Black Cat Weekly #26

SHIMA MARU, by James Holding-1

SHIMA MARU,

by James HoldingI am Vetuka.

Sometimes, when the Southern Cross burns in the night sky over Savo, my blood speaks to me faintly of times long gone—before whitefella came to destroy forever the ancient ways of our island world. In those far days my ancestors were clan chiefs, mighty warriors who led daring raids upon Ulawa, Maramasike, Nggela, even far-off Kolombangara, who captured many beautiful wives and lived in pride, feasting, when Tongaroa smiled, upon the flesh of their conquered enemies.

I too, for a brief time in my youth, lived in pride. When the yellow men from Japan invaded our island, I, serving as bush scout, helped the American Marines to dislodge them. In gratitude for my services at Gold Ridge, Henderson Field, Kukum, and the Ilu River, the Americans showed me great honor, awarding me the American Legion of Merit. I still wear this beautiful ribbon on the waistband of my shorts, to remind me of past glory.

But that was long ago. Now my hair has grey wires in it which the lime-juice dye cannot conceal; my teeth rot; my last wife is long dead; my two strong sons have left Guadalcanal forever to serve as menial waiters in a tourist hotel on the distant island of Vita Levu. And I, Vetuka, among the last surviving members of our ancient Shark clan, am only a humble fisherman of Honiara.

I dwell in a small house of wood and tin upon the side of a ridge above Honiara waterfront, where my fishing boat lies. From my house, I look out over the anchorage and Point Cruz to the blue wooded hills of Savo Island twenty miles away across Ironbottom Sound. Although four mighty cruisers of war, one Australian and three American, lie rusting on the floor of Ironbottom Sound, victims of Japanese torpedoes and shellfire in the Great War, no sign remains today to speak of this old violence. The sea between the islands lies calm and beckoning and beautiful under the golden sun of the Equator. It is a pretty scene. I never tire of it.

* * * *

Until a week ago, my life seemed to flow quietly and uneventfully toward its appointed end. Then I found the hidden tins of petrol, the tins of preserved food, the plastic bottles of fresh water in the jungle behind my house, and I realized that my nephew Likuva and his Japanese friend Michiko meant to rob me—and possibly kill me.

Until that moment, I had thought they came to me only because of my fishing boat, to seek my help in locating the sunken Shima Maru and, in payment for my help, to share her treasure with me.

I stared at the cache of petrol, food, and water cunningly hidden in the tall lalang grass. I was surprised at first by this unexpected discovery, nothing more. Then I felt a fierce anger that squeezed my heart—and deep shame for my nephew Likuva, the only son of my dead sister, who many years ago had married a member of the Turtle clan and gone to live on Simbo.

Likuva and Michiko had arrived in Honiara by the inter-island schooner which plies between Port Moresby in New Guinea and Guadalcanal. When they appeared at my small house on the ridge, just as darkness descended upon the island and the lights of Honiara began to glitter below us like scattered cooking fires in the dusk, I was very glad to see them. A visit, I remember thinking, from my nephew and his friend would add interest to my lonely life.

Likuva could have been my own son: short in stature, regal in bearing, muscular, sleek, and powerful, his black skin shining with health as though he had been oiled. I felt a touch of envy for his youth. He was wearing, like me, only a tattered pair of whitefella shorts to hide his nakedness. The Japanese man he introduced as Michiko was nearer to my age than to Likuva s. He was of medium stature, magnificently muscled, and smelled unpleasantly of sweat and whiskey. He wore a loose-fitting tropical shirt of black-and-red material he seemed reluctant to shed even in the burning heat. And, to my great surprise, he had somewhere learned to speak our Melanesian tongue.

I made them welcome, of course. Their arrival stimulated me. I invited them to stay with me in my house and share my sleeping loft for as long as they wished. They accepted my invitation eagerly and settled down at once, treating my home as if it were indeed their own.

“Uncle,” Likuva said to me as we squatted together before my doorway in companionable ease, “it is good to be here. It is so calm, so quiet, so peaceful. After Port Moresby, it seems like coming home.”

“And I know great joy to see my nephew once more after so long a time,” I said to Likuva. I did not know what to say to Michiko. I have never felt entirely at ease with a Japanese since I helped the Americans against them.

As though he had seen into my head, Michiko said, “Likuva has told me about you, Vetuka. What a great warrior you were to win that ribbon.” He glanced down at the faded Legion of Merit at my waistband.

Uncomfortably I said, “That is past history, Michiko—of no importance now.”

“Also,” Michiko went on, not heeding my words, “he has told me what a skillful fisherman you are, what a fine boat you own. And what a wide knowledge you have of all the seas hereabout.”

“My nephew exaggerates,” I said modestly. Nevertheless, I cast a grateful look at my nephew for boasting of me to his friend.

“I told the truth, Uncle,” said Likuva. “My mother never tired of talking about you and your deeds.”

Michiko gave Likuva a quick look. “You do still own a motorboat, don’t you, Vetuka?”

“Yes, of course. It is how I make my living here. But it is not really a fine boat at all, no matter what Likuva told you. I got it fourth-hand from a dying Chinese merchant.”

Michiko smiled. His teeth had spaces between them. “It is a motorboat? Then it must have cost you something, even fourth-hand from a dying Chinese!”

I shook my head. “Only a few pounds. I borrowed the money from the British Information Officer.”

