Yoshio laid the double-barreled shotgun on the table and stared at it grimly. It had a thin gossamer of dust on it and an unnatural heft, but perhaps that was only because he had not handled a weapon in so long. The gun had been his idea, but the sight of it made him reconsider. Years ago, under orders from Aylmer Robinson’s father, all the wild goats—offspring of those first goats brought by Captain Cook—had been slaughtered with this gun. Otherwise guns were prohibited on Niihau; this one had been pushed to the back of a shed, almost forgotten.
He glanced at Nishikaichi, then back at the gun.
-Well, he said. Here it is. He nodded at the butt, as if it was invisible without his direction.
-Does it shoot? Nishikaichi frowned.
-It doesn’t need to shoot, said Yoshio. It’s just for scaring, right? To get Howard to cough up your papers.
The pilot picked the weapon up and blew at the hammer. He put it on his shoulder and squinted down the barrels. He wanted to fire a test shot but knew that this was out of the question.
-We can’t be sure it works, he said.
-But that doesn’t matter, insisted Yoshio. No shooting, remember?
The pilot averted his eyes from the gun and stared at Yoshio. He flickered them back and swung the barrels sideways, taking aim at someplace near the wall. Then, with a sudden movement, the shotgun was off his shoulder and broken open, the cartridges exposed in their chambers.
-Right, Nishikaichi said offhandedly. At least it’s loaded.
He would have to hope that it worked.
-If it’s loaded perhaps I should carry it. Yoshio shifted and held out one hand. I don’t want you getting too aggressive.
-You want to carry a gun? Nishikaichi smiled. Okay, then.
He put a hand on Yoshio’s shoulder amiably.
Yoshio frowned. He looked at the gun and back at the pilot.
-All right, all right. I don’t like guns, okay? You take it, but no shooting.
Nishikaichi nodded. Yoshio watched as he laid the gun back on the table and walked to the window, staring out with a grim set to his mouth. Yoshio knew that, from under downcast lids, Irene also watched the pilot. With surprise he realized that he truly no longer minded. It would just take Irene a little while to see that her husband was a different man than a week ago; he was stronger, more decisive, a man of action, like the soldier she stared at. Idly he wondered what the pilot was thinking about. Perhaps he imagined his beloved emperor, or the orders he was finally about to carry out, and how soon he would be free. Perhaps he had a girl at home whom he was pledged to marry. Perhaps he thought of what life would be like here in the United States, under Japanese control. Would he stay? Would he settle here, in Hawaii?
Nishikaichi thought of surfing.
He wanted to fly across the water just one more time. But the gun was on the table. Mrs. Harada stood near the radio, her triangular face flushed and somber, the child at her feet. Harada-san was looking at him with a worried expression tinged with surprise, as if he had just stepped off the shallow sand into a deep part of the ocean and could not remember at the last moment whether he could swim. Looking at their faces, he suddenly saw his parents. They sat on the floor, saying not a word. The sun dappled their knees, and once or twice his mother looked up at his father, and perhaps she smiled. Is this how they would look after they got the news that their son had died for their country?
Nishikaichi turned slowly. He felt suddenly that Irene and Yoshio were waiting for him to say something important, something that a brave commander would say to his troops before a battle. But he was not a commander, and he never would be. He was a soldier, born to carry out his duty by giving the only thing he really had to give, which was his life. The speech given to him and his fellow pilots on the aircraft carrier Hiryu had been all about that: how they were sure to die, and how honorable that would be, how the waves that would cover the bones of their corpses would always be lifted and formed by winds from their beloved Japan. It had been a stirring speech, and buoyed by it Nishikaichi had felt elated to be in the air in his Zero, with little chance of surviving the Pearl Harbor attack.
Nishikaichi cleared his throat.
-May the wind, he began. The wind on the waves…
Irene looked at him, puzzled. Yoshio straightened his shoulders, his eyes bright, his face still. Nishikaichi frowned. The words did not have the spirited ring he had heard on the carrier. They seemed flat and meaningless.
