Pathway to Japanese Literature

1. Forest

Gusukō Budori was born in the great forest of Ihatov. Father was a renowned lumberjack named Gusukōnadori, a man who could effortlessly fell even the largest trees as if putting a baby to sleep.

Budori had a younger sister named Neri, and the two of them played in the forest every day. They even went as far as where the rasping sound of Father sawing wood could barely be heard. There, the two of them would pick wild raspberries and soak them in spring water, or take turns facing the sky to imitate mountain doves’ calls. Then, here and there, birds would begin to call sleepily—hoo, hoo. When Mother was sowing wheat in the small field before their house, the two of them would spread a straw mat on the road and sit there boiling orchid flowers in a tin can. Then this time, all sorts of birds would pass overhead with a great rustling, chirping as if greeting them as they flew over the two children’s tousled heads.

When Budori began attending school, the forest grew profoundly lonely during daylight hours. To compensate, in the afternoons Budori would walk through the woods with Neri, inscribing tree names on trunks using red clay and charcoal embers, or singing out in clear strong voices.

On the birch tree where hop vines had stretched from both sides to form an archway-like gate, they had also written “Kakkōdori: Do Not Pass.” Then Budori turned ten and Neri seven. Yet that year, for reasons unknown, the sun shone with an unnatural pallor from spring onward. Where magnolias would typically burst into snowy blooms right after thaw, now not a single flower opened. Even when May came, sleet fell in sodden clumps time and again, and by July’s end no summer warmth arrived. Last year’s wheat grew nothing but empty white ears without kernels, while most fruit trees let their blossoms fall immediately after blooming.

And autumn finally arrived at last; yet still，the chestnut trees bore nothing but green burs encased in prickly husks，and even their most vital crop—the Oryza that everyone relied on for daily sustenance—had not produced a single grain. In the fields, chaos erupted. Both Budori’s father and mother often carried firewood out to the fields or，once winter came，repeatedly hauled large logs to town by sled—yet they always returned looking disappointed，bringing back only a little wheat flour or such. Still，they somehow made it through that winter，and when spring came next，the seeds they had carefully stored away were sown in the fields—but that year too turned out exactly like the one before. And when autumn came，it finally became a true famine. By that time，there were no children coming to school at all. Budori's father and mother completely stopped working. They would frequently consult each other with worried expressions，taking turns going into town—sometimes managing to bring back a few millet grains after great effort，other times returning empty-handed with ashen faces. And so they survived that winter by eating acorns，kudzu，bracken fern roots，the soft bark of trees，and various other things.

But when spring came, both Father and Mother seemed to have some terrible illness.

One day，Father sat cradling his head in thought for what seemed an eternity，then abruptly stood up， “I’m off to play in the forest，” he said as he staggered out of the house—but even when night fell，he did not return. Even when the two asked their Mother where Father had gone，she just silently looked at their faces. When evening came the next day，around the time the forest had already turned black，their Mother suddenly stood up and piled a great amount of firewood into the hearth，making the entire house completely bright. Then she said，“I’m going to look for your Father．You two stay here and eat the flour in that cupboard a little at a time，”and she too staggered out of the house. When the two，crying，chased after her，Mother turned around and，

“What disobedient children you are,” she scolded.

And as if hurrying, she stumbled into the forest. The two of them went back and forth countless times, wandering around in tears. Finally unable to endure any longer, they entered the pitch-dark forest and wandered around the area near the hop-vine gate they once knew and the spring they used to visit, calling out for Mother all night long. From between the forest trees, the stars twinkled as if murmuring something, and birds frequently flew through the darkness as if startled—but no human voices came from anywhere. When the two finally returned home in a daze and went inside, they fell asleep as if dead.

It was the afternoon of that day when Budori woke up.

When he recalled what Mother had said about the flour and opened the cupboard, inside were still plenty of bags containing buckwheat flour and acorns. Budori shook Neri awake, and the two of them sampled the flour, then lit a fire in the hearth as they had done when their parents were there.

And then, after about twenty days had passed hazily, one day at the doorway,

“Is anyone here today?” came a voice.

Thinking that Father had returned, Budori rushed out to look—only to find it was a sharp-eyed man shouldering a basket. The man took out a round rice cake from the basket and, tossing it with a plop, said: “I have come to aid this region’s famine. Go on, eat anything you like.” After the two had been left dumbfounded for a while, “Go on, eat. Eat,” he said again. When the two began to eat timidly, the man watched intently, but

“You’re good children. “But just being good children won’t get you anywhere.” “Come with me.” “Of course, the boy is strong, but I can’t take both of you.” “Hey girl, even if you stay here, there’s nothing left to eat.” “Come along to town with Uncle.” “I’ll let you eat bread every day.” And abruptly picking up Neri, he put her into the basket on his back, and then—

“Hey ho! Hey ho!” “Hey ho! Hey ho!” he shouted, and left the house like the wind. Neri burst into tears outside for the first time; Budori—

“Thief! Thief!” he cried through tears as he gave chase, but the man had already passed along the forest’s edge and was racing across the distant grassland—from there, only Neri’s faint, trembling cries could be heard.

Budori, crying and shouting, chased after them all the way to the forest's edge, but finally exhausted, he collapsed in a heap.

**II. Silk Factory**

When Budori suddenly opened his eyes, there came an oddly flat voice from above his head.

“Finally woke up, huh. “Do you still think you're in a famine? “Get up and give me a hand.” When he looked, it was a man wearing a brown mushroom-shaped hat and a coat over his shirt, swinging something made of wire. “Has the famine already passed? “When you say ‘help,’ what am I supposed to help with?” Budori asked. “Net hanging.” “Are you hanging the net here?” “We’re hanging it.”

“What are you going to do with the net?” “We’re raising silkworms.”

When he looked, right there before Budori on the chestnut tree, two men had propped a ladder and were climbing up, frantically throwing and maneuvering some sort of net—though neither net nor thread was visible at all.

