"A foolish one?" Kinjo couldn't see figures clearly in the darkness with his poor eyesight, but he knew the boy referred to one of the possessed from the asylum near Ishikawa. "A woman, Mongoose?"
The boy took the old man's arm and guided him along the beach. Soon they drew close to the noisy group. The nude prisoner, squatting in the sand groaned angrily, "Iiee, nooo…"
Kinjo stopped the boy a safe distance away. It wouldn't be wise to get too close and tempt the spirit of the evil ancestor that possessed the foolish one. No, indeed. And he felt sorry for the policemen, forced by duty to take such a risk.
At first the two men tried to jerk the woman up with the rope tied around her neck. She coughed and made gagging noises, but stubbornly refused to rise. Then the policemen tried to coax her with soft words and promises, but the woman only dug her bare feet deeper into the sand. Finally, each of the men grabbed an arm and dragged the screaming woman back through the grassy dunes to the highway.
Kinjo marveled at the two men's courage. As the group disappeared, he patted his grandson's back. "Come, Mongoose," he said, "we must get our wood and return to Kin.
The boy nodded and led his grandfather back up the beach to the bundle of driftwood. Kinjo adjusted his head strap, thankful that the asylum was near Ishikawa and not Kin. Life was difficult enough without contending with the foolish ones. His grandson helped him hoist the bundle onto his back and hook the headband. Then the boy led his grandfather home.
***
Near the main gate to Camp Hanson, Kinjo and his grandson stopped to rest. In the darkness they were unable to see the tents or the great tanks of the sea-soldiers; only the guard shack and the funny sign were illuminated by a big light. The guard was familiar to Kinjo, and he helped the old man ease the bundle from his back. Slowly the American said, "Good evening, respected elder. The day has been fortunate, I see." He gave Kinjo a cigarette and lit it with an Okinawan-made lighter. Then he asked, "The Big Wind comes?" The sea-soldier glanced nervously to the south.
Enjoying the rich taste of the American tobacco, Kinjo released the smoke slowly through his nostrils. He shook his head. "Perhaps tomorrow night the Wind of Steel will come." Inwardly, he smiled at the American's crude speech. The sea-soldier had probably learned to speak in an Ishikawa or Koza bar, taught improperly by a pillowing girl. Few of them spoke formally in the proper
Shuri
dialect. Kinjo knew proper speech; his ancestral family had been the hereditary
anji
of the northern province of Okinawa.
Kinjo dropped the short butt to the ground and stepped on it. Ahee, the rich tobacco made his head buzz. After taking a deep breath, he thanked the sea-soldier, fixed his headband, and hoisted the bundle to his back. He followed his grandson up the highway.
After covering only a short distance, Mongoose stopped abruptly. "Ahee…Grandfather, I forgot to mention Father's instructions." He made a flicking motion with his fingers near his ear, the gesture for an empty head.
"What?" Kinjo said with mock surprise. "You, the
first
family scholar in three generations, have forgotten something?"
The boy was one of the few Kin children sent to the elementary school in Ishikawa. He was spared from the fields and fishing canoes because his father worked at the fire station on Camp Hanson, earning a good wage. Still, each afternoon the boy hurried home from school to help his grandfather collect driftwood. In the old days, as a male member of an
anji
family, the boy would have attended the royal school at Shuri Castle.
The boy, embarrassed by the old man's gentle chiding, answered seriously, "Yes, Grandfather, it is regrettably true." He had stopped on the shoulder of the highway where a dirt road led off inland into the darkness. "We are to make a side trip to Kin Cave before returning home. Father says the wood sculptor has offered five yen for first pick of the bundle."
Kinjo shrugged, and his grandson led him up the dirt road.
Kinjo rarely made the long trip to Kin Cave. His last visit had been just before Kei-ko, his wife, had died…over two years before. Kei-ko had been sent to the lung sickness hospital at Nago, and Kinjo had never seen her again. The dreaded lung sickness had claimed his two older sons and one daughter. Only one son remained of Kinjo's children. No, Kinjo did not relish visiting the distant cave.
But five yen? The entire bundle was hardly worth that. He smiled at the cleverness of his son. Few traded well with the sculptor. He shifted the heavy load to a spot higher on his shoulders and glanced right.