-We will remember that the grass, Nishikaichi started again, realizing that if they were to die, it would probably be on Niihau’s hard red soil and not in the ocean. That grass that will grow from the nutrient of our corpses…
Irene’s eyes widened and Yoshio paled. Nishikaichi did not seem to notice.
-That grass will sway, always in a wind. It will be nourished by our honor and humility. It will sway always—he raised his voice now, straining for a grand finale—in a wind that blows from Japan!
Then he lifted both arms awkwardly in what he hoped was triumph and inspiration, but Irene gave a small cry and turned away. Yoshio pulled his hand abruptly from where it rested on the table and the shotgun.
-This isn’t about death, Airman Nishikaichi, Yoshio whispered. That’s exactly what we want to avoid. Isn’t that the point of all this, to avoid bloodshed?
Nishikaichi blinked. An honorable death was his own wish, but an Americanized Japanese couple would never understand this. He looked from the man to the woman in front of him, and then to their little girl on the floor. He should not be too harsh about their weakness—hadn’t he avoided death for the love of the fishmonger’s daughter?
-Harada-san, he said, bowing slightly. It’s a metaphor. An ancient Japanese metaphor. Nothing to worry about.
He felt heavy suddenly, weighed down by the inevitability of the coming hours. He would die by his own hand, once the plane and papers were taken care of. But he would make sure that Yoshio was safe and sound. That would be his final giri, his obligation to the older, more timid man.
-We go now, Nishikaichi said, smiling slowly. Afterward, when our mission is complete, and the island is safe…
He shrugged.
-Then we will surf.
At four-thirty that Friday afternoon, Yoshio tried to dismiss Hanaiki Niau, but the man just smiled and said Howard had told him to stay, it was no trouble. Yoshio retreated to the house and became agitated, until Irene suggested a second way out. Later, he asked Hanaiki to escort Nishikaichi to the outhouse with him. Hanaiki obliged, but halfway down the path, Yoshio cocked his head toward the honey shed.
-We stop for a moment? Yoshio asked Hanaiki, who nodded amiably.
The three men traipsed to the shed.
When they stepped inside, Hanaiki did not notice that the pilot had blocked the doorway they’d entered, or that he had pulled the shotgun from behind a door, just where Irene said she had put it the hour before. Hanaiki allowed himself to be marched to the back of the honey shed, but not without turning back once or twice to look at Mr. Harada, just to ascertain that the whole thing wasn’t a joke.
-You mean this? Hanaiki asked.
-Just do as we say, Mr. Niau, and everything will be fine, Yoshio said. He too kept glancing at the weapon in Nishikaichi’s hands, held up to one of his eyes and trained steadily at the Hawaiian’s spine as if Hanaiki was not three hundred broad pounds, but a small target to be sighted carefully.
Yoshio indicated that Hanaiki should sit, which he did, slowly, his eyes on Nishikaichi and the gun.
-Tie him, said Nishikaichi.
-No, he’s fine, said Yoshio, and then to Hanaiki, with apology in his voice. Stay here, don’t move, he said. All for the best.
-You feeling okay? To Hanaiki, the situation was so absurd that he felt more curiosity and surprise than fear. He didn’t like the way the Japanese youth was working his jaw from side to side and standing in the doorway with a shotgun at the ready. But Yoshio had always been a man whose most obvious trait was his blinking amiability. How he had found himself allied with a soldier and a gun was beyond Hanaiki’s immediate comprehension.
-Don’t make trouble, said Yoshio, and everybody will be fine. The soldier needs his papers, and when the Japanese come everyone will be protected.
-Japanese?
-There’s war, said Yoshio as he turned to go. He hesitated, as if he wanted to put a hand on the big man’s shoulder. That’s why Mr. Robinson doesn’t come. Everything has been taken by the Japanese.
Hanaiki’s large mouth hung open. Yoshio was at the doorway.
-They’ll treat us well, if we help the pilot.