“Can you really raise silkworms with that?” “We can raise them.” “What an annoying kid.” “Hey, don’t jinx it!” “Why would I build a factory in a place where I can’t even raise silkworms?” “Of course we can.” “There’s a whole lot of us, starting with me, who make their living off it.”

Budori, in a hoarse voice, finally said, “I see.”

“Besides, I’ve bought up this whole forest—so if you want to help out here, fine. But if not, I’d rather you go somewhere else.” “Besides, wherever you go, there ain’t no food for you anyway.”

Budori was on the verge of tears but managed to hold them back and spoke. “Then I’ll help. But why are you hanging the net?” “Of course I’ll show you. With this here.” The man stretched out with both hands the wire basket-like object he held. “Alright. This is how you turn it into a ladder.”

The man strode over to the chestnut tree to the right and hooked it onto a lower branch.

“Come on, this time you’re taking this net and climbing up.” “Go on, climb up.”

The man handed Budori a strange ball-like object. Budori reluctantly took it, fastened himself to the ladder, and began climbing up—but the rungs were so thin they seemed to dig into his hands and feet, threatening to tear apart. “Climb higher!” “Higher! Higher!” “Then throw that ball you had earlier.” “Make sure it goes over the chestnut tree.” “Throw it up into the air.” “What’s this? You trembling?” “What a coward.” “Throw it.” “Throw it.” “There! Throw it.”

The moment Budori reluctantly threw it with all his strength into the blue sky, the sun suddenly turned pitch black and he fell headlong downward. Before he knew it, the man had caught him. Setting Budori down on the ground, the man began blustering in anger. "You’re just as gutless." "What a limp noodle!" "If I hadn’t caught you, your head would’ve split open by now." "I’m your lifesaver!" "Don’t talk back from now on." "Now climb that tree over there. If you do that, I’ll even let you eat something before long." The man handed Budori another new ball. Budori took the ladder to the next tree and threw the ball.

“Good, you’ve gotten quite skilled.” “Come on, there are plenty of balls!” “Don’t slack off.” “Any chestnut tree will do.” The man took about ten balls from his pocket, handed them to Budori, then strode off in the other direction. Budori threw about three more of them, but he was panting heavily, and his body grew unbearably sluggish. Thinking he would go home now, he went that way to look—only to find, to his astonishment, that a red clay pipe chimney had been attached to the house, and a sign reading “Ihatov Tegusu Factory” hung over the entrance. And then, while puffing on a cigarette from inside, the man from earlier came out.

“Alright kid, I’ve brought you some food.” “Eat this and work a bit more before it gets dark.”

“I can’t take this anymore—I’m going home.” “You mean that place over there? That place isn’t your home. It’s my Tegusu factory. That house and all the forest around here—I’ve bought every bit of it.”

Budori, now utterly resigned, silently devoured the steamed bread the man had sent over and threw about ten more balls.

That night, Budori slept curled up in a corner of what had once been his home—now a Tegusu factory building. The man from earlier stayed up late by the hearth with three or four strangers, feeding the fire as they drank and talked. Early next morning, Budori went out to the forest and worked just as he had done the day before. About a month later, when nets had been hung over every chestnut tree in the forest, the Tegusu-raising man made them suspend five or six splintered boards—each studded with millet-like grains—on every tree. Soon after, buds sprouted across the trees and the forest turned a deep verdant green. Then from those dangling boards emerged countless small bluish-white insects that began crawling upward along silken threads toward the branches in single file.

Budori and the others were now made 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 their branches, the insects that had climbed up from those boards had taken on the exact color and shape of the chestnut flowers. And the chestnut leaves throughout the forest were utterly devoured by those insects, leaving no trace of their original form. Soon after that, the insects began attaching large yellow cocoons to each mesh of the net.

Then, the Tegusu-raising man flew into a frenzy, berated Budori and the others harshly, and had them gather the cocoons into baskets. They next put them one after another into pots, boiled them at a rolling boil, and while turning the wheels by hand, extracted the thread. Night and day, they clattered away at three spinning wheels, extracting thread. By the time the yellow thread they’d produced in this way had filled about half the shed, large white moths began fluttering out in droves from the cocoons left outside. The Tegusu-raising man took on a face like a demon’s, working desperately himself to extract thread, and even brought four people from the fields to make them work. However, the moths emerged in ever-increasing numbers each day, until finally the entire forest looked as though snow were swirling through it.

Then one day, six or seven packhorse carts came, loaded all the thread that had been produced so far onto them, and began heading back toward town. Everyone followed after the packhorse carts one by one. When the final packhorse cart departed, the Tegusu-raising man said to Budori,

“Hey, I’ve left enough food in the house to last you until next spring.” “Until then, you’re to keep watch over the forest and factory here.” With that, he grinned oddly and briskly followed the packhorse cart, leaving promptly. Budori remained behind in a daze. The inside of the house was utterly filthy, as if after a storm, and the forest lay devastated, as though there had been a wildfire. The next day, when Budori began tidying up inside and around the house, he found an old cardboard box from where the Tegusu-raising man always used to sit. Inside were about ten volumes packed tightly. When he opened them, there were books filled with Tegusu illustrations and machine diagrams that were practically illegible, as well as others containing drawings and names of various trees and plants.

Budori spent that winter diligently imitating the books—writing out characters and copying diagrams. When spring came, that man returned once more, bringing six or seven new subordinates and dressed in splendid attire. And from the very next day, work began in exactly the same manner as the previous year. The nets were all set up, the yellow boards were hung, the insects climbed up the branches, and Budori and the others once again set about gathering firewood. One morning, as Budori and the others were making firewood, a sudden rumbling earthquake began. Then, a thunderous boom came from the far distance.

After some time had passed, the sun grew strangely dark, and fine ash came rustling down until the forest had completely turned pure white. As Budori and the others were squatting under the trees in stunned bewilderment, the Tegusu-raising man came rushing over in frantic haste.

