Pathway to Japanese Literature

Great Demonic Realm: “Devil’s Urine Puddle”

The expedition team of the French automobile company Citroën—. This may not have been as large-scale as the American Geographical Society’s efforts, but for a single profit-driven company, it was doing quite substantial work. First came their traversal of Africa’s Sahara Desert with traction vehicles, followed by organizing a grand caravan that operated continuous tracks across Persia and Central Asia all the way to Peking.

Now, as for this third plan, it was said that everything had already been selected and they were merely awaiting the end of the rainy season. Moreover, this did not refer to automobile travel as before, but rather pointed to a mysterious, untrodden realm buried in mystery, speculation, and darkness. So—where? You might have doubted, dear readers, whether such lands still existed on this Earth—but exist they most certainly did. As for the “Untrodden Regions,” there still remained four or five places left as white circles even on precise maps. These lands were mysterious realms that stirred adventurous curiosity merely by their mention—places where earth-shattering wonders must have lain in wait for those who dared tread upon them.

Therefore, first, let us enumerate those candidate sites raised at the selection meeting. And thus shall we make clear to you, dear readers, how Citroën’s expedition destination occupies a position so transcendent as to surpass even those very sites.

1. The area of “Rio Folls de Dios” in the depths of the South American Amazon River. 2. The netherworld of “Ser-mik-Suah,” said to lie within Greenland’s central eight-thousand-shaku glacier zone near the Arctic.

3. “Puspamada” in Qinghai Province, China—the so-called utopia within the Jinsha River Himalayas’ Bayan Har Mountains.

4. ?

The first site—the depths of the Amazon River—is translated as “Madmen of the Gods.” To this place, Dr. Ramaby, dean of Columbia University’s School of Pharmacy in the United States, led an expedition, but they were ultimately repelled by the miasmatic heat and humidity of the decaying mist zone. However, it is said that through a telephoto lens, a carnivorous species of giant lotus bearing white bones was seen blanketing the river surface. The second mysterious realm is the abode of evil spirits located in central Greenland, where Eskimo natives are said to drive their sleds like madmen. There, eight-thousand-shaku glacier peaks shimmered with auroras. There, in a place where even Peary and Baron Nordenskiöld ultimately found themselves unable to proceed—a realm where one senses a strange force emanating from the depths of the ice.

The third was translated into Sanskrit as the Flower-Intoxicated Realm. From afar, it appeared as a Great Milky Sea; those who entered were said to attain nirvana while alive amidst its billowing floral fragrance—the utopia yearned for by Lama monks. They called it “The Treasure Core Within the Lotus” and eagerly attempted to scale it, but not a single soul had ever reached the summit. Furthermore, since ancient times, it had been known as the dwelling of the One-Armed People described in the *Shan Hai Jing*. More recently, it was regarded as the source material for the film *Lost Horizon*—truly, it could be called the great uncharted region of Northwest Frontier China.

Yet where could this place—one that made even these three untrodden regions pale in comparison—lie, and what secrets did it conceal? Dear readers must surely have been itching with curiosity. It lay in northeastern Congo, Equatorial Central Africa. In other words, this was the region referred to in the Congo Bantu language as “M'lambuwezi”—translated as the “Devil’s Urine Puddle.” It was said that there lay the final resting place of giant beasts—the “Unseen Forest Burial Ground”—which no human had ever laid eyes on.

Now then, as proof that this mysterious region is by no means the whimsical fabrications of a novelist like myself, let us excerpt an article from a lecture published in the British aviation journal *Flight*. The lecturer was Ferguson, a pilot from Wilson Airline Company operating between Nairobi and Mwanza. "I too have attempted assaults on the Devil’s Urine Puddle multiple times," he stated, "only to reach the wretched conclusion that even aerial conquest proved impossible." "In this modern age where airplanes are deemed all-powerful—when it’s even declared that no untrodden regions remain before aircraft—why has only the Devil’s Urine Puddle repelled all conquest? Turbulent air currents?" "That too was a contributing factor."

Generally speaking, the north side of the Devil’s Urine Puddle forms a massive cliff. Moreover, what lies above is a quicksand zone called Zerzura, where the air at high altitudes grows extremely thin, and thermal vacuums—common in desert regions—form. By the time it reaches that point, the airplane begins lurching and staggering. However, the wet forest of the Devil’s Urine Puddle spread out beneath the cliff remains shrouded in dense vapor, rendering visibility utterly impossible. In that gray sea—whether mist, marsh gas, or something unknown—strange spots would occasionally appear.

I steeled myself and made a steep descent during that final flight. Yet what I’d taken for dense fog or marsh gas turned out instead—to my shock—to be a swirling mass of minuscule insects. The sky above the Devil’s Urine Puddle, stretching thirty miles wide, teemed with a horrifying swarm: malaria carriers, dengue vectors, sleeping sickness flies, venomous midges, giant Tufwao horseflies with blade-like proboscises—ah, that monstrous living cloud!

Even if gold mines lay hidden in the Devil’s Urine Puddle, even if diamonds were scattered about, even if rare beasts and insects or primitive humans existed there—to eliminate this cloud of poisonous winged insects that seemed destined never to clear for all eternity, it would likely require engineers equipped with gas masks and full anti-insect gear—an entire division of them—to labor for several years. This was the Devil’s Urine Puddle as observed by aviators, but next came the matter of the Graveyard of Giant Beasts said to lie beyond it. Dear readers must surely know that gorillas, chimpanzees, and other great apes—along with wild elephants—never reveal their corpses. This being so, there must exist deep within some jungle impenetrable to humans their final resting place. The Devil’s Urine Puddle met these conditions perfectly; however, lest this too be dismissed as the author’s fabrication, let us quote a definitive passage from Lord Paraphan Young’s equatorial African travelogue, *From Congo to the Source of the Nile River*.

On clear days, Mount Ruwenzori served as an excellent landmark… but once the rains began and mist enveloped us, we could only wander through the dense jungle at our feet’s mercy. The mud, along with thorns and vines, gradually deepened; avoiding ants with ceaselessly dancing steps, we fell into wild elephant footprints that submerged us up to our waists. Then, about a hundred yards ahead, a dull reddish-brown thing moved along, snapping branches as it went. Gorilla! I had never encountered a gorilla until coming this deep into the Congo. There, I almost impulsively tried to grab the repeating rifle. Then, a native lunged and restrained the rifle,

“Sir, that gorilla be our benefactor.” “Killing it ain’t like a British gentleman should be doin’, sir!” The natives referred to gorillas by the affectionate nickname “Soko.” I was more dumbfounded than angered, “Why can’t I?” “I’ve got a once-in-a-thousand-years opportunity to bag a gorilla here!” “Well, you see…” “When you fell into that wild elephant’s hole and broke the magnetic needle, Sir, we’ve been at a loss ’bout which way to get outta this forest.” “Then, that gorilla showed us the way, sir.” “In other words, it’s sayin’ the way we’re headin’ be north…”

“How could you possibly know such a thing?” “That gorilla’s headin’ to the forest burial ground to die now.” “That’s in the Devil’s Urina Puddle—a place we can’t reach.” “Gorillas, see, don’t walk ’round like that when it rains.” “They just sit vacant-like, hands on their heads, crouchin’ still.” “We been watchin’ gorillas since we was sprouts, but when they trudge through rain like Death’s pullin’ ’em—every last one heads north, not a single exception.”

The mention of the Devil’s Urine Puddle pierced my mind. Could it be that our current location was unfathomably deep? Come to think of it, at the jungle’s edge in Manuiema village, what they called the “Kungo”—a massive swarm of mosquitoes—had billowed densely like fog. A chill ran through me as I understood this; realizing I might have died without that gorilla’s intervention, I made the sign of the cross over the graveyard-bound traveler now plodding onward with hands upon its head.

Lord Young thus fled back in panic, narrowly preserving his life. If one were to advance rashly, the north was a perilous quicksand region that could swallow a person in an instant. The three other sides were overgrown with aerial root parasites so dense even a king snake couldn’t slither through—the so-called “Ape Habitat Zone,” a great dense jungle. But, dear readers, there was our Japanese doctor who ventured there to die miserably and yet miraculously left a great record. I shall now endeavor to chronicle that expedition record in narrative form prior to its official announcement by the Citroën Cultural Department.

The Emergence of Dodo, the Tailed Human

The capital of Portuguese East Africa, Mozambique, was now at the height of the rainy season.

People rotted; fungus resembling white hair sprouted from Black people’s skin—such was the rainy season’s unique, dreadful humid heat that swelteringly enveloped Mozambique. Rain—today too, this island town was a scalding waterfall of rain. In a tightly shut room to avoid the Mabunga poisonous flies, Professor Accorti waited in a chamber of Zama’s research institute. What could this renowned zoology professor from Medna University in Italy have been waiting for?! Fretting restlessly, sweat dripped in droplets from his beard as he panted like a dog in that stifling atmosphere.

“Zama-kun, what does Kirk plan to show me? I only disembarked because they said it’d make me gasp in astonishment…” “It’s the ultimate secret. I’ll let your imagination run wild, Professor.” “Then—an okapi? A gorilla?” “Hahaha! Had it been such trifling fare, I wouldn’t have detained you.” Zama merely smiled—a sly, suggestive grin. He was a young scholar just past thirty, small-framed with a large face and gentle eyes. Yet one glance at his skin revealed he wasn’t purely Japanese. A triracial child—born to a Japanese father who’d been an Aden grocer and an Italian mother of mixed Black and White heritage—this confluence of three bloodlines had led him to Mozambique for tropical psychiatry research after finishing medical college in Japan, never settling in his homeland.

Cases abounded—women with uncontrollable chorea, men afflicted by Madagascar-specific conditions like *Sarimbavy* and *Koro*. To this came the support of Amaro Mendoza, Mozambique’s wealthiest man, enabling him to finally open a research institute and commit to settling locally. And so, Zama became the god of Black people. Even while dedicating his life to the lunatics of the tropics and being buried in undergrowth, he strove to save Black people from pitiful possession delusions—Zama was a warrior of humanitarianism.

And so, after living in Mozambique for over six years, he became acquainted with a poacher named Kirk. Subsequently, he also came to know Professor Accorti, whom he would often take into the interior along with Kirk. But now—why was Zama detaining the Professor, who had just made port from South Africa? It was indeed true that he intended to show Professor Accorti something astonishing—but what in the world could it be⁈

At that very moment, the door opened and a young man appeared. His dusk-toned skin immediately marked him as mixed-race—Black and White—with a sharply chiseled, ruggedly handsome face and limbs possessing an antelope-like vitality. Josias Kirk—a United States national yet infamous as the Congo Ravager—stood among White Congo’s most wanted men, hunting protected beasts to sell across regions. Kirk offered an apologetic smile for the wait, keeping his right hand beyond the threshold as he lingered at the doorway. Then through it—pulled by his grip—came a creature so extraordinary that Professor Accorti’s eyes bulged wide: a being surpassing all anticipation. The professor’s astonishment defied description. Eyes magnified behind spectacles and jaw slackened in awe, he finally regained his senses—

“Oh! A Tailed Human!” he growled under his breath.