The dirt road skirted the northern boundary of Camp Hanson, winding below the lower fields of Kin Village. The old man couldn't see the terraced rice paddies in the dark, but he could smell the pungent richness from the honey pots, and he could hear the frogs croaking. He remembered the approaching storm and frowned. The contour berms around the fields would be damaged by the Wind of Steel. But then they would be repaired. To worry about the Wind was like ploughing the sea.
They passed a guard shack, which housed only a field phone.
Then, about half a mile from the highway, they came to the Kin Tombs; a cluster of twelve tiny structures made from dressed stone—each an ancestral resting place for the bones of a Kin family. They moved quietly through the sacred ground to a tomb with a walled patio—the resting place of the
anji
—the Kinjo family tomb. Without taking off his bundle, Kinjo murmured a formal greeting to his wife. He studied the condition of the tomb and patio, noting that the ceremonial rice bowl and
sake
container were both freshly filled. He nodded with pride.
"Grandfather?"
"Ah, what is it, Mongoose?"
"The hour grows late."
Kinjo agreed. It was late and his back was growing weary. "We go." He followed the boy up the hill through the rocks and scrubby underbrush.
To their right, across the rice paddies near the outskirts of Kin, a huge bonfire blazed. Kinjo, even with his failing eyesight, could make out silhouettes of several figures in front of the fire. He heard the drums and chants: a political rally. Speeches tonight, then…probably a demonstration tomorrow at Hanson or Ishikawa. Kinjo sighed. He had no concern for political ideas. Power was beyond Okinawan grasp…and it had been so for many years. Now, it was the Americans; in the past, it had been the Japanese and the Chinese. It was said that once the Okinawans had been independent sea-faring traders, masters of their own destiny…Kinjo leaned forward as the hill steepened. That must have been long ago, he thought. No, he wasn't interested in the speeches of the New Socialists. He preferred not to consider the future…
A speck of light ahead in the dense growth.
Mongoose stopped at the mouth of Kin Cave.
Catching his breath, Kinjo squinted and looked into the dimly lit interior. Near the front of the cave, the Sculptor squatted near a workbench, working with a carving knife on a human figurine. One large candle provided the light, flickering in a bowl on the bench. The floor of the cave was littered with wood shavings, like an animal's nest. Shelves lined the cave walls from floor to ceiling, extending back into the darkness. And on the shelves shoulder to shoulder were row after row of figurines.
The Sculptor looked up, suddenly aware of the presence of the two visitors. His eyes glowed red and flickered in the candlelight. Without a word, he stood and stepped to the wall, placing the newly finished figurine in an empty spot on the bottom shelf. Then, turning back toward the boy and Kinjo, he beckoned them enter with a hand still clutching the carving knife.
Kinjo stared at the figurines along the bottom shelf…ah, there at the edge of darkness. He blinked, trying to sharpen his blurred vision. His wife…that one? He wasn't sure, and he didn't want to move closer. He unfastened the headband, and the boy helped lower the bundle to the littered floor. Kinjo suppressed a shiver. After the heat outside, the cave was cold; a deep, penetrating chill. He took a deep breath and choked. Despite the fresh shavings, the open entrance, and the vast interior, the cave smelled bad with a rank, musty odor.
He shifted his attention to the Sculptor. The resident of the cave wore his hair in the old way: drawn into a small topknot and held with a
kanzashi
, the shaft of the pin inlaid with gold signifying the highest rank. His high-necked robe was in the Chinese style, woven from a fine black silk, a fierce white dragon embroidered over the heart.
Kinjo recalled his first visit to the cave, sixty years before. He had come with his father to sell the Sculptor fresh fish. The man hadn't really changed in all those years.
No, the Sculptor never changed. Only those outside the cave.
Mongoose untied the bundle for display.
After a few moments, the Sculptor picked a short, dark piece of wood, hardly more than a stick. He weighed the stick in his hand, then carefully inspected the grain of the wood, rolling the stick over and over between his fingers. Apparently satisfied with his selection, he nodded. He reached inside his silk robe and withdrew two notes, giving the boy
ten
yen.
"Ahee!" Mongoose exclaimed, unable to contain his joy. "May you see a thousand autumns, kind gentleman." Then, recovering his poise, the boy bowed politely.
