
into the yard behind Hayama’s quarters and the pilot returned to his own hut. He was tired from swimming and lying out in the sun and after a quick shower he went inside and lay down on his bed. Strickland closed his eyes, enjoying the respite from the day’s heat. He lay there in the gloom, listening to the
diminishing
sounds of the forest as the sun set beyond the trees.

Later, the pilot went over to the captain’s hut and found his friend happily playing with the macaque, who seemed to have taken to his new guardian. Hayama had made a collar and
fastened
it with a long chain so that Chamberlain could run freely around his quarters without escaping. The radio was tuned to a station playing popular music and the atmosphere was happy. They dined on Ito’s grilled octopus and after supper the captain brought out his set of Mahjong and sat down to teach the pilot how to play. He built the walls containing the various characters and described the importance of the dragons, the seasons and the four winds. They played late into the night, constantly
refilling
each other’s glasses with
sake
. There was laughter and music and outside the pale moon shone and cicadas sang in the trees.

Strickland spent the following days fishing and swimming with Ito out by the wreck and whiled away the evenings with Hayama, where they would talk long into the night. Sometimes he would go for walks alone in the forest and come back with his arms laden with fruit. He would take whatever he had picked around to the yard at the back and would often find the orderly there, either tending the chickens or filleting and salting fish and hanging them out to dry on long bamboo poles. The pilot also made himself a rudimentary fishing rod, which he used with some success. Ito had given him an old reel which he no longer used, preferring the harpoon, and Strickland had gone and cut down a length of bamboo from the forest. After stripping and sanding the wood, the pilot had hammered some nails along the shaft and using a pair of pliers, he bent them over to make the eyes. He then attached the reel to its base with some twine and threaded the line through the metal hoops. It was not perfect and the line occasionally snagged as he cast, but it worked well enough. He used either a lure, which he had cut from a tin can and hammered flat, or a cork and a hook which he baited with fish. Once he caught a wahoo that must have weighed seven or eight pounds.

Early one morning Ito was standing in the sunlit yard, wearing nothing but a loincloth as he salted his catch. He rubbed the flakes firmly into the fillet before hanging it on a bamboo pole, which he placed in the sun. One of the goats cried and turning around he saw the Englishman coming towards him.

‘
Ohayo gozaimasu, ogenki desu-ka
?’ he said, making the smallest of bows.

‘
Ohayo gozaimasu, oke domo arigato
,’ answered Strickland, who now spoke a few rudimentary words of Japanese. He bent down and stroked one of the goat’s brown ears and the animal bleated contentedly. He patted the beast and stood up.

‘Working hard?’

‘Yes, today is special day,’ said the orderly in a hushed voice, tapping his lips with his forefinger and indicating the
commander’s
quarters behind him.

‘Oh, why’s that?’ whispered the pilot.

‘Captain Hayama. His birthday is today. He think we do not remember. But we have big surprise.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, in evening we will make performance and sing.’

Strickland smiled at the prospect.

‘I’m sure the captain will enjoy it.’

‘I hope so. But you must say nothing. The captain-san does not know …’

The pilot nodded. Hayama had not mentioned his impending birthday and he wondered what he could get him for a present.

‘I shan’t say a word, I promise,’ he said and taking up his rod, he left Ito to his salting.

The Englishman walked out of the yard and made his way down to the beach. At the shore he wandered along the water’s edge towards the promontory, his footsteps leaving a trail of wet bruises in the sand. Approaching the spur he climbed up the great boulders and holding his rod with one hand, he put the other out for balance and leapt from rock to rock, until he reached the end. He clambered down onto a flat piece of basalt which formed a natural platform, then unhooked the lure and let it swing freely in the breeze. Strickland held the rod over his shoulder and with a flick of his wrist, he cast the weight into the sea. It landed with a splash and he paused briefly before reeling it in, occasionally flexing the rod from side to side to make the lure appear more fishlike. When it was at the water’s edge, he raised the strip of metal and repeated the process. The waves broke
against the pilot’s legs as he cast and he had to steady himself as the rollers came thundering in, the water foaming white about his feet and dissipating into the rock pools behind.