It had dark brown fur covering its entire body, stood about four feet tall like a child, and bore a foot-long tail extending from its sacrum. Yet judging from its skeletal structure, it could only be called human. However, the cranial vault sloped low and obliquely, while the supraorbital arches with eyebrows rose high. The nose lay flat with gaping nostrils; the jawbone exhibited abnormal development. Even without close inspection, his male sex was evident. Putting that aside, an unbearable stench emanated from this tailed human—several times stronger than the goatish odor often attributed to Black people—wafting through the sweltering humidity. Professor Accorti covered his nose with a handkerchief while fixing an intent gaze.

“Hmm, seems docile enough.” “By the way—has he taken a liking to you all?” “Yeah, he’s taken to us real well,” Kirk answered, blowing a ring of cigarette smoke. “So, it’s been quite some time since you caught this one, hasn’t it?” “No, he’s only been here about seven days.” “First off, it hasn’t even been two weeks since Dodo fell into my hands.” “Dodo is…” “This gentleman’s name—the one we gave him.” “Hahahaha! So, we’re calling him Mr. Dodo the Tailed Human, then?”

Even as Professor Accorti laughed, an inscrutable glint stirred behind his eyes. Could a wild creature—an intelligent ape-man hybrid at that—truly grow so docile within mere ten days or a fortnight? “Incidentally—where did you capture this Mr. Dodo?” “The location?” Kirk parried with theatrical deliberation, launching instead into the full chronicle of Dodo’s capture.

“In any case, Dodo became attached because our first meeting went well,” “I set out determined that this time I’d finally catch a six-foot adult beast by putting your Gorilla Periodic Melancholy Theory into practice.” Professor Accorti had presented the Gorilla Periodic Melancholy Theory at the previous year’s academic conference, sparking a major sensation in the field. Gorillas periodically experience bouts of melancholy and phobias, during which they become most prone to violence. When their anguish grows unbearable, they come to lick *Hyraceum* for relief. Hyraceum—the viscous mucus left after moisture evaporates from rock hyrax urine deposited in latrines—was what Kirk had tried to exploit by setting a trap before the tree hollow containing it.

“I kept watch over that trap for four days straight.” “Then on the fifth day at noon, it finally showed up.” “Couldn’t tell its age through all that thick brush, but anyway—it came snapping branches as it headed for the tree hollow.” “Next thing I knew, there was this godawful noise and a huge dust cloud.” “Jackpot! A live gorilla meant a hundred grand easy—so I bolted out with the natives… And bam! There I was, staring down the gorilla that should’ve been trapped.” “But damn thing just took off on all fours right away, see?”

“Hoho… If what fell into the trap wasn’t that gorilla… then it was Dodo?” “That’s right—but when I looked inside, even I got a shock.” “Naturally.” “Even someone like you—practically kin to Congo beasts—would be startled by this.” “Still, he must’ve put up a fight at first—” “Didn’t happen.” “The poor bastard was covered head-to-toe in strawberry pox.” “Took pity on him right then—slathered mercury ointment on his hide and he settled right down.” “No more rubbing against tree trunks or clawing himself bloody with mud-caked hands.” “Just squints at this ointment jar in my hand like it’s liquid gold.” “Figured he’d make a decent pack animal after that—used the jar as bait to haul him quiet as you please to the nearest village.”

“Indeed—that’s true mastery of the jungle.”

Professor Accorti involuntarily let out a cry of admiration. “Then, Dodo’s strawberry-like pox was completely healed under Zama-kun’s care.” “So he’s become extremely attached not just to me and Zama-kun, but also to Manuela-san—the daughter of this institute’s investor, Mr. Mendoza.”

Just then, the door opened slightly, and a beautiful face peered in. It was none other than Miss Manuela—the very person who had just been discussed. She was a girl who radiated cleanliness from head to toe, like a freshly laundered white bedsheet. She was engaged to Zama and firmly connected to him through their humanitarian work. “Professor, I’ve come to inquire about your method of observing Dodo.”

Seemingly refreshed by the bright tone of Manuela’s voice, Professor Accorti promptly began presenting his observations. First, he pointed to the tail and declared it to be a so-called sacral malformation with a soft tail. Next, he examined the dense fur covering the entire body and explained that about three strands standing upright formed a characteristic arrangement of chimpanzees. Furthermore, the back of Dodo’s head had thinned considerably—resembling what he called “baldness characteristic of chimpanzees”—while… his ears too were round chimpanzee-like ears. Next, the professor stated that the high supraorbital arch where eyebrows would grow was likewise characteristic of chimpanzees. And so, Dodo gradually came to be proven as a hybrid offspring between humans and chimpanzees.

Then, Professor Accorti abruptly changed his tone and placed a hand on Dodo’s head. “This here—this is what’s called microcephaly.” “In other words, the skull has not developed and lacks brain volume.” “Therefore, it is similar to hominid bones with a low level of intelligence.” At the term “primitive human,” the room erupted in commotion. Before anyone else, Manuela was the first to ask a question.

“So, Dodo is a primitive human, then?” “But they should have gone extinct millions of years ago…”

“In any case, this can naturally align with the theory of him being a human-chimpanzee hybrid.” “No—I declare!” “Since ancient times, no barbarian—however primitive—has ever possessed such an inferior skull—”

A living primitive human - a hominid bone clothed in flesh - truly had to be called one of nature's supreme marvels. How then was Dodo born? From where had he come...? And if considered purely human, how could his distinct form have persisted unchanged for millions of years? First let us regard Dodo as a child born of human and beast. Then why had he separated from his group to wander? Had he been abandoned... or exiled...? Alternatively, had he been alone since infancy, survival would have been impossible in jungles swarming with wild beasts and king cobras. Moreover, not even a hint of nostalgia for his native jungle could be detected in Dodo. Where in nature exists a wild creature that feels no homesickness?

Where in the world exists a wild animal that feels no nostalgia? When captured and placed in altered environments, any living creature would display homesickness—refusing food or similar behaviors—yet strangely, none of this manifested in Dodo. Then turning toward Kirk, Professor Accorti spoke.

“I haven’t yet heard where you captured him.” “Exactly where did you find this Dodo?”

“That would be around approximately 28 degrees east longitude and 4 degrees north latitude.” “The border between British Sudan and Belgian Congo… About 100 kilometers northeast of Ituri’s ape habitat zone, and roughly thirty miles from the accursed site of the ‘Devil’s Urine Puddle.’” Devil’s Urine Puddle—the moment they heard that name, the entire group fell deathly silent. Only the roar of heavy rain hammering on the roof remained.

“So—near the Devil’s Urine Puddle—” At this juncture, Professor Accorti’s tone turned dismissive, as though he had abruptly relinquished all interest. To connect Dodo with the Devil’s Urine Puddle now lay outside science’s dominion. Having resolved to return home posthaste—ostensibly for Dodo’s sake—the professor departed while fumbling with his watch. Afterwards, Zama and Kirk stared vacantly at the rooftops through eyes dulled by exhaustion.

The sugar cube-like roofs of the mosques and the forest of masts in the harbor swayed beyond the rain’s veil like a warped mirror. At that moment, there was a hint of a French Madagascar Airlines mail plane threading through the rain mist as it passed through at low altitude. Zama heaved his body up and said.

“You know, about that…”

“About that…?” “What about the airplane?” “I mean—it’s about Dodo.” “He isn’t afraid of airplanes at all.” “In fact, he looks delighted—even lets out strange cries.” “Yet there are no air routes near the Devil’s Urine Puddle.” “British Empire Airways and French African Airways are each over half a degree apart on the map.” “Strange.” “Dodo—called an ape-man or primitive human—doesn’t startle at airplanes.” “But he becomes terrified when seeing king cobras or leopards.”

“He must’ve seen airplanes from expeditions to the Devil’s Urine Puddle.” “But I don’t think he’d get accustomed to it from just five or six times.” That Dodo—who should have lived a primitive existence since time immemorial—showed no fear of airplanes was beyond mysterious. Could it be that Dodo was some kind of artificial construct, as Professor Accorti had once suspected? As they thought this and gazed at him, it seemed a terrifying secret—one beyond all imagination—lay hidden within his flesh, leaving them profoundly and dreadfully afraid.

It was getting dark. Then, from beyond the rain mist, a steam whistle resounded faintly. The E.D.S. coastal ship Bengazi Maru now entered Mozambique. But that ship had taken aboard a herald of fate—one who would soon drive them all to the Devil’s Urine Puddle.

The Good-and-Evil Lady

Aboard the Bengazi Maru was a Belgian youth named Jan Bedetz. This was Jan Bedetz—the son of an old friend of Manuela’s father and her childhood companion—but whether due to incompatibility or not, Manuela detested him. Moreover, he was a man who couldn’t settle down anywhere—until recently, he had been a co-pilot at Egypt’s Misr Airlines, but it seemed he had gotten into a fight there too and returned to Mozambique. Manuela’s father was acting as his guardian and safeguarding Jan’s father’s inheritance.

Yet when Jan Bedetz arrived, the laboratory’s atmosphere suddenly became disturbed. This was because Jan not only defiled and abused the patients but also showed a contemptuous attitude toward Zama and Kirk, treating them as “those mixed-blood brats.”

“Did something happen?” Today too, wearing a worried expression, Manuela fiddled with the button on Zama’s chest as she asked with a gentle upward glance. “Earlier, Jan was in quite a state—panting heavily while drinking water.” “Then Mr. Kirk was applying mustard plaster around his fist.” “So he did it then.” “Kirk had said he’d do it someday.” “If the Lord of the Jungle struck him with enough force to knock down a wild bull, Jan must have been in considerable pain.” “But if you were in Jan’s position…”

“Huh?” “What do you mean?”

Manuela interrupted.

“Put simply, when he returns after three years to find this unexpected incarnation of me before you,” “it’s hardly surprising he’d want to vent his spleen.”

However, Manuela looked at him with sorrowful eyes,

“No matter what notions he concocts from his own petty spite, there’s no cause for us to be entangled in them.” “You see—Jan remains Jan, and we remain we.” As though bidding him breathe in her fragrant hair, she pressed her cheek into Zama’s chest. “I revere your Japanese blood.”

It had been spoken with the guilelessness of a child. To Zama, it resonated like a faint electric current, sweetly aglow. Then Manuela abruptly shifted topics: “Oh yes—I must deliver this week’s report.” “But Dodo remains unchanged.”

and began explaining the results of the Dodo training she had undertaken.

“It was three weeks ago that he understood fire.” “What about manual tasks?” “There’s no need to rush so much...” “But I’m properly handling what the professor instructed.” “Lately, I’ve been looking into exactly what mood Dodo is in—in other words, I’m also observing Dodo’s emotional expressions.”

“Hmm, can you really understand that?” “Yes, first of all, Dodo dislikes being laughed at.” “Moreover, he knows colors and has a reliable memory.” “He also has considerable learning ability.” “So—about that narcissus-colored envelope I always use—he started learning around yesterday to put it into the compound’s postbox.” “Oh, that’s quite an achievement! And what about the feeding experiment the Professor mentioned?” Through this, it was supposed to definitively clarify whether Dodo was a primitive human or a human-beast hybrid.

