War of the Eagles (23 page)

It wasn't hard to avoid the patrol. We heard them crashing through the underbrush, panting and grunt–ing and cursing in their headlong rush. They were lucky that the only Japanese within two thousand miles were friendly. I had the urge to leap out at them as they passed, just to see how high they would jump, but of course I stayed in hiding.

And then Tadashi and I walked to safety.

We came out of the forest onto the path leading between our two villages. We were almost exactly at the place we'd met, half way between the two. We hadn't spoken for the last fifteen minutes or so. I didn't know what to say, and I sensed he was lost for words as well.

There was activity in the tree tops as the birds started to twitter and move around, and I could sense that sunrise was less than an hour away.

“I guess we better get home,” I suggested.

He nodded his head.

“Can you write me when you get where you're going?”

“Of course, I'll write. You be sure to write back. I bet–ter be in my bed before my father gets up. He wouldn't understand how important this was.”

“It was important, wasn't it?”

Tadashi nodded. “More than you know … more than you know,” he said softly.

He reached out his hand and I took it in mine. I pulled him forward and wrapped my arms around him tightly. It felt good as he did the same. We both released our grips, stepped back and looked at each other. Tadi nodded his head ever so slightly, turned and walked away. I watched him move away down the path until he reached a bend, and then he was gone.

.17.

The trail was easy to follow. Broken branches, hoof prints in the moss, and blood. Lots of blood. I was surprised the buck had been able to go this far, losing this much blood.

He had a full head of antlers and I'd taken a second to admire it. Just as I'd squeezed the trigger, he'd broken to the side and I only winged it. He disappeared into a heavy stand of bush and was gone. I knew I had to fol–low and finish him off. It wasn't right to let an animal crawl off somewhere and slowly die.

I'd been trailing the buck for more than an hour. How much longer could he go on? It would soon be dark and the rain was starting to turn into slush. The temperature was falling as the sun started to dip into the ocean. Up ahead, I saw where the bush had been flattened. I could see it in my mind: the deer falling and then staggering to its feet once again. I bent down. There was a large pool of blood. Bright red. I dipped my finger into it; still warm. It couldn't be far away now.

Up in the sky I caught sight of a large bird. It was too far away for me to tell if it was even a bald eagle.

Nobody had said much to me about Eddy “escap–ing.” I suspected everybody, my mother, Naani, Smitty and even the major, knew what I'd done, but as long as we didn't talk about it a lot, or I wasn't asked a direct question, we could all pretend I wasn't involved.

Rounding an outcrop of rock I came upon the buck. He wasn't any more than twenty paces ahead, lying beneath a small cedar tree. Motionless, on his side. He was already dead. I could see the large hole through the buttocks. There was a small trickle of blood still seeping out.

He was a big buck, maybe three hundred pounds. He had a beautiful set of antlers, twelve points. I could sell them down in Rupert. The American sailors loved things like that. The last set I had, and they weren't nearly this big, got me three dollars. Between the meat, the skin and the antlers, there was a lot of money lying there on the ground. Then I was struck by the thought. More than money had been there.

I shouldered my gun and took my knife from its sheath. There wouldn't be time before nightfall to get to camp and bring back men to retrieve the kill. Instead I'd have to cut down enough underbrush to cover it up, and hopefully protect it from scavengers that might otherwise make a meal of it during the night. I hacked off half a dozen low-lying branches from a neighboring cedar, and gathered them in my arms.

Turning, I was shocked to see the buck slowly lift his head off the ground and look directly at me. I was no more than five feet away. I dropped the branches. He didn't move. Large, liquid brown eyes beneath lush, long eyelashes. He didn't have the look of fear you see in wild animals on those rare occasions you get close enough to see. Nor the vacant unblinking look of the dead. He looked calm. Maybe even thoughtful, like something important was going on inside his head. He knew I was here to end his life. But the buck also sensed this was the only rescue from the pain. He blinked and I blinked back. His tongue hung out of the side of his mouth, which was coated with a thick lathering of white foam. He shook his head, ever so slightly, and the foam sprayed into the air.