Without a word, the Sculptor squatted and began to work on the stick with his carving knife. His hands moved deftly, and fresh shavings dropped quickly to the floor. In a few minutes, the dark stick had been fashioned into a rough shape: a small figurine.
The Sculptor paused.
Staring at the crude shape, Kinjo felt uneasy. Even with his poor sight, he sensed a familiarity in the unfinished figurine. He shivered, feeling a strong urge to leave. He touched Mongoose's shoulder.
But the boy was entranced by the deft skill of the Sculptor's hands.
Kinjo increased the pressure on the boy's shoulder. "Come, Mongoose," he said firmly. "We must go now, the evening meal."
The Sculptor glanced up from his work at Kinjo, his eyes aglow like hot coals.
The spell broken, Mongoose turned to help his grandfather shoulder the bundle. As they left the cave, the boy said, "Good evening, respected one."
Again absorbed in his carving, the Sculptor didn't even glance up.
They left the Kin cave, retracing their steps down the hill and past the tombs. Neither spoke as Kinjo thought about the new figurine, wondering who it would be. The thought made his chest tight.
***
Meanwhile, up the dirt road near the guard shack PFC Tim Ryan watched the red taillights of the guard jeep disappear as the vehicle returned to the Naha-Nago Highway headed back to Hanson. He swore silently, trying to overcome his rising sense of uneasiness. Just his luck, Ryan thought: one minute he's pulling a soft supernumerary, eating a sandwich at the guard tent, then, bingo, typhoon alert, and he's walking post. And the worst post on base. He wasn't close enough to shout to another guard.
Ryan frowned, pinching his nostrils together. The air over the paddies was strong with the smell of human crap. He felt slightly nauseous…
Sweet Jesus! Listen to those chants and drums. You'd think he was someplace in Africa. Even though his utility shirt was soaked with sweat, Ryan shivered. He tried to ease the tension in his chest by swallowing. He could just make out the figures moving in front of the bonfire. Drawing some comfort from his weapon, Ryan lifted the Thompson sub-machine gun to a diagonal position across his chest. Flipping the safety off, then on, he muttered, "Commie assholes." The whisper lacked conviction.
A buzzing near his ear—
Ryan slapped at his neck and checked his hand: a bloody mosquito in his palm. Sweet Jesus! He was being eaten alive. Good thing he'd completed the malaria prevention. He remembered the recent outbreak of encephalitis on the base. He wiped the dead insect on his shirt. To hell with the heat; he decided to pull up the collar on his utilities and button the top button. He should have worn his head net. But, goddammit, he hadn't planned on a walking post. And if it hadn't been for the typhoon alert he'd be sleeping
under
a mosquito net in the guard tent. Angrily, he waved the barrel of the Thompson in front of his face, trying to frighten away the bloodthirsty pests.
Sighing, Ryan tried to ignore his horrible luck by shifting his thoughts. Getting short, he reminded himself. Yeah, only two more months on The Rock. Two lousy months, then back to the land of the Big PX.
It didn't work. The drums, chants, mosquitoes, darkness couldn't be ignored. Ryan sweated, his chest tight, his gut loose, and tried to work up moisture in his bone-dry mouth. He was alone and scared. Sweet Jesus.
Stiffly, Ryan stepped to the guard shack. Do something, he told himself. Read the special orders. He picked up the clipboard with the special orders for typhoon watch. Squinting, he tried without success to read the typed print. He considered flicking on his lighter for a moment…No, that wouldn't be smart. He dropped the board near the phone. He knew what was important, anyhow. He was out here to watch for commie infiltrators. Last alert, the bastards had hacked up the water line with machetes. Machetes! Another strong surge of fear. Nervously, Ryan glanced toward Kin, then up the road toward the tombs—
He gasped!
A shadow, a huge shadow had stepped onto the dirt road near the tombs. It wasn't shaped like a man. Ryan stared with disbelief at the approaching clump. Then he tried to shout a warning, but his throat was tight and he managed only a hoarse grunt.
The shadow moved closer, fifty feet away.
Ryan remembered the Thomson and flipped off the safety. Retaining some presence of mind, he aimed low and fired a warning blast that cracked the heavy air.
Silence.
***
Kinjo slid his hand from his grandson's shoulder when he heard the animal grunt ahead in the darkness. But the boy continued ahead, and Kinjo hurried to catch up. His back had begun to ache—