Michiko was silent for a moment. We needed no torch, although full dark had come; the three-quarter moon floating overhead provided plenty of light. The Japanese said, “How big is your boat, Vetuka?”

“Twenty-six feet,” I said proudly. “With an outboard motor of seventy-five horsepower. It has a small wheelhouse with a windscreen from which I control the motor at the stern and steer the boat. It also has enough deck space for my needs.”

“You see?” said Likuva to Michiko. “Just as I told you.”

“It must be a fine boat,” said Michiko. “It has radar and sonar as well?”

“A depthometer to help my fishing, that’s all.”

“Better than nothing,” Michiko said. Then, idly: “What made you take up fishing, Vetuka?”

“Members of the Shark clan do not ‘take up’ fishing,” I said with dignity. “We are born to it. We have always been expert fishermen. One of my ancestors was such a skillful fisherman he is still remembered in our legends.”

“Ro?” asked Likuva.

“Yes,” I said. “Ro. From your island of Simbo.”

“Tell Michiko about Ro,” said Likuva. “It is very amusing, Michiko. My mother told me the story many times when I was a small child.”

“Michiko cares nothing for our legends,” I said.

“Tell the story,” Michiko said. “Then let’s have a drink to celebrate our arrival at Honiara. Do you have any whiskey here, Vetuka?”

“No whiskey. I have beer though.”

For the second time Michiko said, “Better than nothing.” He sighed.

“My ancestor Ro,” I began, “was the best fisherman on Simbo.”

“Yes,” murmured Likuva nostalgically.

“Shut up, Likuva,” said Michiko rudely, “so we can hear the story and get to the beer.”

I went on. “The people of Simbo thought they were uniquely blessed by Tongaroa. They had more beautiful women, more plentiful crops, braver warriors, better fishing grounds than any of the neighboring islands. In fact, they had the best and the most of everything.”

“Except for one thing!” Likuva broke in, taking the words out of my mouth as he must have done many times when his mother told him the tale.

“Except for one thing, yes,” I said.

“What?” asked Michiko without much interest.

“Moonlight,” I said. “The moon shone on all the other islands as brightly as it did on Simbo. This affronted the people of Simbo. They wished to capture the moon and make it shine on them alone.”

“Here’s where Ro comes in,” said Likuva eagerly. “He went fishing for the moon, didn’t he. Uncle?”

“He did. As the best fisherman of Simbo, he was given the job of hooking the moon. He prepared an extra long line, an extra large shell hook, and used the trunk of a small sapling for a pole. If he hooked the moon, he intended to tie his line to the biggest tree on Simbo, to prevent the moon from floating across the sky above any of the other islands.”

“But Ro couldn’t catch it!” Likuva interrupted again.

I nodded. “He cast his hook many times into the night sky without success. And the foolish people of Simbo, in their anger and resentment at the moon for refusing to be caught by Ro’s hook, gathered handfuls of black sticky mud from a swamp and threw it at the moon to dim its shining.” I paused and pointed at the moon above our heads. “Do you see those dark patches on the moon’s face, Michiko? That is the mud thrown by the people of Simbo.”

Michiko yawned widely. “Will you get the beer now, Vetuka?”

As I went to draw the beer from its cooling place in the rivulet beside my cooking shack, I heard Likuva and Michiko talking together in low tones but could not make out their words. They ceased abruptly when I came back to them with the beer.

Michiko took a long draft from his, then placed it carefully on the packed earth between his feet.

“Now I’ll tell a story,” he said.

By all means,” I said politely, sipping my beer. “Is it a Japanese tale?” He grinned. “Very much so,” he said, “but it took place right here in the Solomon Islands.”

I touched my Legion of Merit ribbon. “During the Great War?”

He nodded. “And you will know most of the story, since you were here and it is a true story.”

“I shall be interested to hear you tell it, nevertheless,” I said.

“My story is a tale of eleven Japanese ships,” Michiko said. “Eleven ships loaded with troops and sent to Guadalcanal in November of 1942 to reinforce the Japanese garrison here, which you and your friends, the Americans, had greatly reduced during four months of heavy fighting.”

I nodded, remembering.

“So. The eleven Japanese troopships, steaming toward Guadalcanal, had almost reached the island when American aircraft happened to sight them and proceeded to bomb them heavily. Seven of the troopships were sunk. The four that remained afloat were run ashore on the beach only a few miles west of here.”

“I know the spot,” I said. “The empty hulks of those ships remained there long after the war was over, until the Chinese who came to live in Honiara broke them up for salvage.”

Michiko glanced at Likuva, squatting on his other side.

Likuva said, “Go on, Michiko—tell him the rest.”

Michiko went on. “Of the seven ships sunk by the bombers, one was the Shima Maru, on which my brother was the captain’s steward. My brother survived the bombing and the sinking. He was a strong swimmer and made it to shore. Later, when he returned home, he told me the part of the story that even you, Vetuka, do not know—the part that nobody knows save Likuva and me.”

“And your brother,” I said.

Michiko shrugged. “He died soon after he told me. He lived in Hiroshima.”

I said nothing.

Michiko spoke slowly. “My brother told me that the Shima Maru, less badly damaged by bombs than the other ships which quickly sank, almost made it to Guadalcanal before foundering with all hands. She sank not more than two or three miles offshore in relatively shallow water.”