Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Miyazawa Kenji

I. Forest Gusukobudori was born in the great forest of Ihatov. His father was a renowned woodcutter named Gusukonadori, a man who could fell even the largest trees as effortlessly as lulling a baby to sleep. Gusukobudori had a sister named Neri, and the two of them played in the forest every day. They even ventured so far that the creak-creak sound of Father sawing wood reached them only faintly. There, the two of them would pick wild strawberry fruits to soak in spring water, or take turns facing the sky to imitate wood pigeon calls. Then here and there, hoo, hoo, the birds sleepily began to call out.

When Mother was sowing wheat in the small field in front of their house, the two of them would spread a straw mat on the path and sit there boiling orchid flowers in a tin can. Then various birds came rustling past overhead, chirping as if greeting them above their tousled heads. When Budori began attending school, the forest became terribly lonely during the day. Instead, in the late afternoons, Budori and Neri would wander through the forest writing tree names on trunks with red clay and charred wood, singing loudly.

On the white birch tree where hop vines stretched from both sides to form a gate-like arch, they also wrote things like "Cuckoo birds, do not pass through."

And Budori turned ten, and Neri turned seven. But for some reason, that year the sun shone strangely white from spring onward. The magnolia trees that would normally burst into pure white blooms soon after the snow melted didn’t flower at all. Even when May came, slushy sleet kept falling messily, and by late July, summer’s heat still hadn’t arrived. Because of this, the wheat sown the previous year produced only empty white ears, and most fruits dropped after blooming without bearing any fruit.

Autumn finally arrived, but the chestnut trees bore only green burs, and not a single grain formed on the Oryza—the most crucial grain everyone relied on for daily sustenance. In the fields, a terrible uproar broke out. Both Budori’s father and mother would often carry firewood out to the fields, and after winter came, repeatedly transport large logs to town by sled. Yet they always returned looking disappointed, bringing back only scant amounts of wheat flour and such. Still, they somehow endured that winter until spring came again, and the seeds they had carefully stored were sown in the fields—yet that year too unfolded exactly as the last had. And when autumn came, it finally became a true famine. By then, there were no children coming to school at all. Both Gusukobudori’s father and mother completely stopped working. They would often consult each other worriedly, take turns going into town, and sometimes manage to bring back a few millet grains while other times return empty-handed with ashen faces. And so everyone ate acorns, kudzu and bracken roots, soft tree bark, and various other things to survive that winter.

But when spring came around, both Father and Mother seemed to be suffering from some terrible illness.

One day, Father sat clutching his head, thinking endlessly and endlessly, then suddenly stood up,

"I'm going to play in the forest," he said while staggering out of the house, but even when full darkness fell, he did not return. Even when the two asked Mother where Father had gone, Mother just silently looked at their faces. The next evening, when the forest had already grown dark, Mother suddenly stood up, piled a great amount of firewood into the hearth, and brightened the entire house completely. Then she said, "I’m going to search for Father now. You two stay here and eat the flour in that cupboard—share it between yourselves a little at a time," before staggering out of the house once more. When the two of them, crying, chased after her, Mother turned around,

Mother scolded, “What disobedient children you are,” before disappearing hurriedly into the forest while stumbling. The two of them went back and forth countless times, crying as they wandered about the area. Finally unable to endure any longer, they entered the pitch-dark forest and roamed around places like where hop vines once formed a gate-like arch and where spring water used to flow, calling for their mother all night long. Through gaps in the forest trees, stars twinkled as if whispering something, while birds startled by the darkness flew about repeatedly—yet no human voice came from anywhere. At last, when the dazed pair returned home and went inside, they fell asleep as though dead.

Budori awoke in the afternoon of that day. Remembering the flour Mother had mentioned, Budori opened the cupboard to look inside and found that it still contained many bags of buckwheat flour and acorns. Budori shook Neri awake, and together they licked at the flour before lighting a fire in the hearth as they had when their parents were there. Then, after about twenty days passed in a daze, one day at the doorway,

"Is anyone here today?" came a voice from outside. Thinking Father had returned, Budori rushed out to look—only to find a sharp-eyed man carrying a basket on his back. The man pulled a round rice cake from his basket and tossed it with a plop as he declared: "I’ve come to relieve this region’s famine. Now eat whatever you like."

The two stared in stunned silence for some time.

“Go on, eat! Eat!” he said again. As the two began eating timidly, the man watched them intently, but—

“You’re good children.” “But being good children alone won’t amount to anything.” “Come with me.” “Though the boy is strong, I can’t take both of you.” “Hey girl, even if you stay here, there’s nothing left to eat.” “Come to town with me.” “I’ll let you eat bread every day.” Then, scooping Neri up with a swift motion, he stuffed her into the basket on his back, and—

“Hey-ho! Hey-ho!” “Hey-ho! Hey-ho!” he bellowed as he swept out of the house like a gust of wind. Neri burst into loud sobs for the first time outside, and Budori—

“Thief! Thief!” he cried through tears as he gave chase, but the man had already passed along the forest’s edge and was running far across the grassland beyond, from where only Neri’s quivering cries could faintly be heard. Budori, crying and shouting, chased after them to the forest’s edge, but finally exhausted, he collapsed suddenly.

II. Silkworm Factory

When Budori suddenly opened his eyes, a strangely flat voice abruptly sounded above his head. “You’ve finally woken up. “Do you still think this is a famine?” “Get up and help me.” When he looked, it was a man wearing a brown mushroom-shaped hat and a coat over just a shirt, swinging some wire contraption he’d fashioned. “Has the famine passed? “Help you? What exactly am I supposed to help with?” Budori asked.

“Netting.” “Are you hanging nets here?” “We are.” “What’re the nets for?” “Raising silkworms.”

When he looked, two men had propped a ladder against the chestnut tree right before Budori and were climbing up—frantically throwing something like a net and maneuvering it—yet neither net nor thread was visible at all. “Can you really raise silkworms that way?”

“We can raise them here.” “Quit your yapping, kid.” “That’s bad luck to say!” “Why’d they build a factory where you can’t even raise silkworms?” “Of course we can raise them!” “Starting with me—plenty of folks make their living off this!” Budori finally managed in a hoarse voice, “I see.” “Besides, I own this whole forest now. Help out here or get lost.” “Not that you’ll find food anywhere else.”

