The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories (2 page)

Just before the summit, I turned to see a panorama of the entire island. That was how small it was. The village was huddled in its center. There were no rice paddies due to the fact that the island relied exclusively on rainwater, and possibly also due to the calcareous soil, and I could see only fields of sugar cane and sweet potatoes.

But the ocean surrounding the island was stunning. The muddy brown sea of Tokyo Bay aside, I had always thought that the true color of the ocean was blue, but the expanse of sea before my eyes now was not so much blue as a deep green. Maybe this was what was meant by emerald green. Capping the northern side of the island, the coral reef stretched in a line marked by white surf. Even the breeze blowing up off the ocean seemed as if it was dyed green.

I lit up a cigarette. For no particular reason I recalled my trip to Hong Kong. After my posting to South Kamui had been confirmed, a group of friends from medical school had sent me off to enjoy a recreational break there before starting my period of exile. In hindsight, as Hong Kong was also an island, my friends had probably intended it in jest. But beyond that there was no comparison. In Hong Kong there was everything; here there was nothing. No cinema or bar, much less a bowling alley. They did not even appear to have television. For someone like me, accustomed to seeing a forest of television antennas, this antenna-free landscape was too weird for words.

The only thing going for this island was its natural beauty. But I was bound to grow weary of this before long. I thought of the king bananas I had seen on the way. I couldn't help feeling that the lack of balance displayed by this fruit was symbolic of the island as a whole—of the contrast between its excessive natural beauty and its impoverished way of life.

When we finally reached the summit, we could hear the whoops of excitement coming from the other side. The gentle south-facing slope was wooded with red pines, and it was here that the women and children carrying hoes and shovels had gathered. There were few men; perhaps the others were out fishing. I sat down on a nearby rock to watch the proceedings. Everybody looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Some families were sitting on straw mats spread out on the ground, eating lunch as if they had come on a picnic. The mayor had called it an event, and indeed there was nothing to suggest the savagery of a hunt. Having brought me here, the officer now rolled up his shirtsleeves and joined in. The whoops of excitement continued unabated. I was beginning to think I had been mistaken in perceiving a hint of cruelty in the women's laughter on the wharf. The islanders were poor, but they seemed open and cheerful.

Nearby there was a woman of about thirty and a girl of five or six, possibly her daughter, who had found a Streaked Shearwater nest hidden in the grass and were digging it up with their hoes. Both mother and daughter were intent on their work. Sweat was trickling down the dark, tanned skin of the woman's face. Each time she sank her hoe into the ground, her broad pantalooned hips quivered. She looked sturdy and tough.

Eventually the Streaked Shearwater's head became visible. Its small black eyes darted fearfully around its surroundings. It had a sharp beak, which the woman adroitly avoided as she grabbed its neck in her strong hands and dragged it reluctantly out of its nest. The bird frantically spread its brown wings spanning almost a meter, and let out a shrill squawk, but at that moment the woman braced her legs and with all her strength twisted its neck, her hips again quivering from the effort. Her daughter produced a knife, and the woman used it to slit open the bird's belly. Blood spurted out and stained the surrounding grass and soil dark red. The woman was sweating profusely as, without a word, she deftly cut out the entrails and slung them into the freshly dug hole.

I was enveloped by the sickly smell of blood. It was as if the surrounding air had become permeated with its stench. Their work done, mother and daughter gave a satisfied smile and put the dead bird into a bamboo basket before setting off in search of their next quarry.

The woman's hands were still caked with blood, now drying to a dark red in the strong sun. Once again I was overcome by nausea. The other women were also killing birds, slitting open their bellies with knives, and pulling out their entrails. I knew that was probably the best method for preserving the meat, but I felt increasingly unable to bear the scene unfolding before my eyes. The image of the entire village turning out for an enjoyable picnic was erased from my mind. Being a doctor, I was accustomed to the smell of blood. But then the blood spurting from the birds' slit bellies was entirely different to the blood I had encountered in the operating theater.

The sun was as bright as ever, but my nausea just would not go away.

That evening a welcome party was held for me at the island's only inn.

It was called an inn, but its main business seemed to be that of general store, and provisions brought by boat from the main island were piled up in a dimly-lit earthen floored space, and from the eaves hung a cardboard sign on which was clumsily scrawled, “Just in: bread, soap, cigarettes.”

The landlady and a young maid served the feast of Streaked Shearwater washed down with sugar cane liquor. However, the scene from that afternoon flitted before my eyes, and I was utterly unable to touch any of the meat.

True to form, there were long drawn-out welcome speeches from the leading personages, during which cups of sake were exchanged. I disliked this Japanese way of toasting one's health, which from a doctor's point of view was extremely unsanitary. However, as guest of honor I could hardly refuse, and so I grudgingly went along with it.

At some point the traveling salesman, who was staying at the inn, had slipped into the banquet. He seemed to be particularly fond of this island. He slapped the shoulders of the mayor and headmaster and, frequently raising the sake cup to his lips, proclaimed loudly, “This is the best island I have ever been to!” The banquet was becoming increasingly rowdy. Once the salesman began dancing naked, his corpulent belly thrust out, I fled outside to the garden.

I could hear the sound of drums in the dark night. Looking in their direction, I saw the red glow of a fire halfway up the mountain we had climbed that afternoon. There had indeed been a small shrine around there, so perhaps that was the shrine to the island deity. It looked like they were holding an all-night festival to celebrate the day's harvest of Streaked Shearwaters.