Of course, this was under Professor Accorti’s instructions—research on what could technically be termed the “migration of skin pigments.” For instance, when reducing the quantity [of fruit] for Black people whose diet primarily consists of fruit, their skin color became lighter. Similarly, when reducing the regular milk intake of dusky Hottentots, their skin color gradually darkened. In particular, apes exhibited rapid changes; in other words, by reducing the amount of fresh fruit Dodo consumed, they aimed to observe the effects as quickly as possible.

When Manuela heard about the feed, she pursed her lips slightly,

“That won’t do.” “Dodo is a human being.” “How cruel science is!” “First they say, ‘Give Dodo protein,’ or ‘If he had chimpanzee blood, he’d weaken rapidly,’ or ‘Reduce his food and observe his skin color’… I think those are things you do to animals!” “Dodo is unequivocally human and my friend.”

With profound sympathy and unyielding conviction, Manuela declared resolutely. Her Catholic education, ingrained to the marrow, would never permit retreat by so much as an inch in such circumstances. Zama gazed at Manuela’s face as though beholding an immaculate lily blossom, rapt for some time.

Truly, Dodo refused to leave Manuela’s side even for an instant. If she wasn’t there, he let out a sorrowful cry as if it could still be heard even now. “Missy, you’ll be enchanted before long—” Kirk joked, but the intimacy between the two of them made one want to say exactly that.

However, that night, a mysterious incident occurred.

When night fell, the temperature dropped somewhat, but the discomfort of lethargy and sweating lingered unsettlingly. A haze of moisture enveloped the electric lamp’s light. At such times, even Dodo’s growls acquired an altered timbre. It was truly a muggy, oppressive evening—the sort that would strip composure from anyone.

That evening, Zama engaged in a heated argument with Jan. The idea was this: if they sold Dodo, they could likely get around a hundred thousand, then add Jan’s assets to expand the institute into a full-fledged general hospital—one that lived up to its name in both scope and function. In other words, Jan was attempting to commercialize the social institution Zama had built.

However, Manuela opposed this most vehemently. Nevertheless, Jan scoffed and left nonchalantly with apparent confidence, declaring he would persuade Father and return that evening. And thus, a crisis descended upon the institute.

And so, that night, when Zama couldn’t sleep and was about to head to his study, he passed by Dodo’s room and found the lock unlatched. Just then, from the direction of the visitors’ room where patients’ guests stayed, there came a faint rustling sound. Surely, there was no way Dodo would escape—or so he thought—as he quietly opened the door to that room. Zama was struck by such intense shock that he barely managed to suppress a cry.

The one there... was not Dodo. As if they had forgotten their earlier animosity, Jan and Manuela stood facing each other on the verge of an embrace. At first, Zama doubted his own eyes. Then came a conversation so inconceivable he questioned his very hearing. “Will you love me?” Even Jan—ordinarily steeped in lechery—uttered these words with a tremulous voice,

“Yes, will you love me too?” Manuela breathed plaintively.

That Manuela—what a transformation from her daytime self!

Just at that moment, Kirk came down with a big stretch. Then, Jan abruptly shoved Manuela away and vanished through the far door with a flourish of his hand. Zama stood frozen in place, feeling as though the world had gone completely dark, utterly dumbfounded.

Just when he thought Jan had vanished, yet another shocking incident occurred—one that made Zama gasp.

For what began was Manuela spewing obscene matters—unthinkable to associate with the pure and innocent Manuela, things even an ordinary townswoman (let alone a lady) would never dare utter—as though reciting them to herself.

“Manuela!” This was no ghost—it was the real Manuela. The angel of humanitarianism—unbowed even if scorched by day—by night revealed an unimaginable countenance. Which was real? Wondering which was the real Manuela, Zama shook his head like an imbecile and staggered out into the hallway. At that precise moment of exit, Kirk came leading Dodo by the hand. “You better give your tame lady proper instructions.” “Someone forgot to lock up—so he wandered out on his own—and now even this brute’s worked into a frenzy.”

“Where was he?” “By the edge of the wainscoting in the visitors’ room hallway.” “Seems something happened that got this guy all worked up.” Indeed, Dodo was displaying a kind of abnormal frenzy never before witnessed in him until now. His canine teeth were bared like hooks up to his gums, and his pupils glowed golden with congestion. And with low growls sputtering intermittently, he presented such a sight—his hidden wildness on the verge of erupting violently—that even Kirk recoiled in shock.

After putting Dodo inside and locking the door, Zama went outside urging Kirk along. Before long, they reached the famous Malagash Inlet where the distance to the mainland had narrowed to about two hundred meters. Rain hot as bathwater... A murky tide... sent wave crests glowing faintly with phosphorescence. And the receding marks on the sand were as beautiful as a starry moonlit night. But Zama himself couldn’t understand why he had come to such a place with Kirk.

“What’re you scheming? Moping around like some…” “You’re not here to chant sutras over a dead cat, are you?”

Kirk said in a tone meant to invigorate Zama—who was filled with an uneasiness unlike his usual self—as if trying to cheer him up. Then Zama suddenly turned around, “Hey, would you sell Dodo to me?” “Huh?! Sell Dodo?!” Kirk asked with considerable surprise, “What’s the purpose? What do you intend to do by buying him from me?”

As he involuntarily looked up, a fleeting flash of murderous intent swept across Zama's brow. I'll kill him! If Manuela hadn’t been enthralled by that demonic thing, she wouldn’t exhibit such a bizarre split personality. And so, unconsciously, it was Zama who had been lured by this inlet’s stench of decay. Kirk, appearing to have already grasped this, adopted a solemn tone— “Alright, I’ll take that proposal seriously.” “Then first—before discussing whether to sell or not—there’s something I want settled.” “That’s whether Dodo is a beast or a human.” “Is he an animal fit to sell or a person not to be sold… So, Zama-kun—which is it?”

When told this, Zama’s throat gulped audibly. However, he merely trembled slightly and couldn’t utter a word. “Human trafficking… slave trade… would there be someone in this modern era who dares speak of such things?” “Or, treating Dodo as a human-beast hybrid—how would you handle that case?” “Mixed blood—same difference.” “If Dodo’s a mix of chimpanzee and human, then I’m half-black, and you’re a three-quarter mixed-blood.” “The reason we’re despised as inferior to whites is the same as you acknowledging half beast blood and telling me to sell Dodo…”

While soaking Kirk’s words into his very being, Zama began choking back sobs in secret alongside the dark sea’s disheartening roar.

*

That night, he tossed and turned in bed, never once closing his eyes until dawn. The more he agonized over Manuela and Dodo’s bizarre behavior, the more his mind sharpened—sleep was nowhere within reach. Was Manuela’s condition a split personality like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?—As the tangled threads grew ever more intricate, Zama had become like a demon in pursuit. Or was it the result of having grown too sympathetic toward Dodo? That said, he hadn’t imagined anything that would defile the lady—but could it be that Dodo’s latent demonic nature had entwined itself with affection around Manuela?

At that time, Dodo had been separated by a wooden partition, but to manipulate Manuela inside through it from afar—such a feat would be child's play for native witch doctors. Moreover, in Dodo—who hadn’t even flinched at seeing an airplane—there was something unfathomable. Whether it was Manuela’s inherent disposition or Dodo’s demonic influence—after the whirling-lantern questions had wearied him into exhaustion and abruptly vanished—Zama noticed an unexpectedly large hole yawning open beneath his own feet. Ah, it was neither split personality nor Dodo’s demonic influence. It was merely Manuela’s betrayal. When Jan came and saw her pure white skin, then turned to look at Zama’s jet-black skin, Manuela had come to single-mindedly dislike Zama. Whore! Damn whore! In bed, Zama roared words that clawed and tore.

At last, night broke. The rain began to glisten like oil in dawn's faint light.

The following night, after summoning Kirk to his study, Zama began to speak in a strained manner.

“You, I think I’ll go on a trip.”

“Alright. You were acting a bit strange last night, but I’m sure it’s just exhaustion.” “Where’re you going?” “Switzerland or Vienna, I s’pose?”

“No—I want to go to the very core of this continent.” “From Ituri in Congo, far to the north—I am going to the Untrodden Regions.” “Huh?” “I’m going to the Devil’s Urine Puddle!” Blocker of the Nile’s Source

Kirk stared at Zama dumbfounded, but eventually— “Alright, I’ll listen.” “But there’s no such thing as sightseeing that risks your life.” “Naturally, you must have both purpose and prospects.”

“That’s right. By the way, Kirk, you venture into Congo to hunt protected animals. So, how much did you make at your peak?” “Well, fifty thousand dollars, I suppose. When I caught an okapi, it reached about that much.” “What about gorillas?” “They can’t be caught. They may seem slow and dull, but they’re cunning—and on top of that, downright cruel. Makes ’em a real pain to deal with. If they were ones putting on airs like orangutan professors or sociable chimpanzees, that’d be fine—but misanthropic or skeptical types? I tell ya, those are the hardest for hunters to handle. But even just shooting them’d net you twenty or thirty grand.”

“Then, if there were a valley where gorillas… were laying out countless corpses….” “Assuming there are six hundred universities worldwide—even selling just one skeleton to each would make you a millionaire.” “But that’s your job.” “My purpose lies elsewhere.” “Don’t spout nonsense.” Kirk began laughing dryly. “If I were taking this seriously, I’d get ideas—but if such a place existed, you think I’d let it slip by?”

“There certainly is.” Zama declared with full confidence. “I swear on our friendship and say this believing in your courage.” “By the way, do you know the historian Herodotus?” “Of course, I’ve never seen him, but I know the name.” “A learned man who lived in Greece long ago, I suppose?” “That’s right.” “However, among what Herodotus wrote, there is a passage about the source of the Nile River.” Herodotus once heard the following story about the source of the Nile from the governor of Egyptus in Minerva.

The source of the Nile lay deep within a valley—known as the Crescent Mountains—formed by two peaks called Krophis and Memphis between Syene and Elephantine. Within those Crescent Mountains lay a lake called “Colc,” where King Bamethics had once lowered a rope several thousand *ogye* without reaching its bottom. Thus was it said that the true source of the Nile lay still deeper beyond.

Furthermore, there lay the “Tangle-Root Marsh” and the “Uncharted Forest Graveyard,” where dwarves dwelled and tailed humans existed. And that place—the Devil’s Urine Puddle—was where the dwarfish tailed humans dwelling there became none other than Dodo—so concluded Zama. “I see. But why don’t you explain those difficult Latin terms?” “Well, you see—the ‘Tangle-Root Marsh’ is a swamp of tangled roots.” “It means the swamp is a tangle of roots, lying beneath the dense jungle.” “Then, ‘the Uncharted Forest Graveyard’ refers to the final resting place of giant beasts.” “It is said that elephants and apes which never show their corpses come there to sleep.” “Hey Kirk, either way, it’s the Devil’s Urine Puddle, isn’t it?” “Moreover, it’s the homeland of the tailed human Dodo.”