Strickland enjoyed the solitude of fishing, whether he
actually
caught anything or not was unimportant. It was the sense of peace and isolation that he loved. It took him back to his childhood when he used to fish for pike in the cold, dark lakes near his home. He admired Britain’s often maligned fresh-water predator. They were elusive to catch and, if the fisherman could be bothered, were delicious to eat once the bones were removed. Most people never tried and if they found a pike on the end of their line they simply knocked it on the head and threw it into the bushes. But the pilot actively sought out
esox lucius
, rather than the more favoured carp or trout which shared its water. The pleasure for him was not in the killing or even in the eating, but in catching his prey and playing with it before it finally tired and allowed him to reel it in. He would coax the fish into the
shallows
and watch as it lay exhausted in the peaty water, its mottled body camouflaged amongst the reeds. The problem was getting the lure out of its mouth, without hurting the fish or losing your fingers. After removing the hook Strickland would place the pike back in the water, his hands beneath its belly as he waited for it to recover. Then, with a flick of its tail, the fish would be gone.

There were stories of pike living up to two hundred years or more. The pilot believed them. He had heard one tale where a female pike weighing almost fifty pounds had been caught in a lake in North Yorkshire at the turn of the century. A thin gold band encircled its throat with the date 1706. It had been part of a breeding stock that had somehow managed to evade capture for all those years. The pike was a most remarkable fish, a survivor that deserved better than to be treated as some sort of piscine vermin. The largest one Strickland had ever caught had weighed sixteen pounds. It took him almost an hour to land. He had to kill the fish as the pike had swallowed the lure whole and it
was after dark by the time he got home. Even so his guests were impressed by his catch. Later he gutted and cleaned the fish and baked it in a copper kettle with fennel and onion, garnishing it with parsley and new potatoes. He and his companions dined like princes that night, toasting the quenelled pike with glasses of claret.

The sun beat down upon the water, the shifting sea reflecting its shattered light. The pilot found the constant motion of the waves almost hypnotic as they broke across the reef and charged in a pale battalion towards him, finally dashing themselves against the rocks. After a time Strickland clambered up the spur and stood on top of the boulder where he and Ito dived. He could cast the lure further from here, but if he caught anything he would have to scramble down to the water’s edge to retrieve it. The pilot tried a few casts above the wreck, hoping to attract the bigger fish, which chased the minnows among the coral. But he had no luck and after an hour Strickland decided to stop and reeling in his line, he hooked the lure against the rod and made his way back along the promontory.

The pilot jumped down from the spur and walked along the shell-strewn beach. He needed to get Hayama a birthday present and as he wandered across the sand, he searched for a suitable piece of driftwood. He wanted to carve an icon for the captain who showed a particular interest in John of the Cross, the subject of many of their discussions. It had been a long time since the Englishman had studied the friar and his works and he could only remember a little of his life and teaching and some of his poems, but Hayama was fascinated by the mystic whose ascetism, holiness and quest for spiritual enlightenment
resembled
the Shinto priests of his own faith.

Strickland continued to look about the beach, picking up the odd piece of jetsam and inspecting it, before discarding it as unsuitable. Then, a few yards away, he saw a piece of timber half-buried in the sand. He put down his fishing rod and pulling out the plank of wood, he saw it would make a perfect panel for
his icon. It was the size of a small chopping board, and had been bleached by the sun and worn smooth by the tides. With the timber in his hand, the pilot picked up his fishing rod and made his way back through the trees to the camp.

When he arrived at his hut, he left the rod on the porch, pushed open the door and stepped inside, relieved to be out of the sun. Strickland kicked off his sandals and padded over to the desk in the corner and pulling open a drawer, he took out a penknife which had belonged to the hut’s previous occupant. The pilot sat down at the desk and began to whittle away at his piece of wood, while Ensign Aoki looked on impassively from his place on the bookshelf. Strickland remained unaware of the man’s presence as he continued with his carpentry, scoring at the soft wood with the knife, before blowing away the shavings. He had no idea what Fray Juan actually looked like, only that he had been bearded and small even for his times. His contemporary and spiritual adviser Teresa of Avila had referred to him as her ‘little friar’.

Theirs had been a curious relationship. When they first met Teresa was already well known as a doctor of the church and by then middle-aged. The diminutive Juan de Yepes was only twenty-two and had just begun his religious life. But it was a life to which he was well suited. He came from Castile, a land of barren plateaux and endless blue skies, whose silence was echoed only by the wind and the cry of eagles. To the visitor it seemed as if they had come to the edge of the world. This was the country of John of the Cross and, by a happy coincidence, it was also where the Carmelite abbess belonged. When Teresa first met the friar she was impressed not only by his intellect – he had already completed his first degree at the University of Salamanca – but also by his sanctity and immediately accepted him when he asked to join her new ‘Discalced’ order, finding a house for him and his fellow friars. The Discalceds (literally barefooted) had split from the original Mitigated Rule in order to lead a stricter and more simple life. It was precisely what John
had been looking for as he searched for a suitable order in which to practice his faith. He resolutely believed that without constant physical privation, it was impossible to achieve the necessary state of self-abnegation required to attain true holiness. It was only when temporal desire had been properly subsumed into a religious life, that man could truly become a saint. This idea in particular appealed to Hayama.

