FATHER

Night gives way to day,

And death

To life.

I carried Taeyo home. As soon as he had his arms around my neck, he clung so tight I could hardly breathe. I softly chanted a warrior song, and soon he stopped crying. My sister met us not far from our hut. Once inside, she rolled out a mat, and I set Taeyo down. Blood oozed from his leg. Anna Maria brought water, soap, strips of cloth, and vine leaves, healing herbs, pounded into a poultice. The bullet had gone through the side of his leg below his knee, not deep. A clean wound. After she washed his leg, treated it with the herbs, and bandaged it, the bleeding barely oozed. Taeyo slept. Anna Maria sat by his side, massaging his arms with one hand, holding the roundness of her belly with the other.

My mother brought water. “Drink, Joseph.”

“I shouldn’t have sent him home alone.”

“Joseph, we do not know what is on the other side of a decision.” She urged me to drink more water. “No one can change from boy to man in a single day.”

I sat with my arms wrapped around my head. My world had become crazy. How could anyone shoot a child? What did Ako mean that they had to leave? Should we go with them? But would they protect us? How could I ever find the cave? What did Sensei say? But what if the Japanese lost? No, that could never happen. I tried to think. I wanted to cry. Where would our family be safe?

I did not mean to sleep.

I woke up coughing, choking on smoke. Was this another nightmare? Smoke burned my throat and eyes. The earth trembled. The screams were real. I ran outside.

Flares shot across the early morning sky, but it was not a sky I recognized. The southern horizon glowed orange, as if it were burning. An orange that was wrong, that smelled like death. The south … the airfield … my father … Ignacio. Another explosion shook the earth. Black smoke poured across the southern horizon. Tongues of flames shot up, disappeared, reappeared.

My mother and sister were outside. They stood holding each other, staring south. I looked toward the reef. Giant ships, steel gray, crowded along the reef—so many, so huge. Streams of fire and smoke exploded from them, above them. Where had they come from? Were these American? Why hadn’t the Japanese stopped them? People were running out from their homes, babies were crying, children screaming. What should I do? Ako had urged, “Come with us.” But I promised Father I would go to the cave.

People trudged past, carrying children. So many faces streaked with soot and tears. Some saw me and shouted, “We are leaving! We are leaving! Come with us.”

I looked at my mother. She shook her head.

Women ran past carrying mats, bundles of food. One walked beside a wooden cart pulled by a water buffalo. A black dog trotted behind, its belly swollen, soon to have puppies. How would they survive? I turned to my mother. “We must leave.”

“Soon.” She continued to roll up another mat, wrap another packet of baked breadfruit in banana leaves. “Taeyo is resting. His wound will soon stop bleeding.”

“We will wait a few hours,” I said. “No more. After the moon rises, we will leave. Even with the rain, the moonlight will help us find the way.” How will I ever find the way?

Explosions continued. Ugly curls of smoke smeared the southern sky. Ashes fell with the rain. We stayed busy with preparations for leaving. We did not speak. Taeyo barely stirred. Outside, people were walking, running, and carrying bundles on their backs or little children on their shoulders.

Roosters crowed, dogs barked. The familiar sounds made me shiver. How many days since my father and Ignacio had left? Maybe twenty, maybe more. Every evening my sister had cut a mark on the breadfruit tree outside our house. Even now she went outside and made one more mark, then continued on to the shore.

“Don’t let her go there,” I urged my mother. “It is too dangerous.”

“Let her be.” My mother followed and stood near my sister. I stared at their silhouettes. I went back inside and checked on Taeyo. Good, he was sleeping. I slipped my hand under my sleeping mat and my fingers found the familiar shape, Sensei’s book. I held it for a moment, then tucked it in with our things. I heard a noise and looked up.

Someone stepped into our hut and stood before me, dripping with rain. An old man, a skeleton covered with skin.

My father had come home.

He stepped toward me and collapsed. I caught him and held his shivering body against mine as if he were a child. I tried to say his name, but nothing came out. He lifted his arm, pressed his hand on my lips, and whispered, “Joseph. Listen … listen.”

His voice was barely more than a rattle.

Word by word, he struggled to speak. “Tell Anna Maria. Joseph, tell her.”

“Tell her what, Father?”

“Soldiers saw us. Running.” He closed his eyes and breathed several times before he could speak again. “Soldiers beat us, left us to die. I did not die. Tell Anna Maria.”

My father pulled my face close to his. He spoke slowly. “Darkness came. I woke up. Ignacio was gone. I called. Then I heard them, Joseph, the chants. They led me home.”

My father stopped. His gaze shifted. He stared at something behind me.

My mother screamed. She ran to my father, sat beside him, cradled his head.

