SEAN PATRICK O MORDHA

Chapter 2
Revelations




Standing on the mountain ledge no one would guess a door lay behind the leaning slab of rock until stepping behind it. What was casually referred to as the front door was well concealed. Nor was this a door in the normal sense, but an incredibly thick, steel plate solidly set into the basaltic rock. The entrance was well fortified protecting what was now a home, a marvelous creation of nature and man.

Naturally created by gasses and lava flows when the mountain was cast the tunnels and rooms had been renovated to garrison a Japanese naval detachment during the big war, then again by its current occupant. From outside it seemed very natural, a volcanic peak rising precipitously above the ocean swells. Inside, it was an expansive home made comfortable with rich combinations of the natural, black basalt and imported wood. The floor was a mixture of soft carpet, teakwood and smoothed rock. From the outside natural pock marks were utilized to camouflage windows affording hypnotic panoramas of ocean and the neighboring island in their ever-changing moods. Discrete screening kept unwanted things out while granting the sweet ocean breeze to permeate the cool interior.

The rock shelf serving as a porch extended some twenty feet from the cliff before sloping rather steeply toward the beach. Along the east side another large rock lay as a silent sentinel blocking further travel in that direction which was well as the mountain made a precipitous drop into the foaming ocean. Leaning against this rock Philippe quietly bask in the sun, alternating between reading another book about Horatio Hornblower and gazing at the idyllic panorama spread out before him. However, at this moment he was fighting another nauseous wave of pain in his head.

The Golden Setter, Elli, laying at his side lifted her large head when the heavy door opened and closed and the man appeared. The pain had brought tears to the boy’s eyes. The man saw that. He watched Philippe constantly. Kneeling on the ground behind Philippe he slowly message the boy’s shoulders and neck. The muscles were knotted, part of a viscous cycle. First the headache began. Some seemed due to the natural inclination of a child to strenuous activity. That didn’t seem to be the only trigger. The man suspected surfacing memories had a helping hand.

The beginnings of a headache in turn caused tension, tightening of the neck, shoulder and back muscles, which in turn caused increased headache pain until spiraling to the point Philippe would become physically ill and in one episode blacked out. The boy’s guardian found the massaging helped relax the balled muscles, then the rest of his body and mind. The knots smoothed, the pain in Philippe’s headache slowly retreated to a mere annoyance.

“What triggered this one?” the man asked softly, a bite to the words.

“I was just looking out at the ocean and remembered something, from the before time.”

“What did you remember?”

“I . . . it’s gone. Why can’t . . .?” Philippe became frustrated, tensed, re-flaring the headache.

“Don’t worry so. It’ll come back. Relax,” the man said as he fought down the knotting muscles. Philippe sighed. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Want to go for a walk?”

“Will it make my head hurt again?”

“We’ll go easy.”

That was his way. A self-imposed hermit of 30 years he tended to be gruff, sometimes abrupt. He hated people, or so he said, but treated the boy with the gentle, caring of a grandfather. Islanders called such a person ‘Akanche’ one who speaks and acts gently. He understood Philippe needed to move about sensibly, working the deeper bruises and keep the blood flowing to prevent clotting. Healing was progressing well, even the ribs. Philippe had removed the taping that morning and experienced no real discomfort. The problem was the head.

The mind-shearing pain pushed down to a dull throb the boy could appreciate the adventure as they entered the dense, emerald wall of vegetation sweeping down toward the white beach. Though broken by jagged rocks a broad shoreline from the eastern end of the old cauldron to the western end was gently caressed by the turquoise waters of the lagoon. On that eastern end lay the reef, some of its jagged rocks barely protruding from frothy water like enormous teeth. These had eaten his boat according to the man.

That portion of the island they had visited first when Philippe could travel. The man wanted Philippe to see closer up what he and Elli had survived. There was some hope it might jog the boy’s memory. It didn’t, and Elli was so excited to be outside again she could care less.