Budori was on the verge of tears but finally managed to hold them back and said. “Then I’ll help. But why do you need to put up the net?” “Of course I’ll show you. This thing here.” The man stretched out with both hands the wire-mesh basket-like object he held. “Alright. When you do it like this, it becomes a ladder.” The man strode toward the chestnut tree on the right and hooked it onto a lower branch.

“Now you’ll climb up with this net.” “Go on—get climbing.” The man thrust a strange mesh ball into Budori’s hands. Budori reluctantly gripped it and began ascending, the ladder’s rungs biting into his palms and soles like wire filaments about to shear apart. “Higher!” “Up! Further up!” “Now hurl that ball.” “Clear the chestnut crown.” “Skyward! Throw it skyward!” “What’s this—shaking?” “Spineless whelp.” “Throw!” “Throw it!” “Now—throw!”

Budori reluctantly threw it with all his strength into the blue sky—then suddenly the sun appeared pitch black, and he fell upside down. He had eventually been caught by the man. The man set Budori down on the ground while bristling with anger. "You’re spineless too." "What utter limpness!" "If I hadn’t caught you, your head would’ve burst by now." "I am your life’s savior!" "From now on, you mustn’t speak disrespectfully." "Now then, come on, climb that tree over there next. In a little while, I’ll let you have some food too." The man handed Budori another new ball. Budori took the ladder to the next tree and threw the ball.

“Good, you’ve gotten rather skilled.” “Now, there are plenty of balls.” “Don’t slack off.” “As for the trees, any chestnut tree will do.”

The man took about ten balls from his pocket, handed them to Budori, then strode off. Budori threw about three more of them, but his breath came in ragged gasps and his body grew unbearably heavy. When he decided to return home and went to look, he found to his shock that the house now bore a red clay chimney pipe, with a sign above the entrance reading "Ihatov Silkworm Factory." Then the man emerged from inside, puffing on his tobacco.

“Come on, kid, I’ve brought you some food.” “Eat this and work more before dark.” “I don’t want to do this anymore—I’m going back home.” “You mean that place over there?” “That place isn’t your home.” “It’s my silkworm factory.” “That house and all the forest around here—I’ve bought them all, you know.” Budori, now utterly resigned, silently devoured the steamed bun the man had given him and threw about ten more balls.

That night, Budori curled up and slept in the corner of the building that had once been his home, now transformed into a silkworm factory.

The man from earlier lit a fire by the hearth and stayed up late with three or four strangers, drinking and talking.

From early the next morning, Budori went out to the forest and worked as he had done the day before.

After about a month had passed and nets were draped over all the chestnut trees in the forest, the silkworm breeder this time had five or six wooden boards covered in millet-like grains hung on each tree. Before long, the trees sprouted buds, and the forest turned a deep blue-green. Then from the wooden boards hung on the trees, many small bluish-white insects climbed up the branches in single file along silken threads. Budori and the others were now forced to gather firewood every day. When the firewood had piled up like small hills around the house, and the chestnut trees bore pale bluish cord-shaped flowers across every branch, the insects that had climbed from those boards took on colors and forms precisely matching the chestnut blossoms. And throughout the forest, the chestnut leaves were utterly devoured by those insects until not a trace of their original shape remained.

Not long after that, the insects began spinning large yellow cocoons across every mesh of the net.

Then the silkworm breeder became like a madman, berated Budori and the others, and made them collect those cocoons into baskets. This time, they threw them one after another into pots to boil vigorously, then reeled thread while turning wheels by hand. Night and day, they spun three reeling wheels with a clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter, drawing out thread. By the time the yellow thread they had produced this way filled half the hut, large white moths began fluttering out one after another from the cocoons left outside. The silkworm breeder’s face turned demonic as he desperately reeled thread himself, even bringing four people from the fields to make them work. Yet more moths kept emerging daily, until finally the whole forest looked as if snow were swirling through it.

Then one day, six or seven horse-drawn carts arrived, loaded all the thread produced so far, and began heading back to town. Everyone followed the carts one by one. When the last cart departed, the silkworm breeder said to Budori, “Hey, I’ve left enough food in the house to last you till next spring. Until then, keep watch over the forest and factory here.”

With a strange grin, the silkworm breeder briskly followed the horse-drawn carts and left.

Budori remained dazedly behind. The house’s interior was utterly filthy, as if after a tempest, and the forest lay devastated as if scorched by wildfire. When Budori began tidying inside and around the house the next day, he found an old cardboard box from where the silkworm breeder had always sat. Inside were about ten books packed tightly. When he opened them, there were books filled with pictures of silkworms and machine diagrams—some completely unreadable—and others with illustrations of various trees and plants accompanied by their names.

Budori spent that winter diligently imitating the books, writing characters and copying diagrams.

When spring came, that man arrived once more, bringing six or seven new underlings and dressed quite splendidly. And from the very next day, work just like the previous year began in full swing. And the nets were all set, the yellow boards were hung, the insects climbed up the branches, and Budori and the others began working on firewood again. One morning, as Budori and the others were making firewood, a growling earthquake suddenly began. Then, far off in the distance, there came a thunderous boom.

After some time passed, the daylight grew strangely dim, and fine ash came rustling down in a dry cascade, turning the entire forest pure white. While Budori and the others were squatting under a tree in stunned silence, the silkworm breeder came rushing over in a panic. “Hey everyone—it’s over now! “Volcanic eruption! “It’s started erupting! “The silkworms have all been smothered in ash! “Everyone withdraw immediately! “You there, Budori—stay if you want, but I won’t leave food this time! “Dangerous to linger anyway! “Better get yourself to the fields and earn your keep!”

No sooner had he said this than he went running off at full speed.

When Budori went to check the factory, there was no one there anymore. At that point, Budori dejectedly stepped on the white ash marked with everyone's footprints and headed out toward the fields.

III Marsh Fields

Budori continued walking through the ash-smothered forest toward town for half a day. Ash cascaded from the trees with each gust of wind like swirling smoke or blizzard snow. Yet as he neared the fields, its depth gradually lessened until trees regained their green hue and footprints faded from the path entirely. When he finally emerged from the forest’s edge, Budori’s eyes widened involuntarily. The fields stretched before him like an expanse of peach-hued, emerald and slate-gray patches reaching from his feet to distant immaculate clouds. Drawing closer revealed peach sections blanketed in low-blooming flowers where bees darted urgently between blossoms; green zones thick with sprouting grasses; gray areas transformed into shallow silt marshes. Each segment stood divided by slender earthen berms where laborers churned soil with horse-drawn implements.