“Water!” my mother cried. My father needed water.

Anna Maria handed me a gourd filled with fresh water. I had not heard my sister re-enter the room. She stood behind me, her head bowed. Her hands were trembling. She looked at me, questioning.

“Ignacio?” she whispered.

I looked away and held the gourd to my father’s lips. He swallowed like a child, water spilling down his chin. This broken man was my father. It could not be.

My sister waited. I did not know what to say.

My mother bathed him. She massaged his bruised skin, first with water from the sea and then with coconut oil, her fingers rubbing in strength, forcing life back into his body. His bones seemed to groan and crack, bones that stuck out like the ribs of a starving dog.

Father motioned: Come near. His hand touched mine, his fingers hot from fever. Before, his skin had been cold.

His lips mouthed a simple request: “Sing.”

I could not sing. Ashamed, I turned my face away. I shut my eyes. Outside, people were shouting, children crying. Everyone fleeing, running from our village, away from the sea where the sky had turned blood red. My sister sat watching, waiting.

Father’s hand touched mine. “Sing, my son.”

His touch, the sound of his voice … my father had returned. He had defeated war.

I sang. Slowly his breathing relaxed. His arms ceased trembling. I sang, whispering in his ear, sometimes making no sound at all, watching his face, watching the tight lines soften. Breath by breath, my father’s face relaxed. I sang the songs of our dances, warrior hymns, chants of the navigators. I sang of the sea that gives life and takes it, of our journey away from home and of our return. I sang to my father. I thought he was healing. I did not understand that he was dying.

The ground shook. The air smelled black with flames, oil, and gasoline. Our island was burning. But the bombs and fire had not come to our village yet. We had time before we must leave. The rain continued falling. Taeyo cried out. My sister murmured soft sounds, comforting words.

My mother sat next to me, her lips mouthing first the prayers of the rosary and then the chants of our ancestors. My father struggled to sit up. “Joseph, tell her.”

My mother looked at me.

I shook my head.

My mother stroked my father’s head. “You are home. You are safe. Rest.”

Again he struggled to sit up. “Ignacio, run!”

My sister’s eyes met Father’s.

His eyes seemed to clear, to focus on my sister’s face. “Anna Maria.”

His eyes clouded with tears. “Ignacio … is gone.”

My sister stood, slipped outside, and ran to the sea. I heard her screams, her terrible keening pouring grief and fear across the water. Cries I shall never forget.

I stood to go after her.

My mother spoke. “No, Joseph, let her be. She cries her pain. She cries so her husband might find his way back. She cries to our ancestors to bring him home.”

Father trembled. His breathing became more fitful. He called for my mother, “Rufina! Rufina Maria.” She was holding him, offering him water, cooling his head with wet cloths. But he could not see her.

Finally his breathing calmed, became shallow, slower, and then he slept. He looked again like my father, the father I remembered. The father with whom I had danced and hunted turtle. His eyes flickered opened and met mine. “Take them to the cave.”

I nodded so he would not argue. But I would not leave without my father.

His eyes closed. His lips parted slightly, repeating my mother’s name. Tears slipped from his eyes. Bending near his face, my lips next to his ear, I sang. Over and over, stronger and stronger until his tears stopped flowing.

Curled up close to my father, my head next to his like a child’s, I sang.

The ground shook again and again as if the sea had swelled into a giant wave that curled and crashed over our home. I did not realize I was dreaming. I was swimming through the swirling surf, struggling to reach my father. More waves swept him farther and farther away. A terrible roar filled my ears as I tumbled over and over. The water exploded. I woke shaking and confused.

My father did not move. I touched his forehead. It felt cool, almost cold. I stared at his chest but could not tell what was real and what I wanted to see. Prayed to see. I held his hand in mine. It was cold. It was not my father’s hand.

My father was dead.

I screamed at the sky, the sea, at war. No! If I had kept singing … he would still be alive. My father would still be alive.

The sky glowed after each explosion. Orange. Red. Burning. All around me the world was burning. My father was dead.

Night gave way to dawn. A dawn stinking of war, trembling with war.

I faced the sea but could not hear its voice. War split the air, pierced my ears with its screams. Smoke stained the horizon, curling around our village like the tentacles of some hideous monster.

From the ridge behind us, Japanese guns spewed fire and smoke at the ships along the reef. Returning shells burst above our heads. Would the enemy come here and attack our village? The Japanese would fight back. But we would be scattered like minnows with no place to hide. We would be the little fish caught in the middle—caught between the hills and the ocean—between the Japanese and Americans. Caught in the crossfire. My father had understood. Go to the cave. Hide. Wait.

