There was something fascinating to Yoshio about the flames that now destroyed Howard’s house. They were sinewy, bright, gaudy. And for a moment, watching as the roof collapsed in on itself with first an unwilling wheeze and then a great crash, Yoshio understood that any part of him that thought that he was in control of his life, that things today would progress as he decided, and not with the inevitable march of a force much bigger than he, had disappeared. He wanted to run back to Irene, to face what he had mistaken for faith. He knew now that it was a certainty in his flaws and not her belief in his strengths that she had used to get him here. Irene knew that he was not helping the pilot out of conviction, but because she wanted him to. He had come up with the excuses later—best for Niihau, best for everyone—to hide what must’ve been obvious to her (but not to him, not until now) at the time—that he was desperate to please his wife. To make up for past mistakes. To undo what could never be undone.
He wanted to feel angry with Irene, to curse and blame her for where he was now. He wanted to roar like Howard’s house was doing, in fury and discontent, in righteous anger. But instead he felt only the thin, persistent smoke of self-loathing strangling his gut. He could not hate Irene, nor blame her. At least Irene did what she did with conviction, with relentless faith. She would save her family, even if it meant manipulating her husband. Well, that was understandable. It was he who had once again blundered.
The heat from the fire was suddenly too much, and Yoshio turned his head away. He thought of how the Niihauans worshiped Robinson, and how Nishikaichi worshiped his emperor. He worshiped Irene. In this way all their lives were tightly circumscribed—the Niihauans by the perimeter of the island, the pilot by his sense of duty, and Yoshio by the defining moment of his life, when he saw what he had become: a coward in front of the luna. Irene was the only one who worshiped no one, and who fought gamely all the boundaries that held her in. Her belief? In herself alone.
The pilot stared at the burning house without even raising a hand to deflect the intense heat. The flicker of shadow and light on his face gave the impression of conflicting emotions parading across his features, but in fact his expression was impassive. He had seen houses burn before, from the vantage point of his plane, and he had always watched with a boyish fascination for spectacle. He would let his mouth drop and his eyes widen. He would sometimes exhale loudly at an extraordinary burst of color. But today he had emotions he could not let out at all. This burning house was different from the others. It was right in front of him, so close he could feel its furious heat, its betrayed, anguished cries. And it had context. Here, he had been fed and cared for. He had sung Japanese songs, the people had laughed. As the porch dropped from its foundation, sending sparks in the air, he gritted his teeth. He kept staring without turning his head. Keep looking straight on, he thought. Straight on, like a soldier.
Finally the fire began to settle. Nishikaichi allowed himself to wipe the ash from his face. There, he thought. If the papers were inside, they were destroyed now. He would commence to burn every house in the village. If the papers were instead buried in this hard, red soil, he was sure someone would tell him before their house was destroyed. But first there was something more important to which he had to attend. He stepped forward and yanked a partially burned piece of wood from a smoldering pile. He lifted it above his head, the burst of oxygen bringing the flame to life. Without a word to Yoshio, he turned and headed back to his plane.
Yoshio kicked at the pile and hesitated. Howard’s house was heaving a final sigh, the remnants of one wall leaning precipitously. It didn’t feel right to leave it, a funeral that was not yet over. But he’d had enough of the black smoke, the sound of things giving way, the smell. He walked sideways toward the sagging, smoke-swirled house, warding off the heat, keeping his eyes on the ground for an apt torch. He found a burning balustrade and picked it up. There was no turning back now. It was time to burn the plane.
Captain stood up in the boat and pointed. Someone yelled. Howard’s chin had fallen to his chest and he’d begun to snore, but he jerked awake at the noise. Instantly they saw what had caused the alarm. There was a fire on Niihau. But it wasn’t on Mount Paniau. It came from Puuwai.
The sky slowly lightened. Dawn was near. It was Saturday, December 13.
The pilot balanced on the wing, his torch held high above him. He stared down at the cockpit where he had spent so many hours. They had been lonely hours, yes, but also, when he’d looked from one side to the other as he flew in formation with his squadron, hours when he had felt a part of something bigger than himself. It had given him meaning, this plane. He wanted to sit in the now crumpled seat and put his hand on the stick and close his eyes. Instead, he ran his hands along the dashboard, leaving a smear in the dust and a glimpse of the dials and numbers that had once helped him across the sky. He wanted, one more time, to feel the hum of the powerful engine, see the corona of propeller. But it was his duty to destroy his Zero, and he would do it.
-Everything okay, Nishikaichi-san? Yoshio called from below. Nishikaichi had not realized that the man had followed him, his own torch held above his head.
-Everything’s fine.
-We’d better hurry. Yoshio nodded at the plane.
-Yes.
Yoshio clambered onto the wing. Nishikaichi stared at the seat.
-It’s going to be hard without explosives, he said.
-Everything burns in the Niihau heat, said Yoshio, and with that he unceremoniously dipped his burning piece of wood into the cockpit. Black smoke scurried sideways. The flame jumped. But Nishikaichi swung his arm into Yoshio’s and the torch skittered over the door and into the sand below.
Yoshio, wide-eyed, stepped backward.
-It’s mine to destroy, said Nishikaichi. And with that he pushed his own torch into the seat as if thrusting a sword into a heart.
The leather curled and shrank before it finally began to burn. Yoshio kept his distance; Nishikaichi watched the growing flame with his mouth pressed closed and his eyes narrowed against the smoke. The fire grew higher and smokier. Suddenly a sense of relief washed over him, as if the grief he’d felt had found a hole in his foot and leaked away, and in its place was this new feeling, and the realization that finally, he would complete his mission.