Okina Beach

On the sugar-white sands of Okina Beach, Takumi discovered the
massacre. He knelt in ragged salt-patterned trousers, scooped a
lacquered pincer from still-damp strands of seaweed.

Dozens of empty crab shells littered the tide line, their pale
interiors pocked and puckered like pumice. He sifted through the
desiccated husks with busy, questing fingers. He had the hands of a
girl, as father used to say. Hands for sewing and caressing, not a
fisherman's hands. Takumi picked up an abdomen with grey and dried up
float sacs still attached. Knuckled legs dangled black and terracotta
beneath. It was the only trace of life he could find amongst the hollow
carapaces that lay in brittle drifts like shale.

He stood, brushed sand from his legs. Grey sky continued past the
headland. Farther down the beach, he could make out the hump of a green
rowboat, upturned and cobwebbed with homemade netting. Takumi trudged
towards it, along the tideline.

Uncle Hitomi sat in a cathedral of whalebone, smoking a cigarette and
hacking a dead marlin from a tangle of fishing net with his penknife.
Meat hung in redolent pink hunks from huge crescent whale ribs half
submerged by beach. The stench of rotting flesh was tremendous. Takumi
took a step back and held a hand up to cover his nose. Hitomi was
resting against a fat wicker creel crammed with fresh wet eels. Gulls
wheeled and cried overhead.

Hitomi's hands and shirt and the sand around him were covered with
blood. He huffed out a cloud of smoke, tipped his head back.

'Up at last, Takumi-kun?' he growled, squinting and wiping his hands on
a rag. He closed his penknife and put it into his pocket. 'You want to
give me a hand with this?' The creel creaked as he deepened his slouch.
He plucked the butt of his cigarette from between thin lips and ground
it into the sand with his thumb.

'Where did this all come from?' asked Takumi.

Hitomi shrugged. 'The storm uncovered a lot of things.'

'Where's Ayami-chan?'

'Haven't seen her. Perhaps she's up on the cliffs.' He lifted a corner
of the net. It was torn in several places. 'Gah? would you look at
that?'

'I think I will go and look for her.'

'Ah, before you go, help me bring in the lobster pots.' Hitomi got to
his feet. 'Or what's left of them, anyway.' He caught hold of the creel
by its strap and heaved it onto his back, bending forward so as to
redistribute the weight.

'Did you catch all of those this morning, Oji?'

'Of course,' said Hitomi.

'You've done well.'

'No need to praise me, Takumi-kun. Today is just an unusual day.'

As he trudged towards the rowboat, a cascade of urgent wingbeats
sounded from behind them. Takumi turned to see a huge billowing fist of
beaks and feathers punching into the whale skeleton, surging through
gaps in the ribs, engulfing it. Hitomi paid the commotion no mind and
continued walking. Takumi stood dumbstruck. Gulls squabbled and
thrashed and tore, veiled by a gauze of black flecks. He squinted and
wondered if his eyes were playing tricks.

It took him almost a minute to realise that the black flecks were
flies.

* * *

Along the cliff path the wind was stronger. Flurries of fine sand had
scuffed bald patches into the grass. Takumi walked with his head down
and his fists in his pockets. Hitomi had offered him a cigarette and he
had accepted, but now the wind was gobbling it gust by hungry
gust.
Up ahead, its back to the ocean, was the roofless church. It was
three-hundred years old, built by a Portuguese trader and his wife when
they landed on the island. Inside it was big enough for a congregation
of about a dozen. All the timbers had rotted away in the sea air,
leaving a broken empty shell caked in lichen. When storms moved in from
the south, the cracks in its walls sung quavering, keening arias.

The trader and his wife had lived peaceably on Okina for years. Takumi
had heard from a trawler captain that, one day, a girl from one of the
neighbouring islands was found dead. She had been raped and then
strangled. She had been twelve years old. The girl's father believed
that the trader was responsible. He gathered a group of men together
and they sailed to Okina.

Seeing the gang of men marching up the beach, the trader and his wife
sought refuge in their church. When the girl's father beat on the door
with his fist and demanded that the foreigner come out and face
punishment for his crime, the trader pleaded that the church was
sanctified ground, and that Jesus would forgive him his sins. He warned
that to spill blood in the house of God was a most grievous sin that
the Lord would most certainly avenge. When the girl's father kicked
down the door, the trader, who was crouched at the altar armed with a
flintlock pistol, shot the man through the eye. The mob was so shocked
that he had time to reload and shoot a second man in the chest. As he
was struggling to load a third pellet, the men surged into the church
and hacked him to death in front of his wife. Afterwards, they had each
taken it in turns to rape her, before slitting her throat.