A low keening, my mother’s cries mixed with prayers, pulled me back—to now, to my family. Mother was preparing my father’s body for burial. She worked slowly, carefully, as if the war did not exist. She washed him and rubbed his skin with coconut oil perfumed with sweet ylang-ylang blossoms. Their fragrance would protect him from the dark spirits that would try to steal his soul. His body must be brought to the sea, to a sacred place. There the outgoing current would carry him over the reef to the ocean. There our ancestors would welcome him. There he could rest.

But who would carry him? Women were not allowed, not even his wife or daughter. Ignacio was gone. Everyone—uncles, nephews, and brothers—gone.

The rain continued falling, harder and harder. The rain was saying, yes, I must do this. I must carry my father to the sea. But I needed help. Then I would lead my family to safety as I had promised. To the cave. First I must carry my father home.

•

“Kento!”

I banged louder. “Kento, are you still here?”

The door opened a crack. “Is that really you, Joseph?” Kento peered out. “What are you doing here? Are you crazy? Soldiers—” He glanced behind me and pulled me inside.

I stood wet with sweat and rain. I gulped in deep breaths before I could finally blurt out, “Will you help me?”

Kento locked the door. Behind him, in the darkness of the unlit room a match flared and a candle was lit. The faces of his mother and sister stared back. I had not seen Kento’s mother for a long time. After she married Kento’s father, Tanaka-san, “the Japanese,” she had lived apart from us.

Kento cleared his throat. “Joseph, we are leaving, soon. Tonight, to hide.” Kento glanced at his mother, who nodded. “Joseph, my parents have urged me to ask again. Come with us. We will have food, water, protection—a safe place.”

I bowed. “You are very generous. But—”

Ako shook her head. “Kento, tell him! Tell him the caves are not safe.”

Kento raised his hand and signaled Ako to hush. “Our father sent word. Friends will take us—all of us—to safety. Don’t go to the caves, Joseph. Come with us.”

“Please, Joseph, don’t go there!” Ako pleaded.

Kento nodded to Ako. “Leave, little sister. Now, please. Joseph and I must—”

“No! I—” But their mother took Ako by the hand, and hurried them both from the room.

“Joseph, fighting is fierce in the south. The Americans are pushing north. Already they have taken Garapan.” Kento swallowed. “Our soldiers will stop them … soon, I’m sure, before they can attack here. Later, when your father returns—”

“My father is dead.”

“Dead?”

I didn’t know I was shouting. “Your people have done this!”

“My people?”

“Your people, the Japanese, they killed my father.”

Our eyes locked. “Joseph, I am sorry. Forgive me for my rudeness.” He bowed very low. I turned to leave.

Ako crept back in. She whispered, “My heart is sad for you, Joseph. Come with us.”

I looked at her, so young, so brave.

“Joseph, you asked for help. What can we do? How can we help you?”

“I must carry my father to the sea, to Sa’dog Tasi.”

“But Joseph—”

“My father came home.” I met Kento’s gaze. “I am his son.”

Kento stared at me. “You are going to Sa’dog Tasi? Tonight? That would be suicide! American ships are bombing the beaches. Planes—”

“I am Rafalawash, Rapaganor, descendant of the navigators. My father’s son.” I met Kento’s eyes with my own. “Will you help me?”

“Joseph.” Kento stared at the floor. “I promised my father to stay with my family. I must keep that promise.”

No one spoke. No one moved.

“Kento, I must carry my father to the sea. I cannot carry my father alone.”

Kento did not look up. “I am sorry, Joseph, I cannot help you.”

“You have turned your back on us. We are no longer of the same clan. You have become … Japanese.”

I ran from his house.

I wrapped my father’s body in our most valuable mat, woven long ago by my own mother’s mother, who had pounded long leaves of pandanus into fine thin threads and woven them to make this sacred mat, soft as a silk shawl. I stared at it and then at my mother, saw the pain on her face, and looked away.

My mother tied a burial cloth, a long red sash, around my waist. All was ready. I looked at the burial mat but did not voice my fear. Without help, I doubted I could carry him to the sea, to Sa’dog Tasi, the beginning of his spirit path. I reached down and lifted the mat. My legs were shaking. I held my father. I took a first step, stumbled, shifted the weight for better balance, then left. I walked without stopping, through the mud, through the gray rain, through the dark, except when an explosion lit the world—red, orange, yellow—for an instant … until darkness returned.

The rain fell harder. I stayed away from the road, moving slowly. Each step meant pulling free from the mud, finding a secure place to step, keeping the mat balanced. At the river I would need to find the sharp curve where it deepened, where the current was strong. See the place in your mind, Joseph. See it, and you will find it.