As Budori walked for a while through that area, he came upon two people in the middle of the road arguing loudly about something as if they were quarreling. The man with the reddish beard on the right side said.

“Come what may, I’ve decided to go all in as a speculator.”

Then a tall old man wearing a white hat said: "If I tell you to stop, you stop." "Pour that much fertilizer and you'll get straw alright, but mark my words - not a single grain will you harvest."

“Nah, by my reckoning, this year’s heat’ll match three years’ worth combined.” “I’ll reap three years’ yield in one.” “Stop.” “Stop.” “I said stop!” “Nope, won’t quit.” “Since I’ve buried all the flowers, next comes sixty bean cakes, then a hundred loads of chicken dung.” “Rush? What’s the point? When it gets this hectic, I’d take help from cowpea vines themselves.”

Budori involuntarily approached and bowed.

“Then would you use me?”

The two men looked up in surprise, cupping their chins as they stared at Budori for a long moment—then Redbeard suddenly burst out laughing.

“Alright, alright. “I’ll have you handle the horse’s guiding poles.” “Follow me right now.” “Alright then—sink or swim—stick with me until autumn.” “Let’s go.” “Honestly—when you need help this badly—you’d take even cowpea vines.” Redbeard walked briskly ahead while alternating between speaking to Budori and the old man. Afterward, the old man, “You’ll regret not listening to an old man’s advice and end up crying soon enough,” he muttered, continuing to watch them depart for some time.

After that, Budori entered the marsh fields day after day and used a horse to churn the mud. Each day, both the peach-colored plots and the green plots were gradually crushed and transformed into muddy swamps. The horse frequently splattered muddy water, dashing it against their faces. When one marsh plot was finished, they would immediately enter the next. The days felt interminably long, until eventually he couldn’t tell whether he was still walking, sometimes imagining the mud had taken on the consistency of taffy and the water seemed like thin soup. The wind blew time and again, raising fish-scale-like ripples in the nearby muddy water and turning the distant stretches to the color of tin. In the sky, clouds that seemed sweetly tart drifted slowly, ever so slowly each day, and it looked truly enviable.

In this way, after about twenty days passed, the marsh fields finally became thoroughly muddy. From the next morning onward, the master became utterly worked up and planted green spear-like rice seedlings all over those marsh fields together with people who had gathered from all around. When that took about ten days to finish, this time he took Budori and the others and went out every day to work at the homes of the people who had helped them until now. When that had finally made one full round, this time they returned to their own marsh fields and began weeding every single day. Though the seedlings in Budori’s master’s plot had grown so large they appeared almost black, the neighboring marsh field remained a hazy pale green—so even from afar, the boundary between their two fields was clearly visible. When the weeding was finished in about seven days, they went to help elsewhere again.

Then one morning, as the master took Budori along and was passing through his marsh field, he suddenly let out an “Ah!” and froze stock-still. His lips even turned a watery blue as he stared vacantly straight ahead. “The disease has struck,” the master finally said. “Do you have a headache or something?” Budori asked. “It’s not me.” “Oryza!” “There.” The master pointed at the clumps of Oryza before them. When Budori squatted down to examine them, sure enough, on every leaf there were red spots unlike any he had seen before. The master silently made a dejected round of the marsh fields, then began to head home. When Budori followed along worriedly, the master silently wrung out a cloth in water, placed it on his head, and lay down right there on the wooden floor. Then, before long, the master’s wife came running in from outside.

“Is it true Oryza has been struck by disease?” “Ah… It’s beyond saving now.” “Can’t anything be done?”

“It’s hopeless.” “Just like five years ago all over again.” “That’s why I told you to quit your reckless ventures, didn’t I?” “Didn’t the old man try his hardest to stop you too?” The master’s wife began weeping helplessly. Then the master abruptly revived, heaving himself upright.

“Alright! In Ihatov’s plains—would I, one of its foremost farmers you could count on your fingers—let myself be beaten by this? Right! Next year I’ll do it proper! Budori—not once since coming to my place have you slept till you’re good and ready. Go on—sleep five days, ten even—snore till your head rattles! Then I’ll show you a proper trick out there in the marsh fields. But mind—this winter, the whole household eats nothing but buckwheat! You do like buckwheat, eh?” Then the master snatched up his hat and strode outside.

Budori thought to enter the shed as his master had told him and try to sleep, but somehow found himself so troubled by the marsh fields that he ended up trudging back there for another look. When he arrived, there stood the master alone on the embankment with arms crossed. The marsh fields brimmed with water—Oryza clumps barely sprouted leaves while petroleum glistened across the surface. The master said:

“Right now I’m trying to smother this disease out.” “Does petroleum kill the disease spores?” Budori asked. The master, “Douse someone’s head in petroleum and even a person would die,” he said, inhaling sharply and drawing his neck in. At that moment, the owner of the downstream marsh field came running up breathlessly, shoulders rigid with tension, and bellowed: “What madness makes you dump oil in the water?” “It’s all flowing down into my field!”

The master answered with desperate composure. “You ask why I’d put oil in the water? It’s because Oryza caught the disease—that’s why I put oil in the water.” “You ask why you’d send it my way then?” “You ask why I’d send it your way? It’s because water flows, so the oil follows along.” “Then why on earth don’t you block the water inlet to keep it from coming my way?”

“You ask why I didn’t block the water inlet to keep it from going your way? Because that’s not my water inlet over there, so I don’t block the water.”

The neighboring man became so furious he could no longer speak, suddenly splashed into the water, and began piling mud at his own water inlet. The master smirked.

“That man’s a difficult one. If I stopped the water here, he’d get angry that I stopped it, so I deliberately made him block it over there. Once that spot’s blocked, the water’ll rise clear to the grass tops by tonight. Let’s head back.” The master took the lead and began walking briskly back to the house.

The next morning, Budori went with the master to the marsh fields again to see. The master took a leaf from the water and examined it intently, but his expression remained unfloating. The next day was the same. The next day was the same. The next day was the same. The next morning, the master finally spoke as if he had made up his mind.

“All right, Budori, the time has come to sow buckwheat here! You go over there and wreck the neighbor’s water inlet.”

Budori did as he was told and destroyed it. The water mixed with petroleum flowed into the neighboring rice field with terrifying force. As he thought the man would surely come back angry, around noon the same neighboring owner came wielding a large sickle. "Hey! Why on earth are you draining petroleum into someone else's field?"