Even though night had fallen, the heat still lingered. I was just lighting a cigarette when the salesman called out behind me, “What're you up to out here?” He was in high spirits, and reeked of alcohol. When I replied that I was watching the fire, he smirked. “Arriving on a festival day, it's bound to be a lucky year for you,” he said happily. “How about coming up to the shrine with me now? It's quite spectacular.”

With a lewd smile, the salesman explained that in the past there had been women
ama
divers on the island, and their customs had been retained in this festival. The women, in the style of the
ama
, bared their breasts and danced as though possessed around the fire.

“It's pitch black. But all the women have great tits,” he commented, grinning.

I tried imagining the half-naked women in the light of the fire. It was a healthy, erotic scene that I should have enjoyed, but it just left me cold. It was inextricably connected with the image of the woman slitting the Streaked Shearwater's belly that afternoon.

“The head priest here is known as the ‘Chief.' He's a small, feeble old man.” The salesman continued his account of the festival. Knowing nothing about the island, I must have been the ideal audience for him. The only reason I was tamely listening to him now was not because I had any interest in the festival itself, but because it was preferable to remaining in that dull banquet with the mayor and the rest of them. “As its name suggests, there is a legend that this island was created by a god. South Kamui's version of Ninigi's heavenly descent, I suppose you could call it. The Chief is descended from the god and is apparently able to hear him speak. He has tremendous authority. In the olden days it seems he had the customary privileges, too. Lucky bastard.”

“Customary privileges?”

“Surely you know what that means? He got to sample all the virgins. Although it'd be wasted on an old body like his.”

The salesman sniggered and nudged me in the ribs. He was completely absorbed in his own story.

“At the festival, several of the island's youths are chosen to don devil masks and they become the god's messengers. Apparently, if the old Chief ever gave them the order to ‘Kill!' they would grab the arms and legs of the person to be sacrificed and mercilessly rip them apart, you know.”

His words made me think again of the Streaked Shearwater's white belly slit open by the woman.

“That was long ago, wasn't it? They can't do things like that now, not with the police officer here.”

“No, I guess not.”

The salesman ran his hand smoothly over his shiny face, flushed red with drink. I got the impression he was almost disappointed that it was a thing of the past.

“How about it? Won't you come up to the shrine with me? Tonight everyone will go crazy with the festivities, and you'll get your pick of the women. All you have to do is put your arm around a woman, like this, and say ‘Let's do
maguhai
,' and most times she'll accept.
Magu
is a woman's you-know-what, by the way.”

The salesman illustrated his invitation with hand gestures. I had nothing against women. I had thoroughly enjoyed the extraordinarily soft body of the Chinese girl I'd held in my arms in Hong Kong. The women on this island, though, with their sunburned skin and cruel laugh just did not whet my appetite. And I was tired.

I declined, and the salesman set off for the mountain grumbling to himself, probably about what a bad sport I was. It seemed he had stronger nerves than I did.

I did not feel like going back go the party, so I left the inn and went back to the dispensary.

In the back of the dispensary there was a six tatami-mat room that apparently served as a bedroom. I switched on the light, a naked bulb, and lay down fully dressed on the sunbleached tatami. The electricity supply on the island was shut off at eight in the evening, but the hands of my watch indicated that it was nearly nine. An exception was probably being made on account of the festival. Or perhaps it was a special privilege granted to me as the doctor.

It was hot and I dozed fitfully. The monotonous drumbeat was setting my nerves on edge. Drumming at festivals on the mainland was rousing and had a gaiety entirely befitting a festive occasion, but the drums I heard now were dull and cheerless, like dripping rain.

As I turned over, the sound of a cat mewing came from the direction of the dispensary. I hated cats. I tutted to myself, got up, and went down into the dispensary and switched on the light. There under the desk cowered a white kitten.

“Tssss!” I hissed at it, trying to drive it out, but the creature just bared its fangs and made no attempt to move from under the desk. I was beginning to lose my temper. It was not just that I disliked like cats, but rather that everything I had encountered on this island since arriving here today had rubbed me the wrong way. I reached out a hand, grabbed the animal by the scruff of the neck, and roughly threw it outside.

I went back to the other room and lay down. I felt terribly tired.

I don't like this island
…

Muttering this over and over again to myself, I fell into a light doze.

I had no idea how long I had been asleep. When I awoke, I sensed the presence of someone in the room. The electric light had been switched off, and in its place, blue-white moonlight shone in through the open window. Perhaps it was because the air was clearer than in Tokyo, but it felt as though even the night air was tinted blue-white, and although I knew I was awake, I had the strange sensation of still being in a dream.

A woman was standing by the window, and it was only the eerie atmosphere that prevented me from crying out. Feeling that it was a continuation of my dream, I gazed blankly at her. She was very slowly removing her pantaloons. Her upper body was already naked, and her breasts swung heavily in the moonlight. Once she was completely naked, she knelt on the tatami. Finally I was released from the moon's spell and hastily got to my feet. The woman looked as if she was praying with her arms stretched out to me. As she drew her dark, tanned face close to mine, I realized that I had seen her before. It was the woman who had slit open the Streaked Shearwater's belly right in front of me that afternoon.

I had no idea what she was doing here, naked. She sidled up to me and put her arms around my neck and, as if intoning an incantation, said playfully, “It is the god's will.” Her dark skin smelled of the sea. She wore a crimson flower in her hair, a southern bloom with a bright, venomous redness. The bittersweet fragrance of its large petals enveloped me.

I tried to break loose, but her muscular arms held fast around my neck.

“It is the god's will.” Repeating the same words, the woman pressed her heavy breasts tight against my chest, forcing me down onto the tatami. Her plump, sturdy hips bore down heavily on me. Her skin was damp and clammy.