“Hey, everyone—it’s over.” “Volcanic eruption!” “The eruption’s started.” “All the Tegusu got covered in ash and died.” “Everyone, pull out quick!” “Hey Budori, stay here if ya want, but I ain’t leavin’ food this time.” “Besides, it’s dangerous stickin’ around anyway.” “You’d better head out to the fields and earn somethin’ too.”

No sooner had he spoken than he dashed away.

When Budori went to check the factory, there was no one left there anymore. And so Budori, dejectedly stepping on the white ash marked with everyone’s footprints, headed out toward the fields.

III. Marsh Fields

Budori continued walking for half a day through the ash-covered forest toward the town. The ash pattered down from the trees with each gust of wind, as though it were smoke or a blizzard. However, as he approached the fields, it gradually became shallower and sparser, until finally the trees appeared green and even the footprints on the road became invisible. When he finally emerged from the forest, Budori involuntarily widened his eyes. The field before his eyes, stretching all the way to the distant white clouds, appeared to be made of beautiful peach-colored, green, and gray patches. When he drew near to look, the peach-colored patches were covered in low-growing flowers in full bloom, with bees busily moving from blossom to blossom; the green patches had thickly growing grasses putting out small ears, while the gray patches were shallow muddy marshes. And each was divided by low, narrow embankments, and people were using horses to dig them up and stir them as they worked.

As Budori walked through that space for some time, two people stood arguing loudly in the middle of the road as though embroiled in a dispute. The man with the reddish beard on the right side spoke.

“No matter what anyone says, I’ve decided to be a prospector.”

Whereupon a tall old man wearing a white sedge hat said.

“If I tell you to stop, you stop.” “Pile on that much fertilizer and you’ll get straw growing alright—but not a single grain worth harvesting.” “Nah, my reckoning says this year’s heat matches three years combined.” “I’ll reap three years’ worth in one—just watch.” “Quit it.” “Quit it.” “I said quit!” “Nah, won’t quit.” “Buried all the flowers already—next comes sixty bean cakes and a hundred loads of chicken dung.” “What’s the blasted hurry? Swamped like this, I’d draft bean vines for help if I could.”

Budori involuntarily approached and bowed.

“If that’s the case, won’t you use me?” The two men looked up with a start, rested their hands on their chins, and stared at Budori for a moment—then the red-bearded man suddenly burst into laughter. “Alright, alright. “I’ll have you handle the horse’s guiding pole. “You’ll follow me right away. “Well then, first we’ll see if this makes or breaks us—stick around till autumn. “Let’s go. “Really, these are times when I’d even ask bean vines for help if I had to.” The red-bearded man briskly walked ahead, alternating between speaking to Budori and the old man. Afterwards, the old man,

“If you won’t listen to old folks, you’ll be crying before long,” he muttered, continuing to watch us depart for some time.

From then on, day after day, Budori went into the marsh fields and used a horse to stir the mud. Day by day, both the peach-colored patches and the green patches were gradually crushed and transformed into muddy marshes. The horse would frequently splash up muddy water, sending it splattering against everyone’s faces. As soon as they finished one marsh field, they would immediately move on to the next. The days were so long that eventually they could no longer tell whether they were even walking, and the mud felt like taffy while the water seemed like broth. The wind blew over and over, creating scaly ripples in the nearby muddy water and turning the distant water tin-colored. In the sky, clouds that seemed sweet yet tart drifted slowly, ever so slowly, looking truly enviable.

And so when about twenty days had passed, the marsh fields had finally turned into thick, viscous mud throughout. From the next morning, the master, fired up as if possessed, planted green spear-like rice seedlings across the entire marsh field together with people who had gathered from all around. When that took about ten days, this time he took Budori and the others and set out daily to work at the homes of the people who had helped them until then. When they had finally made it all the way around, this time they returned to their own marsh fields and began weeding every single day. While the seedlings of Budori’s master had grown so large they were nearly black, the neighboring marsh field remained a hazy pale green, so even from afar, the boundary between their two fields was clearly visible. After about seven days of weeding were finished, they went again to help elsewhere.

Then one morning, as the master was walking through his marsh field with Budori in tow, he suddenly cried out “Ah!” and stood frozen in place. When Budori looked over at him after hearing this cry—for such was his duty—he saw that even his employer’s normally ruddy complexion had drained away until his very lips were pale as water; indeed those same features now stared blankly ahead without focus nor intent behind them whatsoever!

“Do you have a headache or something?” Budori asked.

“It’s not me.” “It’s the rice!” “This one.” The master pointed at the rice plant in front of him. Budori squatted down to examine it. Sure enough, every leaf was dotted with red spots he had never seen before. The master silently made a dejected round of the marsh fields and began heading home. When Budori, also worried, followed him, 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 that the disease has appeared in the Rice?”

“Ah, it’s no use anymore.”

“Can’t something be done?” “It’s no use.” “It’s exactly like five years ago.” “That’s exactly why I told you to quit being a prospector, didn’t I?” “Didn’t the old man try so hard to stop you too?”

The master’s wife began to sob in distress. Then the master suddenly regained his vigor and sat bolt upright.

“Very well.” “In Ihatov’s fields—would one of the great farmers counted on one hand be broken by such trifles?” “Very well.” “Next year, I’ll see it done!” “Budori—not once since coming to my house have you slept a night through.” “Go then—sleep five days or ten if needed—sleep till you snore like thunder.” “Afterward, I’ll perform an ingenious trick in yonder marsh field.” “But mark this—all winter long, the household eats nothing but soba!” “You do fancy soba, eh?” Then the master briskly donned his hat and strode outside.

Budori tried to enter the barn and sleep as the master had instructed, but somehow his anxiety about the marsh fields became unbearable, so he slowly made his way back there again. When he did so, there stood the master alone on the embankment with arms crossed—he must have come some time before. Looking closer, he saw the marsh fields filled with water, rice plants barely putting forth leaves, while glistening petroleum floated on the surface. The master spoke.

“Right now, I’m about to smother this disease out.”