The master once again answered in a voice that came from the depths of his belly. "What's so bad about petroleum flowing through?" "Won't all the rice plants die?" "Whether all the rice plants die or don't die—first take a look at the ones in my marsh fields." "As of today, it's been four days since I started dousing them with petroleum from the top." "And yet aren't they properly holding up just like this?" "The reddening comes from disease—the vigorous growth comes from petroleum." "At your place, the petroleum's just passing through the rice plants' roots, isn't it?" "It might actually do some good."

“Does petroleum become fertilizer?” The man opposite softened his expression slightly. “Whether petroleum becomes fertilizer or not, I don’t know. But isn’t petroleum oil after all?” “Well, petroleum is oil, isn’t it?” The man completely regained his good humor and laughed. The water steadily receded, and the rice plant clumps rapidly exposed their roots down to the base. They were now covered in completely red patches and looked as if they’d been scorched.

“Alright, we’re starting the rice plant harvest at my place now.” The master said with a laugh, then began cutting down every rice plant one after another with Budori, immediately sowing buckwheat in their place and covering them with soil as they walked along. And that year, just as the master had said, Budori’s household ate nothing but buckwheat. When the next spring came, the master said.

“Budori, this year’s marsh fields are one-third smaller than last year’s, so the work’s much easier. In return, you’re going to study my dead son’s books with all your might from now on and devise a way to grow such splendid rice plants that those who’ve laughed at me as a reckless schemer will be left speechless.”

And then he handed Budori a whole pile of books. Budori read them one after another in every spare moment between work. Among these, the book teaching Kubo's way of thinking was particularly engaging, so he read it many times. Also, when he learned this person was running a school in Ihatov City for one month, he seriously considered going there to study.

And that very summer, Budori achieved something remarkable. Around the same time as the previous year, when disease again threatened to take hold in the rice plants, Budori checked its spread using wood ash and salt. By mid-August, every rice clump had uniformly produced ears of grain—each branch bearing small white flowers that gradually turned into pale blue husks, until they swayed in the wind like rippling waves. The master now stood at the height of his glory. To every visitor,

“Well, I may have failed four years as a rice plant schemer, but this year I’ll reap four years’ worth in one go. This here’s another fine thing,” he would boast.

However, the following year did not go as planned. Because not a drop of rain had fallen since planting time, the waterways dried up, cracks formed in the marshes, and the autumn harvest yielded barely enough to last through winter. He had hoped that next year would be the one, but the following year brought another similar drought. And so it went on—while clinging to hopes of “next year will be the one, next year will be the one,” Budori’s master gradually became unable to apply fertilizer, sold off his horses, and little by little disposed of his marsh fields.

One autumn day, the master said to Budori with a pained expression. “Budori, I too was once a major farmer in Ihatov and have worked hard all this time, but with these repeated cold spells and droughts, my marsh fields are now just one-third of what they once were. Next year I won’t even have fertilizer left to apply.” “It’s not just me.” “Next year there’ll hardly be anyone left in Ihatov who can afford to buy and spread fertilizer.” “In this state, there’s no telling when I’ll ever repay you for your work.” “It’d be too pitiful to let your prime working years rot away here with me. Take this—go find better luck wherever you can.” Then the master gave Budori a bag of money along with new indigo-dyed linen clothes and red leather shoes.

Budori found himself forgetting all the harshness of his previous work, thinking he wanted nothing more than to keep laboring there—but upon reflection, even if he stayed, there truly wouldn’t be much work left. After thanking the master again and again, he parted from both the marsh fields where he’d worked for six years and the master himself, then began walking toward the station.

IV. Dr. Kubo Budori walked for about two hours and came to the station. Then he bought a ticket and boarded the train bound for Ihatov. The train sent marsh field after marsh field rushing backward as it charged ahead at full speed. Beyond them lay countless black forests that kept transforming their shapes one after another, yet still remained receding behind. Budori's chest swelled with tumultuous thoughts. He wanted to reach Ihatov City quickly, meet that kind man named Kubo who had written the book, and if possible work while studying to devise methods for creating marsh fields without such suffering and eliminating volcanic ash, droughts, and cold spells—so intensely that even the train's speed felt unbearably sluggish.

The train arrived at Ihatov City that afternoon. When he stepped out of the station, Budori stood frozen before the low resonant hum rising from beneath the ground, the oppressively gloomy air, and the many automobiles coming and going. Finally regaining his composure, he asked people nearby for directions to Dr. Kubo’s school. But no matter who he asked, everyone looked at Budori’s overly serious face and struggled to suppress their laughter,

“Don’t know any school like that,” came the responses, “Go five or six blocks further and ask there,” people kept saying. By the time Budori finally found the school, evening was drawing near. On the second floor of the large, crumbling white building, someone’s loud voice carried through the air.

“Good afternoon.” Budori shouted loudly. No one appeared. “Good afternoon!” Budori shouted at the top of his lungs. Immediately from the second-floor window above his head emerged a large ashen face, its two spectacle lenses flashing sharply. Then— “We’re in class, you racket-making pest! If you’ve business, get inside!” he roared before yanking back his face, whereupon those within burst into uproarious laughter while the man unconcernedly resumed bellowing his lecture.

Summoning his resolve, Budori began ascending to the second floor as quietly as possible. When he reached the top of the stairs, an open door at the landing revealed an enormous classroom directly before him. Inside were students in various outfits packed tightly together. The far wall was large and black with many white lines drawn across it, where the tall bespectacled man from earlier pointed at different sections of a scaffold-shaped model while explaining things to everyone in that same high-pitched voice.

When Budori caught sight of it, he thought: Ah, this must be the model of what was described in Dr.Kubo’s book as “the history of history.” Dr.Kubo laughed while turning a handle. The model clanked and assumed the form of an odd ship-like shape. With another clank of the handle being turned, it transformed this time into something resembling a massive centipede. Everyone kept tilting their heads in evident confusion, but Budori found it utterly captivating.

“Thus, you get this kind of diagram.” Dr. Kubo rapidly drew another intricate diagram on the black wall. Holding chalk in his left hand as well, he briskly wrote. The students all earnestly imitated that as well. Budori too pulled out the grubby notebook he’d carried since his marsh field days from his pocket and copied down the diagram. Dr. Kubo had already finished writing and was standing straight on the platform, scrutinizing where the students were seated. When Budori had finished writing and was examining the diagram from all angles, a student sitting next to him—

“Aaaah,” he yawned. Budori listened intently. “Hey, what do people call this teacher?” The student answered with a derisive snort through his nose.

