Black Cat Weekly #26

SHIMA MARU, by James Holding-4

“In a square mile of rough water,” I said, “you will find it impossible to locate our marker.” I paused dramatically. “Especially if you cannot find the underwater ridge itself.”

Michiko noticed a change in my voice. “What do you mean by that?”

I said, “Something went wrong today with the depthometer in my boat. It no longer operates.”

Michiko cursed in Japanese. “Can you find the Shima Maru without the depth gauge?” he asked Likuva.

I said with malice, “The look on my nephew s face is your answer, Michiko.”

He ignored my words. “Can you?” he repeated to Likuva.

“Not with certainty,” stammered Likuva. “I could try—”

Michiko cursed again. Then he came over and struck me a great blow-above the ear with the barrel of the revolver and I fell into darkness.

* * * *

I moved my head and saw that I was lying in the well of the afterdeck outside the wheelhouse. The sound of the outboard motor at idling speed beat against my ear. Piled loosely on the deck beside me not a foot away were the two crowbars, the underwater lights, and the bulky tins of petrol. The sky was beginning to lighten with the approach of dawn. My head throbbed. I tried to move but could not—I was helplessly enmeshed in one of my own fishnets.

I heard Likuva’s voice in the wheelhouse. “I think we’re almost off Kakaombono beach, Michiko. Shall we wake my uncle now?”

I heard a muttered reply from Michiko. Then a bucketful of icy seawater was dashed over my head and shoulders. I gasped and choked. Michiko, standing above me with the empty bucket in one hand and the revolver in the other, said, “Wake up, Vetuka. Or do you desire another bath?”

“I am awake,” I said, sputtering against the bitterly salty seawater.

“Good,” said Michiko. “Then bestir yourself and guide us to the Shima Maru if you wish to enjoy another hour of life.”

I stared up at his impassive face. “Why should I—only to be killed in the end?”

“An hour of life is a precious thing to a dying man,” said Michiko. “Do as I bid you, and who knows? We may let you live and take you with us, after all.”

“Remove this fishnet then,” I said.

He loosed me from the net by rolling me this way and that with brutal thrusts of his foot and his hand that had held the bucket pulled against the net. The eye of his revolver stayed steady upon me.

When I was on my feet, I looked to port and saw the black silhouette of the volcanic hill above Kakaombono Village against the lightening sky. The village itself was still a well of blackness.

Michiko shepherded me into the wheelhouse. Likuva, who was at the wheel, greeted me flippantly. “Good morning, Uncle. Did you sleep well?”

I said nothing in reply. I took the wheel from him and set course due north for Savo, whose dim blue hills were just emerging from the dawn mists. Michiko held his revolver to the nape of my neck and said, “The Shima Maru, Vetuka.”

I said, “Even for me, a master of these waters, it will be difficult to find the Shima Maru without a depthometer.” This was a lie. I could have found her now in the darkest night with my eyes shut as easily as a child finds a coconut in a puddle of water. “You must be patient until the light grows stronger.”

The revolver bored into my neck. “There is plenty of light. Find the Shima Maru, Vetuka.”

For a few minutes I guided the boat erratically, playing for time. When the sun sent its early rays across the choppy sea, however, I wasted no more time. With my landmarks of Kakaombono Village, Cape Esperance, and Savo Island at last clearly visible in the morning light, I steered directly for the spot where I knew the Shima Maru lay. In a little less than half an hour I pointed through the windscreen and said to Michiko, “There is our marker. We have arrived.”

Michiko said, “Likuva, make a line fast to the marker line when we approach.” He prodded me with his revolver. “Take us alongside the marker.”

I did as he bade me. Likuva fished for the marker with my boat hook and made fast the boat to it. Michiko said to me, “Kill the motor.” I did so. He said, “Now get from behind the wheel and come out on deck. I do not wish to soil our wheelhouse with your blood.” He smiled at me with an open mouth. I have seen crocodiles smile so on the banks of the Matanakau River.

I left the wheel and ducked out to the afterdeck. Michiko raised his revolver. “Farewell, my dear Vetuka. Thank you for your help.”

Again I lifted a hand in protest. “You cannot kill me yet.”

“Why not?” said Michiko lazily. He seemed to be enjoying my last moments more than I was.

