stories, after eight

Just a short note before we start here. The title I’ve decided on is:

WHERE DOES THE NIGHT HIDE ITS SHADOW?

(I decided on that after I posted this, of course.)

The waves woke him up with a start. Emilio felt the sand beneath his back and shot up like a drowning man gasping for air, looking about in confusion. He was on a beach; the rollers were breaking across the sand with a concentrated effort. He could see the waves breaking and told himself it was possibly a reef or rocky outcrop. He turned himself around and looked about. He could see the lifeboat lying upside down and partially on its side. The way it rested on the sand made him think it was a sea creature trying to catch its breath; its bulk rising and falling with the waves as though it lay at rest. He stumbled to his feet, his muscles aching and his back burnt raw by the sun. He could feel the chafing grit of sand between his thighs as he made his way to the lifeboat, hoping to drag it out of the water and onto the beach. He bent down low and pulled on the bow, wrapping the rope around his body, and pulling with all his strength, unable to move the craft.

He sank to the sand, falling on his knees, defeated. There were gulls overhead, screeching as he tried instead to lift the craft, hoping to flip it over. He had it partially up, but was unable to push it all the way over. It took three attempts. When it finally fell over, it rocked back and forth and he tried to move it again. The lifeboat slid on its wide hull on a small rill of water, and he was able to get it far enough out of the tidewater that it wouldn’t float away.

The first thing he did was open the small storage box under one of the three seats. There were six cans of fresh water inside, and he opened two of them, drinking thirstily — greedily — telling himself not to drink all of it until he found a source of fresh water. The narrow stream of water running down the beach had come from somewhere. He looked at the jungle and saw how it crept towards the waiting ocean. He bent down and continued sorting through the small locker.

There were tablets in a little sack of paper, and he touched one to his tongue. Salt pills. He found some hard tack and started to chew on it, breathing deeply as he tried to swallow, washing it down with a mouthful of water. There were some high-calorie bars that had no flavour he was quick to discover. He found matches in a small metal tube and cursed himself again for not having worn his pants to bed. He could use some pockets, he told himself. He found a small mirror, a can opener, a knife, and a whistle. He could probably use everything in the locker, and thought if he took it with him, it might better serve his needs. There was sun cream, and he dug his fingers into the jar and lathered his shoulders and as much of his back and arms that he could reach. He found a compass, a notebook and pencil, and told himself the first thing he had to do was climb the highest peak and see the outline of the island. He thought it would be in his best interests if he tried to make a map of the island.

He could see at least a dozen islands dotting the horizon, and told himself once he regained his strength, he’d set course for the next island, and if there was no one there, try for the next. He knew he wouldn’t be able to survive on his own, and bent down to sort through the storage box again. He found a flare gun, with six flares under a bolt of cloth that was tied tight and might serve as a sail if he found a piece of wood long and wide enough to use as a mast. There was a length of fishing line as well as a small collection of hooks.

He dumped everything back into the storage box and tried to pull the lifeboat off the beach, thinking if he could move it off the beach he might be able to hide it in the underbrush the jungle had to offer. He was able to push it and follow the length of the small stream. It was easier than trying to drag it, he realized. He looked back at the tracks and the gouge the boat had made in the pristine sands of the beach, and using the small knife he’d found, cut a small branch off a bush and swept the beach.

He covered the boat as best he could, and then set out with the flare gun and three of the flares, as well as the notebook and pencil, hoping to explore the island. He tried to stay out of the sun as much as he could, deciding to follow the small stream into the jungle. He doubted if there was anything within the depths of the jungle that would attack him. He didn’t like the idea of walking through the jungle without his boots though, and tried to walk on the sand, or the jungle grass as much as he could. He might have a first-aid kit in the locker, but he knew there was little in it that would save him from infection.

That was the moment he found the road. It was a lane really — built narrow and straight — graded and covered with shells, sand, and broken coral. He followed it, hiding in the trees, wondering who could have made it. It wound its way around the base of the one hill on the island, and when he came across a clearing, he paused and waited. He crossed the lane as quick as he could, feeling the shells dig into his feet.

He made his way up the hill, found the stream again and paused to drink before pushing his way up the hill again. That was when he saw the landing strip below him and to his right. It bisected the island from left to right. At the eastern most point, there were three buildings. Two of them looked to be barracks, the third one official looking, as if it was for administration purposes. There was a fuel depot to the south, as well as a hangar with a storeroom to the left, where he could see spare parts — wing sections, and wheels — as well as a lookout tower hidden in the jungle and looking out at the ocean.

He could see a single building off to the right, hidden from the barracks. The road wound its way around the building from the South. The door opened and he saw a woman step outside carrying an armful of laundry she hung up on a line tied between two trees. She was thin, and wearing a sulu. Her hair was light, cut short, and when the wind blew her sulu open she ignored it. No need for modesty if you knew you were alone, he told himself. He noticed that the clothes she was hanging up looked like pants and shirts. Uniforms, he told himself.

Japanese uniforms, he was sure.

*

His first thought was where he would sleep. He needed shelter enough so he wouldn’t be spotted. He also needed food. He made his way back to the lifeboat and flipped it onto its side, leaning it against a tree. He cut down as many palm fronds as he could, as well as brushes, placing them around the boat so that it was invisible to anyone walking along the beach. It would afford him cover as well as shelter from the elements.

He sat under the cover of the boat and sorted through his meagre supplies, doing a final inventory of what he had. There was a bucket he assumed was meant for bailing water that he could use to collect water. He pulled everything out of the storage locker and poured water from one of the cans into it, hoping it was sealed. He would use it to store his water rations. He tied the three fishing hooks he had to the line, weighted it with a rock, and set out for the beach.

He found a length of wood, tied one end of the line to it and hung the wood between two rocks. He dropped the line into the water and waited. He’d read a story once when he was a young man — it was after he’d left the orphanage — about a man lost on an island. He didn’t remember what the name of the book was, or if the man finally escaped the island. He never finished reading the book, he remembered.

He crept out of his hiding place, looking to his left, and then his right, peering over the small pool of water the hooks were in. The water was clear, and he could see there were no fish. A plane flew overhead just then, and he scurried back into his hiding place as the plane dropped down to the runway.

He waited, and then crawled out to look into the pool once again.

“Catch anything?” a voice asked him.

Emilio looked up at the man standing on a rocky outcrop about ten feet above him. He had a gun in his hand and a smile on his face. He was Japanese. An officer.

He shook his head and the man nodded.

“You speak Japanese?” the man said softly. “But you’re not Japanese.”

“I speak several languages,” Emilio replied.

“Do you? Like what?” he asked.

“Dutch. A bit of English, and French — but just enough to get by — and Bislama, as well as others.”

“Where did you learn to speak Japanese?”

“I was a shipper.”

“A shipper? And what does a shipper do?” the man asked.

“I did manifests for lading on the docks in Java, as well as Port Moresby—”

“Where’s that?”
“Papua New Guinea.”

“Are you English? You don’t look English. Not that I know what an Englishman looks like, but I’ve seen pictures, and they don’t look like you. Are you native?”

“A little bit of everything. Spanish, Native, Filipino, probably Dutch somewhere in there.”

“How did you get here?”

“I was on a hospital ship. It was sunk. I found something to float on and ended up here.”

“A hospital ship?”

“So what now?” Emilio asked the man as he holstered his gun.

“Now? I take you in as my prisoner. It just so happens I have need of a man of your talents.”

“What talents?”

“Languages. I take it you can read and write?”

“Of course. Why?”

“I need someone to help me write my memoirs.”