The Isle of South Kamui and Other Stories Read Free

impoverished way of life.
    When we finally reached the summit, we could hear the whoops of excitement coming from the other side. The gentle south-facing slope was wooded with red pines, and it was here that the women and children carrying hoes and shovels had gathered. There were few men; perhaps the others were out fishing. I sat down on a nearby rock to watch the proceedings. Everybody looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Some families were sitting on straw mats spread out on the ground, eating lunch as if they had come on a picnic. The mayor had called it an event, and indeed there was nothing to suggest the savagery of a hunt. Having brought me here, the officer now rolled up his shirtsleeves and joined in. The whoops of excitement continued unabated. I was beginning to think I had been mistaken in perceiving a hint of cruelty in the women’s laughter on the wharf. The islanders were poor, but they seemed open and cheerful.
    Nearby there was a woman of about thirty and a girl of five or six, possibly her daughter, who had found a Streaked Shearwater nest hidden in the grass and were digging it up with their hoes. Both mother and daughter were intent on their work. Sweat was trickling down the dark, tanned skin of the woman’s face. Each time she sank her hoe into the ground, her broad pantalooned hips quivered. She looked sturdy and tough.
    Eventually the Streaked Shearwater’s head became visible. Its small black eyes darted fearfully around its surroundings. It had a sharp beak, which the woman adroitly avoided as she grabbed its neck in her strong hands and dragged it reluctantly out of its nest. The bird frantically spread its brown wings spanning almost a meter, and let out a shrill squawk, but at that moment the woman braced her legs and with all her strength twisted its neck, her hips again quivering from the effort. Her daughter produced a knife, and the woman used it to slit open the bird’s belly. Blood spurted out and stained the surrounding grass and soil dark red. The woman was sweating profusely as, without a word, she deftly cut out the entrails and slung them into the freshly dug hole.
    I was enveloped by the sickly smell of blood. It was as if the surrounding air had become permeated with its stench. Their work done, mother and daughter gave a satisfied smile and put the dead bird into a bamboo basket before setting off in search of their next quarry.
    The woman’s hands were still caked with blood, now drying to a dark red in the strong sun. Once again I was overcome by nausea. The other women were also killing birds, slitting open their bellies with knives, and pulling out their entrails. I knew that was probably the best method for preserving the meat, but I felt increasingly unable to bear the scene unfolding before my eyes. The image of the entire village turning out for an enjoyable picnic was erased from my mind. Being a doctor, I was accustomed to the smell of blood. But then the blood spurting from the birds’ slit bellies was entirely different to the blood I had encountered in the operating theater.
    The sun was as bright as ever, but my nausea just would not go away.
    That evening a welcome party was held for me at the island’s only inn.
    It was called an inn, but its main business seemed to be that of general store, and provisions brought by boat from the main island were piled up in a dimly-lit earthen floored space, and from the eaves hung a cardboard sign on which was clumsily scrawled, “Just in: bread, soap, cigarettes.”
    The landlady and a young maid served the feast of Streaked Shearwater washed down with sugar cane liquor. However, the scene from that afternoon flitted before my eyes, and I was utterly unable to touch any of the meat.
    True to form, there were long drawn-out welcome speeches from the leading personages, during which cups of sake were exchanged. I disliked this Japanese way of toasting one’s health, which from a