“Does petroleum kill the disease’s seeds?” Budori asked. The master said, “If you douse something head-to-toe in oil—even a person—it’ll die,” sucking in a sharp breath and hunching his shoulders. At that moment came pounding footsteps—the downstream field’s owner arrived breathless, shoulders rigid with anger—and roared:

“Why the hell are you putting petroleum in the water?! All of it’s flowing down and coming into my side!” The master answered with resigned composure. “Why the hell am I putting petroleum in the water? Because the rice got sick—that’s why I’m putting petroleum in the water!” “Then why the hell are you sending it my way?!” “Why the hell would I send it your way? If water flows, the oil’s gonna follow.”

“Then why the hell aren’t you blocking the water inlet to keep it from coming my way?!” “Why the hell would I block the water inlet for your side? That’s not my channel over there—I don’t control what’s not mine.” The neighboring man, now too furious to speak, suddenly splashed into the water and began heaping mud at his own inlet. The master smirked.

“That man’s a difficult one, you see. “If I blocked the water here, he’d get angry saying I did it, so I deliberately let him block it over there. “Once he blocks that spot, by tonight the water’ll rise right up to the grass heads. Let’s head back.” The master took the lead and began walking briskly home.

The next morning, Budori went to the marsh fields again with the master to see. The master took a leaf from the water and examined it intently, but his expression remained grim. The following day was the same. The day after that was also the same. The day after that was also the same.

The next morning, the master finally spoke as if he had resolved himself.

“Alright, Budori—it’s finally time to sow soba here.” “You go over there and destroy the neighboring water inlet.” Budori went and destroyed the neighboring water inlet exactly as instructed. The water mixed with petroleum flowed into the neighboring rice field with terrifying force. Just as he was thinking he’d surely come raging again, around noon, the owner of that neighboring field arrived carrying a large sickle. “Hey, what’s the idea letting petroleum flow into someone else’s field?”

The master answered again in a voice from the depths of his gut. “What’s wrong with petroleum flowing?” “The rice plants will all die, won’t they?”

“Whether all the rice dies or not—first look at my marsh field’s rice.” “Four days now I’ve been dousing them with petroleum from above.” “Still holding up just fine like this, aren’t they?” “The red’s from disease—the vigor’s from petroleum.” “At your place, it’s just passing through the roots, right?” “Might actually be doing some good.” “Petroleum works as fertilizer?” The downstream owner’s expression softened slightly.

“I don’t know whether petroleum becomes fertilizer or not, but in any case, petroleum is oil, isn’t it?” “That petroleum is oil, huh.” The downstream field owner completely regained his good humor and laughed. The water rapidly receded, and the rice plant stalks quickly emerged up to their roots. The rice plants were now completely covered in red patches, looking as if they’d been scorched.

“Alright, time to start harvesting the rice plants at my place.”

The master said with a laugh, then together with Budori began cutting down one rice plant after another, sowing buckwheat in their place, and walking along covering them with soil. And that year, just as the master had said, Budori’s household ate nothing but buckwheat. When spring came the following year, the master said.

“Budori, this year’s marsh fields are a third smaller than last year’s, so the work’ll be much easier. In return, you’re gonna study my dead son’s books like your life depends on it from now on. Then come up with some genius way to grow such magnificent rice plants that all those bastards who called me a schemer will gasp in awe.” He then handed Budori a whole stack of various books. Budori read them one after another in his spare time from work. Especially among them, the book that taught the way of thinking of a man named Kubo was so interesting that he read it many times. And when he learned that this same person was running a one-month school in the city of Ihatov, he very much wanted to go and study there.

And that very summer, Budori achieved a great success. It was around the same time as the previous year when the rice plants were about to fall ill again, but Budori halted it using wood ash and salt. When mid-August came, all the rice stalks uniformly bore ears, each branch sprouting small white flowers that gradually turned into bluish husks, swaying like rippling waves in the wind. The master now stood at the height of triumph. To every visitor,

“What’s there to say? Sure, I’ve been a rice hustler with four failed years under my belt, but this season I’ll reap four years’ worth in one go.” “This here’s another real beauty,” he’d boast.

However, the following year did not go as planned. Because not a single drop of rain had fallen since planting season, the irrigation channels dried completely while cracks split open across the marshes—the autumn harvest yielded barely enough rice to sustain them through winter alone. They had clung desperately to hopes that next year would differ, yet when it came it brought only another identical drought. Year after year whispering “next time for sure,” Budori’s master found himself increasingly unable to afford fertilizer—first selling his horse bit by bit before finally parting with sections of marshland itself until nothing remained.

One autumn day, the master said to Budori with a pained expression.

“Budori, I too was once a major farmer in Ihatov and have put in considerable effort, but due to repeated cold spells and droughts, my marsh fields are now just a third of what they once were, and next year I won’t even have fertilizer to apply.” “It’s not just me.” “As for people who can buy and apply fertilizer next year—there probably aren’t many left even in Ihatov.” “Under these circumstances, there’s no telling when I’ll ever be able to properly thank you for all the work you’ve done.” “It’d be too cruel to keep a young man in his prime like you stuck here with me. Take this and go find your fortune somewhere—anywhere you please.” And the master gave Budori a bag of money, new navy-dyed linen clothes, and red leather shoes.

Budori had forgotten all about how harsh his work had been until now and even thought he wanted to keep working there without needing anything else. But upon reflection, since staying would mean there wasn’t much work anyway, he thanked the master repeatedly, bid farewell to both the marsh fields he had worked for six years and the master himself, and set off walking toward the station.

IV. Dr. Kubo Budori walked for about two hours and arrived at the station. Then he bought a ticket and boarded the train bound for Ihatov. The train raced ahead at full speed, sending marsh field after marsh field rapidly behind it. Beyond them lay many black forests that kept changing shape as they too were left behind. Budori’s chest swelled with conflicting emotions. The sooner he could reach Ihatov City and meet that kind author Kubo—the sooner he could work while studying to devise methods for creating marsh fields without such suffering, methods to eliminate volcanic ash and droughts and cold damage—the more excruciatingly slow even this train seemed to him. The train arrived in Ihatov City that afternoon. The moment Budori stepped out of the station, he stood frozen—overwhelmed by a low resonant hum rising from beneath the ground, the oppressive murky air, and automobiles rushing endlessly back and forth. Finally regaining his bearings, he asked passersby for directions to Dr. Kubo’s school. Yet everyone he approached—catching sight of Budori’s overly earnest face—would stifle a laugh and,

“Never heard of such a school.” “Go another five or six blocks and ask there,” they would say. And it was already nearing evening when Budori finally managed to find the school. On the second floor of that large, dilapidated white building, someone was speaking loudly.