“Dr. Kubo—you didn’t know?” Then, while scrutinizing Budori’s appearance, “How could anyone draw this diagram from the start? “Even I’ve been attending these same lectures for six years already.” With that, he promptly put his notebook away into his pocket. At that moment, the classroom lights suddenly flickered on. It was already evening. Dr. Kubo announced from the front: “Now evening has long since arrived, and my humble lecture has concluded all its sections.” “Those among you who wish to continue shall, as per customary procedure, present your notebooks to me and undergo several examinations to determine your placement.” The students shouted “Whoa!” and all snapped their notebooks shut. Though most left immediately, fifty or sixty formed a line and passed before Dr. Kubo while holding open their notebooks for inspection. Dr. Kubo would briefly examine them, ask one or two questions, then use white chalk to write evaluations like “Pass,” “Retake,” or “Strive” on their collars. Throughout this process, the students hunched their necks anxiously before quietly shrugging their shoulders and proceeding to the corridor—where friends would read these markings, some rejoicing while others grew despondent.

The examinations raced along until finally only Budori was left. When Budori produced that small grubby notebook, Dr. Kubo—letting out a huge yawn—bent down and pressed his eyes right up against it so intently that the notebook looked in real danger of being swallowed up by the great doctor himself.

However, the great doctor drew a sharp breath with apparent satisfaction and said, "Good. "This diagram is extremely accurate." "What about the rest?" “Ah, so this concerns marsh field fertilizer and horse feed, eh?” “Proceed to answer the question.” “What kinds of colors are present in the smoke emitted from factory chimneys?” Budori involuntarily answered in a loud voice.

“Black, brown, yellow, gray, white, colorless. “And mixtures of these.” Dr. Kubo laughed.

“Colorless smoke is excellent. Describe their shapes.” “When there’s no wind and enough smoke accumulates, it forms a vertical rod that gradually fans out at the tip. On days when clouds hang particularly low, the rod rises to meet them and spreads horizontally from that point. When wind blows, the rod tilts at an angle corresponding to the wind’s force. Waves or fragmented patterns arise partly from wind currents but also from inherent characteristics of either the smoke or chimney structure. With insufficient smoke volume, it may twist like a corkscrew, while smoke containing dense gases can form clusters that drop from the chimney mouth in one or all four directions.”

Dr. Kubo laughed again.

“Good. “What kind of work do you do?”

“I have come to find work.” “There’s an interesting job. I’ll give you my card—go there at once.” Dr. Kubo took out a business card, swiftly wrote something on it, and handed it to Budori. Budori bowed and was about to exit the doorway when the great doctor acknowledged him with a slight glance, “Hmm, burning trash, are they?” he muttered under his breath while throwing chalk fragments, a handkerchief, books—everything together—into the briefcase that had been on the table. Tucking it under his arm, he swiftly flew out through the window where he’d earlier shown his face. Startled, Budori rushed to the window and looked out—there was Dr. Kubo already flying straight across the town veiled in pale blue haze, steering the controls himself aboard a miniature airship that resembled a child’s toy. As Budori watched in growing astonishment, Dr. Kubo soon landed on the flat roof of a large gray building ahead, secured the airship to something resembling a hook, then promptly popped inside and vanished from view.

5. Ihatov Volcano Bureau

After inquiring about the address on the business card he had received from Dr. Kubo, Budori finally arrived at a large brown building, behind which a tall pillar shaped like a cluster stood out starkly white against the night sky. When Budori stepped up to the entrance and pressed the doorbell, someone immediately emerged, accepted the business card Budori presented, took one look at it, and promptly guided him to a large room at the far end. There was an enormous table—unlike any he had ever seen—at whose center sat a dignified, kindly-looking man with graying hair, sitting upright with a telephone receiver pressed to his ear as he wrote. Noticing Budori enter, he pointed to a side chair while continuing to jot down notes.

The right-hand wall of the room was entirely covered by a large, beautifully colored model map of Ihatov, where railways, towns, rivers, and fields all became instantly discernible. The central spine-like mountain range running through its heart, the coastal range trimming its edges like piping, and the branching chain of peaks forming scattered islands in the sea—all bore red, orange, and yellow lights that cycled through color changes, droned like cicadas, and displayed flickering numbers that appeared and vanished. On the shelf along the lower wall, black typewriter-like devices were arranged in three rows—numbering fewer than a hundred—all quietly shifting and humming. As Budori stood transfixed in rapt observation, the man set down the receiver with a click, produced a card case from his breast pocket, and extended a business card toward Budori while asking, "Are you Gusukobudori?" "I am Engineer Pennenname of the Ihatov Volcano Bureau," he said. Looking at it, [Ihatov Volcano Bureau Engineer Pennenname] was inscribed there. When the man saw Budori fidgeting awkwardly in his unpolished attempt at a greeting, he added kindly.

“Dr. Kubo called earlier, so I’ve been expecting you.” “Now then, you’ll work here while applying yourself to serious study.” “This work only began last year, yet it carries grave responsibility—half of it involves laboring atop volcanoes that may erupt at any moment.” “Moreover, volcanoes’ peculiar behaviors aren’t easily comprehended through academic learning alone.” “We must commit ourselves to far greater diligence from this point onward.” “For tonight, your lodgings await over there—rest well there.” “Tomorrow I shall give you a complete tour of this entire building.”

The next morning, Budori was led by Engineer Pennenname through every part of the building, where he was taught in detail about various machines and mechanisms. Every instrument in that building was connected to several hundred active and dormant volcanoes across Ihatov. Not only did they capture eruptions of smoke and ash or flows of lava from those volcanoes, but even ancient ones that appeared dormant had their internal patterns of magma and gas—down to shifts in their very shapes—converted into numbers and diagrams that appeared before them. And whenever a sudden change occurred, the models would each emit a distinct sound.

From that day onward, Budori learned how to handle all the instruments and conduct observations under Engineer Pennenname’s guidance, working and studying with single-minded focus day and night. After about two years had passed, Budori began accompanying others to install instruments at various volcanoes or being dispatched to repair malfunctioning equipment that had been installed. Consequently, he came to understand Ihatov’s several hundred volcanoes and their workings as if they lay in the palm of his hand.