Now that he mentioned it, Kirk had also heard a similar legend from the natives. In Nugumbe—a village near where Dodo was discovered—there lay a cave of unfathomable depths called “Leo” on the northwestern mountainside facing the Devil’s Urine Puddle. It was said to be the birthplace of humanity. In other words, their ancestors had emerged from that cave alongside animals in ancient times. Truly, when one thought about it, there were countless such things. Such absurd legends had been substantiated by expeditions—and how such things had often served as catalysts, igniting exploratory zeal and leading to great discoveries!

There… now beyond that cave lay the Devil’s Urine Puddle. Moreover, that place was regarded as the birthplace of the half-beast child Dodo. “See here—if it’s the Devil’s Urine Puddle, it could remain a virgin for hundreds of millions of years.” “There, both animals and plants remain as they were in the primordial Earth.” “Bestiality and slaughter are nothing more than natural law.” “In that case, I’ll take Professor Accorti’s theory one step further.” “In other words… Dodo must be a hybrid child born of the primitive humans there interbreeding with chimpanzees.” “First, to consider the parents as tailed humans, there’s the matter of the tail existing.” “In all other respects, he’s the spitting image of a chimpanzee in both appearance and intelligence.”

Kirk, utterly overwhelmed, blinked dejectedly. Where could such a thing exist in such a quiet man—this strange passion of Zama’s, like that of a different person?…… He stared blankly at Zama’s lips.

“And then,” Zama continued smoothly.

“Why Dodo feels no nostalgia... I think I’ve finally figured it out.” “He contracted Ichigatou and knew his time had come.” “So he went to the Forest Graveyard to die.” “When that happens, they can’t return... They instinctively know they must enter an unknown world.” “That’s when Dodo strayed from the path.” “Unable to reach the Forest Graveyard, he fell into your hands...” “That’s why he didn’t resist even you...” “Even coming to this human settlement... he feels no homesickness...” “Listen Kirk—I want to go to that graveyard. To the Devil’s Urine Puddle.”

Primitive humans, apes, elephants—wouldn’t they all be the same? When they, sensing their impending death, attempted to go to the Forest Graveyard, they completely lost any instinctive desire to return home—it was Zama’s clear conjecture.

However, Zama—the very same Zama—was smiling with quiet loneliness. The hollow shell of love, instead of seeking death, must have chosen the untrodden region. Eventually, a firm pact was forged between him and Kirk. However, when he told Manuela about it, to his surprise, she proposed going along. When sacrifice tried to turn Manuela toward the happiness it sought, she unexpectedly kicked it aside and resolutely went forth.

Zama had become utterly bewildered.

Soon, Zama—chasing after Manuela snake-like, adding Jan to their party and taking Dodo along—departed for Kondeloga, their first base.

“Lately, what’s gotten into you, Shichiro?”

Having something to discuss, Manuela called Zama into the shade where masca fruits hung down to the ground. Under the scorching direct sunlight after the rainy season, every shadow turned pale violet, while the sunlit ochre soil blazed with the vividness of fresh paint. That was the day before the expedition’s first departure from Kondeloga. Manuela blinked rapidly with downcast eyes, as if suppressing the urge to throw herself against someone’s chest. “There’s nothing wrong.” “I remain exactly as I’ve always been.”

“No, you’re wrong.” “The Shichiro I knew before was never this cold.” “Women are most sensitive to such things.” “Tell me—has something upset you?”

Then Zama wavered again. Until that moment, he had burned with wrath toward Manuela over Jan’s deranged conduct that night. Yet here before him lay her artless innocence…her faltering uncertainty. Somehow it felt like his own misapprehension—even Zama began sensing this.

After that incident, the interactions between Jan and Manuela became extremely stiffly formal. At least, such incidents appeared to have occurred only once—the very next day, she turned to her father and outright rejected Jan’s attempt to establish a general hospital as his stronghold. This must have surprised Jan as much as it did Zama. However, he was not a man to forget the sweetness of a single night. No matter how much scorn he endured or how thoroughly he was ignored, he refused to leave the expedition, biding his time for another opportunity.

To Manuela, both Zama and Jan undoubtedly shared the same thought. She was a mysterious woman—was it her split personality or Dodo’s influence?… As Jan shamelessly inserted himself into the expedition party, Zama continued wrestling with doubts while stubbornly maintaining a defensive wall toward Manuela. Incidentally, the expenses for this expedition were covered by Manuela’s father, and Zama regarded it as nothing more than a leisurely sightseeing trip to recuperate from fatigue. Kirk, too, could feel the fierce wind heralding the roar of the great swamp... but to stake his life on probing the inviolate Devil’s Urine Puddle was something he had never so much as dreamed of. And Manuela, too, had been thinking the same way. If only he could take a break from work for a while… Given how strangely Zama had been behaving lately, she truly hoped this trip would allow him to recuperate—the Devil’s Urine Puddle had never actually been in her thoughts from the start. Moreover, Zama too had been changing in the same way.

It was a situation where he had initially thought it would be just himself and Kirk, but then Manuela unexpectedly joined in, and Jan came chasing after them. And so, as he continued to behold Manuela’s beauty, this expedition no longer seemed like an assault on the Devil’s Urine Puddle but rather—with Jan excluded—a heaven-sent, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Dense jungle, rivers teeming with crocodiles, wild beasts, venomous snakes. There, every conceivable substitute for human assailants abounded.

And that very thought, it seemed, had taken root in Jan as well. Thus did the expedition—its original purpose now warped beyond recognition—set out from Kondeloga days later, the two men nursing mutual enmity in their hearts.

Now, regarding the route for approaching the Devil's Urine Puddle—its western and southern boundaries comprised Congo’s “Ape Habitat Zone,” while the north was encircled by a great precipice forming a dangerous quicksand region, with only the eastern side lying under a dense jungle belt. However, every expedition team that had ventured there up to now vanished without a trace the moment they entered. Truly, as the saying goes about those sent to retrieve mummies becoming mummies themselves, not a single survivor returned no matter how many expeditions followed one after another. However, the group decided to proceed regardless.

Two hundred porters—along with a serpentine procession of vehicles and livestock—traversed the vast plain dotted with termite mounds, advancing alongside the British garrison’s military telegraph lines. Under the soil’s glare and scorching direct heat, even inside the mule-drawn covered wagon, Manuela fell asleep. As they proceeded, traces appeared where termites had chewed through the grass. To avoid soldier ant attacks, they rendered the land barren. Where termites dwelled nearby, streams lay close. Perhaps it was their imagination, but the grass gradually grew taller. Soon appeared a beautiful stream area that would become their first night’s campsite.

At the water's edge stood an acacia among hollyhocks and morning glories. The water bore lapis lazuli-hued lilies across its surface while flesh-toned pelicans clustered with raucous cries. Manuela, marveling that such a paradise could exist within the wilderness, began darting eagerly along the water's edge. At that moment, Kirk spoke up about remembering the place.

“From that stream, crossing that thicket—about ten miles further on—is where Dodo was discovered.” “Hey Dodo, let’s return to your homeland after so long.”

However, Dodo was greedily following Manuela’s every movement. Pure white calves; the beautiful symmetry when she stretched to pick a flower. In eyes that pursued with an incomprehensible will, a tormented, sorrowful hue appeared.

Moreover, since arriving there, Dodo had been hearing some kind of call. At times he would fix his frightening gaze upon a stretch of the tiered central mountains where a sea of trees loomed, or—most strikingly—flinch at the rustle of leaves as though all things wild were being roused from slumber. As for this, both Zama and Kirk had noticed it long ago.

“Dodo had failed to reach the forest graveyard and fell into human hands. But before long—whether the wildness he lost then grows stronger or he remains in the human world, drawn to Manuela—I think it’ll come down to one or the other. But we’ll need to be damn careful.”

The expedition team had a purpose in bringing Dodo along. If they went to the place where they had first met Kirk, he would likely recall his homeland and take the lead. And if the team followed in his tracks, they might be able to traverse the undetectable secret path to the Devil’s Urine Puddle—or so they thought. However, their attempt ended in failure. Dodo had long since lost any desire to return home, captivated by Manuela’s allure that he had only just come to know.

That night, they heard a lion’s roar before dawn for the first time. In the thicket came sounds resembling a small wild boar being killed by a leopard. When they finally crossed the thicket teeming with dangerous horned snakes, terrible misfortune descended upon the expedition. Except for mules that resisted fiercely and six water buffaloes they had urgently driven into the riverbed—all wild oxen, camels, horses and sheep perished from venomous tsetse flies. What followed became literally an arduous journey. Porters began demanding higher pay as loads grew heavier; crimson-scorched earth lay cracked and crawling, making them feel they’d reached hell’s brink or earth’s end. Shrubs too stood sparse across that wilderness. Even when tall trees occasionally rose withered among them, mere bullets could send them crumbling down effortlessly.

But now, they were close to the mountainous region. To the left lay the Congo’s Ruwenzori, its peaks piercing through the mountain range and crowned with snow. Below it stretched a bright red cliff of weathered granite. From there, carved into white clouds and mountain shadows and stretching far into the distance, lay the great sea of trees that led to the Devil’s Urine Puddle. The following dawn, they heard hippopotamuses near the ochre-colored muddy river. At the sound—like that of a tuba from some instrument—Manuela found herself longing for her hometown.

Yet this place remained nothing more than the threshold of Dark Africa. The terrifying thorny grass in the thicket they’d seen yesterday; the enormous venomous spider weaving through that dense growth— But today, the grass grew taller, the tree gaps narrowed, and with each step, the aspect of the inner hot region grew more pronounced. And this three-day journey covered just under forty miles.

They entered what would become their final base—the Makonde village—in the afternoon of the following day.

From here, they should be able to see the eastern edge of the Devil’s Urine Puddle in the mountain shadows at an estimated distance of twenty miles. And so, at last, the peaceful journey they had undertaken thus far came to an end, and the assault on the Devil’s Urine Puddle began—a twenty-mile stretch that might as well have been a century’s journey.

“Hell no. “Going as porters? That’s like marching off to die!” The Chief gulped palm wine and smoked Indian hemp in high spirits, yet refused to heed this alone. “Well, proof beats arguments—let me show ya.”

When they stepped outside, below the mountain range lay an endless sea of trees. At the distant end of the sea of trees, something like undulating haze could be seen swaying upward. Then, a nearby native let out a terrified cry. “Look! The smoke’s humming!” Perhaps it was just imagination, but the haze seemed to drone with a low hum. Before long, as the sun began to set, it glowed sulfur-yellow, and by then had already thickened like a mass of clouds. The smoke hummed—it was said that this mist welled up daily near dusk beyond the uninhabited great sea of trees. And ever since then, not a single expedition team that attempted to pass through this village and strike at the Devil’s Urine Puddle has ever returned. However, they finally consented to go as far as they could, and the following day, they began to push through the dense jungle with the porters.