“Good day.” Budori shouted loudly. No one came out.

“Good day—!” Budori shouted at the top of his voice. Then immediately from the second-floor window above his head, a large ash-gray face appeared, and the glasses’ two lenses glinted sharply. Then,

“Class is in session right now—you’re being too loud! If you’ve got business, come in!” he barked, then immediately withdrew his face. Inside, the crowd burst into raucous laughter, but the man paid no heed and continued lecturing at full volume. Budori mustered his resolve and began ascending to the second floor as quietly as possible—when the door at the top of the stairs stood open, revealing an enormous classroom directly before him. Inside, students dressed in various outfits were packed tightly. The far side was a large black wall with many white lines drawn across it, and the tall bespectacled man from earlier was pointing at various parts of a large scaffold-shaped model while explaining to everyone in the same high-pitched voice as before.

The moment Budori laid eyes on it, he thought: Ah, this must be the model representing epochs upon epochs of history that Dr. Kubo described in his book. Dr. Kubo turned a handle while laughing. The model clanked and transformed into a bizarre ship-like shape. When he turned the handle again with a clank, the model this time transformed into a shape resembling a giant centipede.

Everyone kept tilting their heads this way and that, looking thoroughly perplexed, but to Budori, it was simply fascinating. “From there, this diagram is formed.” The teacher rapidly drew another intricate diagram on the black wall. Holding chalk in his left hand as well, he wrote briskly. The students all earnestly imitated that. Budori also took out the grimy notebook he had carried from the marsh fields and copied the diagram. The teacher had already finished writing, stood straight on the platform, and was scrutinizing the students’ seats. Budori had also finished writing and was examining the diagram from all angles when, next to him, a student—

He let out a loud yawn. Budori quietly heard it. “Hey, what do they call this teacher?” Then the student answered with a derisive snort. “Dr. Kubo—you didn’t know?” Then, while staring intently at Budori, “Who could draw this diagram from the start? Even I’ve been attending these same lectures for six years now.”

With that, he put his own notebook away into his pocket.

At that moment, the lights in the classroom suddenly lit up. It was already evening. Dr. Kubo announced from the front.

“Evening has now come upon us, and my humble lecture too has concluded all its sections.” “Those of you who wish to do so shall, as per customary practice, present your notebooks to this humble lecturer, undergo several oral examinations, and thereby determine your placements.” The students let out a collective cry and hurriedly snapped their notebooks shut. The majority went straight home then and there, but fifty or sixty students formed a single line and passed before Dr. Kubo, opening their notebooks to show him as they went. Then Dr. Kubo would glance at each notebook, ask a question or two, and write notations like “Pass,” “Reattempt,” or “Strive” on their collars with white chalk. During this time, the students would shrink their necks in evident anxiety, then quietly hunch their shoulders as they slipped out into the hallway to have their friends read the marks for them—reacting with either elation or dejection.

The examinations progressed rapidly and concluded, until at last only Budori remained. When Budori took out his small, grimy notebook, Dr. Kubo let out a big yawn and bent down to press his eyes close to it—so close that the notebook nearly got sucked into Dr. Kubo.

“However,” Dr. Kubo gave an appreciative gulp of breath and said, “Satisfactory.” “This diagram is extremely accurate.” “What about the rest?” “Ah—this concerns fertilizer for the marsh fields and horse feed, does it?” “Now answer the question.” “What types of colors are present in the smoke emitted from factory chimneys?”

Budori answered loudly before he knew it. "Black, brown, yellow, gray, white, colorless. "And then mixtures of these."

Dr. Kubo laughed.

“Colorless smoke is excellent. Now describe its shape.” “When there’s no wind and enough smoke forms a vertical column, its tip gradually fans out. On days with low-hanging clouds, the column rises to meet them and spreads sideways. When wind blows, the column tilts at an angle matching the wind’s force. Wavy patterns or fragmentation happen partly from wind, but also due to inherent quirks in either the smoke or chimney. With too little smoke, it twists like a corkscrew. If heavy gases mix in, clusters might drop from the chimney mouth—either one direction or all four.”

Dr. Kubo laughed again.

“Satisfactory.” “What kind of work do you do?” “I came here looking for work.”

“There’s an interesting job.” “I’ll give you my business card, so go there immediately.” Dr. Kubo took out a business card, wrote something on it in swift strokes, and handed it to Budori. As Budori bowed and was about to exit through the doorway, Dr. Kubo acknowledged him with a brief glance, muttering “Hmm, are they burning trash?” under his breath while tossing bits of white chalk, a handkerchief, books—everything together—into the briefcase on the table, tucking it under his arm, and flying out through the window he’d poked his head out of earlier. Startled, Budori rushed to the window to look, and there was Dr. Kubo already flying straight across the town veiled in pale blue haze, riding a toy-sized airship and steering the handle himself. As Budori watched in growing astonishment, Dr. Kubo soon reached the flat roof of a large gray building ahead, tethered the airship to something like a hook, and then simply slipped inside the building and vanished.

5. Ihatov Volcano Bureau

The place where Budori, after inquiring about the address on the business card he had received from Dr. Kubo, finally arrived was a large brown building; behind it, a tall column shaped like a cluster stood out starkly white against the night sky. When Budori stepped into the entrance and pressed the doorbell, someone immediately emerged, took the business card he presented, glanced 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 before, and at its center sat a dignified man with slightly graying hair—a man who seemed kind—properly seated with a telephone receiver pressed to his ear as he wrote something down. And when he saw Budori enter, while pointing to a chair beside him with one hand, he continued writing something down without pause.