And then the two men were gone, leaving Hanaiki stunned and blinking over the word war.
Yoshio walked quickly down the path, Nishikaichi behind him. They would head for Puuwai and Howard’s house there. Yoshio had wanted to take two of Robinson’s Arabians—the thought both thrilling and scaring him—but the pilot did not know how to ride a horse, a fact that stunned Yoshio. I fly, the pilot had said. What use are horses? And Yoshio had agreed. They would walk then, leaving the cart for Irene and Taeko to use if necessary. When Yoshio passed the kitchen window on the way to the dirt path that led to Puuwai, he looked sideways, hoping to see Irene watching him with what he imagined was awe and approval. But there was no movement behind the window, no telltale silhouette. There was just the reflection of his distorted face glancing momentarily at the glass. He walked on, ignoring his own disappointment. He turned only once, ostensibly to make sure the pilot was behind him, but really to catch one last glimpse of his house. And then he saw a brief flicker behind the front window. A shimmer of a pale shoulder, a flash of a holoku. Then all was still again.
A cart trundled slowly along the road—what good luck.
-Hide the gun, ordered Yoshio, who then waved at what he made out to be Hanaiki Niau’s wife, Hannah, on her way to the store perhaps, or to see her husband, who was now—unbeknownst to her—locked away. Her three younger children sat on the seat to one side of her. On the horse that pulled the cart sat her older daughter, Louisa, and behind her, one hand on the horse’s rump, sat Lily. Hannah was half turned to the child next to her, so she did not see Yoshio or the pilot. Only when he yelled extra loud and began to run did she pull up on the reins. The cart came to a stop.
-Mr. Harada, Hannah began, pulling her youngest boy onto her lap as if to make room.
-Please, said Yoshio as politely as he could. Will you take us to the village? Irene is sick and—
-How terrible, clucked Hannah. Will she be all right?
-I think so. But…
Yoshio hesitated. How would he convince her to head away from the house immediately?
-Now! cried Nishikaichi suddenly in Japanese. He brandished the shotgun from behind his back. Even Yoshio was shocked, and took a surprised step back, as if the pilot threatened him as well. Hannah let out a cry. The pilot shook the weapon at her, and kept speaking angrily. Quickly, Hannah herded her kids to the ground and dropped her own large frame nimbly off the cart; she did not need to understand the words to know what he wanted. Yoshio, recovering, grabbed the bridle with one hand and Lily’s ankle with the other. It was meant to be a soothing gesture but she jerked away with a whimper.
-It’s okay, he tried again. Just the cart and it’ll be fine.
-Mr. Harada! cried Hannah fiercely. She pushed her three younger children behind her legs and began batting her hands in the air at him.
His heart went into a fusillade of nervous leaps; he wanted to take the time to explain the whole plan to them—how the Japanese navy would be kind to the islanders after this, that this was scary but not terribly dangerous—they weren’t really going to shoot anybody. But Nishikaichi had jumped onto the cart and stood with his feet planted and his face a blank mask, and Yoshio had a moment of pure, cold fear that this was not as he had planned.
-What’s wrong with you? he cried to Nishikaichi. We treat these people with respect.
-Get in, Nishikaichi replied, staring at Hannah in case she decided to rush the cart.
-The children—
-Now, said Nishikaichi, waving with impatience.
Yoshio gestured wildly at Lily and Louisa, who seemed frozen with fear.
-Down, keikis, he yelled. Get off the horse!
They dropped to the ground and ran to Hannah, who had begun to yell a mixture of Hawaiian invectives and prayer.
-We’ll get your horse back, Yoshio cried. He reached for Hannah’s arm to reassure her, but she recoiled with fear and something that—to his astonishment—looked like disdain. Stung, he pulled himself onto the cart and seized the reins. He yelled Ya, ya at the horse, and with a heave they were off toward the plane.