At first Philippe thought they were returning to that portion of beach, but half way down the trail the man veered right onto a trail that angled toward the western end of the lagoon. This end was the polar opposite of the east. There was another reef, but is was a broad, submerged, crescent of white linking the other island a half mile distant. From a small plateau Philippe glimpsed nearly a dozen little islands sprinkled amid the multi-hued sea further around the western side of the island. These, he was told, were too small to accommodate more than a few trees and birds.

Slowly descending the zig-zag trail, the cooling cover of flora abruptly yielded as Philippe’s bare feet sank into pillow-soft sand. Its gentle caress magnetically drew him to the water as he went ahead to embrace the gentle waves. The man called out something, but Philippe didn’t hear. A crackling noise brought his attention back to shore. Turning, his heart struck a resounding thump as he screamed and fell backward, arms flailing to take him into deeper water.

“Steady, lad. They’re not real,” the man said over a muffled laugh. “Just scare crows of sorts.”

Philippe stared wild-eyed at a series of maniacal statues of beastly manifestations, combinations of human skulls, palm fronds and woven grass skirts. Twenty or thirty specters stood scattered along the beach in both directions as if creating a defensive arc. Philippe’s head began to throb murderously.

“What are they?” he groaned grabbing his head with both hands.

The man waded into the water and immediately massaged the boy’s neck and shoulders again as he explained, “That white line connecting these two islands is like an underwater road. At low tide you can actually walk over there. The water’s not much more than a few inches deep at most. At high tide a couple feet. When I came here the islanders warned me that a creature lived on the other island and came across on moonlit nights in search of human heads. Raised a lot of havoc with the Japanese stationed here during the war. They put up these things to scare it away. I think it was the islanders who did the head hunting, although I hear an animal scream now and then - like a tiger. The natives on the other side of the island maintain them. I help. Haven’t had any moonlight visitations, so, I guess they must work.”

“But, the skulls?”

“Coconuts. Carved a couple myself. Not bad for a non-artists. Adds a realistic touch. There are few real skulls, from the occupation era. Nothing fresh since I arrived.”

Philippe’s pain subsided, although a residual of hurt lingered until slipping into the placid, warm waters of the lagoon to stretch out on his back. Laying motionless in the water was soothing and relaxing, but he periodically lifted his head to eye the grotesque creatures.

“That rocky reef and this sand barrier create a pretty nice lagoon. Feel like a swim?”

Philippe pushed his feet to the sandy bottom to stand, whipped off the cloth skirt, tossed it ashore, and stretched into the water. For the first time Elli entered the water in pursuit. The man watched as boy and dog played for a time. As much as he disliked people, he didn’t mind having this one around. The stinging headache slipped back, but not enough to stop their fun. Not thinking of the past and the water helped Philippe to remain relaxed.

The man was impressed how well the lad easily glided through the water, like a two-legged dolphin. He joined them for a time. Tiring long before the boy he retired to sit on the submerge, sand reef and watch. Philippe began swimming back. Seven meters out he suddenly stopped, took a big gulp of air and dove. Concerned, the man stood up, however Philippe had spotted something on the floor. Easily diving the 15 or 20 feet he seizing it, stirring up a cloud of sand and surfaced. Oblivious of the headache spurred by the activity Philippe hurried to the man’s side excitedly holding the encrusted remnants of a sword.

“Japanese, I’d say, by the shape. Samurai. Probably from the occupation,” he said, once again massaging the boy’s shoulders.

Philippe carefully began flaking away the coral crust using the man’s knife. Inch by inch the hammered, steel blade came to view. Except that it’s once beautiful inlaid handle had dissolved and crumbled away, the overall blade and tang were in surprisingly good condition.

“Quite a prize,” the man offered as they headed for home.

Stepping ashore the boy stopped abruptly, taking admiring eyes off the treasure held reverently in outstretched hands to cast about for his lava-lava. There were footprints in the sand which could be ascribed to his and that of the man, but there was another set of prints coming from the trees, turning and going back. He began to search the jungle as an unseen smile flittered briefly across the man’s burnt face.

