“Renhe! We are all Taiwanese!” shouted one of the men.

  At some point Masuda appeared next to Mingji. He looked wide awake and seemed to understand their Hakka dialect sprinkled with Japanese words. He suddenly began to cry.

  Getting down on his hands and knees, Mingji ventured down into the hollow. He soon could make out objects two or three feet in front of him. He was driven along more by instinct than by strength. He suddenly felt the path was familiar, as if he had been on it a long time ago. It was a long, long time ago, before he entered technical school, before he entered primary school, even before he could walk. He was learning to walk again. He was trying to relax when suddenly a soft golden glow appeared before him.

  That scent came again. He also heard a faint cry in the air. Who was crying? He himself? One of the other men? Was it his aged mother or Ahua? It seemed like it was all of them at once. It was the cry of all living things, a cry emitted by the mysterious heart of life.

  “Renhe, come back!” he shouted as he moved forward.

  “Stay where you are, Mother; I’m coming right now.” Had Renhe entered a dream world of his childhood?

  “Renhe,” cried Mingji ever so softly.

  “I’m leaving for home first,” said Renhe as he turned to wave at Mingji.

  Renhe suddenly leaned forward and with a cry, let himself fall. All they heard was a splash in the water, a splash that was soon swallowed by the lake.

  By that time, a thin shaft of light was coming from the east. The light was already touching the trees on the mountaintops. But Mingji and the others were still shrouded in utter darkness.

  Mingji and his companions continued to struggle northward through the mountains. When they reached Bontoc, the highest town in Luzon, located in the central mountains, they found the Philippine and American flags already flying there. On that brilliant summer’s day, amid the bright green hills, the brightly colored flags were particularly eye-catching.

  They had arrived late again. When had the town been taken? The groups of fleeing soldiers were now less frequently seen. Many of them had given up running and had taken shelter in caves and were living off the land. Those continuing north had found that although it was rough going in the foothills near the plain, they were free of guerrillas. They could still reach Aparri, and from there they could get home to Taiwan.

  But it seemed that the Americans had occupied the whole of Luzon. It wasn’t possible—there were still hundreds of thousands of Japanese troops in the Pacific, and it was just a matter of transporting them to Luzon. The Japanese also controlled key areas in the north of the island—or so they thought—and were preparing to withdraw for the last stand at home.

  It was 1945, but no one could say which month and which day. They had an inkling when they saw the propaganda leaflets. Mussolini and Hitler were both dead. The Americans had landed on Okinawa, and after a bloody three-month battle, the Japanese forces of 90,000 troops had been annihilated.

  The Allies were already dictating the terms of surrender to the Japanese authorities. If Japan were to refuse the conditions, the Allies would land on Taiwan and Japan. The Americans had ninety divisions and 8,600 aircraft. After reading the leaflets, the men knew the Japanese were going to lose the war, but what would that mean for Taiwan? What would happen to the island and its five million inhabitants?

  Mingji, though feeble of body, burned with the desire to return home. The battle for Japan was a Japanese affair and had nothing to do with the people of Taiwan. Mingji’s only goal now was to return home, the thought of which made him happy.

  They decided to continue northward. One week out of Bontoc, the only good Japanese Mingji had ever met died. Mingji and his companions had been staying at a cave for several days. One day, Mingji managed to coax Masuda into eating some soup made of boiled herbs. His failing health seemed to improve. The day grew hotter. Masuda looked at Mingji and climbed out of the cave.

  At the mouth of the cave, Masuda began to gasp. He sounded more like a wild boar panting and grubbing around in the ground. He had been making the same noise for days. Just then, Mingji caught sight of eight or nine wild men—half man and half beast—laughing and shouting as they passed by. Their hair and beards were tangled and matted. They were naked from the waist up, and they were wearing shorts and loincloths. All of them carried Japanese swords, and their eyes glowed with a ferocious gleam.

  Masuda instinctively became defensive.

  “Hey, you bastard, who are you?” said one of the men in native Japanese.

  Masuda grimaced, showing his teeth like a puppy ready to fight.