-Are you mad? cried Yoshio. He urged on the excited horse, and then found the balance to turn and glare at Nishikaichi. You promised—
-I have only one promise, Harada-san. The pilot gripped the wooden sides and shouted over the crackle of the steel shanks, the roar of the wheels. And that is my obligation to the emperor. There is no more time to be patient.
-But—
-Enough!
Nishikaichi forced himself to frown at the passing countryside, ignoring his building need to cough out the dust in his lungs kicked up by their flight. He knew that there was something else that fueled his sudden anger, but it was not something he could discuss with Yoshio.
The little girl who had helped him surf.
He hadn’t expected to see her. He’d overreacted, steeling himself against any sudden onslaught of regret or feeling. Anger had been the only way he could hold on to his martial spirit, but he had scared her. He was hit with a clearer idea of why so many of his brother soldiers had gone so crazy in China. They were fighting beauty and love because otherwise they would be weakened by it. Hatred and violence were the perfect armor. Still, he had not liked the fear on the little girl’s face. It made him feel ashamed.
He coughed. The dust was too much. He wiped his eyes. He could see the spire of the place of worship, and by the way the horse was pulling, they were near the outskirts of the village. He set his jaw. He was a soldier above all else now. Soon, this would all be over anyway.
They veered right, to Howard’s house. Yoshio jumped from the cart and threw the reins over the Kaleohanos’ rock wall. Neither of the men spoke, just stared out at the field.
His plane was not as Nishikaichi had remembered it. Even broken it had been formidable that first day on Niihau, but now it looked like what it was: a shattered machine that would never rise again. He couldn’t believe it had once been such a mighty thing, his Zero, the best fighting plane ever made.
He began to walk toward it with purpose. The shotgun dangled at his side. Quickly he spotted Little Preacher in the shade of the kiawe tree, and he raised the weapon to his eye. Then he continued his walk, closing the distance between himself and the young guard. Little Preacher must’ve been asleep, because he made no indication that he saw the approaching pilot.
-Mother Mary, cried the young man as he rose to his feet. Nishikaichi began to bark orders that Little Preacher did not understand, so he continued to stammer, and then to pray. Yoshio had arrived by now, and began to smile and banter witlessly.
-It’s okay, keiki, Yoshio said, even though it clearly was not. Just go to the plane and help us with the guns.
-I know nothing of guns! cried Little Preacher.
Nishikaichi prodded him hard with the barrel.
-I’m a young man of God, Mr. Harada, he pleaded. Soon of the cloth.
Nishikaichi walked to the plane. He climbed up onto the left wing and leaned into the cockpit. There were buttons and knobs missing. And what people had not taken, Mother Nature had claimed for herself—the leather seat was cracked and dry, a thick sheath of dust clogged the stick, the instrument panel was spattered with bird droppings. He picked up the radio headphones, which had fallen between the seat and the door and so had been miraculously missed by greedy hands, shook them out, and put them on. Then he began to fiddle with the knobs, more out of habit than any firm belief that he would connect with a nearby Japanese squadron. But the connections had been severed by the crash, or the battery had worn itself out, and there was only silence.
Yoshio kept his eye on Little Preacher, whose own eyes were closed as he prayed. The only other time Yoshio had been this uneasy had been on his wedding night, when he had approached Irene once they were alone and seen such fear in her eyes he had almost turned around to see if perhaps there was an intruder in the room. But no, it had been he, and the prospect of doing what husbands and wives do, which she knew nothing about except that it would hurt. He only knew a little. He had wanted to feel powerful and in control in direct proportion to her fear, but he hadn’t; he’d felt uncertain and fumbling. Now he gritted his teeth and scowled at Little Preacher.
He didn’t notice Nishikaichi next to him until the man spoke.
-Papers, he said simply, and then pointed to Howard’s house.
They marched away from the plane, Nishikaichi still pointing the gun at Little Preacher’s back.
At the front door of the Kaleohanos’, Yoshio called out for Howard. A small boy appeared.