The entire right wall of the room was occupied by a large relief model of Ihatov rendered in vivid colors—railways, towns, rivers, and fields all discernible at a glance. Along the spine-like mountain range traversing its center, the coastal ranges bordering the shores like trimwork, and the chain of mountains branching out to form scattered islands in the sea, red, orange, and yellow lights flickered through shifting hues, buzzed with a cicada-like drone, and displayed numbers that appeared and vanished in turn. On the shelf along the lower wall stood black typewriter-like devices arranged in three rows—fewer than a hundred in total—all quietly whirring and clicking. As Budori stood transfixed in wonderment, the man set down the receiver with a soft clack, produced a card case from his pocket, and extended a business card while saying, “You are Gusukō Budori?” “This is who I am,” he said. The card read: [Ihatov Volcano Bureau Technician Pennen Name]. When the man saw Budori fidgeting awkwardly in his unpolished greeting, he spoke again with renewed kindness.

“I was waiting for you since Dr. Kubo called earlier. Now then—from here on out, work hard and study properly while you’re here. This work only started last year, but it carries real responsibility—half of it involves working on volcanoes that could erupt any moment. What’s more, a volcano’s quirks aren’t something you can just learn from books. We’ll have to work much harder going forward. For tonight, there’s lodging for you over there—rest well there at your ease. Tomorrow I’ll show you around this whole building.”

The next morning, Budori was led by Old Technician Pennen, who took him around every part of the building, and he was taught in detail about various machines and mechanisms. Every instrument in that building was connected to over three hundred active and dormant volcanoes across Ihatov. Not only did they capture the visible eruptions of smoke and ash or lava flows, but even ancient volcanoes that appeared dormant revealed their inner workings—from patterns of molten rock and gas to shifts in their very shape—all transformed into numerical data or diagrams that appeared before them. And whenever there was a drastic change, the models would each emit a distinct sound.

From that day on, Budori learned how to handle all the instruments and conduct observations under Old Technician Pennen, working tirelessly day and night while devoting himself to his studies. After about two years had passed, Budori began to be dispatched with others to various volcanoes to install instruments or sent to repair those that had malfunctioned, so that he came to understand Ihatov’s three hundred–odd volcanoes and their operational patterns as if they lay in the palm of his hand.

Indeed, in Ihatov, seventy-odd volcanoes were either emitting smoke or flowing lava every day, while fifty-odd dormant volcanoes were either spewing various gases or discharging hot water. And among the remaining hundred and sixty-odd extinct volcanoes, there were those whose next actions—and when they might begin—remained unknowable.

One day, as Budori was working alongside the old technician, the Sanmutori volcano on the southern coast suddenly began to register swelling activity on the instruments. The old technician shouted.

“Budori,” “Sanmutori had shown no activity until this morning, hadn’t it?” “Yes, I’ve never seen Sanmutori exhibit any activity until now.”

“Ah, the eruption is imminent.” “This morning’s earthquake must have triggered it.” “Ten kilometers north of this volcano lies the city of Sanmutori.” “If it erupts this time, the mountain will likely blow away a third of its northern side—rocks as big as cows or tables will come raining down on Sanmutori City along with hot ash and gas.” “No matter what, we must drill into the sea-facing side now to create an opening—vent the gas or release the lava.” “Let’s go inspect it ourselves right now.” The two quickly prepared and boarded the train to Sanmutori.

6. Sanmutori Volcano

The two arrived in Sanmutori City the next morning and climbed to a hut near the summit of Sanmutori Volcano around noon, where observation instruments were installed. It was a place where Sanmutori Volcano’s ancient caldera rim had broken away toward the sea, and when viewed from the hut’s window, the ocean appeared in layered bands of blue and gray. Within this vista, steamships spewed black smoke as they glided through, trailing silver wakes behind them.

The old technician calmly inspected all the observation instruments, then said to Budori.

“How many more days do you think until this mountain erupts?” “I don’t think it will last a month.” “It won’t last a month.” “It won’t even hold out ten more days.” “If we don’t drill through now, there’ll be no undoing it.” “I believe that spot there is the weakest point on this mountain’s seaward side.” The old technician pointed to a pale green meadow crowning a valley on the mountainside. There, a cloud’s shadow slid silently across in blue-tinged silence.

“There are only two layers of lava there.” “The rest are layers of soft volcanic ash and volcanic gravel.” “Moreover, there’s a well-maintained ranch road all the way to that spot, so transporting the materials will be no trouble.” “I will request a work team.” Old Technician Pennen busily began transmitting to the bureau. At that moment, a faint, murmuring sound rose beneath their feet, and the observation hut creaked and groaned for a while. The old technician moved away from the instruments. “The bureau will dispatch a work team immediately.” “Though they call it a work team, it’s half a suicide squad.” “I’ve never undertaken work this perilous before.”

“Can it be done within ten days?” “It can definitely be done.” “Three days for setting up the apparatus and five days to bring in the power lines from Sanmutori City’s power plant—that’s what it’ll take.” The old technician spent a while counting on his fingers as he thought, but soon spoke calmly again with an air of reassurance. “Anyway, Budori.” “Let’s boil some tea and drink it.” “The view is just too splendid.”

Budori lit the alcohol lamp he had brought and began boiling tea.

Gradually, clouds spread across the sky, and whether the sun had already set, the sea transformed into a desolate gray as countless white wave crests surged all at once toward the volcano’s base.

Suddenly, Budori noticed a small, peculiar-shaped airship he had seen before flying right before his eyes. The old technician 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 cliff to the left of the hut, from which the tall figure of Dr. Kubo nimbly alighted. Dr. Kubo spent some time searching the area for a large fissure in the rocks until he apparently found one, then swiftly tightened a screw to secure the airship.

“I’ve come for tea.” “Is it shaking?”

