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Authors: Tim Wynne-Jones
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a matter of time. War could not go on and on in a perpetual state forever, could it? Oh, on my bad nights, when the fighting was in me, the killing, the horror, the bone-jarring noises coursing through my memories and bloodstream, I shivered and thought that, yes, war
could
go on forever if one were in the earth prison of purgatory. But then I would wake up, push back my canvas walls, and look out at this beautiful place and my hope was renewed.
I will wait. I will make myself strong. I will cremate the dead to keep them from the hunger of the undead. I will purify myself in this peaceful place. The nightmares will stop, and then the war will be over, yes? There will again be something like civilization to which I might return.
1 I can only assume Isamu is talking about Spam, which was included in certain rations.
2 Probably hardtack.
3 Saipan and Tinian are sister islands in the Northern Marianas, the latter only a little over five miles from the southern shore of Saipan.
1
I found a pair of binoculars. Sadly, they were wrapped around the neck of a drowned sailor, but apart from a dent or two, they were serviceable. No water had seeped into the lenses. I smacked the side of them, and when I looked, there was my jungle. There was sand in the adjusting wheel, but I was able to fiddle with the binoculars enough to suit my eyes and bring the distance into sharper focus, as if dragging the jungle toward me. I could not wait to take them to my watchtower, but first I had work to do: cremating the dead solider.
One of the
jikininki
dared to approach me just as I was lighting the fire.
“Wait,” it said.
I must tell you, Hisako-chan, I jumped with surprise. I had not known they could talk. I had assumed their mouths were only good for squealing and devouring dead flesh. “We could share this one, yes?” the ghoul asked, although it had to say it more than once, for its words came out mangled. The creature’s tongue was bloated.
I will not repeat what I said to it. I used language only soldiers use and never in the company of a lady. But the creature pleaded with me.
“You have it all wrong,” it said, looking at the body at my feet. “It is not really the flesh we crave.”
“Ha!” I said to it. “You expect me to believe that?”
Its head swayed as if the smell of the corpse was making it delirious. “Believe me!” the thing insisted. “It is the
memories
we desire.”
I had never heard of such a thing, and it brought me up short.
“Their memories?”
All the time, the
jikininki
waggled its wretched clawed hands close to its mouth as if it was wafting the odor of the dead man toward its shattered nose, already transporting the rotting flesh to its lipless oral cavity.
“You do not understand,” it said. “You
cannot
understand. We are not the ghosts of the dead, as you think.”
“Then, what are you?”
“The ghosts of those who were never born.”
What a thing to say! But looking at this vile and helpless monster, I could not think that it was trying to trick me.
“That is not what I have heard,” I said.
The fiend threw its arms into the air. “You know
nothing
of us. You know fables and cautionary tales told to children.” It dared to come a step closer, holding up its arms defensively. “We have no memories, you see. Had we lived, we would have memories of our own. But we never lived and so we must depend on the memories of those who have lived.”
You can imagine how startled I was at this odd confession, Hisako.
“So now that you see,” said the
jikininki,
“you will sympathize and share . . . share with us?” Then it crouched and reached out toward the leg of the dead sailor.
I answered by taking a burning stick from the pyre and hurling it at the creature. It hobbled off, hissing and farting and threatening revenge. “You will see,” it cried, its voice like a cattle beast being dragged to slaughter. “You will learn.” It stood twenty yards away in the blowing
could
go on forever if one were in the earth prison of purgatory. But then I would wake up, push back my canvas walls, and look out at this beautiful place and my hope was renewed.
I will wait. I will make myself strong. I will cremate the dead to keep them from the hunger of the undead. I will purify myself in this peaceful place. The nightmares will stop, and then the war will be over, yes? There will again be something like civilization to which I might return.
1 I can only assume Isamu is talking about Spam, which was included in certain rations.
2 Probably hardtack.
3 Saipan and Tinian are sister islands in the Northern Marianas, the latter only a little over five miles from the southern shore of Saipan.
1
I found a pair of binoculars. Sadly, they were wrapped around the neck of a drowned sailor, but apart from a dent or two, they were serviceable. No water had seeped into the lenses. I smacked the side of them, and when I looked, there was my jungle. There was sand in the adjusting wheel, but I was able to fiddle with the binoculars enough to suit my eyes and bring the distance into sharper focus, as if dragging the jungle toward me. I could not wait to take them to my watchtower, but first I had work to do: cremating the dead solider.
One of the
jikininki
dared to approach me just as I was lighting the fire.
“Wait,” it said.
I must tell you, Hisako-chan, I jumped with surprise. I had not known they could talk. I had assumed their mouths were only good for squealing and devouring dead flesh. “We could share this one, yes?” the ghoul asked, although it had to say it more than once, for its words came out mangled. The creature’s tongue was bloated.
I will not repeat what I said to it. I used language only soldiers use and never in the company of a lady. But the creature pleaded with me.
“You have it all wrong,” it said, looking at the body at my feet. “It is not really the flesh we crave.”
“Ha!” I said to it. “You expect me to believe that?”
Its head swayed as if the smell of the corpse was making it delirious. “Believe me!” the thing insisted. “It is the
memories
we desire.”
I had never heard of such a thing, and it brought me up short.
“Their memories?”
All the time, the
jikininki
waggled its wretched clawed hands close to its mouth as if it was wafting the odor of the dead man toward its shattered nose, already transporting the rotting flesh to its lipless oral cavity.
“You do not understand,” it said. “You
cannot
understand. We are not the ghosts of the dead, as you think.”
“Then, what are you?”
“The ghosts of those who were never born.”
What a thing to say! But looking at this vile and helpless monster, I could not think that it was trying to trick me.
“That is not what I have heard,” I said.
The fiend threw its arms into the air. “You know
nothing
of us. You know fables and cautionary tales told to children.” It dared to come a step closer, holding up its arms defensively. “We have no memories, you see. Had we lived, we would have memories of our own. But we never lived and so we must depend on the memories of those who have lived.”
You can imagine how startled I was at this odd confession, Hisako.
“So now that you see,” said the
jikininki,
“you will sympathize and share . . . share with us?” Then it crouched and reached out toward the leg of the dead sailor.
I answered by taking a burning stick from the pyre and hurling it at the creature. It hobbled off, hissing and farting and threatening revenge. “You will see,” it cried, its voice like a cattle beast being dragged to slaughter. “You will learn.” It stood twenty yards away in the blowing
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