The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories (5 page)

I thought of Otaki and felt a stab of panic. If she had told anyone that I was ill, the islanders would probably be suspicious and kick up a fuss. I held my breath and watched them.

As the officer spoke, a ripple of consternation spread in a wave through the wall. Would they stampede the inn and cross-examine me? “But you were ill too, Doctor. What did you do for serum?” If that were to happen, what defense would be left me?

They began to move. But they headed not for the inn, but instead toward the dark form of Mount Kamui.

When the officer returned, I asked him why they had set off toward the mountain.

“They are going to the shrine. They have gone to hear the divine oracle.” The constable glanced at the mountain.

“Did you tell them that there isn't enough serum?”

“Yes, I told them. Everyone on this island is part of the same family, you know. So they have the right to know, and it is better that they do know.”

Be that as it may, the fact that they had not interrogated me indicated that they did not know that I was ill or that I was responsible for the contagion. Had Otaki not told anyone? But given that everyone on the island shared the same fate, it was inconceivable that she had not spoken of it to her companions. In which case, perhaps she had not seen anything? Perhaps it had been my own doubts and fears that had convinced me I had been seen?

Presently the flames of a bonfire leaped into life on the mountain.

The sound of drumming started. As before, it was monotonous and dreary.

“What are they doing? There's no time for this! We won't save any of them at this rate.”

There was an edge to my voice. For me, the task at hand was sheer anguish, and I wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

But the officer remained unperturbed and said merely, “Let's wait for the oracle.”

In the face of such blind faith, there was nothing for it but to keep quiet.

It was absurd to wait for a divine revelation to decide who should die. It was an anachronism. Insane.

However, there was nothing I could do. Not only was I in no position to propose anything, but faced with the ultimate act of condemning a person to death, I simply lost all power of reason. Deciding someone's death by majority decision or drawing lots was outrageous. The person thus condemned could only be the Absolute. And if that was so, then weren't they essentially a god? I could feel my brain growing addled.

I glanced over at the sleeping victims. They were quietly awaiting the verdict. I did not consider their tranquil demeanor either praiseworthy or noble. I found it puzzling and frightening. They must have known that there was not enough serum and that one of them had to die. So why were they waiting so docilely for the oracle? Was their god such an absolute authority for them? What kind of god was it?

I was growing jittery and began pacing the corridor senselessly. The silence of the victims was grating on my nerves. Soon one of them would die. I was the one who would have killed them. I even started to think they knew this and were censuring me, wielding their silence as a weapon.

I could stand it no longer, and yelled at nobody in particular, “Hurry, can't you?”

All of a sudden the sound of the drums ceased.

A hush fell, and I experienced a momentary sensation of the darkness deepening. Out of the midst of the blackness into the pale moonlight emerged a youth wearing a devil mask. It had none of the refinement of a Noh mask, but was roughly hewn and colored with red and green pigments. It was ghastly.

The masked youth halted before the inn. When the officer went out to meet him, he uttered a cry and hurled an arrow to which a note was affixed.

The arrow pierced the earth at the officer's feet. In normal circumstances I would probably have clutched my stomach in mirth at such an overblown ritual, but now it was no laughing matter. I was in the throes of a nightmare.

The masked youth disappeared back into the darkness. The officer smoothed out the slip of paper and showed it to each of the victims in turn. Neither he nor they uttered a word. This, too, appeared to be part of the ritual.

The officer came back to me and said in a low voice, “Please start.”

“What was decided?”

Before the officer could respond, the mayor, who was lying closest to us, answered, “I am not needed.”

His voice was feeble due to his debilitated state, but it was steady. He was even smiling.

Flustered, I yelled, “This is a crazy way of doing things!”

The mayor merely said, “This is the best way. Everyone can agree, since I myself am convinced.” He looked up at me, a smile hovering on his pallid face.

“I find that hard to believe,” I said. But even I knew how inadequate those words sounded. Even words on the legality or righteousness of the situation would have sounded hollow in my mind.

“Well, please get on with it,” urged the mayor politely.

There was nothing more that I could say. This whole island was insane. Or maybe it was too normal. Mechanically I administered the four doses of serum, omitting the mayor. Nobody said anything. The mayor closed his eyes and started muttering to himself as though in prayer. Once I had finished, I fled from the inn. Death would soon take the mayor's diminutive body. I did not have the courage to watch.

I wanted to return to the dispensary. It would be intolerable unless I could be on my own, drinking. Stealthily I distanced myself from the inn.

However, I had only gone five or six steps when I felt weak at the knees. From out of the darkness the islanders appeared, murmuring, and were once again forming a large cordon around the inn as though to force me back. I retreated and took refuge in the entrance.

Once they had reached the same position as before, they stopped. Why had they gathered again? Had they come to check that the oracle's instructions had been fulfilled? Had they come to sing a requiem for the dying man? If so, they would not have long to wait.

For a while the islanders and I glared at each other. Or rather, I glared at them. I had no idea what they were looking at, or what they were thinking. I found it harder and harder to breathe. At last I turned my back on them and went back into the room.

The mayor's face was already covered with a white cloth. I averted my eyes.

Maybe it would all be over now. I wanted it to be over.

Later that night the salesman fell ill and the officer also started complaining of nausea. The shipment of serum from the mainland arrived the following morning in time to save them.