The place was a dense growth of vines and creepers so thick not even a tiger could penetrate, and the air hung clammy with moisture thick with malaria. After avoiding attacks from giant ants, scorpions, and tortoises while driving off troops of monkeys… after five hours of a grueling ordeal that made one marvel that Manuela had endured it—their field of vision finally opened up. At the isthmus, the military wire bent at a right angle. That which prevented the wire from extending forward must lie beyond the newly encroaching dense jungle. As expected, the porters stopped moving. If someone urged them too forcefully with “Go on—I’ll pay you!”, cries of “Hey, lady—” erupted from among them, some even breaking into tears.

In fact, there, the entire group had tried to turn back. No one retained any enthusiasm for exploration; merely having come this far under Kirk’s command might have counted as a great success to the whole group. Then Zama alone—for reasons unknown—strongly insisted on pressing forward.

Murderous intent... enveloped this quiet man’s face yet went unnoticed by all at that moment. He would kill Jan here—in this final jungle—while he had his chance; before him loomed aerial roots forming barriers tall as men and stagnant water thick with decaying leaves beneath. Unaware this path mirrored a moth’s fatal plunge toward flame’s allure，he pressed ahead past hesitant porters． At that moment，Kirk ignited brushfire to flush out an isthmus-crossing serpent． That smoke marked their final glimpse of ordinary existence—though which two among them witnessed it remained unknown．

And so began the final march through the primordial jungle.

Then, before long, the gaps between the trees began to glimmer. The forest ended—and at that moment, fourteen or fifteen figures, as if emerging from nowhere, completely surrounded the group. Unfamiliar natives. Moreover, the one who appeared to be their leader wore short pants. “Good day.” Kirk stepped forward and amiably greeted them. However, even he, seasoned as he was, choked back, his voice trailing off into a hoarse rasp. The pistol... its muzzle pointed meaninglessly.

Before long, jerked by their jaws out of the forest, they found themselves overlooking a vast basin below. Amid clustered thatch-roofed huts stood even warehouse-like structures. “Where are we?” Kirk said, trying to keep panic from the group. Then unexpectedly German words—“unexplored region”—escaped the man’s lips. When they looked at his face—straight-nosed, skin sun-seared but unmistakably white—they startled.

“You’re surprised, aren’t you?” “I’ve been here for over twenty years.” “In case of emergency, I’ve been hiding here to block the source of the Nile.” “I am a German man named Bayerthal.” And thus did the hand of fate draw the four ever deeper into the unfathomable grotesqueries of the Devil’s Urine Puddle.

A Night in Monkey Wine Village The basin into which the party had been led felt like the bottom of a gorge, with ochre sandstone cliffs zigzagging notched into it and stone steps continuing far below. There was one such place in each of the basin’s four directions, and all other areas appeared impossible to climb even for wild monkeys. However, the five suffered no harm. On the contrary, the eccentric Bayerthal was in excellent spirits.

“To think I would meet white gentlemen here—it’s truly like a dream. How about it? Won’t you try ‘Shushah’—a rare concoction?”

With that, the eccentric man poured a viscous substance into a coconut shell,

“Hey, you all must’ve heard stories about monkey wine when you were kids, right? But when you come here, there’s something that can properly be called ‘monkey wine.’ This is secretly made by chimpanzees. They ferment wild grapes, figs, and such in tree hollows, and since they drink that stuff, they’ve turned into those rowdy bastards, ha ha ha ha! So I decided to name this place ‘Monkey Wine Village.’” Saying this, he offered cassava starch bread to the hesitant group while sipping “monkey wine” and smoking Dagga—an anesthetic leaf similar to Indian hemp—in place of tobacco. Seemingly quite intoxicated by both, Bayerthal was gradually growing irritable. Judging by his half-white hair, he was probably close to fifty. Yet his resolute-looking eyes glinted sharply even amidst his dazed, pleasant intoxication.

Before long, in response to their questions, he began to recount how he had come there. “I was once a sergeant major in the German East Africa garrison, but in March 1916, we were defeated at Lake Tanganyika.” “At that time, our unit wandered off our retreat route and kept heading north until we emerged at Victoria Nile.” “It was such a wretched journey beyond words—our unit of a hundred men dwindled one by one, two by two, until finally only six or seven remained.” “They either contracted tropical fevers or were struck down by venomous snakes.”

And so, when they finally escaped here, even the British army stopped coming. They must have assumed we’d been killed near the Devil’s Urine Puddle. “But we survived. We lived like Robinson Crusoe—didn’t even know when the Great War had ended—and on top of that, we even had a child. Ha ha ha ha! Of course, the mother was a native woman, you know.” Having said this, Bayerthal stared at Manuela with oddly glinting eyes. Due to the cursed smoke, his speech had become quite slurred, and his mood was eerily buoyant to the point of unease.

“By the way, just two years ago, a missionary from Makonde staggered in here.” “When I looked, he was a German.” The conversation took off. It was then that he learned the Great War had ended, and for the first time discovered that his homeland had transformed into a Nazi-dominated, anti-communist regime. But missionaries sent to foreign lands have a special mission. They engage in both spying and propaganda. He was that type of man. And so, they decided to report that the village had been completely annihilated, mixed in all sorts of lies—both true and false—and spread the word to the Makonde villages. “In other words, upon their return, they made sure to spread the word that this place had become a dangerous area that must not be entered.” “However, a firm promise had been established between me and that man.” “Listen well. No matter how barbaric the land I find myself in, I will act as a proper German citizen.”

The group leaned in with interest, wondering what this modern-day Robinson Crusoe would say next, yet they all sensed an inescapable danger looming. Bayerthal continued chatting with an air of feigned innocence.

“You see, should an emergency arise—say, if war breaks out against Britain and France—first we’ll block the sources of the Blue and Black Nile in Ethiopia.” “Then I’ll head to the White Nile and block its upper reaches.” “And what do you think will happen?! Egypt’s heart—the Nile River’s waters—will dry up completely, revealing their parched beds!” “Of course irrigation water will become insufficient—famine will occur.” “With shipping rendered impossible, transportation networks will be severed.” “When that happens, how will Misr’s zaibatsu and the British military suppress this raging tide of rebellion?”

Just then, an engine roar was heard low in the sky. Every evening, to prevent swarms of insects from the Devil’s Urine Puddle, soapstone and other powdered mists were scattered from above, it was said. That was the true nature of the “Rumbling Fog” visible from Makonde. The reason Dodo showed no surprise upon seeing the airplane was likely because he had been near there and knew its outline; this was surmised.

When asked about the airplane, Bayerthal proudly explained that it belonged to a British pilot who had killed his comrades in the British Kenya garrison, stolen a scout plane, and fled there; after that, the pilot had attacked a transcontinental railway survey team in Yambure, so they wouldn’t lack insect repellent or gasoline for the time being. All the while, his eyes crawled over Manuela’s hand resting on Dodo’s sleeping back as if savoring it, but it gradually became clear that this too was not merely due to drunkenness. And suddenly, he burst into roaring laughter.

“You understand now? I’m the Obstructor of the Nile!” “Ha ha ha ha! You’re making such strange faces—you must think I’m some banished madman! Let that be!” “But here we’ve got weapons! Explosives!” “And once a month comes a liaison plane.” “The Savoia-Marchetti heavy transport flies in from the North African Airlines route.” “Warehouses we’ve got, an airfield too, even a hangar.” “All hidden from above with masterful camouflage.”

The members of the expedition gradually grew pale as they listened. They realized that a terrifying crisis—one that might cost them their lives tonight—was gradually closing in. It was almost certain that the reason no survivors had ever returned from past expeditions was because Bayerthal had killed them there. Having revealed such a monumental secret that could sway the fate of nations, he would never let them return alive. Starting with Kirk, not a single person had a voice; they became listless, like corpses.

However, Zama alone—true to his profession as a psychiatrist—observed things differently from the others. When listening to Bayerthal’s words, he noticed that the man would frequently exhibit what could be seen as flight of ideas—suddenly bringing up unrelated matters. This was a characteristic symptom of those with mental illness.

Even an ordinary person would lose the ability to discern even minor lies after spending half a month in such an isolated environment. In Bayerthal’s case, it had been over twenty years—it was no wonder he had come to believe the missionary’s nonsense as truth. Moreover, he was numbing his brain with Indian hemp. But now, that was as much a threat to them as a madman’s blade. No matter how they struggled… it seemed there was no choice but to become sacrifices to his madness.

While insect control measures and airplanes indeed felt like modern civilization pressed against the mysterious zone, the obstruction of the Nile and liaisons with Italian aircraft were ostentatious yet insubstantial—aurora-like delusions of the madman Bayerthal. No—now, Zama alone believed that this man sitting imperiously in his palace of monkey liquor was in truth a pitiable, gullible fool, danced upon the tongue of a devilish missionary.

Eventually, the party of five—including Dodo—were confined to a hut. However, no guards were assigned, nor was it locked. Their weapons and ammunition still remained in their possession. This was not due to Bayerthal’s oversight, but because there were strict guards stationed at four stone staircases.

In the depths of Africa’s night，the mountain chill grew thicker with despair. In the languid chorus of toads and crickets，hyenas occasionally howled in the distant forest. As the deathly stillness of the night made them wonder if this might be the world’s last，not a single soul uttered a word. At times，Jan could only glare resentfully at Zama—it was all because he had proposed this that they had met with such misfortune. As time passed and dawn drew near，an unexpected event befell Zama. At first glance，it didn’t seem particularly strange，but it held significant meaning. Suddenly，Manuela began muttering something in German in a languid voice，as if talking to herself.

“Tomorrow—they’ll kill everyone except the females—or so they say.” “Since they call it a humane method, they’ll probably use Akasuga poison.”

Surprisingly, her words had a masculine tone. The delivery was flat and monotonous, like a recitation. But strangest of all was this: Manuela herself knew not a single word of the German she now spoke. To hear her fluently speaking an unknown foreign language—Zama, momentarily doubting his own ears, moved closer and began staring fixedly at her. "Manuela, what's wrong? Stay strong!"

However, Manuela’s eyes reflected a deranged glint as they stared fixedly, wide and unblinking. Perhaps due to excessive heartache, her mind had grown strange. All the while, the delirious speech continued unabated. “Won’t they even try to run away?”

“It’s fine—since they haven’t taken our weapons—they must think we wouldn’t dare.” “First, there are guards on the stone steps… And even if you fled that way, the Makonde area’s woven like a net.” When these eerie mutterings ceased, the sinister aura of darkness enveloped Manuela alone as death’s hour drew near. She paused briefly, then began again. “There’s no way they’d know about the underground passage in the buffalo hut.” “What time is it?” “If it’s three o’clock now, that leaves two more hours.”

Just whose words was Manuela imitating? Zama remained utterly still, his calm eyes fixed on Manuela, but involuntarily… shook his head at that moment. Then, in perfect mimicry, Manuela shook her head too. Startled, Zama experimentally pursed his lips this time. Once again, Manuela repeated the identical motion. The instant this happened, Zama abruptly pulled Manuela into a tight embrace. Soon, tears streamed like a miniature waterfall where their cheeks met, intermingling with choked sobs.

“Oh—you?!”