“Yesterday,” I said, “when I discovered your cache of petrol, water, and food, I did more than destroy the depthometer on my boat.”

Michiko’s expression was suddenly intent. “So?”

“While you were drinking whiskey at Soon Fat’s bar,” I said, “I came out here and moved the marker.”

Michiko stiffened. “You are lying,” he said with contempt. But the revolver wavered in his hand.

“Perhaps,” I taunted him. “Perhaps I lie, perhaps not. What do you think, Likuva?” I turned to my nephew.

Likuva, standing beside Michiko, stared and said nothing.

Michiko, after a long moment, said, “Dive down, Likuva, and see if the Shima Maru lies below us.”

Likuva shook his head. “I cannot,” he said in a trembling voice. “I’m seasick, Michiko.”

My nephew did, indeed, look sick. But I knew his sickness was not from the motion of the boat, it was from deadly fear that my kinsmen, the sharks, would punish him if he dared to enter their kingdom.

Michiko said in disgust, “Are you too sick to pull the little trigger of this revolver?”

“No,” said Likuva.

Michiko, keeping his eyes upon me, handed the revolver to my nephew. “Watch him, then, while I dive. Stay beyond his arm’s reach. Shoot him in the belly if he moves a single inch. And if I find he is lying to us, shoot him in the face. Do you understand?”

Likuva’s knuckles were white on the grip of the revolver. “I understand. You can trust me.”

Michiko, without another word, dived over the side into the choppy sea. I stood very still. Even my eyes did not move from the spot beyond Likuva’s shoulder where Michiko had disappeared. As we balanced ourselves delicately against the sway and pitch of the boat, I could feel Likuva’s unwavering gaze upon me.

Thirty seconds went by in tense silence.

Then, opening my eyes a little wider as though in surprise, I said quietly, “There’s Michiko, up again. It didn’t take him long to learn the truth, did it?”

For just a fraction of a second Likuva yielded to the impulse to look where I was looking. It was enough. I kicked the revolver out of his hand. As he scrambled to recover it, I seized one of the crowbars lying loose on the deck behind me. True to his clan of the Turtle, Likuva moved slowly, even when he felt death behind him.

I struck him with the crowbar on the back of the head and heard bone crack. He fell, half in and half out of the wheelhouse. I opened my fishbox, took my gutting knife from the brackets inside the lid, and made two shallow cuts on Likuva’s chest. He began to bleed at once.

I squatted beside him in the wheelhouse until Michiko s shout reached me from under the starboard counter of my boat. “Likuva!” he cried. “Your uncle lied! The Shima Maru is here! Shoot him!”

I allowed another moment to go by in silence. Then, as Michiko tried to scramble aboard, I stepped from the wheelhouse and fended him off with the crowbar, beating on his fingers to break their grasp on the gunwale. I looked down into his face, upturned to me, and said, “Do you call for Likuva, Michiko? He is here.”

I lifted Likuva’s body, bleeding and limp, and dropped it into the sea beside Michiko. Michiko, treading water, looked at Likuva’s body in horror. He struggled to grip the boat again with his crushed fingers and come aboard, pleading with me for mercy.

I fended him off once more with the crowbar, this time puncturing the skin of his shoulder so that the water turned red around the wound. I watched him thrashing in the water and said, “The sharks will not ignore you now, Michiko, even though you ignore them. Blood in the water puts them into a feeding frenzy. They can smell the blood from a mile away. And remember, they are my kinsmen and will show you no compassion.” I paused, looking about me at the waters of Ironbottom Sound. “See, already they gather for the feast.”

I pointed at the black triangular fins gliding in tightening circles around the boat. “Perhaps,” I said, “your golden yen can help you now, Michiko. Why not plead with them?”

Michiko uttered a last cry, beating the water with his mangled hands. “Help me, Vetuka! Help me!”

I turned my back on him, went into the wheelhouse, and started the motor. Then I cut the marker line that tethered my boat to the wreck of the Shima Maru. I returned alone to the wharf at Honiara just as the heat of the day began…

Tonight the full moon hangs over Savo and my blood speaks to me ever more strongly of the times when my forefathers won brave victories and lived in pride. For now I, Vetuka, descended through a thousand generations from Ro the Fisherman, can live in pride with them, having gained a great victory and feasted once more, through my kinsmen, the sharks, on the flesh of my conquered enemies.