  “Masuda,” said Mingji, patting his shoulder gently.

  “Are you Japanese soldiers?” a man with no hair asked.

  “Why are you hiding here?” another asked.

  Neither Masuda nor Mingji replied. After all, the men were Japanese soldiers, so there was nothing to fear.

  “What company are you with?”

  “I’m not a Japanese soldier!” So Masuda could still speak.

  “Then you must be American, you bastard!”

  “I’m not a Japanese soldier!” Masuda continued to protest.

  “Gentlemen, Masuda is not quite right in the head,” said Mingji.

  “He’s right. Masuda is actually a second lieutenant,” said Nozawa, coming forward.

  “Well, Second Lieutenant, why do you deny that you are a Japanese soldier?” asked the man with no hair as he grabbed Masuda by his tattered collar.

  “I’m not a Japanese soldier; I am a beast,” said Masuda in complete confusion.

  “Is that so?” said the man as he thrust the hilt of his sword into Masuda’s belly.

  “Not a Japanese,” said another, striking him with his fist.

  “Gentlemen!” said Mingji, rushing forward. “Please, he is delirious.” Masuda collapsed in his arms.

  “Gentlemen, please forgive him,” said Nozawa, bowing deeply.

  “You’re not even Japanese, you bastard!” said the man, aiming a kick at Mingji but missing. “Oh, so you’re a strong one. Let’s have it out,” said the bald guy, growing excited.

  Mingji sat Masuda down and slowly stood up. He told himself there was no way out except to fight. The wild men all had swords; today was most likely his last day. If it was the end, then he would make them pay dearly.

  While in technical college, Mingji had learned swordsmanship. When he was a young boy, Uncle Qiu Mei had taught him martial arts—the thirty-six movements of the Plum Blossom style. Although he wasn’t a good student, he had picked up some rudimentary moves. Boys will be boys and fighting was common among the youngsters of Fanzai Wood, but no one except Chen, who also had studied martial arts, had dared challenge him. When he left for college, Uncle Qiu Mei warned him not to let on that he had studied martial arts so as to avoid any possible trouble. Today he hardly need worry about that. When he recalled the unfair fight at the One-Three-Six Works in Manila, he was determined to have plenty of company at his funeral.

  “Show your sword,” said the bald man as he drew out his sword with a move totally new to Mingji.

  “I’m ready,” said Mingji, putting his right foot forward and assuming the “the dragon appears and the tiger hides” position: his hand raised and his sword, still in its scabbard, raised before him in front of his attacker.

  The bald man laughed, and his sword gleamed. His overconfidence stemmed no doubt from the fact that Mingji hadn’t drawn his sword. The man obviously was not concentrating. He stamped his foot and charged, slashing with his blade.

  Mingji countered with his sword still in its scabbard and met the blow. Their weapons clanged, and Mingji made a half turn to meet his opponent, parrying his blow; then he followed with a blow of his own.

  The man yelled wildly and stumbled backward, shaken by the blow. He stepped back three paces, gave another loud cry, and rushed straight at Mingji with his sword lowered before him. Mingji had just recovered his balance when he saw the blade coming directly at him. He leaned away, but the blade slashed his right arm. The bald guy had fallen at Mingji’s feet, and his sword had slipped out of his hands and lay several feet away. The bald guy pounced on Mingji, but Mingji kicked him with a kick known as “the bright point of the suspended leg,” catching him in the groin. The bald guy doubled over and rolled on the ground, groaning in pain.

  Mingji’s sword had come out of its scabbard. He reached down to pick it up, but his right arm was numb. He switched hands and grabbed the blade with his left hand instead. He lifted his sword and put the tip of his blade on the man’s back.

  “Stop! The fight is over!” someone shouted. Suddenly a sword blow knocked Mingji’s blade from his hand.

  Mingji gritted his teeth as he stood there. His right arm felt as if it were on fire, and a dull pain spread over his right side. He could feel the blood dripping from his arm.

  “Where are you from?” asked the short guy in a loincloth, who appeared to be the second in command.

