The Lantern in the Coral Gallery

In the summer of 2010, I traveled to the island of Yonaguni, the westernmost point of Japan, with a group of young parishioners from our church in Sendai. We were there for a retreat, but also to learn about the island’s history. Yonaguni had been a key lookout post during the war, and many soldiers and civilians had perished in the caves that riddled the limestone cliffs.

Our guide was a wiry old man named Kenji, whose family had lived on the island for generations. He took us to a cave called ‘The Coral Gallery’, a labyrinth of chambers that had once served as a refuge for families during air raids. He told us that many had died here, not from bombs, but from dysentery and starvation, and that the cave had been sealed for decades until recently reopened for historical tours.

As we entered, the air was thick with the smell of damp earth and salt. Our flashlights cut through the darkness, revealing stalactites that glittered like wet teeth. Kenji warned us to stay close, but the passage split into many branches, and I lingered behind to photograph a formation that looked like a frozen wave.

Soon, the sound of footsteps faded. I turned, but the beam of my light only caught the glint of wet rock. I called out, but my voice echoed back at me, distorted. Panic set in as I realized I was lost. My phone had no signal, and the battery was dying.

I wandered for what felt like hours, my torch flickering. Then I saw a faint glow up ahead. I followed it into a chamber I hadn’t seen before. In the center, on a natural stone pedestal, sat a brass lantern, old and tarnished, but burning with a steady, warm flame. Next to it was a small, handwritten sign in Japanese: ‘Please light this lantern for the children. It will guide them home.’

I felt a chill. Kenji had mentioned that many children had died in the cave, their bodies small and weak. With trembling hands, I lit the lantern with my lighter. The flame didn’t flicker or die, but seemed to grow brighter, casting long shadows that danced on the walls.

As I stood there, I heard a sound – soft, like the patter of tiny feet. I raised my light, and there, at the edge of the circle, stood a small boy, no more than five, wearing a tattered cotton shirt and shorts. His face was pale, but his eyes were dark and empty. He pointed deeper into the cave, then turned and walked away.

Despite every instinct screaming to run, I followed. The boy led me through twisting tunnels, always just ahead of my beam, until we reached a narrow shaft. I squeezed through and emerged into a small chamber, where I found a crude shrine – a small wooden statue of a kami, surrounded by faded photographs of children, and tiny toys. The boy stood beside the shrine, then pointed to a small passage behind it. I crawled through and found myself in a larger cavern, where I could hear the distant murmur of voices – my group.

I rejoined my friends, who were frantic. Kenji scolded me for wandering off. But as we left the cave, I noticed the boy standing at the entrance, barely visible in the sunlight, watching me. I blinked, and he was gone.

I didn’t tell anyone about the lantern or the boy. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been allowed to leave, that the cave had given something back. Since that day, I’ve kept a small brass lantern in my home, a replica I bought from a shop in Naha. Sometimes, late at night, I think I see a tiny shadow in the corner of my eye, and I whisper a prayer for the children of the Coral Gallery, hoping they finally found their way home.