Indeed, in Ihatov there were seventy-odd volcanoes that daily emitted smoke and flowed lava, while fifty-odd dormant volcanoes vented various gases and discharged hot water. And among the remaining hundred sixty or seventy dead volcanoes, there were some whose next eruption remained unpredictable. One day, as Gusukobudori was working alongside the old engineer, the coastal volcano in the south called Sanmutori suddenly began swelling through the instruments. The old engineer shouted.

“Budori. ‘Sanmutori showed no activity until this morning, right?’” “‘Yes, I have never seen Sanmutori show any activity until now.’” “‘Ah, this eruption is imminent.’ ‘It was triggered by this morning’s earthquake.’” Ten kilometers north of that mountain lay Sanmutori City. If it erupted this time, the mountain would likely blow off one-third of its northern side, and rocks the size of cows or tables would come raining down on Sanmutori City along with hot ash and gas. “‘At any rate, now is the time to drill into the seaward side to create an opening—we must either vent the gas or release the lava.’ ‘Let’s go inspect it ourselves right away.’” The two promptly made preparations and boarded the train bound for Sanmutori.

6. Sanmutori Volcano

The two arrived in Sanmutori City the next morning and climbed to the hut housing observation instruments near Sanmutori Volcano's summit around noon. This was where the ancient caldera rim had collapsed seaward. Through the hut's window, the ocean appeared as layered bands of blue and gray where steamships trailed silver wakes through the water, belching black smoke as they glided onward. The old engineer quietly checked all observation instruments, then addressed Budori.

“How many days do you think it will be before this mountain erupts?” “I don’t think it will hold out for a month.”

“It won’t last a month. It won’t even last ten more days. If we don’t complete the operations quickly, it will lead to irreversible consequences. I think that spot is the weakest on this mountain’s seaward side.” The old engineer pointed to the pale green grassland above the valley on the mountainside. There, the shadow of a cloud slid quietly blue. “There are only two strata of lava there. The rest are layers of soft volcanic ash and volcanic gravel. Moreover, since there’s a well-maintained road all the way to that area from the pasture, transporting materials will be no trouble at all. I will request an engineering team.”

The old engineer busily began transmitting to the Bureau. At that moment, a faint murmuring sound arose beneath their feet, and the observation hut groaned and creaked for some time. The old engineer stepped away from the instruments. “They say the Bureau will dispatch an engineering team immediately.” “Though we call it an engineering team, it’s half a suicide squad.” “I’ve never undertaken work this perilous before.”

“Can it be done within ten days?” “It can surely be done. For the apparatus—three days. To bring the power lines from Sanmutori City’s power plant—that’ll take five days.” The engineer counted on his fingers for a while in thought, then spoke again quietly, as if reassured. “Anyway, Budori, let’s make some tea and have a cup. The view is just too splendid.” Budori lit the alcohol lamp he had brought and began boiling the tea. The sky gradually filled with clouds, and whether the sun had set or not, the sea turned desolate gray as countless white wave crests came surging toward the volcano’s base.

Suddenly, Budori noticed right before his eyes a small, peculiar-shaped airship he had seen once before flying there. The old engineer also leapt up.

“Ah, Dr. Kubo has arrived.” Budori rushed out of the hut right after him. The airship had already landed on the large rocky wall to the left of the hut, from which the tall figure of Dr. Kubo nimbly alighted. Dr. Kubo spent some time searching for a large fissure in the nearby rocks until he apparently found one, then swiftly tightened a screw to secure the airship.

“I’ve come for that tea invitation.” “Shaking much?” Dr.Kubo said with a smirk and a laugh. The old engineer answered.

“Not that bad yet. But it seems rocks are steadily crumbling from above.” Just then, the mountain abruptly roared to life, and Budori felt his vision turn blue. The mountain kept shaking violently. When he looked, both Dr.Kubo and the old engineer were crouched gripping the rocks, while the airship swayed ponderously like a ship on heavy swells. The quake finally subsided, and Dr.Kubo stood up to stride briskly into the hut. Inside, spilled tea pooled around the alcohol lamp burning with a steady blue flame. Dr.Kubo methodically inspected every instrument before conferring at length with the old engineer. At last he declared:

“No matter what, we must complete all tidal power plants next year,” Dr. Kubo said. “Once done, we could handle situations like this within the day—even make fertilizer rain down on those marsh fields Budori mentioned.” “Droughts would cease to frighten us entirely,” added Engineer Pennenname. Budori’s heart raced excitedly. The very mountain seemed to leap in dance. In truth, the peak began shaking so violently that Budori was hurled across the floor. “We’ll do it,” Dr. Kubo declared.

“We’ll do it, we’ll do it. That tremor must have been felt quite strongly in Sanmutori City too.” The old engineer said: “This latest quake seems to have been caused by a rock mass sixty to seventy times this hut’s size plunging into magma about one kilometer north of our position, seven hundred meters below the surface. But before the gas can finally blast off this last layer of rock—it needs to trap hundreds more such masses within its own body.”

Dr. Kubo thought for some time, “Right, I’ll take my leave here,” he said, exiting the hut, and before long nimbly boarded the airship. Engineer Pennenname and Budori saw Dr.Kubo off as he went around the mountain to the other side while waving a light two or three times in farewell, then reentered the hut and took turns sleeping and keeping watch. And when the engineering team reached the foot of the mountain at dawn, the old engineer left Budori alone in the hut and descended to that grassland he had pointed out the day before. The voices of everyone and the clanging of iron materials could be heard as clearly as if they could be grasped in one’s hand when the wind blew up from below. From Engineer Pennenname came incessant updates on the progress of the work across the way, along with inquiries about gas pressure and changes in the mountain’s shape.

For the next three days, amidst intense earthquakes and subterranean rumblings, neither Budori nor those at the foot of the mountain had even a moment to sleep. On the morning of the fourth day, a transmission from the old engineer came through.

“Budori.” “All preparations are complete.” “Descend immediately.” “Inspect the observation instruments once then leave them intact. Retrieve all surface components.” “That hut will cease to exist by this afternoon.”

Budori did exactly as he had been instructed and descended the mountain. There, the large iron materials that had been in the bureau's warehouse until now were completely assembled into scaffold structures, and various instruments had reached a state where they would immediately begin operating as soon as power was supplied. Engineer Pennenname’s cheeks were hollowed, and the members of the engineering team had turned pale, their eyes gleaming intensely, yet everyone smiled and greeted Budori. The old engineer said.

“Now let’s withdraw.” “Everyone, prepare and board the vehicles.”