Kirk thought Zama—who had remained as composed as himself—had finally lost his composure as death’s hour drew near. But Zama did not loosen his arms in the slightest; weeping and laughing as though pouring out every last drop of passion, he was in a frenzy beyond all control. Yet Zama had not gone mad. In the great whirlpool of joy and sorrow, he shouted these things in broken fragments.

(It was Latah!) Manuela had Malay blood—*Latah* was a hereditary disease specific to Malay women—an episodic neurological disorder! Ah—now he had finally understood everything! (The cause of that night’s madness with Jan… and now—how Manuela’s seizure might coincidentally save us…)

In *Latah*, the initial mild seizures occur during periods of physiological abnormality. At such times, even though fully aware of their actions, sufferers feel an irresistible urge to mimic both the speech of those before them and their exact movements—in other words, echolalia and echopraxia manifest. When he considered this—that night—various memories came flooding back to Zama. That time… when Jan had whispered “Will you love me?”—Manuela had echoed those very words identically. Again, when he’d reached out to embrace her, she’d mirrored his gesture. Those obscene soliloquies so unbefitting a lady—he now realized—were none other than a symptom called *coprolalia*. Ah—Manuela carried Malay blood. Most likely, Malay lineage from Malagasy ancestors had entered her lineage generations ago. And now, after those generations had passed, it had surfaced in Manuela.

A curse of blood—Manuela was not a pure white person after all. But in this hut where no one else was speaking now, why had she spoken in German—a language she didn’t know? That was the truly bizarre aspect of echolalia. Even sounds too distant and faint for ordinary ears to detect reverberated through the abnormally sharpened hearing of a seizure. Just now, seeing that two of Bayerthal’s subordinates had passed in front of the hut with clattering footsteps, Manuela must have mimicked their conversation. In that case, the underground passage in the buffalo hut was indeed the one unmistakable escape route.

In this way, all doubts surrounding Manuela were resolved. The split personality akin to Mr. Hyde, Dodo’s phantasmal presence that evoked the grotesque, and even the five individuals now attempting to emerge—all ultimately stemmed from Manuela’s delicate madness. Zama, weeping at the rekindled intensity of his love, realized there was not a moment left to delay.

“Gentlemen, we might survive. Anyway, let’s head to the buffalo hut right away.” First, to prevent her coprolalia from being heard, they gagged Manuela and, taking Dodo with them, quietly slipped out of the hut. There, winding its way up from underground to emerge on the eastern cliff face, was an underground passage just barely wide enough to crawl through. Thus, the group barely escaped with their lives from Sarushu Village.

When dawn began to break along the edge of the tree sea, they found themselves fleeing unwillingly into the relentless jungle—now drawing ever closer to the Devil’s Urina Puddle—likely in the opposite direction of Makonde where their pursuers would head.

Crumbling Earth The relentless jungle grew ever darker. The colossal leaves of giant sloth grass—each as large as a calf—and thickets of massive vines studded with spike-like thorns stretched upward to meet the dense foliage that blotted out the sun. Also, within those leafy shadows, the colossal roots of a great tree loomed defiantly, octopus-like. Moreover, countless aerial root parasites dangled down, tangling like a fence and knotting like tumors, forming nothing less than a colossal barrier that could only be called one of nature’s wonders. Moreover, below lay a thick, muddy marshland, and within the mire that swallowed them up to their shins lurked horned venomous snakes.

Centipedes as thick as arms came thudding down while mountain leeches attacked with a relentless sound like rain pelting an umbrella, seeking to suck their blood. Their escape from Bayerthal’s demonic clutches had been but momentary, and now a new despair began tormenting them. “Kill me, Zama.”

Manuela had finally started saying such things. And she would let out hollow, cackling laughter, or occasionally shoot a sharp sidelong glance at Jan, whom she despised. She too was gradually beginning to lose sanity. True to form, only Kirk continued to swing his axe, ceaselessly clearing a path forward. However, even this child of nature—accustomed to the harsh wilderness—had become utterly exhausted, for a mere ten-yard advance required two to three hours of desperate struggle. A single horse vine root lay four or five *cho* ahead; when cut, the jungle groaned deeply, and for a while, an eerie rustling sound—as if something were pursuing them—filled the air. Kirk, having exhausted all his energy, slumped against a tree.

“What should we do? Do you have any prospects—like, if we do this?” “What do you mean, ‘What should we do?’?! How the hell are we supposed to manage this?!” Jan turned around with wildly bloodshot eyes.

“We should’ve just let Bayerthal kill us.”

In the distance fell a single pencil-like stripe of sunlight. The rest of this jungle—nearly pitch-dark—was insects like a dust cloud churning with marsh vapor. If they tried avoiding them with a mosquito net veil, the insects would swarm onto its mesh. The Devil’s Urina Puddle likely wasn’t much farther now.

Yet, amidst such indescribable hardships, Dodo alone remained remarkably energetic. Carrying Manuela on his back, he would occasionally climb trees to gather nuts. Now embraced by the jungle and whispered to by great nature, his wildness surged back to life. Jan saw this and said mockingly.

“It’s for this guy’s sake. “Just to send this guy back to his homeland, four people are going to kick the bucket.” “Hey beast—you must be thrilled to have a bride like Ms. Manuela, huh?”

As they continued wandering without any destination in mind, the day eventually ended and they faced their first night. Kirk, thinking to avoid the dangerous ground by choosing a suitable tree, glanced up and his eyes caught sight of branches that had been tied together. It was a gorilla’s nest. However, gorillas have the habit of building nests elsewhere after staying just one day. In that case, it was the supreme lodging.

The second day—.

The entire group spent the day amidst severe diarrhea and sleeplessness. The miasma of the swamp forest caused cholera-like symptoms; their eyes sank into hollows from a night of wasting away, and the four walked on, gaunt and hollow as husks. Covered head to toe in mud with beards grown out, even Manuela gave off a choking foul stench. And from this point onward, the giant trees died out, and the world transformed into one dominated solely by parasitic plants. This was one of the jungle’s great wonders—found only in Panama, Sumatra, and Central Africa.

In other words, parasitic plants and creeping varieties of the fig genus entwined themselves around the giant trees and strangled them to death. Afterward, though they appeared as giant trees scraping the heavens, they were as light as wicker baskets stuffed with cotton, swaying unsteadily at the slightest push. The forest swayed. A single movement rippled through the vines until hundreds of trunks rustled in a place that resembled the dark kelp forests of the seafloor. All four of them felt as though they were witnessing hallucinatory visions.

Around noon, they stumbled upon what appeared to be the footprints of a wild elephant. Crushed thorn stems and leaves rotted in the muddy water, and the pool-like puddle took on a coffee-brown hue. However, beyond that point, with fallen trees also present, the path opened up slightly. However, it was merely a path leading due west toward the Devil’s Urine Puddle… a straight road to hell.

Through fatigue and despair, the men gradually became like wild beasts. Jan insisted on sharing Manuela and was punched by Kirk. But even Kirk was breathing in a strangely labored manner, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Manuela—his face a picture of utter ugliness.

The third day—.

Jan developed pneumonia-like symptoms from that day onward. Wandering, mud, miasma, and terrible fatigue—these were the first to lay the hand of death upon this man. While delirious with terrible fever, clinging to tree trunks and borrowing Zama’s shoulder to stagger onward, he saw the surrounding landscape transform once more. Large mammals had completely vanished, leaving a world of reptiles—king snakes and horned lizards—creatures of substantial weight yet sluggish movement. The vegetation’s arboreal composition changed entirely, now dominated by bizarre giant trees with roots upturned in ways never seen before—their aerial roots stretching vertically upward rather than dangling downward. Moreover, whether from constant slight tremors or something else, the ground beneath their feet trembled.

Was the soil’s composition unstable, or was there a danger of landslides? Considering that giant beasts vanished beyond this point, it came to be thought that this was not merely an unfounded fear. At any moment, the ground beneath their feet might collapse with a crash—they began to tread each step with their strength sapped. However, even if they seemed to catch a glimpse of the Devil’s Urine Puddle there, the forest grew ever darker and boundlessly deep.

Then, in a valley between the peaks and troughs of fever, Jan quietly led Manuela into the shade of leaves.

“Don’t you want to return to Mozambique?” At the suddenness of it, Manuela opened her eyes wide in bewilderment. Through the mosquito net veil, her tears glinted with resentment—why would he try to make her remember now, of all times?

“What is wrong?” “Why are you silent?” “I am tired.” “I… even if I try to say something，I just cannot put it into words.”

“No—there’s exactly one sure way to return to Mozambique.” “That means going back to Bayerthal’s place.” “Hey, that man desires a white woman.” Saying this, Jan narrowed his lizard-like eyes. His legs were unsteady, his face—emaciated by illness—that of a living skeleton. Manuela felt a shudder of creepy unease come over her. Moreover, Zama and Kirk had not gone to catch mud turtles.

“If we go back, Bayerthal won’t have any reason to kill us.” “If we stay resigned there, an escape chance will surely come someday.” “With just your good sense alone, we can return to Mozambique.” “Or would you rather keep up appearances for them and die like dogs here?”

“But I don’t understand what you’re saying at all.”

“That won’t do. I’ll definitely take care of those two tonight. When their fever subsides, they’ll be on night watch, you see.”

While saying this, Jan inched closer to Manuela with predatory persistence. But to Manuela, this could only be seen as desperate defiance boiling up from mud-thick despair—a final grasping at agency by those already half-dead. His feverish breath reeked; when she writhed to escape it, the ground lurched sickeningly beneath them. Then—in that instant—Jan screamed.

Dodo. Baring his canine teeth like fangs, he let out a terrifying growl, his lips stained crimson with Jan’s blood. Driven by rage, Dodo reverted to wildness. When the desperate Jan tried to draw his pistol, Dodo pounced on his hand again. Locked together, the two began rolling across the ground.

In the forbidden ground where even large beasts dared not tread, the earth beneath their feet suddenly began to boom with subterranean thunder.

No sooner had they seen it than—ah, what a horrific spectacle! Suddenly, the ground across the entire area before their eyes began to collapse with a sickening slide. Manuela was tripped and fell with a heavy thud, but in her desperation, she clung to the vines and looked up—only to see the forest just then sinking away. As the treetops sank inch by inch, a dream-like faded and dull external light streamed in through long streaks. The forest sank! Manuela forgot about the two men’s struggle and stared blankly.

As the earth’s fissures spread from centipede-like cracks, the gushing groundwater rushed toward the sloped direction. However, the trees atop those collapsing strata somehow remained upright. They thought the dense bindings of climbing vines would keep them from falling and let them slide intact—but this hope too was betrayed in an instant. The surging water rapidly stripped away the soil, exposing the trunk roots. Even as subsidiary roots several feet below became visible… they began experiencing a bizarre illusion as if entire root systems were floating upward above ground. What manner of tree was this? Manuela stared at these monstrous roots reaching deep into the earth’s bowels. At that moment, Zama’s voice rang by her ear.