-Where’s your father? Yoshio asked. The young boy, no older than eight, looked at Yoshio and then at the gun-holding pilot behind him. He pointed down the road, to the Kelly house.
Yoshio shrugged and looked at Nishikaichi.
-Okay, scowled Nishikaichi, then the machine guns. We’ll dismantle them.
In fact, Howard was not at the Kellys’, as his son well knew, but in the outhouse. He’d been there a long time, concentrating on his business and letting his mind wander now and then to Shintani and his petrified exit from his house only a few hours earlier. He hadn’t heard the cart pull up. But he’d heard a commotion coming from the plane and, after peeking through the slats of the wall, had seen the two men in his pasture with a gun pointed at the young guard. They had walked past him and were out of sight momentarily and then had returned to the plane. A loud banging was now coming from their direction; he guessed they were trying to fix the thing and fly away.
Little Preacher strained at the bolts that held the machine gun down. He blew away dust and squinted through sweat and the beginning of tears to find the right screws. Just then Yoshio let out a cry. A figure had dashed from the outhouse, hoisting his pants (in his nervousness, Howard had forgotten to knot his much-needed rope belt), and was now fleeing toward the house. Nishikaichi whirled from his place on the wing and the whole plane shuddered. Little Preacher cried out; Nishikaichi yelled something incomprehensible, bringing the gun back to his shoulder and aiming. As he yelled he shook the tip for emphasis, as if he would shoot at any moment if not obeyed. Howard kept running. Nishikaichi screamed at him, but Howard disappeared into the house. Nishikaichi jumped from the wing, but by the time he’d begun to run, the front door of Howard’s house banged open and Howard ran out dragging his boy by the hand. Nishikaichi slowed to a walk as Howard disappeared down the road. He turned around, back to the plane.
Yoshio had fallen to his knees when Nishikaichi first raised the gun. He’d let out an anguished cry as Nishikaichi yelled; already he could see Howard falling to the ground, hit. He’d thought he would faint, his stomach had bucked and churned. By the time Nishikaichi had stopped shouting and walked back to the wing, Yoshio’s hands were on his ears and he huddled in the dirt.
-Get up, Harada-san, Nishikaichi snarled. I didn’t shoot a single round.
Yoshio pushed himself to his feet.
-This was to be peaceful, he stammered. The gun, would you have—
-Harada-san, pull yourself together! This is war, what did you think it would be like?
-No, no, no, cried Yoshio, his hands clamped together and shaking at the air. Not like this. Not ever.
With his boy in his arms, Howard quickly became fatigued. There had been no time to get the papers; he had scooped up his son and fled down the main road toward the church, yelling as he went. Ella was the first to appear and then other villagers quickly gathered round. Ranch hands just in from the pastures flicked at their hats and grinned uncertainly as Howard spoke
-I was shot at, he cried, setting his son on the ground and catching his breath.
-By who, what?
-The pilot! Mr. Harada and the pilot are trying to—
-Mr. Harada is one of the gentlest men around, said Ella. Shame on you! Telling another tall tale. A lie in the eyes of God, Mr. Kaleohano.
-But they had a gun! Mother of Jesus…
-Mr. Harada wouldn’t hurt a fly.
-If you told me it was Mrs. Harada, well, someone added. The villagers laughed again.
-I swear it, on the steeple of the church, on every Bible inside, they—
Suddenly there were shouts from another direction. Hanaiki Niau stumbled into the square, and leaned against the church to catch his breath. It had taken everything he had to tear a hole in the old shed wall. His fingers were cut and bleeding. Straw stuck from his hair. He ran a hand through it, as if suddenly self-conscious of his condition, and cried,
-Mr. Harada’s gone crazy!
