The Emperor of Any Place (19 page)

“Daijoubuka?”

I could interpret the look on Isamu’s face, curiosity, cautious concern.

“It’s stopped bleeding,” I said, holding up my fingers to show him. Then he looked down at the Gibson Girl strapped to my thighs. I pointed at it, indicating I wanted to get out of it, and said as much, for what good it was worth.

Again my captor nodded. As quickly as I could with jittery fingers, I loosened the straps. The machine had dug into my ribs when the creature fell upon me. There would be bruises, but as far as I could tell nothing cracked.

I climbed shakily to my feet. When I was standing, I touched my index finger to my breastbone. “Derwood Kraft,” I said, bowing slightly.

“Isamu Ōshiro,” said the man, bowing back.

I held up my dog tag for him to see. He nodded. I placed my hand on my heart and bowed again. “Thank you, Isamu Ōshiro,” I said. “You saved my life.”

There was nothing to suggest in his face recognition of anything I had said other than his name, but I hoped he had gotten the gist of it. And then I remembered that I did know one word in Japanese.

“Konnichiwa,”
I said.

“Konnichiwa,”
said Isamu. And then he said something else, excitedly, to which I could only shrug, not having understood a word. His moment of elation passed.

And now what?

Isamu must have been thinking the same thing. He looked up toward the cliffs again, then back at me. He scratched his scalp with his free hand. Then he waggled his rifle at me, and I understood well enough what the drill was: I was his prisoner and it was time to go. Where, I had no idea, but I was not the one calling the shots. I gave myself over into his hands. Something told me that this act was the lesser of two evils. No, it was more than that: it was the right thing to do. A man saves your life and you give yourself to him.

I closed the knapsack and threw the strap over my shoulder. Then I disengaged the crank from the top of the Gibson Girl, clipped it in its slot, and hoisted the now-useless machine. Why? The light on the top had come on only intermittently while I was working it. Had I gotten through to anyone? Only time would tell.

“Oite ikinasai!”

Again, a gesture made the meaning clear. I lowered the machine to the sand. Then I looked back at the sea and, turning again to him, I asked with a lot of gestures if I could put the machine under the overhang and on a shelf of stone above the waterline. For the tide was coming in.

I listen to the creature howling to the night — in its death throes, by the sound of it. I hope it is true, but it gives me little comfort and I cannot sleep. I try to concentrate on the proper sounds of night, the breeze, the crickets. But it is as if the crickets are inside me, Hisako; crickets in my liver, my bones, my lungs. I am so angry — angry and frightened. And it is all Derwood Kraft’s fault. Of that I am sure. There was no monster on the island until he came. It must be some kind of witchcraft that this man has brought with him — some
gaijin
necromancy. I try to shake the idea from my head, try to settle down, and then the monstrous creature howls.

Tengu.
I have heard of the monster in the old stories but never seen one. The island provides . . .

While Derwood Kraft snores.

I have rigged up a hammock for him that is also a cage. I wrapped the fisherman’s netting twice around the man after he was settled and then tied it where he could not reach the knots, on his left side, where he has no hand. Very ingenious, yes? The American did not struggle. He almost seemed to welcome it, like I was knitting him into a womb. And sure enough,
he
sleeps like a baby!

Meanwhile his little tribe of ghost children gathers around him, like a mist with many eyes. Sometimes I see my own ghosts turn to look at his ghosts, examine their features. Though they do not venture near, they are like real children in this way, shameless in their curiosity, their eyes filled with wonder at the strangeness of these foreign faces.

What is the man up to?

I feel as if I have made a terrible mistake. Had I left the monster to kill Derwood, it would have saved me the trouble. Because that is what the man is, Hisako, trouble. What do I need with a prisoner? The island provides everything I could want for, and now this . . . this pestilence has arrived, and I, Isamu, have brought it into my house! The very house I tried so diligently to hide from his view! I must be the fool my father took me to be!

Mind you, if I kill Derwood Kraft, I would still have the creature to contend with. I wonder about that. Could it be that without its master, the monster would perish? If I were to slash Derwood’s throat, would the howling stop? I can tell you, I do not feel comfortable at all with such ideas. I have killed men in the war but never hand to hand. I look over at him, my “catch” in his snug net. Would he be any help in defeating
Tengu
?

At least we are somewhat prepared. On the way back from the strand at the tail of the island, we stopped off at the plane and loaded up with ammo and another rifle. I don’t suppose the American could fire one. I trusted him to carry one, although I carried all the ammunition.

Another howl pierces the night.

That is not a thing dying. It is a thing wanting us to know it is there and we will never be free of it; a thing that will keep us in its sights even if only with one good eye. A thing that will somehow recover — pluck the bullets out of its grotesque hide with its beak!

And then what?

The wind picks up. I cannot sleep at all, Hisako. And so I write by the light of one slim candle. The canvas I have rolled down against the cold slaps against the bamboo posts. It is a north-northwest wind. A cyclone wind. How quickly paradise has been thrown over. I am so full of loathing for this uninvited guest, it is like the flu coming on, making me hot and weak and jittery.

I tried to lie down again, just now, but couldn’t sleep. I wrapped my jacket — another jacket from another dead soldier — around my shoulders and tried to make myself comfortable: as comfortable as a man can get with a handgun and a loaded rifle in bed with him. My cheek lay against the mesh. I was miserable. Oh, how I miss you, dear Hisako. I feel lonelier than I have felt in the whole time I have been here. What sense does this make?