And that was the end of the outbreak. As I had thought, the exchange of sake cups at the party must have been the origin of the infection.

Two days later, in the evening, the funeral for the deceased mayor was held at the shrine on Mount Kamui.

The run of fine weather came to an end, and a moisture-laden southerly wind rustled the leaves of the sago palms and sugarcane from morning, but as the time for the funeral approached, it started to rain. In the midst of the downpour, four youths wearing devil masks shouldered the mayor's body wrapped in a white sheet and decorated with hibiscus flowers, and, intoning words of prayer, started climbing the path up the mountain. A procession of islanders followed after them bearing pine torches that hissed in the rain.

I watched the long line of torches from the window of the dispensary. I did not feel like joining them. A bonfire was lit at the shrine, and the sound of drumming started. I always found drumming to be a cheerful sound, but since arriving on this island I discovered it could also sound melancholy.

This time, the drumming would probably continue through the night.

The wind also grew stronger, and the rain beat fiercely on the windowpanes. I took a sleeping pill and lay down. I did not think I would be able to sleep without the assistance of medication.

Thanks to the medicine I did manage to get some sleep, but I had an unpleasant dream.

In the dream, the shadowy form of the god condemned me to death. The god shouted, “Kill him!” and I came under attack from youths in devil masks. I ran as if possessed, back to the dispensary and with trembling hands locked the glass door. But the demons chased after me and started hammering on the door. “Come out here! We're going to kill you!” they yelled, and continued pounding on the door.
Pam pam pam!
I awoke to the sound of someone banging on the glass door.

The glass door was making an awful racket. For a brief moment dream and reality were jumbled together, but this was not the continuation of the dream. Somebody really was pounding on the dispensary door.

The dim light of dawn filtered into the room. I went through to the dispensary, and saw the figure of a person silhouetted behind the curtain over the door.

“Who is it?” I asked.

Instead of answering, whoever it was started banging even harder on the door. I tutted and pulled back the curtain to reveal on the other side of the glass the salesman, dripping wet and deathly pale. As I opened the door, he grabbed my arm.

“Doctor, please help me!” he pleaded, his voice quivering.

I had no idea what he was talking about. For the time being, I took him inside and sat him on a chair. He was shivering as if sick.

“Has the illness relapsed?”

“It's not that. They're going to kill me!” he gasped.

I was none the wiser. “They? Who's ‘they'?”

“Those guys!”

“Those guys? Are you referring to the islanders?”

“Isn't it obvious? They've gone mad. They've really lost it. They're trying to say that the mayor died because of me.”

“Surely not!”

“It's happened before.”

“It has?”

“I read it in a book. Once there was a shipwreck that drifted ashore, and some of the crew had smallpox—”

“Yes, I already know about that story. Half of the islanders died of smallpox because of it.”

“I'm talking about the bit after that.” Twisting and untwisting his fingers, he continued quickly, “The island god ordered revenge, and the islanders ripped the entire crew to bits.”

“But that was over a hundred years ago.”

“This island hasn't changed a bit in the last hundred years. All the elders call the mainland Yamato, just like they did a century ago, and you've seen for yourself how they all unquestioningly do whatever their mysterious god tells them to do, haven't you?”

Yes, I had seen it. The mayor had accepted the oracle and chosen to die, and the islanders had acquiesced. This island was ruled by the will of the god. In matters of life and death, at least, it was true.

“But even so, why would they kill you?”

“I've seen it.”

“What have you seen?”

“I've been up at the shrine. I had a bad premonition, and went to see what was going on. The mayor's funeral already finished last night, but there they were still glued to the shrine, not moving. They're waiting.”

“Waiting? For what?”

“They're waiting for the oracle to tell them the name of the person to be held responsible for the mayor's death. They're holding their breath waiting to hear the name of the person they have to rip to pieces. I know who they're going to choose for their sacrificial offering—me. They think this disease was brought in by an outsider. It's just like that shipwreck a hundred years ago. They're going to make me their scapegoat, I know it.”

The salesman glanced fearfully at the mountain. The melancholy drumming could still be heard mixed in with the sound of the rain. It told me that nothing had finished. It had been premature to think everything had finished with the end of the epidemic. In fact, it had probably signaled the start of something terrifying.

I was forced to realize that I had mistaken the true nature of what we call “god.” The fact was that god was merciless and always demanded a sacrifice. Had the Christian God not demanded that Christ himself be sacrificed? For the god of this island, which had a strong element of shamanism, it was probably even more natural that it would demand a sacrifice in revenge. How come I had not thought things through that far before?

“However,” I said, concealing my dismay from the salesman, “there's the officer here, remember? He can't allow them to break the law.”

“You mean that policeman? But he's one of them! He's on their side. You saw how he kept quiet and let the mayor die, didn't you? He believes the oracle. That's why—”

His face froze, and he rushed out of the dispensary. I too went out, as if drawn. He stood stock still outside the dispensary listening. Rain was still falling. Sheltering myself from the raindrops with my hands, I asked, “What's the matter?”

“Listen! The drumming is faster than before. That means revenge is at hand,” he muttered hoarsely.

The drumming had indeed taken on a tone of urgency.

I looked towards Mount Kamui, and tried to imagine the three hundred-odd islanders waiting patiently in the rain for the oracle. They must all be drenched through. I was more afraid of those devout islanders than I was of any god.