Nishikaichi stormed through Howard’s house, tipping over the few chairs, sending the one pot to the ground with a sweep of his hand. In the cupboards he pulled all the cans to the floor—condensed milk, green peas, creamed corn, string beans—they made a loud popping sound as they hit and then rolled away. He stood for a few minutes in front of a lopsided wooden cross, hastily constructed and then nailed to the wall. He lifted it from its place and dropped it to the floor. Hands on his hips, he glanced once more around the room, but everything had already been upturned, moved aside, or flung. He slammed his fist on the kitchen table in frustration, and the shotgun, which lay on it, jumped, as if alive. Where had the man hidden the papers? Nishikaichi went again to the cupboards, this time reaching to the far back and climbing on a chair to fully inspect the upper shelves.
Yoshio was in the other room, and he tried to ignore the almost hysterical commotion nearby. As he knelt to feel on the floor under the mattress, he hit his head against the corner of the bed. The sharp pain made him close his eyes and exhale sharply, and when he opened them he groped without much determination. He flapped his hands against the bed slats but, his head throbbing, decided quickly there was nothing to be found there. Who would be stupid enough to hide something in so obvious a place? He got up and walked out, not knowing that if he had spent just a few more moments his fingertips might have discerned a tumorous knob that indicated the squashed, rolled-up sheaf of papers, pushed between the bottom of the mattress and the bed slats, where Howard, after unfurling them hours before, had restuffed them.
Yoshio stepped back into the kitchen, placing his feet carefully between strewn objects. He was glad that they had decided to let Little Preacher go. The pilot was getting so angry, he was afraid that someone would be shot soon.
Nishikaichi turned around and held out his military pistol, taken by Howard upon their first encounter and pushed lazily onto the top shelf of the cupboards, where a child couldn’t reach.
-Now you take the shotgun, he said.
Yoshio stepped back. He shook his head violently.
-No, no, he said. This is—I’m not—I can’t.
-You’re a soldier now, Harada-san. Take the shotgun.
Yoshio put his hands to his eyes. This was terribly wrong. He tried to think of Irene’s face, the look she might have to see him like this. As a soldier, like Nishikaichi said. He dropped his arms at his sides, then stepped forward.
-Give it to me, he said, clenching his jaw tightly.
All the Niihauans were alerted and began to gather in the safest place they knew, their church. They barred the door, the shutters to the windows were slammed shut. Hurriedly they filled the pews, until only the biggest men stayed in back, keeping watch. It was dark, but a few candles were found and lit; they flickered weakly and threw frightening shadows. It wasn’t Sunday, and the preacher from Kauai only came every so often, but they sang hymns as they usually did and Howard stood up to read from the Bible. The pages fell open to Revelation, so that he was soon intoning about the end of the world, and the Niihauans began to pale and bite their lower lips. Howard, who could hardly see the type in the fading light and who kept staring nervously at the door, skipped to the end and finished the reading rapidly. There was a moment of heavy silence as he stared from the lectern down at his neighbors. He could not see all their faces, but the church was full and he could feel their fear and his own.
-The stranger has guns and is taking more from his plane. We can pray all we want, but will that defend us against bullets? I don’t think so.
There was an audible gasp from the pews.
-Okay, you think that’s blasphemy. All I’m saying is that the Japanese may land any second, if what Mr. Harada told Mr. Niau is to be believed. But Mr. Robinson isn’t coming, and I don’t know if God is either. Now we have been betrayed by our own neighbor, Mr. Harada. At first I thought he was being forced, but I’m not so sure anymore. It’s my opinion, humble as it may be, that we have no choice but to head for the caves where our ancestors went in times of trouble and hide there.
He turned to the drooping figure of Jesus, on the wall behind him, whose unnaturally incandescent white skin, mistaken sometimes for grace, could still be seen in the graying light. Then he pushed away from the lectern and hurried down the aisle.
The villagers scrambled to their feet, unused to seeing Howard so scared and flustered. They scattered, all 130 of them, into the low scrub and dry ground behind Puuwai and beyond. Some grabbed horses, some fled on foot. Howard instructed Mabel to stay close to Hannah. Then he found an unclaimed mare and vaulted onto her back.
-Signal! he cried to Hanaiki Niau. Go to the mountain! Then he galloped back to his house.