Everyone hurriedly boarded twenty vehicles. The vehicles formed a line and raced down the mountain's foothills toward Sanmutori City. Exactly halfway between the mountain and the city, the old engineer had the vehicles stop. “Set up the tents here.” “Then we’ll all sleep.” They collapsed into sleep without uttering a single word.

That afternoon, Engineer Pennenname put down the telephone receiver and shouted: “All right—the wires have arrived! Budori! Let’s begin!” He threw the switch. Budori and his colleagues emerged from the tent to watch Sanmutori’s midslope. White lilies blanketed the field before them; beyond bloomed Sanmutori’s silent blue form. Suddenly—the mountain’s left flank convulsed. Jet-black smoke erupted skyward in a vertical column that mushroomed grotesquely at its apex. Golden lava cascaded from its base with crystalline brilliance, fanning seaward across the slope in moments. Before they could react—the earth heaved violently—lilies trembling en masse—a concussive boom slammed them to their knees—then wind roared past like fleeing spirits.

“We did it! We did it!” everyone shouted, stretching their hands toward the spectacle. At that moment, Sanmutori’s smoke surged across the sky as though crumbling, but instantly the heavens turned utterly dark, and hot stones came clattering down in an unrelenting cascade. Everyone had retreated into the tent wearing anxious expressions, while Engineer Pennenname kept checking his watch. “Budori, it succeeded,” he said. “There’s absolutely no danger now. The city will only get a light dusting of ash.” The stones gradually transformed into ash. Soon even that thinned, and everyone burst back out of the tent. The field had turned completely mouse-gray, ash piled about an inch deep, lily blossoms lay snapped and buried beneath it, while the sky glowed an unnatural green. At Sanmutori’s base, a small protrusion had formed, from which ashen smoke still billowed upward relentlessly.

That evening, everyone stepped on ash and small stones, climbed the mountain once more, installed the new observation instruments, and returned.

Seven: Sea of Clouds

Over the next four years, following Dr. Kubo’s grand plan, two hundred tidal power plants were installed along Ihatov’s coast. Around Ihatov’s volcanoes, white-painted iron towers were erected one after another alongside observation huts. Gusukobudori became an engineer-in-training and spent most of each year traveling from volcano to volcano or working on volcanoes that had grown dangerous. The following spring, the Volcano Bureau of Ihatov posted notices like these in villages and towns.

"We will administer nitrogen fertilizer through rainfall." "This summer, we will dispense ammonium nitrate along with rain to your marsh fields and vegetable fields. Those applying fertilizer should account for this quantity in their calculations." "The dosage is 120 kilograms per 100-meter square." "We can also generate some rainfall." "In drought conditions, we can at least produce sufficient rainfall to prevent crop withering. Therefore, even marsh fields previously left unplanted due to water shortages may be cultivated this year without concern."

In June of that year, Budori was stationed at a hut atop Ihatov Volcano in Ihatov's very heart. Below stretched a sea of ash-gray clouds. From every direction across Ihatov, volcanic summits jutted jet-black like islands. Just above those clouds, an airship flew about, spewing pure white smoke from its stern as if bridging peak to peak. The smoke grew steadily thicker and clearer with time, settling quietly over the cloud sea below until soon a vast pale-glowing net stretched across the entire expanse from mountain to mountain. Eventually the airship ceased its smoke emission and circled awhile as though bidding farewell, then dipped its bow and sank silently into the clouds.

The telephone receiver buzzed. It was Engineer Pennenname's voice.

“The airship has just returned. The preparations below are completely ready. The rain is pouring down. I believe it’s ready now. Begin it, pray.”

Budori pressed the button. Before his eyes, the earlier smoke net now shone in beautiful peach, azure, and violet hues—flaring up dazzlingly only to vanish again—as it pulsed and flickered across the sky. Budori stood utterly entranced, gazing at it. Gradually the day darkened, and when the light vanished from the sea of clouds, it became impossible to distinguish whether their color was gray or mouse-gray.

The telephone receiver rang.

“The ammonium nitrate is already mixing into the rain.” “The quantity looks just right.” “The distribution seems to be going well.” “Once we run it for four more hours, this region should be covered for the month.” “Continue with it, pray.”

Budori was so happy he could have jumped for joy.

Beneath these clouds, even Redbeard—his former master—and the neighbor who had questioned whether petroleum could become fertilizer were all listening joyfully to the sound of the rain. And tomorrow morning, they would likely stroke the rice plant stalks that had turned so green they were unrecognizable. While thinking it all seemed like a dream, he watched the clouds turn pitch-dark one moment and shine beautifully the next. However, the short summer night already seemed to be dawning. In the intervals between lightning flashes, the eastern edge of the cloud sea appeared faintly tinged with yellow.

However, it was the moon rising. A large yellow moon was quietly ascending. And when the clouds shone blue they appeared strangely whitish; when glowing peach they seemed somehow to be laughing. Budori had forgotten who he was and what he was doing, and simply stared vacantly at it. The telephone receiver buzzed with a sustained drone.

“The thunder has started up quite a bit over here.” “The net seems to have torn in several places.” “If we let it rumble too much，tomorrow’s newspapers will complain—let’s stop after about ten more minutes.”

Budori put down the receiver and strained his ears. The sea of clouds grumbled and rumbled here and there. When he listened carefully, it was indeed the intermittent sounds of thunder. Budori turned off the switch.

The sea of clouds, now suddenly illuminated only by moonlight, continued to flow quietly northward.

Budori wrapped the blanket around his body and fell fast asleep.

8. Autumn

That year's crop harvest was splendid—the likes of which hadn't been seen in ten years, though climate conditions played their part—and letters of gratitude and encouragement consequently arrived at the Volcano Bureau from all directions. Budori felt for the first time that there was true purpose in his life.

Then one day, on his way back from visiting a volcano called Tachina, Budori happened to pass through a small village amidst marsh fields that lay empty after the harvest had been completed. Since it was around noon, he thought to buy some bread and stopped by a shop that sold sundries and sweets.

"Do you have any bread?" he asked. There, three barefoot people were drinking alcohol with bloodshot eyes when one of them stood up and—

“There’s bread alright, but not the kind you can eat—it’s slate bread!” When he made this absurd declaration, the others peered at Budori’s face with apparent amusement before erupting in raucous laughter.

Budori had had enough and abruptly stepped outside, when a tall man with a close-cropped haircut came from the opposite direction and suddenly— “Hey, you’re Budori—the one who rained down electric fertilizer this summer—ain’t ya?” said the man. “That’s right.” Budori answered nonchalantly.