Fireballs whistled across the sky, sometimes exploding over the sea, sometimes closer, overhead. With each bright pop I closed my eyes, afraid to breathe until finally the shell exploded—someplace far enough away—where it didn’t blow us up. Then I took another step.

The rain poured even harder, sometimes like a waterfall. I could barely see, but I was afraid to wipe my eyes. My father felt heavy, cumbersome, and I was ashamed of wanting to quit. Ashamed again that I had stopped singing, had fallen asleep.

The shells from the ships fell closer, shaking the earth with each explosion. Along the hillsides, Japanese guns boomed back in reply. My arms grew numb. I no longer felt fear or grief or even the rain. As if I had left my body, I watched a mud-covered boy stumble through a waterfall of rain that fell on his head, down his back, and over his precious cargo.

Finally, I could hear the roar of rushing water amid explosions and thundering rain. I had made it to the river. I stepped in knee-deep water and began to slide. A board slammed into my legs. My knees buckled. A thick plank swirled by, spinning like a giant paddle. The current washed against me, pulling me deeper.

I caught the edge of the plank, steadied one side, and laid the mat on top. I tied it with the red cloth as the river grabbed and pushed. I chanted a few phrases of prayer: Ancestors, come. Welcome my father, greet him.

A high whistle screamed. Light burst behind my eyes and filled my head with pain. The river blew up, covering my face with mud and gravel. Water knocked me over and swirled me around. My father was gone.

Anna Maria stood outside our house, soaked, as water dripped down her face. She didn’t seem to notice. “We must find Ignacio.”

“We will,” I lied. She did not ask about Father. I wanted to collapse, to fall asleep and not wake up. “Come inside, Anna Maria. It’s dangerous out here.”

She stared straight through me. “He will come home. He will look for me here.” Rockets shrieked overhead. Explosions shook the earth. My eyes would no longer focus. I could hardly see what was real and what I feared.

My mother gently took my sister’s hand, wrapped her in a shawl, and pulled her back inside. Taeyo was ready to be carried. Mother handed me our sleeping mats, then reached up into the rafters. She took down my father’s dancing stick, pressed it to her chest, and placed it in my hands.

“Your father wanted you to have this. He is pleased with his son.” Our eyes met for an instant.

I swallowed hard, turned away. One last time, I looked around the small room.

“All is ready.” I picked up Taeyo. “Let me carry you on my back. Here, hold onto my shoulders.” We walked out the door and left our home.

See it in your mind.

I could see nothing.

We stayed single file as we left our deserted village. The rain had stopped. The air stank of singed earth and burnt trees. My eyes soon stung from the acrid smell of explosives. To the south the horizon was a smudge of smoke and bursts of fire. The north was nothing but inky black. I wanted to stare at the sea, to hold its image in my mind. I looked up at the dark hillside on my right where we must soon climb. Brief bursts of rockets lit up patches of cliff and jungle, then poof, gone. Another explosion shook the ground.

We walked on—along the beach and then up the steep hillside, through the brush, always careful to stay in the tall grass as Father had done. First we must reach the ravine. My mother followed close behind, whispering the rosary or praying to our ancestors and always encouraging my sister, calming Taeyo when he cried.

Another explosion; it hit so close we felt a wave of heat. Taeyo called out for his father. My sister stopped and stared at the darkness that was the sea.

“Anna Maria, hurry.” I tried to encourage her.

“Ignacio will search along the beach. He knows where to find me, where I wait for him.”

I looked at my mother. “Tell her to hurry.”

“She looks for her husband.”

I hesitated, set Taeyo down on a boulder, and took my sister by the shoulders so we were face to face. Such touching of brother to sister was forbidden, unless … unless her life was threatened. “Anna Maria, listen to me. We must keep walking. Ignacio wants his son to live. His new child—”

“His son to live? But Ignacio is looking for me.”

“Anna Maria, when the fighting stops, I will bring you here, back home, back to the sea.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Back here to the sea? You promise?”

I gripped my father’s dancing stick. “I promise.”

I remember the rain, the burning orange sky, and my bare feet slipping in the mud and stumbling on the sharp rocks. I remember my mother whispering her prayers, calming little Taeyo, and my sister following, head down, never speaking.

I remember darkness, rain splashing, as we huddled under trees, resting, listening. My mother patting my sister’s hand, repeating her prayers, her lips moving, making no sound. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us …

I remember the rhythm of the dance singing in my head as we walked through the night, climbing, stopping to breathe and to pull my sister up when she fell, glancing back to see that my mother followed, helping them up the steepest parts.

We came to the top of the ravine. Here is where Father had said, See it, Joseph. See it in your mind, and you will find it.

I closed my eyes. In the darkness I could see.