  “I’m from Xinzhu in Taiwan. My name is Liu Mingji.”

  “You’ve got real courage. You’re a real fighter.”

  “A man does not take insults. That is how a Taiwanese responds. Are not the Japanese the same?”

  “That’s enough, okay?” said the short guy, looking at the bald guy.

  “As you order,” said Mingji halfheartedly. But it was enough. He was covered with sweat and really couldn’t take any more. The Japanese all left, carrying their friend.

  Masuda, exhausted, was sitting on the ground. Mingji and Masuda staggered back to the cave to sleep. Only then did two of their new companions emerge from where they had been hiding in the grass to help him into the cave and stanch the flow of blood from his arm.

  Mingji fell into a deep sleep. When he woke it was dark. The two men brought him some boiled herbs. He was hungry and realized he hadn’t eaten all day. He finished the soup to the last drop. His stomach, like his companions’, was distended.

  “Masuda. What about Masuda?” he suddenly asked.

  “After we carried him back, we gave him some soup, and then he passed out.”

  “Masuda!” Mingji sat up and leaned on his right arm. A sudden pain shot through his arm and he remembered he had been wounded.

  “I’m okay,” said Masuda quite clearly.

  “No problems? Good, keep it up.”

  “I’m more or less okay,” he replied, laughing.

  “Try a bit harder to go on living and make it home.”

  “Thanks. You do your best too.” Masuda coughed dryly a couple of times. “Get some sleep and save your strength for tomorrow.”

  Mingji wanted to say more, but he felt so tired. His whole body was in pain. He had to sleep, but he had to will his mind to stop thinking and concentrate on sleeping. As on every other night, he remained in a half-waking state. His swollen belly ached and felt about to burst. He was so hungry and thirsty he could down gallons of herb soup. There was no ignoring his body, and his mind was especially restless. But he was suffused with a vague sense of pleasure, no doubt arising from his victory that day. But a sense of despair glittered in his pleasure like stars deep in the night sky.

  He could just see a few stars in the sky amid the leaves above. What a beautiful night. He felt the need to go to the bathroom. No, his penis was erect. How strange. It had been ages since that had happened. He hadn’t had any such feelings for a long time—not since they had begun their flight. His manhood had died and was there for nothing but pissing. He remembered someone told him about a man who was on the point of dying from thirst in the desert, when suddenly his penis stood up to ejaculate the last bit of his life. Mingji’s penis was fully erect, stiff, proud, and angry. Did it mean that his end was near?

  On this starry night, in the wilderness in a foreign country, his manhood had reasserted itself. He pitied himself and felt bewildered. He was a man, but what did that mean? Certainly he was fated to return to Taiwan. He gently stroked his penis. He held it tenderly in his hand, his heart full of awe. By the faint light of the stars, he could clearly see his erect member. He vaguely sensed he was seeing life itself; in a flash he had intuited the meaning of life. He seemed to hear himself summoned, drawn into space; he felt himself swell, filling all space. So lonely, so alone. But so real. He was moved to tears. They were the tears of life, rolling through time. He was just one person in the great chain of life. He had to continue on.

  “Mingji, are you awake?” asked Masuda.

  “Yes,” he replied, drawn away from his reverie.

  “Can’t you sleep?”

  “No. How do you feel?”

  “I’m glad to have known someone like you from Taiwan,” said Masuda, changing the subject. Normally he addressed Mingji using his surname, but by using his given name, he demonstrated greater intimacy.

  “Same here,” said Mingji earnestly. “You’re a real Japanese.”

  “I’m grateful for what you say, but can you explain what you mean?”

  “I mean that not all the Japanese people can be extremists; it isn’t normal.”

  “Thank you for saying that. I thank you as a Japanese and on behalf of the Japanese people.”

  “I hope there are other Japanese like you.” When Mingji finished speaking, he felt he had expressed himself poorly.

  “Like me? But I’m dying,” said Masuda wearily.

  “You can’t. You must go on living.”