The man shouted loudly.

“Budori from the Volcano Bureau has come!” “Everyone, gather here!”

Then, from inside the house and the surrounding fields, eighteen farmers came running up, guffawing.

“You bastard! Because of your electricity, all our rice plants have fallen over.” “What were you thinking pulling such a stunt?” One of them said. Budori said quietly, “As for them falling over—didn’t you lot see the posters we put up in spring?” “You bastard.” Suddenly, one of them knocked Budori’s hat off. Then they all swarmed in, hitting and kicking Budori. Budori finally became unable to comprehend what was happening and collapsed.

When he came to, Budori was lying in a white bed in what seemed to be a hospital room. By his pillow were get-well telegrams and numerous letters. Budori's entire body ached and burned, leaving him unable to move. Yet after about a week had passed, Budori had already regained his former vigor. Then, reading in the newspaper how that incident had occurred because an agricultural technician—having mistakenly instructed them on fertilizer application—covered it up by shifting blame onto the Volcano Bureau for the fallen rice plants, he laughed aloud by himself.

The next afternoon, the hospital attendant entered and,

“A lady by the name of Neri has come to see you,” said the attendant. When Budori wondered if this might be a dream, a sunburned woman resembling a farmer’s wife soon entered hesitantly. Though transformed beyond recognition, this was indeed Neri—the same Neri who had been taken from that forest long ago. For some time neither could speak, but when Budori finally inquired about her experiences afterward, Neri too began haltingly recounting everything in Ihatov’s rural dialect. The man who had abducted her—perhaps finding it too troublesome—had left Neri near a small pasture after three days and vanished.

As Neri wandered about weeping in that area, the ranch owner took pity on her and brought her into his home, having her look after the baby among other tasks. Gradually, Neri became capable of handling any work, until finally, three or four years prior, she had married the eldest son of that small ranch. And since fertilizer had also been provided this year, they were able to put all the manure that would normally have required great effort to transport to distant fields into the nearby turnip fields instead, and with the corn in the distant fields yielding well too, she mentioned how the whole household was rejoicing. She also said that although they had gone many times into that forest with the owner’s son to look—since the house was completely ruined and they couldn’t find where Budori had gone—they always returned disappointed. But then yesterday, when her husband read in the newspaper that Budori had been injured, she finally managed to come here to visit. Budori promised that once he recovered, he would visit their house to express his thanks and sent her back.

9. Carbonado Island

The next five years were truly happy ones for Budori. He also went many times to Redbeard’s house to express his gratitude. Though Redbeard had grown quite old, he remained remarkably energetic—now raising over a thousand long-haired rabbits, growing fields full of red cabbages, and continuing his usual ventures—yet his livelihood remained consistently prosperous. Neri had an adorable boy. When winter brought slack to their work, Neri would dress her child in full peasant attire and visit Budori's house together with her husband, sometimes staying overnight.

One day, someone who had worked with Budori under the silkworm breeder long ago came to visit him and informed him that their father’s grave lay beneath a large kaya tree at the forest’s farthest edge. It was said that when the silkworm breeder first came to inspect the forest’s trees, he had discovered the cold bodies of Budori’s father and others. Without informing Budori, he quietly buried them in the earth and marked the spot with a single birch branch. Budori immediately took Neri and the others there to erect a white limestone grave marker, and thereafter would always stop by whenever passing through that area.

And it was precisely the year Budori turned twenty-seven. It seemed that terrifying cold climate was coming again. At the meteorological observatory, based on the sun’s behavior and the state of the ice in the northern seas, they forecast this to everyone in February of that year. As this forecast came true one step at a time—with magnolia flowers refusing to bloom and sleet falling for ten days straight in May—the people could no longer maintain their composure to live, tormented by memories of the previous famine. Dr. Kubo frequently consulted with meteorological and agricultural engineers and published his opinions in newspapers, but even so, there seemed to be no way to counteract this intense cold.

However, when June began and he saw the still-yellow rice seedlings and trees that had yet to sprout buds, Budori could no longer keep still. If things were to continue like this, in both forests and fields, many people would become just like Budori's family that year. Budori thought night after night, as if he hadn't eaten anything at all.

One evening, Budori visited Dr. Kubo's house.

“Dr. Kubo, if carbon dioxide increases in the atmospheric layers, will it become warmer?” “That would likely occur. They say Earth’s temperatures since its formation have largely been determined by atmospheric carbon dioxide levels, you understand.” “If Carbonado Volcano Island were to erupt now, could it emit enough carbon dioxide to alter this climate?”

“I have calculated that as well. If that were to erupt now, the gas would immediately mingle with the upper-level winds of the global circulation and envelop the entire Earth. It would prevent heat radiation from escaping through the lower atmosphere and Earth’s surface, thereby warming the whole planet by an average of about five degrees.” “Dr. Kubo, could we make it erupt right now?” “That would be possible. However, among those who undertake that task, the last person will inevitably be unable to escape.”

“Dr. Kubo, please let me do it. Please give your word to Engineer Pennenname that he’ll grant permission.” “That won’t do. You’re still young, and few could replace you in your current work.” “People like me will multiply from now on. Because those who can do everything far beyond me will advance—working and laughing with far greater nobility and beauty than I ever could.”

“I won’t discuss that.” “Go and speak with Engineer Pennenname.” Budori returned and consulted Engineer Pennenname. The engineer nodded.

“That’s fine. But I will do it. I’m already sixty-three this year. If I were to die here, it would fulfill my deepest wish.” “Engineer Pennenname, but this operation remains far too uncertain. Even if we achieve a successful eruption once, the gas might soon be washed away by rain—or perhaps nothing will go as planned at all. If you were to undertake this now, I fear we’d lose any capacity for future adjustments.”

The old engineer silently lowered his head.

Three days later, the Volcano Bureau’s ship hurried to Carbonado Island. There, many watchtowers were erected, and electric wires were connected.

When all preparations were complete, Budori sent everyone back by boat and remained alone on the island. And the next day, the people of Ihatov saw the blue sky turn a murky green, and the sun and moon take on a copper hue.

However, after three or four days passed, the climate rapidly warmed up, and that autumn’s harvest became nearly normal. And so it was that the many fathers and mothers of Budoris who should have faced a fate like the beginning of this story were able to spend that winter living joyfully with many Budoris and Neris, warmed by warm food and bright firewood.