“Ah, the roots of the deep well!” Could that be the extinct species known as old-root trees? This African species, whose roots were said to extend twenty times a man’s height underground, should have already been on the verge of extinction by the early days of the black slave era.

And in moments, their field of vision abruptly expanded.

The unforeseen collapse generated a wind that tore through the haze clinging to the ground. The moment this happened, the three gasped and held their breath. Up until that point, the dense jungle that had been thought to continue endlessly—obstructed by haze—broke off there at a sinkhole.

The Devil’s Urine Puddle—. And the three were lost in dazzling excitement. They reached the very edge of this great unexplored region’s perimeter—the sinkholes and natural defenses of the Great Swamp Forest said to repel any expedition. No sooner had they thought this than they began straining their eyes, peering into the great caldera-like basin spreading below them for any sign of something visible.

Yet there remained a gray sea where haze and insect mist swirled—countless fissures in the cliffs vanished midway, leaving no way to discern where the edge ended or the abyss began—this great unexplored region defied all measurement. Only the tangled roots of an old-root tree that had shed its dried trunk could be seen swaying in the gaps. While the sturdy, pyramid-shaped roots supported the trunk, the trunk withered, and its remains fallen to the ground looked just like tangled spider silk filling a ravine. Before long, that desiccated hue too faded faintly into haze beneath the insect mist that had begun to enshroud everything. ――The Devil’s Urine Puddle showed a glimpse of its hem yet did not deign to reveal its millennia-old mysteries to humankind.

The three stood for a while, deeply moved. However, when they came to their senses, Jan and Dodo had vanished, still locked in combat. Though her thoughts were scattered, Manuela supposed they had likely fallen into the sinkhole still locked in combat; eventually weaving a wreath from crimson vine flowers, she cast it—along with a kiss—into the bottomless grave for Dodo, who had died trying to save her and returned to his homeland. A hollow loneliness akin to a missing tooth settled over them, but as another collapse seemed imminent, they had to withdraw from this place. Yet the three spent that entire day in a drunken-like daze. Having come to this untrodden eastern edge and peered into the Devil’s Urine Puddle—likely making them the only trio to do so since the dawn of history—they felt they had trampled nature’s sanctity and might. Still, escaping here to return to civilization had now become their paramount concern.

Yet if they went south to Congo’s “Ape Habitat Zone,” there they would only repeat this misery. Considering this, they would head to the great cliff at the northern edge—where the American Geological Society’s expedition was supposedly active now… And so, their plan was settled and set into motion… but proceeding as before—cutting through the massive vegetation and brambles—might take months. In the meantime, they could hardly endure this exhaustion, and what’s more, they had been relentlessly targeted by a king cobra these past few days.

“If you think about it, we’ve held on quite remarkably, haven’t we?” Manuela gazed at the tattered axe, exhaled a sigh, and gave Zama a glance that seemed to urge him to speak. Then Zama began in a constricted voice,

“Actually Kirk, I’ve just discussed this with Manuela,” Zama said in a strained voice. “What I want is for you to take independent action here.” “Why?” Kirk widened his eyes in surprise. “This is too damn sudden—I don’t get what’s going on here.” “Let me explain,” Zama continued. “You could escape from here and reach the village. Because of the burden that we two are, you’ll end up throwing away your precious life otherwise. I’m begging you—tomorrow, leave this place without concerning yourself with us.”

“I see.” For a while, Kirk stared at him in dumbfounded silence, “Abandoning you here’s easy enough—but what exactly d’you plan to do staying?” “Manuela and I intend to enter the Devil’s Urine Puddle.” “What?”

And even Kirk couldn’t help but be startled, “So you’re planning to throw yourselves into that great sinkhole…”

“That’s right—I will adhere to my original resolve. “This all began with my own indecisive temporizing, so naturally I must reap what I sowed. “Manuela too will gladly die with me. “But you—even in friendship—I cannot let you be entangled in our fate.”

Kirk turned to look at Manuela. Her eyes, filled with a lucid ecstasy born of complete resignation, gazed serenely at Zama. As perhaps the only two among all humankind, when they trod upon the Devil’s Urine Puddle’s depths, their eyes would behold grotesqueries beyond what any pen could depict or mind conceive—and yet also dream beautiful dreams of love’s graveyard. Kirk fell silent for a time, lost in thought.

The jungle echoed intermittently with the rumbling passage of king cobras through its deathly twilight gloom. Suddenly, Kirk slapped his knee and declared: “Zama! I’ve got a genius plan.” “You can stop spouting that nonsense at me now.” “What? What is it?” “We’ll use these vines as *Kintefwetefwe*.” “......” “In Congo’s native tongue, that means ‘natural grass bridge.’” “Ah! Why didn’t I realize this sooner?”

In Livingstone’s account of the Manuema expedition, the *Kintefwetefwe* is described in detail. In the vicinity of Manuema, there are cases where living grass bridges form over rivers. In other words, vines from both banks tightly intertwine, and in wide rivers, they hang down close to the riverbed. Stepping on them gave a fluffy, quilt-like sensation, and one proceeded by lifting their feet as if extracting them from snow. There, more than twice human height, vines and thick creepers were packed like a fortress.

The three of them, finally revitalized, made their way across this natural bridge, and before long helped Manuela up to stand upon it. They had never imagined viewing this great swamp from above, but the grand vista indeed brought them to a halt for some time. The horizon began with the sea of trees and ended with the sea of trees. The deep monochromatic green was darker than the sky; as far as the eye could see, there was nothing to obstruct the view nor anything to disrupt this monochrome. And so, at last, they managed to traverse the great swamp.

Effortlessly traversing more than ten times the distance they had covered before, they circled around the northern slope and emerged atop the cliff.

Looking down, the Devil’s Urine Puddle below was a vast gray sea. The horizon blazed with the beautiful hues of the setting sun, and the towering peaks of the Ruwenzori loomed like solitary islands. But no sooner had they escaped the miasmic swamp and breathed a sigh of relief than here they found themselves in a scorched wasteland without a single blade of grass.

The red, hellish soil was scorched and crumbling; what occasionally appeared to be grassy areas were in fact terrifying quicksand. And from there appeared a Sand River that became a stream during the rainy season and disappeared into the ground near the cliff.

“Thank you, Kirk—how much we owe you.” “That’s true.” Zama and Manuela expressed gratitude from the depths of their hearts. This was because they had been saved from the dreadful thirst that had plagued them without a single drop to drink since their arrival. Kirk had finally recalled that beneath the sand river’s clay layer flowed an underground stream. Furthermore, upon reaching this place, they brought large branches and succeeded in constructing a modest hut. Thus they avoided heatstroke, secured water, and occasionally shot birds to sate their hunger. Yet their greatest concern became the lack of green provisions, with the peril of scurvy now beginning to cast its shadow.

Then, exactly on the afternoon of the sixth day, a plane came flying overhead. It appeared to be the long-awaited one from the American Geological Society. As the three dashed out and waved their jackets, a message tube fell swiftly from the plane. They ran up and opened it to find written: "Tomorrow afternoon—" After prolonged suffering, they could finally return to Mozambique. Manuela, overwhelmed, began crying like a child.

However, at that very moment, the shock triggered another Latah episode. This time, since they were before Kirk and could not conceal it, Zama found himself far from sleep that night.

*(Poor, sorrowful Manuela.)* Even if she were to survive here, what would become of her in the days to come? She will never recover—no, she will likely descend into genuine madness.

In the darkness, fixing his eyes on the campfire, Zama felt his spirit wither. If she were to start shrieking obscenities now, the beautiful Manuela would die—reduced to nothing more than an object of lust for onlookers. Even should she survive, only an empty husk would remain. Only Manuela’s flesh would persist through shame and defilement... Then a phantom emerged before Zama’s eyes—the face of a wild bull. It recalled when they had hunted bulls in Kondoroga’s shrublands shortly after departure—firing buckshot into a herd advancing in orderly ranks behind their female leader, hooves churning sand into dust-clouds. When one beast struck in the belly thrashed in agony, its companions braved danger to leap upon it, goring the sufferer to death with chaotic horn-thrusts. After all, even beasts practice merciful slaughter—killing doomed comrades to spare them torment. Just as physicians administer euthanasia through veiled compassion.

On the other side of the campfire, hyenas were crouching as if sneering. At that very moment, he felt as though a mysterious ghost were watching him. When at last a pitch-dark sleep devoid of dreams or visions began, Zama harbored a firm resolve in his heart.

The next morning, when they were to leave this place in just a few hours, Manuela was standing at the edge of the cliff. She was frantically sketching, trying to capture the grand vista of the Devil’s Urine Puddle on paper. At that moment, Zama crept up behind her. The heat haze enveloped Manuela like flames. His head burning and eyelids scorched, resolved that even if he were to fall into hell he would send Manuela to heaven, Zama closed his eyes and let out a scream akin to a shriek.

Moreover, whenever he saw Manuela, his resolve would falter anew. Encouraging his heart with thoughts of great love and drawing closer, Zama unknowingly found himself entering the sand river. There lurked a single coincidence where the killer died and the victim lived. He did not know that sand could shift without water. Gradually, his body was carried forward until, in what felt like an instant, he vanished from the earth.

From then on, Zama’s figure never appeared again. The fact that he had vanished in mere moments left even Manuela with no choice but to think it was as if cursed by the myth-shrouded "Devil’s Urine Puddle."

At last, the "Devil’s Urine Puddle" was conquered.

Zama died, and the remaining two were saved.

Manuela, exhausted and grief-stricken, took to her bed, but a month later, a letter arrived. The outer envelope was addressed to the British Army Survey Department stationed in Nuyangwe, and upon opening it, there was another letter inside. It was soiled with mud and blood, but what made her doubt her eyes was what it read: *To my beloved Manuela, from Shichiro Zama—* Manuela cut the seal with trembling fingertips.

Manuela, divine punishment has struck me. When I thought I could no longer endure letting you suffer further from 'Latah' and tried to quietly push you off that cliff... I was carried by the sand river and fell into the earth. It was a dark river that welled up from the earth and disappeared back into it. How many hours or days later—regardless—I awoke in darkness. The dreadful cold made me think this must be what the path to Yomi feels like. Somewhere echoed a waterfall-like roar of flowing water. Yet that I still lived became clear when I finally tried moving my body. Every joint burned with fiery pain. Still, I somehow rose up. Groping across my body, I found a knapsack. Inside were both a lighter and solid alcohol. Ah—with this stubby pencil, I cannot write details.

There, when I tore a piece of fabric and burned it with solid alcohol, the surroundings became faintly visible. Everything appeared pure white. I doubted my eyes. Then, something like snow fell from the ceiling. When I tasted it, a sharp pungency spread across my lips. With that, I finally understood. I had fallen from the Sand River into the rock salt layer. It was a salt cave formed by groundwater dissolving rock salt. Manuela, you could never imagine. Undulations like lunar mountains or sand dunes, stalagmites, countless breast-like protrusions hanging from the ceiling—when struck by light, they would suddenly glitter like snow. Pure... I truly thought it would be a blessing to die amidst such surroundings.

