lava land. The great fish accepts these trinkets as gifts. It find them pleasing and does not eat the travelers who bring him such gifts!”
The fisherman went over to and opened a small carved chest, extracting several trinket necklaces. He put them over each of their necks. “Remember, leave these out there, for the great fish—or you will all die!”
“Thank you, Nakai,” Rockson said, touched at the man’s desire to help. Then he asked, “Do the Russians steer clear of the lava zone?”
“Yes, they only go into bad place when they have to repair big white pipes that bring power from the sub-earth flames into the city.”
At the first light of dawn they set out into the lava lands. Soon they came upon giant pipes—thermal power conduits—rising out of the slag and basalt rock.
“So that’s where all the electricity comes from,” Rockson exclaimed. “Killov sure lucked out to find this island!”
Onward they went, single file, following Nakai’s map through a hell-like land of bubbling lava pools and twisted sharp tumulus. Then there was a faint noise, like a snarl or labored breathing. “The fish?” asked Scheransky, dry mouthed.
“No, just bubbling water,” said Rockson. “Come on!”
Ten minutes later they came on piles of scrap: pipes, old cables, the detritus of civilization. Jutting from the waste were rusty iron rods, and tiki necklaces hung on them, swinging in the fetid wind.
“Let’s add our gifts to the pile,” Rock suggested, “to be on the safe side. Pretty tikis to placate a walking fish.”
“Aw,” said Detroit, “I like my tiki. It’s pretty.”
“Just leave it,” Rockson insisted, hearing slithering noises over a smoldering pile of slag. “And then, let’s get going!”
Murf also scoffed, but he put his tiki up on a pole, “Bah, a walking giant fish? There aren’t such things in the world. I’ve been all over. I know. You guys have got to get laid back!”
One by one the others added their gifts to the iron rods. When they were about a half mile farther along the twisting “safe” route, Rockson climbed a pumice hillock. It was a bright morning, and he didn’t like being out in the open.
They were on target. From the top of the hill, he could see green—and a rambling low house surrounded by a bamboo fence. Chimura’s house!
Fourteen
R ockson simply went down and knocked on the door. Shortly there was the soft padding of small feet inside, and it swung open. The man who opened the door was bent and wizened—like a 600-year-old dwarf bonsai tree.
“Irasshai,” the old man said softly, apparently not the least bit surprised by the unlikely figures outside his simple house. “Please come in. I am Chimura; remove shoes, take slippers,” he said in English.
Exchanging their footgear for slippers was easy, except for Archer. The extra-large American had to skip the slippers. The largest pair would not fit his size 18’s. They walked inside, Archer in his stocking feet.
“You are just in time for kabayaki-ya,” said the old man, gesturing for them to enter an exquisite—if low ceilinged—room. There were many decorative vases and subtle flower arrangements.
“NOOOO CHAIIRS,” complained Archer, anxious to rest his big buns.
“Please to sit on tatami mats, near lacquer tables,” Chimura said. The old man seated himself. The others, with more or less skill, also got down and sat cross-legged, thighs under the little tables. Archer had to use his table as a lap tray.
Rockson was about to take a seat to the left of Chimura when the old man said, “No, please take place over there.”
Detroit whispered, “He is offering you the place of honor—take it. You will have your back to the tokonomo, that little alcove in the wall. You see the twig and the little calligraphy scroll?”
Rockson nodded. He remembered reading somewhere about tokonomo. It was the place in a Japanese room reserved for the most beautiful thing: a painting or a poem in
The fisherman went over to and opened a small carved chest, extracting several trinket necklaces. He put them over each of their necks. “Remember, leave these out there, for the great fish—or you will all die!”
“Thank you, Nakai,” Rockson said, touched at the man’s desire to help. Then he asked, “Do the Russians steer clear of the lava zone?”
“Yes, they only go into bad place when they have to repair big white pipes that bring power from the sub-earth flames into the city.”
At the first light of dawn they set out into the lava lands. Soon they came upon giant pipes—thermal power conduits—rising out of the slag and basalt rock.
“So that’s where all the electricity comes from,” Rockson exclaimed. “Killov sure lucked out to find this island!”
Onward they went, single file, following Nakai’s map through a hell-like land of bubbling lava pools and twisted sharp tumulus. Then there was a faint noise, like a snarl or labored breathing. “The fish?” asked Scheransky, dry mouthed.
“No, just bubbling water,” said Rockson. “Come on!”
Ten minutes later they came on piles of scrap: pipes, old cables, the detritus of civilization. Jutting from the waste were rusty iron rods, and tiki necklaces hung on them, swinging in the fetid wind.
“Let’s add our gifts to the pile,” Rock suggested, “to be on the safe side. Pretty tikis to placate a walking fish.”
“Aw,” said Detroit, “I like my tiki. It’s pretty.”
“Just leave it,” Rockson insisted, hearing slithering noises over a smoldering pile of slag. “And then, let’s get going!”
Murf also scoffed, but he put his tiki up on a pole, “Bah, a walking giant fish? There aren’t such things in the world. I’ve been all over. I know. You guys have got to get laid back!”
One by one the others added their gifts to the iron rods. When they were about a half mile farther along the twisting “safe” route, Rockson climbed a pumice hillock. It was a bright morning, and he didn’t like being out in the open.
They were on target. From the top of the hill, he could see green—and a rambling low house surrounded by a bamboo fence. Chimura’s house!
Fourteen
R ockson simply went down and knocked on the door. Shortly there was the soft padding of small feet inside, and it swung open. The man who opened the door was bent and wizened—like a 600-year-old dwarf bonsai tree.
“Irasshai,” the old man said softly, apparently not the least bit surprised by the unlikely figures outside his simple house. “Please come in. I am Chimura; remove shoes, take slippers,” he said in English.
Exchanging their footgear for slippers was easy, except for Archer. The extra-large American had to skip the slippers. The largest pair would not fit his size 18’s. They walked inside, Archer in his stocking feet.
“You are just in time for kabayaki-ya,” said the old man, gesturing for them to enter an exquisite—if low ceilinged—room. There were many decorative vases and subtle flower arrangements.
“NOOOO CHAIIRS,” complained Archer, anxious to rest his big buns.
“Please to sit on tatami mats, near lacquer tables,” Chimura said. The old man seated himself. The others, with more or less skill, also got down and sat cross-legged, thighs under the little tables. Archer had to use his table as a lap tray.
Rockson was about to take a seat to the left of Chimura when the old man said, “No, please take place over there.”
Detroit whispered, “He is offering you the place of honor—take it. You will have your back to the tokonomo, that little alcove in the wall. You see the twig and the little calligraphy scroll?”
Rockson nodded. He remembered reading somewhere about tokonomo. It was the place in a Japanese room reserved for the most beautiful thing: a painting or a poem in
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