I unshouldered my rifle and took aim. The buck looked at me through unwavering eyes. I wanted to look away. I closed my eyes and lowered the gun. I wished I'd never found him or hit him, or somehow I could help him. I knew there was only one way to help.

I raised the gun and fired. The bullet smashed into the buck a split second before the explosion of sound reached my ears. The head instantly flopped to the ground and there was quiet. I turned away, put down my rifle and once again began to gather the branches to cover up the carcass.

After placing the branches so the buck was com–pletely covered, I took rocks and positioned them to pin the branches in place. Before starting back I had one final task. I took one of the red markers out of my bag and tied it securely to one of the branches above the buck.

Glancing up I realized I'd been so intent upon track–ing the deer I hadn't been paying attention to where I was. Looking around, I knew. Just off to the east I saw the high rocks marking the back door of Sikima. I hadn't been there for three weeks. I'd tried not to even think about it. Now it was right between me and home.

For a split second I thought about taking a longer route home to avoid the village completely. I knew this didn't make any sense, especially with night closing in. I decided to take the most direct route over the rocky outcrop.

Starting to climb I couldn't help but think about Tadashi. When we were little, we spent a lot of time in these rocks, playing and pretending. The last couple of years we'd go up there to sit and talk and watch. We could see the whole village, the harbor and the approaches from the open ocean. Even on the hottest summer day, there was always a cool breeze blowing in off the water.

By the time I reached the top, I'd worked up a sweat. I sat down on my favorite outcrop and let my feet hang over the edge, fifty feet above the bottom. I removed my knapsack and pulled out my canteen. I took a long, cool drink. It felt good in my mouth and then down my parched throat.

Stretched out before me was Sikima. All of the houses were painted and pretty and perfectly still. It felt like I was looking at a painting. There was no motion, or sound or life. It didn't seem real. I could see Tadashi's home. The small wooden building, painted light blue, curtains pulled shut, the garden plot neatly furrowed, waiting for next year's planting, the front door closed. So many times I'd walked up that pathway and been welcomed into their home. Now it was empty.

All the houses were empty. That thought echoed around my head the way footsteps echo through an empty room. All of those people; those I cared for, those I knew, heck, even people like Toshio; they were all gone. Nothing left but ghosts living in perfectly preserved little houses. I felt numb. The kind of feeling you get when your foot falls asleep, but this was inside my whole head.

Sitting there in silence, I heard only sounds of the gentle rain and the lapping of the waves against the shore. Then, ever so faintly, another sound intruded; a motor. I wasn't alone with the ghosts. But where was the sound coming from? Who was it?

Almost on cue a small boat rounded the outstretched finger of land protecting the harbor from the open water. It was a fishing boat. The deck was empty except for a small covered bridge for the captain to take refuge from the weather. In the fading light I could make out two or three people moving around. The noise of the engine, which got louder as the boat got closer, was punctuated by the sound of loud conversation.

It moved across the empty harbor. Just out from the main pier the engine noise stopped as the motor was cut and the boat glided in. Two men, fore and aft, leaped up onto the dock and began tethering the boat. Two more figures joined the first two.

“Hello …” called a voice, “… is anybody here?”

The words echoed off the empty buildings and the rocks under my feet and then faded away, swallowed up by the waves washing against the shore. I knew that, sitting here silent and unmoving on the rocks against the darkening sky, I was invisible.

“Hello!” came a second voice from the dock.

Silence. I watched transfixed.

I heard them talking, loud words, mixed with laugh–ter. I couldn't make out what they were saying except for one burst of profanity. They disappeared behind the shed, where all the fishing gear was stored, and then re–appeared on the other side, moving toward the houses. As they walked they passed a bottle or a canteen back and forth, taking deep slugs. I saw an arm go back, an object was thrown and then came the sound of smash–ing glass. I jumped.