Dr. Kubo grinned slyly and chuckled. The old technician answered. “It’s not that bad yet.” “But rocks seem to be steadily crumbling and falling from above.” Just then, the mountain abruptly roared as though erupting, and Budori felt his vision go blue. The mountain kept shaking violently. When he looked, both Dr. Kubo and the old technician were squatting and clinging to the rocks, while the airship swayed slowly like a vessel riding towering waves.

The earthquake finally subsided, and Dr. Kubo stood up and briskly walked into the hut. Inside, the tea had spilled, and the alcohol was burning blue with a flickering glow. Dr. Kubo thoroughly inspected the instruments, then engaged in a detailed discussion with old technician Pennen. And finally, he said.

“By all means next year we must complete all the tidal power plants. If we can achieve that, not only could we handle situations like this one within the same day, but we could also make it rain fertilizer on those marsh fields you mentioned, Budori.” “Because even droughts won’t be frightening anymore at all,” Technician Pennen added. Budori felt his chest thrill with excitement. He felt as if he were leaping up to the mountain itself. Indeed, the mountain began shaking violently at that moment, and Budori was thrown to the floor.

Dr. Kubo said. “Let’s go through with it,” said Pennen. “That last tremor must have been felt quite strongly in Sanmutori City too.”

The old technician said.

“The recent one seems to have been a mass of rock about sixty or seventy times the size of this hut, plunging into the magma about one kilometer north from beneath our feet, at a depth of roughly seven hundred meters below the surface.” “However, before the gas could finally blast away the last outer layer of rock, it would have to contain within its own body a hundred—no, two hundred—such masses.”

Dr. Kubo was silent in thought for some time, “Right, I’ll take my leave here,” he said as he exited the hut and nimbly boarded the airship. The old technician Pennen and Budori saw Dr. Kubo off as he circled around the mountain, waving his light two or three times in farewell, then reentered the hut where they took turns sleeping and keeping watch. And when the work team arrived at the base at dawn, the old technician left Budori alone in the hut and descended to that grassy field he had pointed out the day before. The voices of everyone and the clanging of iron materials could be heard as clearly as if held in one’s hand when the wind blew up from below. From Technician Pennen came a constant stream of updates on the progress of their work over there, and he also inquired about the gas pressure and changes in the mountain’s shape. For the next three days, amid violent earthquakes and ground rumbling, both Budori’s team and those at the base had scarcely any time to sleep.

On the morning of the fourth day, a transmission came through from the old technician.

“Budori.” “The preparations are completely ready.” “Hurry down.” “Check the observation instruments once and leave them as they are, but bring all the exterior parts.” “Because that hut will be gone by this afternoon.”

Budori descended the mountain exactly as he had been instructed. There, the large iron materials that had been in the observatory’s warehouse had been completely assembled into a framework, and all sorts of instruments were now ready to spring into action the moment electricity was supplied. Technician Pennen’s cheeks were hollow, and though the members of the work team looked pale with eyes gleaming intensely, they all nevertheless smiled and greeted Budori.

The old technician said.

“Let’s withdraw.” “Everyone, prepare and board the cars.” Everyone hurriedly boarded the twenty cars. The cars formed a line and raced along the mountain’s foothills toward Sanmutori City. Exactly halfway between the mountain and the city, the technician had the cars stopped. “Pitch the tents here.” “And then you’ll all sleep.” Everyone, without uttering a single word, did exactly as told and collapsed into sleep. That afternoon, the old technician put down the receiver and shouted.

“Alright, the wires have arrived!” “Budori, we’re starting.” The old technician turned on the switch. Budori and the others went out of the tent and gazed at Sanmutori’s mid-slope. In the field, white lilies bloomed all across the plain, and beyond them, Sanmutori stood quietly blue.

Suddenly, Sanmutori’s left base shook violently, and jet-black smoke erupted upward in a straight line to form a peculiar mushroom shape, while golden lava streamed glittering from its base, spreading swiftly into a fan shape before flowing into the sea. The ground then shook with a grinding tremor, lily flowers swaying across the entire plain, before a tremendous booming sound struck with enough force to nearly knock everyone over. Then the wind roared past.

“We did it! We did it!” everyone shouted loudly, stretching their hands toward it. At this moment, Sanmutori’s smoke spread across the sky as though crumbling away, but in an instant, the sky turned pitch black, and hot gravel came clattering down in a relentless shower. Everyone had entered the tent and was looking worried, but Technician Pennen checked his watch while,

“Budori, it went well. There’s absolutely no danger now. It should only let a little ash fall on Sanmutori City,” he said.

The gravel gradually turned to ash. That too soon thinned out, and everyone once again rushed out of the tent. The field turned completely mouse-colored, the ash piled up about an inch deep, all the lily flowers broke and were buried in ash, and the sky took on a strange green hue. And at the base of Sanmutori, a small swelling had formed, from which gray smoke was still billowing steadily upward. That evening, they stepped on ash and gravel, climbed the mountain once more, installed the new observation instruments, and returned.

Seven: Sea of Clouds

Over the next four years, just as Dr. Kubo had planned, two hundred tidal power plants were deployed along the coasts of Ihatov. Around the volcanoes encircling Ihatov, white-painted iron towers were erected one after another alongside observation huts. Budori became a trainee technician and spent most of each year either traveling from volcano to volcano or carrying out engineering work on volcanoes that had become hazardous.

The following spring, the Volcano Bureau of Ihatov posted notices like the following in villages and towns.

“We will rain down nitrogen fertilizer.” “This summer, we will rain down ammonium nitrate along with rain onto your marsh fields and vegetable fields. Those using fertilizer should factor this amount into your calculations.” “The quantity is 120 kilograms per 100-meter square.” “We will also produce some rainfall.” “During droughts, we can at least make enough rain fall to prevent crops from withering. Therefore, even for marsh fields that went unplanted due to water shortages until now, please cultivate them this year without concern.”

