Юрий Мельников – Little Lily (страница 4)
While the jungle around them went on living its massive, indifferent life: water dripped, unseen lizards rustled in the foliage, and somewhere in the background, the earth hummed from the explosions.
Chapter 2. The Forest
Morning arrived in the jungle with the immediate weight of summer heat. Slowly, like a thick greenish syrup, it seeped through the multi-layered canopies of banyans and cryptomerias, bringing not cool relief, but a suffocating, humid vapor from the scorched earth. The air here did not move – it hung dense, smelling of fermented leaves, crushed snails, decaying bark, and that sweetly anxious rot of a forest overfed on death. The light was chlorophyll-tinted and cold, unlike sunlight; it seemed the foliage did not let the rays through, but rather replaced them with its own dim, stifling glow. Dew condensed on everything – on ferns, on wet moss, on pale skin and eyelashes – rendering the world glossy and unreal, like sugar frosting on a poisoned pastry.
Miko woke up because a large black ant was crawling across her cheek.
She opened her eyes, twitched to brush the insect away, and the first thing she realized – not with her mind, but rather with her numb body – was that her left shoulder, which had felt another world all night, now rested on bare, still-cold ground. This sense of sudden loneliness was so wrong that Miko sat up immediately, with a sharp jerk, without any transition from sleep to waking. Her heart was pounding with an ancient, animal fear, the kind that comes when you wake in an unfamiliar place and cannot remember your own name.
In the spot where Yuriko had slept, only an imprint of her presence remained: flattened grass that still retained a faint warmth, and two or three dark hairs clinging to a wet fern stem. Yuriko was gone.
Every muscle in Miko’s body remembered yesterday’s flight, and every bone ached from falls, but she stood up and walked toward a sound – a quiet, monotonous splashing of water. Pushing aside the heavy, prickly-haired branches of a shrub, after twenty steps she saw her.
Yuriko was crouching beside a small crater left by a shell, perhaps a week ago. The crater had filled with clear water, though stained reddish by the soil, reflecting the pale, scorched sky. A stream trickled down from somewhere above, beneath the stones; it was so thin – no wider than a child’s palm – that there seemed to be no water, only its rhythm and transparent movement.
Yuriko was washing her hands. Or rather, her hand. One hand. The left one.
Miko stopped behind her back, watching these movements. Yuriko was washing it meticulously, intently, with the obsession of someone trying to erase something far greater than dirt – the very memory of a touch. She rubbed the pad of her thumb against the pad of her index finger in small circular motions, bringing the skin to a glossy shine. The skin had already reddened from the friction; tiny flakes of washed-away epidermis were carried off by minuscule, silent whirlpools of water.
A twig snapped under Miko’s foot. Yuriko shuddered all over, as if struck, and spun around sharply, hiding her left hand in the folds of her dirty
In that brief instant, Yuriko looked up at her from below. And in that gaze – through dilated, frightened pupils and flaring nostrils – there was so much defenseless, superstitious greed that the air between them seemed to thicken. Yuriko looked at the tonal line of Miko’s neck, at how a lock of short, tangled hair stuck to her soot-stained cheek, at the sharp, fragile collarbone visible in the neckline of her sailor uniform. For Yuriko, in this morning’s decaying forest, there was nothing more tangible or important than this girl. The mere thought that yesterday everything could have ended – in a flash of white phosphorus or beside the jug of poisoned milk – made her heart contract to the point of physical pain. This closeness needed no names or confessions; words would have destroyed it, turning it into a vulnerable structure in the middle of a war. They locked this feeling inside their chests like birds that must remain silent so as not to be found.
“Good morning,” Miko said. Her voice was steady. Steadier than it should have been.
“Good morning,” Yuriko replied, attempting a smile. It came out brief and crooked, like a note scribbled in haste on a scrap of paper.
Miko sat down beside her on a flat, wet stone, cupped water in her palm, and took a sip. The water smelled of iron and rotted roots, its chill making her teeth ache, but this ordinary, physical pain restored reality. Then Miko reached out, caught Yuriko’s left wrist, and gently yet firmly unclasped her fist.