  “Thank you.” Masuda was quiet for a while as if pondering something. “I have always hated myself for being so weak and cowardly. But after I saw Tani Nobunari commit hara-kiri, I realized that it is often hard to distinguish between bravery and cowardice.”

  “You have always seemed brave to me. You possess true courage.”

  “You are a strange man, Mingji. You are stubborn and never say die.”

  “You think I’m crazy?”

  “It’s strange. You come from an island too, but you have something most Japanese lack. There is something in your eyes, especially when there is danger, that fills me with awe.”

  “You talk as if it were something special. I just don’t want to die. I think of my home, and all I want is to return there.”

  “It’s so simple; it’s the instinct to survive, like in migrating birds.”

  “Like the salmon. Since the beginning of time, it has always returned to its birthplace, even at the cost of its own life.”

  “The salmon, a noble fish,” said Masuda. “I still long for my days in the south.”

  Mingji had no idea why he had changed the subject.

  “I have been happy in this life, because I have known you.”

  “What’s tomorrow’s date?”

  “Who knows—June or July.”

  Masuda asked himself if the sun would rise the following day. He mumbled and hummed to himself.

  Mingji felt confused and wanted to say something, but was soon overcome with sleep.

  He didn’t know how long he had slept, but the sun had already risen when he woke. He was being prodded awake by the two new men and that dog Nozawa.

  “Masuda is dead.”

  Mingji turned to his right, where Masuda lay. There was a calm smile on his face. He was gone forever, and they had never been closer. There seemed to be tears at the corners of his eyes.

  Mingji reached out and laid his hand on Masuda’s heart. He wasn’t trying to determine if his heart was still beating, but trying to pass his thoughts and feelings to Masuda. He realized that Masuda was not like the migrating birds or the salmon; he didn’t make it home, though he should have. He would be buried in a foreign country. He wondered if Masuda’s spirit was still present. He wished to communicate his thoughts. All he could do was offer his tears as a funeral libation. He didn’t know where Masuda came from in Japan and there was nothing he could do for him, but he prayed that he would find peace. The war would be over soon. As part of the earth, he would be among the trees and flowers and would then know that the world could be a peaceful and beautiful place. Mingji fell across Masuda’s chest and wept.

  “Mingji, don’t!” His companions pulled him away.

  They spent half the day opening up the cave. Inside, they buried Masuda’s emaciated body. They gathered stones and heaped a cairn over him. Even Nozawa, who never helped anyone, joined in to raise the cairn.

  With his left hand, Mingji lopped off two large branches, which he broke into lengths and placed around the cairn. The others brought a large square stone and placed it atop the cairn to serve as a grave marker. After they had finished, Mingji immediately set off, against the pleading of his friends. He didn’t think he could spend another night there near his friend’s grave. The other three had no choice but to take to the road with him.

  They continued along the forest edge. Occasionally they saw enemy aircraft overhead, but they never encountered a single guerrilla. They could detect what they thought were refugees moving over the plain, but no soldiers. It was as if they had never been there.

  In the mountains, they encountered some natives. They were small, dark aborigines, untouched by civilization, entirely different from the Filipinos of the plains. They were unafraid, as if they had never been attacked by the Japanese and never had to flee. Nevertheless, they remained alert and would not approach Mingji and his companions. When they stepped nearer, the natives drew their curved knives.

  The groups of refugees gradually dwindled. Sometimes they would not meet with a single soul for days. The few stragglers and solitary soldiers would join a group, and the groups would grow. Two weeks later, when they came upon a group of twenty-five men, only Mingji and Nozawa were left alive. Of the other two, one had died of exhaustion, and the other had fallen from a cliff.

  ELEVEN

  •

  The Eternal Lamp

  It was near the end of July, and the sun, which had just risen above the plains, was huge and white. The whiteness grew more glaring as the sun rose, and by mid-day the entire sky was a bright white. The intense light overwhelmed the dark forest and the plains. Then at one point the forest seemed to sigh and the ground seemed to tremble. A hard-driving rain poured from the sky. Hours later, the punishing sun was riding through the sky, bright and shimmering.