I pick up my pen again, quiet my raging thoughts. Derwood Kraft could have shot me. I need to remember that. Was it only that he lacked the courage? No, it took great courage for the man to sheath his revolver and hand it to me. For when I think back on that terrifying ordeal, I recall seeing the man draw his weapon. He might even have shot at the beast, although I cannot be sure of that for so much was going on! But this I know: Derwood did have a gun and he did have my back as a target. Either he could not or would not bring himself to do it — to kill a man. He is a navigator, after all, not accustomed to combat. Is that it? I don’t think so, for did I not also hesitate when I saw the
gaijin
for the first time? How long did it take me to reach the beach? Many minutes. I’d had a good shot for much of the time, but I did not take it. We are at war! My superior officers drummed that into me. But is there to be war on Kokoro-Jima as well? And if this
isn’t
war, then to kill a man would be murder. Ha! Such distinctions. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers have died already. It is kill or die — kill
and
die. What makes it different now?

You see how I have changed, Hisako-chan? All this writing in the flight book has made me a great and mighty thinker. I shall no doubt write profound things with my pen stolen from a dead pilot. Ha! My lofty ideas.
Sleep, Isamu,
I tell myself.

And the beast roars back,
If you dare!

It is late the next day, and what a day it has been. I awoke to sunlight. The flaps were rolled up.

What!

I sat up, turned. The other hammock was empty!

“Tea, Isamu?” said Derwood Kraft. He had found the stash of black tea, started a fire, boiled water . . . The American smiled as if sharing a grim joke with me, his captor:
I could have slit your throat,
his eyes said,
but chose not to.

And so we have come to know each other. I drew a long thin heart shape on the sand with a stick. Then I pointed at the island all around and said, “Kokoro-Jima.” Derwood repeated the words after me. I pointed at the sand and said,
“Suna.”
Then I picked up a handful and let it fall between my fingers.
“Suna,”
said Derwood, at which point I strode across the sand and said,
“Watashi wa suna no ue wo aruite iru.”

Derwood tries to teach me English words, but I refuse. Am I not the captor? The official language of the island will be Japanese, as befits its master. Derwood calls me “Mikado” and bows to me. Where he found such an archaic word, I cannot say, but he is right: I am the Emperor! I tap myself on the chest and teach him the proper word,
“Ten’nō”
— Emperor, the Emperor of Kokoro-Jima.

But there is work to do. The pilot and copilot must be sent on their way, I declared, because I am not only Emperor but also chief mortician of Kokoro-Jima. I explained to him that we must deal with them before the
jikininki
did, if they hadn’t already. But not by fire, it seemed. Once we arrived at the plane, Derwood explained, as best as he could, about burial in his country. I bowed to his wishes. But it was the Emperor who had to do the digging! Then Derwood, with his eyes closed and his head bent, said some words of prayer. I bowed my head as well, but I kept one eye peeled. Not just for any trickery from my prisoner, but for
Tengu.

More important is the fortification of the hilltop house. Knowing what we were up against, I felt that a palisade of sharpened bamboo poles would be the best thing, and so, between us, we have cut and sharpened many, many stout poles, which we have lashed tightly together with wire and rope and Manila twine — whatever we could lay our hands on. The bamboo points outward at a sixty-degree angle on the three sides of the enclosure that are open to attack. The angle was Derwood’s idea. He drew pictures in the dirt with a stick to show me his design. Although he is no older than I am, as far as I can tell, he seems a man of learning, and I listen to him when his ideas seem to make sense. Luckily, he has some ability with pictures.

The fourth side of the enclosure, the steep rock face, I feel sure the creature cannot climb, but we have strung noisy metal things along the length of it just in case. These “wind chimes” rattle discordantly in the night with every breeze. They were
my
idea, and Derwood grumbled at the rattling and jingling, but it was my belief that were the creature to try to climb up that way, the chimes would make a more significantly alarming sound.

At night the creature howls.

It is moving, first here and then there, although never too close, wary of these two-legged animals that resist it with noisy fire. Is it my imagination or is its voice growing stronger?

We work hard, work together. Derwood cannot do some things, but he is learning how to do a lot, and he never shirks from a task or knocks off early. He is not strong, but he is willing.

He sings as he works sometimes. One day I had to drop what I was doing and dance a jig that seemed to fit the crazy sound of the words he was singing — although everything he says sounds crazy to me, anyway. We both laughed. And so the Emperor learns his first English, though I have no idea what it might mean:

There has been no mention of the strange yellow contraption. I have seen Derwood looking at some lightweight wire in the impressive collection of supplies that I have carted up from the beach. The thin cord that attached his box kite to the yellow machine was no ordinary twine but shone like wire. If that is what Derwood is thinking about, he makes no attempt to retrieve the thing, even though it is pretty clear that his “prison” is unbounded, except by the ocean. The ocean and
Tengu.
He can come and go from the compound as he pleases. Well, that was obvious from the first morning when he freed himself. But still he seldom wanders away. Maybe for an hour or so and then I fret until he returns.

“If you are killed by
Tengu,
then I will have to bury you and that is a lot of work. Maybe I will just burn you,” I threatened one day when he had been gone for a long time. Derwood laughed — laughed at me. He did not know what I was saying, but I was very animated in acting out what would happen to him. Ah, I can see you smiling, Hisako. What, me animated?

I suppose that he is too frightened to face
Tengu
alone and will not go too far or take unnecessary chances. He wears his handgun on his hip like the cowboys in American movies, but surely a pistol would be inadequate to stop the beast. So he stays near and the yellow contraption has made no appearance. “Gib-san-gurlu.” That is what he calls it. If it were meant to be some kind of distress beacon, it has not worked; weeks have passed and no one has come, no one alive. Now and then a body washes up on the beach to be cremated or buried. Ah, Hisako, how I mourn with each new corpse. Surely, the Afterlife is not big enough for all the people who are dying.