He told Strickland about Tsunetomo Yamamoto’s Hagakure or ‘Book of Leaves’, the samurai master’s own collection of maxims, which the captain used for guidance. There were indeed many similarities between the two writers, despite the obvious
differences
between their respective cultures. Although one was a soldier and the other a monk, both men desired to attain a state of pure enlightenment and devotion. John through prayer and self-denial and Yamamoto through obedience and self-sacrifice. Hayama said the essence of Yamamoto’s teaching lay in the first sentence of his work: ‘
The way of the samurai is found in death
’.

The pilot saw another parallel with Ignatius of Loyola, the soldier saint who founded the Society of Jesus. As a young man Ignatius had fought against the French at the siege of Pamplona and had been badly wounded. During his long convalescence he read much Christian theology and decided to give up
soldiering
and devote his life to the church and good works. With the blessing of Rome he established his order, whose followers, the Jesuits, eventually spread as far afield as the captain’s own country. Ignatius’ dramatic conversion of life made perfect sense to Hayama, because the concept of the warrior monk was at the heart of Yamamoto’s teachings. The samurai master had written that a monk could not fulfil the Buddhist Way if he did not have compassion on the outside and courage within, and that if a warrior did not have courage on the outside and compassion within, then he could not become a retainer. The monk
therefore
had to pursue courage with the warrior as his model, and the warrior had to pursue the compassion of the monk.

Strickland continued his carving into the afternoon, the knife
scoring away at the sea-softened wood. The image of the friar gradually began to appear before him, bearded and with a halo, his right hand raised in a blessing, the forefinger pointing
heavenwards
. Above the portrait the Englishman had written ‘John of the Cross’ and below it one of his maxims: ‘
And where there is no love, put love in and you will draw love out
.’

The pilot blew at the last remaining shavings and wiping away the dust with his fingers, he inspected his work. It was crude and rudimentary and hardly art, but he thought the captain would appreciate the gesture. He put the carving to one side and
scooping
up the shavings, he put them in the waste-paper basket by his desk. Strickland got up, went over to the door and stood there looking out at the camp. It was late afternoon and the place was quiet except for the cicadas’ incessant sobbing among the trees. He turned away and walked over to the bed where he lay down, deciding to rest before the evening’s entertainment.

Presently he fell asleep and began to dream. The pilot dreamt that he was out fishing by the wreck when he saw something swimming in the water. At first he thought it was a man, but it swam with too much suppleness and grace to be quite human and he noticed that it had a tail, its scales flashing silver in the sun. Perhaps it was a porpoise. But what was that head? He suddenly realised it was not a porpoise at all, but a merman. He called out to the creature who seemed to hear him, but would not come any closer. It looked as if the merman was in some sort of distress as he swam this way and that, constantly calling. It was a strange noise, a terrible wailing sound, such as a fish would make if it had vocal chords. Strickland realised the merman was crying. The creature stopped swimming and looked directly at him, his pale eyes filled with tears, his sealion voice half yelp, half croak. The pilot called out, he wanted to help, but the merman came no closer. Then with a final cry, the manfish slipped beneath the waves.

Strickland woke with a shudder and sat up, the merman’s face still vivid in his memory. He lay there on the bed looking
up at the rafters and wondered what, if anything, his dream meant. But he could find no answer. The air at least had cooled and he got up and went over to the basin to wash his face. The water refreshed him and the pilot dried his hands on a towel and glancing in the mirror, quickly combed his hair. Then he put the icon in his pocket and left the hut to see his friend. The captain had just returned from making his daily report at the signals hut and was sitting at his desk with Chamberlain on his lap. He seemed to have a natural affinity with animals; the chickens always came when he called and the goats bleated happily at the sound of his voice. Hayama put his pet down and watched as the monkey scampered off into a corner, picking up a piece of coconut. He turned to the radio behind him, switched it on and began to adjust the dial. He wanted to listen to the Home and Empire service and hear that evening’s news. The radio crackled and whined before the voice of the announcer emerged from the ether. The reception was tinny but clear.
Satisfied
, the captain looked away and saw the pilot standing at the door.