Takumi remembered the vigour in the old captain's eyes as he had
described the deaths, recalled how, as he had drawn an index finger
across his bristled throat, the captain had grinned.
Takumi reached the archway at the front of the church and peered in. It
was deserted. In a corner lay several squashed ends of cigarettes. Each
marked an occasion when he had come to be quiet and alone. He let the
butt fall from his mouth and flattened it beneath his foot against the
uneven stone flagging.

'Ayami-chan!' he called. The wind caught her name and carried it
spiralling inland. Takumi walked to the crest of the hill.
'Ayami-chan!' In the cupped hand of the valley, nothing moved. The
gingko grove stood stark and jagged. He followed the slope of the hill
down towards where it met the cliff edge and fell, hard and sheer, into
the cove. The hill was steep and Takumi had to rock back on his heels
to stop.

The cove narrowed into a craggy lantern-jawed overhang. Little speckled
seabirds covered the rock like a beard. He filled his lungs, preparing
to call for his sister a third time. She was probably back at the
house, he thought, preparing lunch. Takumi pushed out a long, heavy
sigh.

A cluster of birdlings broke from the rock-face. He watched as they
descended in tight spirals. As his gaze followed them towards the
cove's shadowed floor he got a sudden impression of height. Takumi
teetered. He staggered back, staring into the grass while he regained
his balance. In the moment that his gaze had reached the white sand at
the base of the cove, he felt sure he had seen a flash of coloured
material. He closed his eyes and tried to recreate the image. From the
darkness emerged a blue dress, sodden and floral-patterned, tracing the
foetal outline of a corpse.

He opened his eyes. The opposing hillside hung stylus-sharp beneath
vast undulating cloudbanks. Takumi clasped his forehead. He was
perspiring. It reminded him of being hungover. One summer, he and
Hitomi had sat amongst the ginkos drinking rice wine and exchanging
memories of Papa. Takumi had awoken in the grass with one side of his
shirt mapped with dried vomit. His head had throbbed and pounded.
Suddenly, the trees had seemed angry with him.

When he dared step to the cliff edge and peer into the cove, he saw
nothing save three birds drinking from a rockpool.

* * *

Ayami sat on a wooden crate drinking tea. Takumi slowed to a swagger as
he approached the house.

'Ayami-chan! Where's lunch?' Ayami looked up from her cup.

'What?' She had her hair cut short, like a boy's.

'What have you made me for lunch?'

'Huh!' She pulled a face. 'Get your own.'

'But I've been working all morning.'

'I've got better things to do than help you get fat, Tak.'

Takumi shook his head and ducked into the house. 'I bet you made
something for Hitomi,' he muttered.

'Hey!' Ayami pursued him into the cramped, dark kitchen. There was
barely room for both of them. One side of the gas cooker was streaked
with rust. Takumi opened the top cupboard and pretended not to hear
her. 'Hey! What's that supposed to mean?'

'Nothing,' he said. He closed the cupboard door and threw her a
sidelong glance. 'What's the matter?'

'Nothing.' She took a sip of tea to disguise her pout. 'You shouldn't
be so resentful of Oji. Without him, we wouldn't even have a roof over
our heads.'

'I went looking for you along the cliff path.'

'Why?'

'I didn't know where you were.'

Ayami put her cup down on the table. 'I was here.'

'Not when I left.'

'You ought to get up earlier, then.' Takumi got a saucepan out from the
lower cupboard. He put it on the table next to Ayami's cup and began
shaking rice into it.

'I thought you had fallen into the cove,' he said, concentrating on the
saucepan.

'That's a horrible thing to say.'

He stopped pouring rice. 'I've been having nightmares.'

'I thought Oji was the superstitious one.' Takumi carried the saucepan
over to the sink and filled it with water. The tap squeaked when he
twisted it. 'Tak? You're always telling him it's rubbish.'

'It is. Forget it. I just?' He placed the saucepan on the hob and
turned to face her. 'Don't go up on the cliff path. Not for a few
days.'

'Why?'

'It would make me feel better.'

'I'll be careful.'

'Ayami-chan, please?'