Elli went on point, issuing a low growl as eyes focused on one of the effigies in deep shade. Each was grotesque, but this one was different. It divided and became two. Immediately Philippe squared his body, turned slightly sideways to the intruder, knees bent, the curved, two-handed sword held menacingly from the hip. The man’s brow furrowed. That was the defensive stance of a martial arts swordsman.

Slowly, the second creature stepped from the shadows - a boy of similar age, stockier and not as muscular as Philippe, but much darker brown, almost black. A wide grin bared an ample view of stained teeth as he approached, waving Philippe’s wrap teasingly over a thick pile of curly, bluish-black hair.

“Hello, Johnny,” the man called out. “What brings you here?”

“Come trade,” the boy chirped as he approached, seemingly unimpressed by Philippe’s posture as he tossed the cloth over the lowered sword point. “How much you give?” he continued, displaying a handful of pearls.

“Not much. No need for them around here,” the man responded in an obviously toying tone.

The boy exaggerated a disappointed pout as dark brown eyes twinkled.

“They would be worth a lot in New Caledonia,” the man said.

“Would Tangata take to New Caledonia when goes there next time?”

“I usually do. Philippe, this is Johnny. He’s a shrewd pest from the big island,” the man said, introducing the islander and pointing haphazardly toward the western ocean while inspecting the gems.

“What island?” Philippe asked, flipping the cloth off the point into his left hand and lowering the sword.

“See two little island there,” Johnny said, kneeling to play with the dog’s ears. “Between can see Johnny’s home.”

Philippe strained to barely make out something on the horizon, not more than a tiny white spot on the horizon.

“That? How far is it?”

“By the map 10 leagues,” the man answered. “Long way by outrigger, except for these fellas. Do it all the time. So what really brings you here?” he asked, seeming to have a second sense about things.

“Chief upset with Johnny. Father say I should go away until Chief cools down.”

“And just which of the Chief’s daughters were you making eyes at?”

A dark cast of blush came over the boy’s face.

`“The one not so ugly. She chase Johnny,” he answered defensively.

“Yeah. You’re lucky to make the trip with all your parts attached. Let’s go up to the house and have a bit to eat.”

“Johnny have fish. Fix here?”

Philippe was cool toward the Islander at first, but warmed to the irreverent, light-hearted character, while sitting by the fire, listening to the two talk. Actually, Johnny talked as Philippe’s white-knight listened. It would have been difficult to wedge a word into the rambling oratory. Besides, Elli liked Johnny as she lay at the boy’s side. Then Elli was a poor judge of character. She’d cozy up to anyone who scratched her ears - even Tomas.

Philippe startled at the sudden memory. Tomas was a gangster, second to his uncle. That was another revelation. More than that he couldn’t ferret from the suppressed memories. He kept this information quiet, but the man was staring at him. An expression, perhaps something in his eyes said Philippe had remembered something, but the man didn’t pursue it. Not then.

Finally there was a pause in Johnny’s oratory allowing Philippe to jump in with a question that had bothered him.

“He won’t tell me his name,” Philippe said, referring to the man who’d rescued him. “You called him Tangata?”

“He has always been that way. Never tell anyone name. Not real one anyway, so people call him Tangata. That means man. It short for Tangata Aiwaiwa, mysterious man.”


“Exchanging names implies establishing friendships. I don’t want any,” Tangata said gruffly.

“You Johnny’s friend.”

“That’s your perception.”

“What about me?” Philippe asked.

“The jury’s still out.”

With that cold bucket of water that line of discussion was put to rest, so Philippe sat with knees drawn to chest as the sun’s immense, orange globe disappeared into the watery horizon. He could almost equate the lapping surf and crackling fire to the sizzle of where sun and water met. It was a pastoral setting - the lingering aroma of fire-roasted fish, the moon-lite night filled with an array of brilliant stars attended by the subdued, night chatter of the jungle behind them. However, an increasing uneasiness began to pervade the boy’s mind.

“What about the creature over there?” Philippe finally asked.

“Bad,” Johnny replied shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Long time past men from Johnny’s island go there. Ceremony to become man.”

“His people were headhunters,” the man pitched in. “Would take boys your age on a raid, capture some poor fool and go to that island. The boy became a man by removing the victim’s head. I think they roasted the remains and pigged out.”