Together they turned up the path of old lady Koyoga's house. The man in the lead raised his leg and kicked at the front door. It exploded inward, and the small pane of glass shattered. They entered the house, leaving the door open behind them. It hung on a strange angle as if the top hinge had been torn loose from the frame. This was senseless. All he had to do was turn the knob. Her door, no door in the whole village, even had a lock.

I could hear the sounds of them moving around; more breaking glass, moving furniture and loud laugh–ter. I knew that sound. Drunken laughter. They came out of the house carrying bags, filled with who knows what, and moved to the next place.

My brain remained frozen. I was watching, not able to believe what I was seeing. These men were robbing the village. And there was nobody to stop them. Nobody. There was nobody here but me.

Almost in slow motion I pulled my legs up and stood. I needed to get a closer look so I could see their faces. I moved down the rock face, slowly, following them with my eyes as they kicked in the door of the second house and disappeared inside. No longer visible, they were still audible. I could hear them. They seemed to be getting louder, like a pack of wolves over a fallen deer.

I reached the bottom of the cliff and crouched down behind a bush, peering through the foliage, so I could see out but they wouldn't be able to see me. I waited for them to reappear before I moved any farther. They came out of the house. I could clearly see their faces. They were strangers. On one hand I was relieved it was nobody I knew, but it also meant I couldn't identify them for the authorities.

Two, who were carrying burlap bags, broke off to–ward the dock, probably to drop off their stolen goods. The other two moved to the next house.

This wasn't good. I wanted them to stay together. I was afraid they might somehow come up behind me. I couldn't believe what was happening in front of me. I couldn't just stand by and watch, but what could I do? My hand brushed against the handle of my gun.

Before I saw them, I heard the first two coming back up from the dock. At the same instant the other two came out of the house and they greeted each other with curses. They stood together and talked, arms gesturing, and then one shoved another forcefully back.

I took my rifle down from my shoulder. I took off the safety. Quietly I moved forward. Holding the weapon right out in front of me, waist high, I moved toward them. They were too busy arguing, and probably too drunk as well, to notice me. With each step closer I found my feelings swell up inside. I was filling up with fear. This wasn't just hunting down a rabbit. I was turn–ing my gun on these men. This wasn't a joke, or a game.

This was deadly serious.

I felt an ache in my stomach and I thought I might have to throw up. About fifteen steps away from them, I stopped. Their arguing had become more profane, and now the original two who had been pushing were being restrained by the other two. They still hadn't seen me.

I drew a shell into the firing chamber and leveled the rifle directly at them. “Put up your hands!” I yelled, lowering my voice to sound older.

Instantly they froze, and then all four heads snapped towards me. One chuckled. “It's just a kid.”

“Put up your hands!” I yelled again. My voice cracked and I realized I sounded scared and unsure.

“Look, he's got on an army jacket. Kid's pretending he's a soldier.” They all broke into a chorus of laughter.

“Probably got himself a pretend gun as well,” one of them said. He had a full beard and a toque on his head. Despite the cold weather, he wasn't even wearing a coat. His arms were covered with tattoos. He looked like a sailor. Probably one of the merchant marine who worked up and down the coast delivering supplies to the American bases. He now took a step forward.

“Go away, kid, before somebody gets hurt.”

One of the four started to drift off to the side.

“Stop!” I ordered and I trained my gun squarely at his chest.

“Quit fooling around, kid. Don't get us angry,” threat–ened the bearded man. He took two steps forward.

“Stop! The gun is as real as the jacket,” I said, trying to bluff him into thinking I was a soldier. He kept on moving toward me. He didn't believe me.

“Don't come any closer!” I yelled anxiously and backed off a step.

“What are you going to do if I do?”

“Shoot.” This time my words were quiet, matter of fact.

“Who are you trying to fool, kid, you aren't going to do it,” he blustered.

I aimed the rifle directly at him. “One more step and I shoot.” Again my words were quiet.

He stopped. He was so close I could see the sweat on his upper lip.