'Don't be so silly!' She drove a hand through her hair. 'I'm not going
to be told what to do just because you've had a couple of bad
dreams.'

'But-'

'Ah!' Ayami raised an index finger and narrowed her eyes. 'You can't
let superstition rule your life, Takumi. If the spirits want me, they
will take me whether I'm out on a cliff-top or huddling in fear inside
my bedroom. I promise I will take care.' He hung his head, turned his
back on her. 'Everything will be okay. Have something to eat and stop
worrying.'

She left the kitchen quietly. As Takumi lit the stove, he realised he
had lost his appetite. He felt nauseous.

For a moment, Ayami had sounded just like Papa.

* * *

Takumi looked up from his soup. 'Where are you going?'

'I'm going to move my boat,' said Uncle Hitomi. He stood silhouetted in
the doorway. Takumi put his spoon down.

'Why?'

Hitomi's eyes acquired a queer opacity. 'The waves will be fierce
tonight.'

'I should find Ayami-chan and warn her.' Takumi started getting to his
feet.

'Sit down, Takumi-kun. Ayami-chan will be fine.' He took his cigarettes
from the shelf next to the door. 'You must stop trying to herd her as
if she were a stray goat.'

'But if the storm builds as quickly as last night she might get taken
by surprise.'

'That's enough!' Hitomi stamped his boot against the step. Takumi
raised a palm to shield his head. 'It is not your decision. Stay here
and wait until I get back.' He cupped his hand and lit a cigarette. 'If
you want to be of help, make sure the generator is working properly. I
don't want to find halfway through the deluge that we have no
electricity.'

'Yes, Oji.'

'I will be back in a couple of hours.' Takumi watched his uncle turn
and walk away. He waited, idly stirring the remainder of his soup,
until he was sure Hitomi had passed far out of sight. Takumi knew the
generator had plenty of petrol because he had checked it only two days
before.
With his uncle long gone, he left the house and took the path that led
straight to the cliffs.

* * *

The clouds were coming in lower and darker. The gap between heaven and
earth is shrinking, thought Takumi. Every so often he took an artful
peek down towards the beach, hoping to spot Hitomi struggling with the
boat and thus unlikely to return home soon.

The beach was deserted. Sinuous fingers of mist were crawling up the
sand towards the cliffs. He rubbed his hands together as he walked. It
was getting colder. A storm was definitely on the way.

Rain began to fall like perfume. It bled through his scrub brush hair,
streaked in runnels down his brow and angular cheeks. He closed his
eyes and listened to the crash and gasp of the waves.

A little farther along the path, Takumi caught sight of the church. As
he drew nearer, he saw that someone stood in the entrance. The figure
was facing into the doorway. From behind, it looked very much like
Uncle Hitomi. The figure walked into the church. Takumi hesitated.
Taking a deep breath, he crept closer.

The grass was soft, thick and wet. He left the path and slowly slinked
round the side of the church, his ears pricked. He could make out
sounds, mutterings. He edged closer to the wall, with its mottled,
porous stonework.

He heard them through the cracks. Two distinct voices. The first male,
gruff, grunting rhythmically as one might when lugging a laden creel or
dragging a rowboat across sand. The second female, nasal, crying out
like an injured animal. Takumi listened. He could smell the wet grass.
The soil beneath his boots writhed with earthworms.

Holding his breath, he turned and started to tiptoe away. The tiptoeing
quickly became a march, then a jog, a run, and he was sprinting as hard
and as fast as he could. Rain fell like dense flurries of eels and his
throat tasted of blood.

* * *

Ayami returned to the house half an hour later. She was drenched; her
dress clung wrinkleless to her shivering cadaverous form.

'This is going to be the worst night yet,' she said, water pooling
round her pale limpet feet. 'Make me some tea, Tak?' Takumi sat with
his forearm resting on the table. Raindrops freckled the pane behind
him. 'Tak?'

'I'm not feeling very well,' he said.

'What's wrong?' He gazed vacantly into the crook of his arm. 'What's
the matter?'

'I said I'm not feeling very well.'

'Why don't you go to bed, then?' Takumi did not move. 'Tak? Why don't
you go to bed?' Very slowly, and without looking at her, he got up and
walked out of the kitchen. He retreated to his bedroom.

Some time later, he heard the door crash as Uncle Hitomi came home and
the murmur of two voices, as empty and familiar as the tide.