Across her palm, directly above the lines of life and heart, two strange marks showed dark. They were neither cuts nor inflamed burns. Two thin, perfect, brownish crescents were pressed into the skin so precisely, as if someone had applied a tiny, meaningful brand. They faced each other like two eyes, or like the imprints of two scales from an unknown creature. Between them, the skin remained clean, and the ordinary lines of the palm ran their usual course, as though oblivious to these signs.
“What’s this?” Miko frowned, tracing the pad of her finger over the marks. At this touch, a shiver ran up Yuriko’s forearm, which she hastily passed off as a chill.
Yuriko swallowed thick saliva. In her memory, the dry, scorching sun from her dream flashed instantly: the blinding curve of a blade, a crack in ancient stone, and for some reason, the emerald, living tail of a lizard thrashing in her palm.
“I don’t know,” her voice quavered, and she insistently freed her hand, hiding it back in the empty pocket where her grenade used to be. “Maybe... a burn. From the grenade. Yesterday, when the teacher handed them out, the ceramic was still hot.”
Miko said nothing. She accepted this lie as one accepts a prolonged tropical rain – as a fact, as a part of a changed world. Yuriko needed the lie as a shield, so Miko simply set the question aside for later, until the time when the truth would come out on its own, like a splinter emerging from a healing wound.
“Shall we go?” Miko asked softly, wiping her wet hands on her hem.
“Let’s go.”
They stood up. Their legs felt like cotton wool, scratched by thorny underbrush into tiny, dried lines of blood. Time for them had turned into “botanical time” – it had no clock face, it grew and stretched like vines, forcing them to wander without purpose or direction, turning them into ghosts on their own island.
Moving north, toward their own troops, was fatally dangerous. The Imperial Japanese Army, retreating in agony, was ruthless. Anyone who left the hospital without a written order, anyone who stripped off medical bandages, was declared a deserter and a spy by officers with hollow eyes and three-day stubble. “Are you from Himeyuri? Why are your hands empty?” – this unspoken question stood before them like a firing squad wall. To their own people, they had become traitors who chose not to die beautifully for the Emperor.
Yet heading south, toward the Americans, was equally unbearable. The stories told about the “long-nosed demons” in the caves made their blood run cold: giant, white-eyed creatures devoid of pity, who skinned captives and fed them to dogs. Fear needed no facts – it fed on the unknown, just as mold feeds on darkness. The girls were caught between two pitiless millstones: the blind, suicide-demanding honor of their own, and the mythical horror of the enemy.
Yesterday they had stumbled upon a dirt road torn up by tank tracks. Hiding in the bushes, they had watched for hours as gray, identical silhouettes marched along it. The ground rumbled beneath their steps; tiny pebbles hopped like fleas. Yuriko and Miko did not breathe, huddled into a tight ball until the column disappeared into the haze, and only then did they rush in the opposite direction – not because they knew the path, but to keep the road from catching up with them.
At night, they had found a hollow between the roots of a giant tree. The roots were as thick as a human torso, forming a kind of den. They lay there close together, warming each other with their thin bodies that shivered from the cold and the horror they had endured. Yuriko had not closed her eyes all night, breathing in the scent of Miko’s hair – a smell of soot, damp earth, and slipping childhood. This proximity was the only thing holding her sanity back from falling into the abyss. If the world had ended at that second, if the jungle had closed over them forever, Yuriko knew: the warmth of this hand resting on her wrist would have been enough.
But morning came. And now they walked on.
Yuriko walked first, Miko exactly two steps behind her. This two-step gap between them lived a life of its own: narrowing on tight trails and widening when the bamboo parted. In that space pulsated everything they kept silent about.
They emerged into a strange, circular clearing. The grass grew unnaturally smooth and short, like a trampled pasture, and in the very center lay a flat gray stone. It was of such an ideal round shape that it could not have appeared here on its own; it looked as if placed deliberately for someone to find.