“No-o-o-o!” Johnny protest. “My people no cannibal. Catch fish. Eat fish. Only fish. Sometime wild pig.”

Johnny’s defense was so serious both Tangata and Philippe began laughing. Realizing he was the victim of teasing, Johnny joined in. Just then a high, shrieking wail drifted across the lagoon. Philippe leaped to his feet, sword raised horizontally overhead.

“Creature do not like laughter,” Johnny remarked crossly.

“There really is something over there,” Philippe spat, his heart pounding. The headache surged full blown bringing him to his knees.

“Relax. It doesn’t come here,” the man said quickly rubbing the boy’s shoulders and neck.

“What wrong with him?”

“His boat was driven onto the reef when the typhoon moved in. Tossed him and the dog ashore. Bumped his head pretty good. Still bothers him.

Johnny gently slid his fingers along Philippe’s head.

“O-o-o. Not good.”

The pain was intense. Philippe closed his eyes. When he opened them he was laying on his bed in the cave-house. The man and Johnny were seated near the fireplace talking softly.

“How’d I get here?”

“You passed out. Johnny carried you back.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be trouble. It hurt so bad.”

“No trouble,” Johnny beamed. “Johnny hit head like that when fell out of coconut tree. Hurt long time.”

“That explains a lot,” the man teased. “And I’ll wager you were in the tree spying on girls.”

The native boy lowered his head and blushed again.

Philippe sat up a little, moving slowly, afraid to escalate the pounding as Johnny brought a mug.

“Drink this. Make Philippe feel better.”

“Whew! What is it?”

“Go ahead and drink it. If it’s one thing this character is good at, it’s herbal remedies.”

The jungle juice was palpable if holding one’s nose and swallowing fast. It warmed Philippe’s throat, then stomach. The warmth radiated through his body until feeling as if floating in water. He lay back and closed his eyes to bathe in the soothing rapture. When he opened his eyes a shaft of sunlight had spilled through a window covering him like a warm blanket. The man was sitting by the fire reading.

“Good afternoon,” he said, tossing a glance over the top of the book.

Philippe stretched slowly feeling better than he had in weeks, but moved slowly so as not to encourage a return of the headache. He was pleasantly surprised to sit on the edge of the bed without problem. In fact, the dull pounding was gone. Reaching up he felt for the bump. It was gone, too.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you. I sleep long?”

“Three days.”

“Three days!”

“That concotion has that effect on people while it does its thing.”

“Where’s the native boy, Johnny?”

“Fishing.”

“Johnny back,” his animate voice chirped from the entry as he padded in to stand next to Philippe. “You take Johnny’s arm.”

Philippe was grateful for the steadying help as his head spun slightly, but no headache. After a few tentative steps he felt stronger, more confident.

“What was in that stuff?”

“You don’t want to know,” the man replied.

“Johnny have fish cooking on beach. We go and eat. Johnny hungry.”

“I feel like eating a whale,” Philippe added as the man smiled silently.

Arriving on the beach Philippe commented, “I don’t see a cooking fire.”

“You standing on it.”

“He’s built a fire pit, put the fish in and covered it over. How much longer, Johnny?”

“Time for swim.”

That suited Philippe who gladly tossed his kilt and raced Johnny into the water while the man found a comfortable spot, and settled in to watch. Nearly an hour later two tired, laughing boys returned and flopped onto the sand.

“Johnny have surprise,” he said, jumping up and running to one of the scarecrows, returning with something cradled in its arms. “Johnny fix.”

It was the sword Philippe had found, now polished with grip restored. Certainly not like the majestic ones Philippe had seen pictures of, but the highly polished wood was beautiful.

“Thank you,” Philippe said, then began swinging the blade haphazardly until stepping into a series of formal moves.

“Where’d you learn that?” the man asked.

Philippe looked at him blankly, obviously searching for an answer.

“I don’t know.”

“What is funny dance?” Johnny asked.

“It’s called a kata, an exercise Samurai used while training with the sword,” the man replied.