There were also ridges. Among them were ice crevasses. At times, hail-like pellets would scatter down, and I would be showered with powdered salt as if by a small waterfall. And then—when I suddenly looked at the wall beside me—I involuntarily gasped and held my breath. There, a large jet-black hand covered in coarse hair was protruding as if trying to grab me.

“Manuela, this is the mystery of the Devil’s Urine Puddle—the ‘Graveyard of the Forest.’” When I thought this was where anthropoid apes came to bury themselves in sorrowful demise, I compulsively tore at that wall. Then with its reverberation came a thunderous collapse. Ah Manuela, when I rose covered in salt like snow, they emerged one by one in bas-relief—gorillas and chimpanzees standing upright, crouching low, bending their arms—each frozen mid-death throes. In this cave ceaselessly reshaped by water’s erosion—could these remains be centuries old? Millennia? Yet submerged in salt without decay, they’ve kept their forms intact to this very day. Ah—I alone among all mankind have entered the Devil’s Urine Puddle and witnessed its deepest mystery.

And thus, forgetting even myself who would soon die, I savored humanity’s greatest rebellion against nature as if melting away in rapture. And then, the waterfall plunged into the depths of the earth. Knowing that, I was greatly disheartened. For if that groundwater had emerged at the cliff face, I could have glimpsed a grand view of the Devil’s Urine Puddle from there; and had its position been lower, perhaps I might even have escaped. But it was no use. In the dark roar surging up from below, I finally realized there was no exit—that I was now sealed in by rock salt walls. In fact, it seemed the cave’s shape was perpetually transformed through water erosion.

Then I grew deeply concerned about the low temperature here. Beasts may be one thing, but humans risk freezing to death if they are not careful. To freeze to death in the depths of Africa during summer—even if this place lies dozens of feet underground—I found bitterly ironic.

Then an idea occurred to me. To say it is truly repulsive, but there was nothing else to provide warmth now. I turned my attention to the anthropoid ape corpses.

As for what followed, I shall spare you, a lady, the details. In any case, those who came here to die and survived for a considerable period have almost no layer of fat within their bodies. In any case... I decided to try burning them. First, I placed solid alcohol into the oral cavity and lit it. Before long, the fire spread toward the brain, and the eyeballs began to burn. With a roar, the two sockets began spewing orange flames. The cave interior was being suffused with an indescribable beauty. The shadows of fissures and striations rose up all at once, and a delicate bluish hue reminiscent of glacial crevasses pooled there. A pale red womb... Countless blue earthworms crawling through it. However, the corpses were completely desiccated and emitted no foul odor at all.

In that way, I warmed myself and ate meat. However, the meat—perhaps due to emaciation—tasted as unpleasant as chewing leather. Manuela, no matter what I might do, you would forgive me, would you not? However, when I had burned about three and tried to pull out the fourth, suddenly the ceiling collapsed like bedrock. Avalanches broke out throughout the cave interior, plunging everything into murky darkness. As that faded, the depths of the collapse site glowed dimly—a hole. After winding through twists and turns, I finally emerged near the entrance. There lay four or five bodies that appeared recent. Manuela, I exited the cave and breathed outside air for the first time. At last, I had emerged into the Devil’s Urine Puddle.

It was night. In the sky, through a thick layer of haze, hung an ochre moon—strikingly large, encircled by a massive halo that cast a murky glow. To this day, I have never witnessed such a supernatural and mysterious radiance. It blurred a hazy diffused light across the midheaven, yet even with that light, the ground was pitch-dark. Then, into this silent realm of death came the sound of a roar being raised somewhere far away. It continued endlessly, neither drawing nearer nor growing more distant, resonating with a truly mournful tone. And then, not long after—just as the first light of dawn was about to break—a pitch-black form suddenly appeared before my eyes. Startled, I stared at it while retreating inch by inch.

Manuela, what do you think it was? It stood as tall as Kirk, bulkier than Father, lumbering forward with one hand atop its head. At times it would bend both legs and sweep the ground with those elongated hands before racing like a tempest—a gorilla. When I realized this, icy dread coursed through me—my jaw quaked uncontrollably, my knees threatening to buckle. I desperately threw myself into the cave, finding a hollow resembling the frontmost crevice to hide within. Yet this cavern proved shallow, ending abruptly in solid rock. To compound my peril, the gorilla squatted before the opening. When dawn finally broke, our eyes locked across the threshold. Would those colossal hands have crushed me in a single strike?

Manuela, after a while, I began to laugh scornfully. Even I thought myself such a careless fool. I had forgotten why that gorilla had come to the Graveyard of the Forest. The gorilla initially growled low when it saw me, but merely watched without making any move.

Over seven feet tall with a head nearly white-haired, it seemed to be of considerable age. At last I came to think it had come to the Graveyard of the Forest through senility. When beasts arrive here, their combative spirit fades away—above all, they seem to feel none of the fear that drives their ferocity. Without taking food while starving, they quietly proceed toward death. Manuela, there I gained a companion on the path to the underworld. Soko—— I tentatively called out to the gorilla. This “Soko” comes from Congo’s native tongue—rather an affectionate name for them. Then even when I cried *Wakhe, Wakhe*—as one does to caged gorillas—the old beast did not so much as turn its head.

When a sorrowful roar—seemingly from its family—was heard in the distance—and this continued nearly ceaselessly for four days and nights—the old beast would prick its ears as though drawn in, yet even this remained merely a gesture devoid of expression. Thus life for the gorilla and me—the two of us—continued in silence for over ten days. I have never yet encountered so aloof a being—one who showed not the slightest interest in his cohabitant.

Well, my pencil is nearly spent. I will keep the rest brief and write through to the end.

Then, I want you to tell Professor Accorti specifically how I observed the gorilla as a psychiatrist. After that too, day after day, the gorilla never moved from that spot and only gazed at me listlessly. He seemed too weakened by exhaustion to even stir. When I took his pulse, he simply lay there in a daze. But this isn’t just instinct driving them to the Forest Graveyard—gorillas are constitutionally predisposed to melancholy. That is to say, they possess “an abnormal tendency toward despondency.” Ah—the pencil lead snapped again. I can’t go on writing this.

There I must quickly write of my love for you, my friendship with Kirk, and that I will soon die. I had contracted scurvy from subsisting solely on meat for an extended period. Now the bleeding of my gums grows increasingly severe with each passing day. That’s it! Of course there were no green vegetables—the very cause of this illness—nor was there even a single speck of green in this Devil’s Urine Puddle. Through the insect fog, even daytime remained dark as twilight. Below lay only saline crystals resembling skin lesions, with withered roots of ancient trees sprawling wildly.

If only I could traverse those roots like a gorilla—but I am human, and in my current state, I lack even that much strength. In all honesty, there may be tailed humans in some corner of this place. Also somewhere, elephant carcasses lie scattered about, and the swarm of insects devouring them might be that very insect fog. However, being in this one small area, I can understand nothing indeed. I know only this: that here is the Graveyard of the Forest, a place where ruin and all creation whisper of death.

Today, I caught a pelican—a rare occurrence. I vividly recalled how you had tamed Dodo and made him enter the wooden post with that envelope. Therefore, I will write this letter, put it in that envelope, tie it to the pelican, and release it. By some miracle... though such a chance must be less than one in ten thousand—if it reaches you, that would be the power of love.

I, as the first human to be buried in this graveyard… as the first man to enter the Devil’s Urine Puddle… and as the sole person to commune with a gorilla… take the greatest pride in my devotion to you….

Now, though it was afternoon, a violent storm had begun. One more day—I would continue this letter and postpone releasing the pelican.

Manuela，delaying that single day brought about a terrible calamity. That said，I am not about to die now. The value of all things I had directed my heart toward until now became utterly impossible to feel. All things of the past—you，Kirk，even the conquest of the Devil’s Urine Puddle—came to appear as trivial as dust. What has come over me? Even when I tried to steel myself against this，the strength slipped away as if under a curse. Manuela，it must be that my soul was stolen by the Devil’s Urine Puddle. For a human creature like myself to come to this Graveyard of the Forest—to dwell on lovers or yearn for life above—may itself displease whatever god rules here. This is divine law. Having broken it，I am rightly punished. Thus from today，I submit to these commandments of this unknown Graveyard. No—I was forced into obedience by some dreadful power.

This morning, the gorilla died exactly on the two-week mark. I was at the edge of the saline marsh and not in the cave when a strange, unfamiliar sound began echoing intermittently from there. When I hurried back toward the cave, the gorilla—with hands on the verge of death—was striking his own chest and beating nearby stones to produce a strange rhythm. I had heard rumors that gorillas possessed music, but that sound was a mournful one, as if crying out, “Now I go to a distant, faraway place.” I was suddenly overwhelmed with pity, and when I tried to cradle the gorilla in my lap to witness its final moments, I effortlessly lifted it, startled by its unexpected lightness.

Truly, that must have been a surge of strength beyond measure. Through prolonged fasting and salt-induced emaciation, the gorilla had become mere skin and bones. Yet even so—emaciated as I was myself, and suffering from scurvy no less—the fact that I could lift this aged giant defied all reason. Have I transformed into a forest dweller during my time here? Though wasted away, I effortlessly bore over two hundred pounds, and when I looked at my hands, I felt an intoxication akin to mud.

I held the gorilla. And then, everything in human society began to appear minuscule. Individuals, achievements, even things like love—all had come to be thought of as nothing more than dust that would scatter with a breath. Manuela, this is the law of the Devil’s Urine Puddle’s grave. Beasts lose their wildness, humans forget their humanity—what difference remains between me and a dying giant beast?

Thus, I conquered the Devil’s Urine Puddle—and thus was conquered by it. But Manuela, I can still at least say goodbye.

Zama’s notes had ended there.

By the miasma of the Devil’s Urine Puddle and compelled to obey the forest’s laws, even were he alive, he would be a man of some distant otherworld. Strangely, not a single tear fell from Manuela’s eyes. She took up another letter enclosed within—this one from the British Army Survey Corps.

Dear Miss—In sending you the enclosed correspondence, I must relate a curious tale. Beneath the post in Nuyangwe, the point of dispatch, lay a peculiar skeleton clutching the enclosed letter. It measured approximately four feet in height—a thing neither human nor ape. This region is a fearsome breeding ground for ants; corpses left at dawn are devoured—flesh and not even the marrow remains by dusk. Yet precisely because this skeleton was extraordinary, I deemed it worth mentioning for your interest.

“It’s Dodo!” Manuela shouted loudly.

Dodo had fallen into the collapsed area with Jan but survived after all. When he captured the pelican Zama had released and saw the envelope fastened to its leg, he suddenly recalled that training and went to Nuyangwe post. Having exhausted every ounce of strength during that hundred-mile journey until finally collapsing at his destination, he was likely devoured by those cruel ants.

She thought of the bones exposed to the grassland’s scorching wind and let a single tear fall smoothly—a tear she had not shed a drop of for Zama’s experience that surpassed all grotesqueries.

Then, pressing her lips to the envelope stained with Dodo’s blood, she gently traced the sign of the cross with heartfelt affection—for Dodo, nobler and purer than any human.