“I wouldn’t just know it, would I?”

“No. You’ve had training. I’m curious. May I have the sword, Philippe? Now Johnny, wrestle Philippe down.”

“Johnny good wrestler,” he beamed reaching for Philippe then grunted, “What happen?” as he lay face up on the beach.

“I thought so. You’ve had martial arts training and judging by the moves, quite a lot. Does that remind you of anything?”

Philippe’s face went blank, searching faulty memory, finally shaking his head negatively.

“Okay, I want you to attack Johnny.”

“I can’t do that. Master Yoshida forbids it. Bushido is for defense only.” Philippe stopped short. “Master Yoshida?” he asked.

“Akiro Yoshida. He’s a leading practitioner of Bushido. Lives over New Zealand way. Means you’ve had the mental conditioning that goes with the physical, and that, my young intruder, may be a key to unlocking that memory. Right now, I’m hungry. Let’s cannibalize those fish,” the man said, drawing a scowl from Johnny.

The next morning Philippe went to the upper plateau with his new-found treasure. The man sat off to the side and watched expectantly over the top of his book as the boy first just walked around swinging it haphazardly, then his feet began moving as if having a mind of their own. The Kendo training began working their way up from the subconscious. Over the next few days more and more surfaced until Philippe stepped trans-like through the rigorous routines for nearly an hour as sweat oozed from every pore.

The man watched and silently counted. There were five on-guard positions, some no longer taught because they weren’t used in competition. Philippe knew all five. To advance in rank a student must eventually master ten fundamental forms. The more one can demonstrate flawlessly, the higher the rank. The man at first judged Philippe to be in early to mid ranking - a beginner. As practice continued that estimation was revised upward as the foot, body and arm movements became synchronized and the sword placement was near perfect.

The peace and tranquility of the clearing became shattered when Philippe began to vocalize each strike. At first it came as the high-pitched cry of a young teenager using pubescent vocal chords. That quickly changed as the boy expelled the air from his lungs with a guttural roar that intensified the strike.

Philippe’s observer began counting the fundamentals. Upon finishing the fourth day he counted all ten forms, executed exceedingly well. Besides knowledge, rank was earned dependent on how long one had been studying, and age. By this time the man had little doubt Philippe was at least a Shodan or 1st degree black belt. Himself a Sandan or 3rd degree black belt he felt the boy could easily be promoted when he turned 16. He’d speak to Master Yoshida when next they met. It was interesting, however, he had not seen the boy at the Bushido compound, but then he did tend to keep to himself.

Sweating profusely Philippe knelt in the middle of the clearing, lay the sword parallel to his left leg, placed hands on thighs, closed his eyes and took deep, regulating breaths. The man finished a whole chapter and half of another before the boy moved another muscle. As Philippe finally stood the man waited for that which he saw in the young man’s eyes.

“I remember the storm,” Philippe said vacantly. “It appeared like a movie. I’m in a boat. I think I stole it,” he began, worry painfully etching his innocent face. “The storm is coming faster than I had hoped. I’m thinking, just make the lagoon, it will provide some protection. Ellie’s frightened. We both have life vests on. I’m frightened, too. I see the reef. I can’t turn away. The storm has the boat. The keel is ripped off. The boat begins to break apart. We are lashed to her. I cut Ellie loose then me. We are thrown into the water. The waves are horrible. I tell Ellie to swim for land. A wave hits me. I don’t remember anything until waking up.” Philippe looks at the man seated under the shade of a tree. “You are there looking after me.” Philippe hesitated, his eyes going blank again. “That’s all I remember.”

“That’s progress. You believe you stole the boat?”

“I don’t know. When I was in the water I remember thinking ‘destroy the boat, destroy the evidence, sink it, all of it, don’t let them find any piece of it.’”

“Well, whoever ‘they’ are, won’t. I burned anything washed ashore.”

Philippe sighed relief.

“Well, that’s enough for now. You can meditate again tomorrow,” the man suggested, but Philippe repeated the workout process again that afternoon followed by over an hour of meditation. If that helped rediscover anything from his past it wasn’t shared.