In June of that year, Budori was stationed at the hut atop Ihatov Volcano, located at the very center of Ihatov. Below was a sea of ash-gray clouds. From here and there across Ihatov, the summits of volcanoes emerged black like islands. A single airship flew just above those clouds, emitting pure white smoke from its stern, darting from peak to peak as if bridging them. The smoke grew steadily thicker and more defined as time passed, quietly settling over the sea of clouds below. Before long, a vast, pale-glowing net was cast across the entire expanse of the cloud sea, stretching from mountain to mountain. Eventually, the airship ceased emitting smoke and circled for a while as if bidding farewell, then gradually lowered its bow and quietly sank into the clouds.

The receiver buzzed with a steady drone. It was Technician Pennen’s voice. “The airship has just returned.” “The preparations below are completely ready.” “The rain is pouring down.” “I think it’s ready now.” “Begin.”

Budori pressed the button. In the blink of an eye, the earlier net of smoke flickered on and off, shining in beautiful peach, blue, and purple hues so vivid they startled the eye. Budori gazed in rapture at the sight. As time passed, the sun gradually set, and when the light vanished from the sea of clouds, it took on a hue indistinguishable between gray and mouse-gray.

The receiver rang.

“Ammonium nitrate has already emerged into the rain.” “This quantity should be just right.” “The dispersal pattern appears favorable.” “Four more hours will likely suffice for this region through month’s end.” “Maintain current operations.”

Budori was so happy he felt like jumping for joy. Under this cloud cover, both the red-bearded master of old and the person who had doubted whether petroleum could become fertilizer were joyfully listening to the sound of the rain. And by tomorrow morning, they would be stroking the rice plants with their hands, now transformed into a vibrant green. While thinking it was just like a dream, he gazed at the clouds as they turned pitch black one moment and shone beautifully the next. However, the short summer night already seemed to be breaking. Amidst the lightning flashes, the edge of the eastern sea of clouds was faintly tinged yellow.

However, that was the moon rising. A large yellow moon was quietly ascending. When the clouds glowed blue, they appeared strangely whitish; when they shone peach-colored, they seemed to be laughing. Budori had forgotten who he was or what he was doing, and simply gazed vacantly at it all. The receiver buzzed with a steady drone.

“Over here, the thunder has started roaring quite a bit．The net seems to have torn in several places．If we make too much noise，tomorrow’s newspapers will criticize us，so let’s stop after about ten more minutes．”

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

The sea of clouds, now illuminated solely by moonlight, continued flowing quietly northward. Budori wrapped himself in a blanket and slept soundly.

VIII Autumn

That year’s crop yields turned out exceptionally well—the best in ten years—partly due to favorable weather conditions, and letters of gratitude and encouragement poured into the Volcano Bureau from all directions. Budori felt for the first time that he truly had a purpose in life.

Then one day, on his way back from visiting a volcano called Tachina, Budori happened to pass through a small village amidst harvested and desolate marsh fields. As it was just around noon, he thought to buy some bread and stopped by a shop that sold groceries and sweets.

“Do you have any bread?” he asked. There, three barefoot people were drinking with crimson-rimmed eyes when one stood up and, “We got bread here, but it ain’t edible bread, see? It’s a slate!” As soon as he spat out this absurd remark, they all stared at Budori’s face with glee and roared with laughter. Budori, disgusted, brusquely stepped outside when a tall man with a military crew cut approached from across the way and barked—

“Hey, you’re Budori—the one who rained down electric fertilizer this summer,” he said.

“That’s right.” Budori answered nonchalantly. The man shouted loudly.

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

Then, from inside the house and the surrounding fields, eighteen villagers came running, roaring with laughter. “You bastard! Because of your electricity, all our rice plants have fallen over!” “Why’d you pull a stunt like that?” One of them said. Budori said calmly, “Didn’t you all see the posters we put out in spring about them falling over?” “What the hell, 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 on a white bed in what appeared to be a hospital room. At his bedside were get-well telegrams and numerous letters. Budori's entire body ached with feverish pain, leaving him unable to move. Yet after about a week had passed, he had already regained his former vitality. And when he read in the newspaper how that incident had occurred—how an agricultural technician who'd given incorrect fertilizer instructions shifted all blame for the collapsed rice plants onto the Volcano Bureau to cover his tracks—Budori burst into loud laughter by himself.

The next afternoon, the hospital attendant entered, “A lady named Neri has come to see you,” he said. Budori wondered if it was a dream, and soon a sunburned woman who looked like a farmer’s wife entered timidly. Though she had changed completely, it was indeed Neri—the same Neri who had been taken away from that forest by someone. For a while, the two of them could not speak, but when Budori finally asked about what had happened afterward, Neri too began to recount her experiences up to that point in the Ihatov peasant dialect, haltingly. The man who had taken Neri away, perhaps having grown tired of the hassle after about three days, left her near a small pasture and went off somewhere.

As Neri wandered around crying there, the ranch owner took pity on her and brought her into his home, having her look after his baby among other tasks. Gradually Neri became capable of handling any kind of work until finally, three or four years prior, she had married the eldest son of that small ranch. And this year—since fertilizer had also been distributed—they were able to put all the manure they usually had to haul out to distant fields with great difficulty into nearby turnip fields instead; even the corn in far fields grew well enough that everyone in the household rejoiced—she recounted these developments. She also explained how they had gone into that forest many times with her husband—the ranch owner’s son—only to find their childhood home completely ruined and no trace of Budori’s whereabouts; each time they returned disappointed until yesterday’s newspaper article about his injury finally brought her here—she added these details too. Budori promised to visit their house and express his gratitude once recovered before seeing Neri off.

IX Carbonado Island

For Budori, the next five years were truly happy. He also went many times to express his gratitude at the red-bearded farmer’s house. Though now quite advanced in years, the farmer remained remarkably vigorous—raising over a thousand long-haired rabbits, cultivating fields solely with red cabbage, and continuing his usual speculations—yet his livelihood had grown thoroughly comfortable.

Neri had given birth to a lovely boy. When winter brought a lull in work, she would dress her son entirely like a little farmer and visit Budori’s house with her husband, sometimes staying overnight. One day, someone who had once worked alongside Budori under the tegu silkworm breeder came to him and revealed that their father’s grave lay beneath a large kaya tree at the forest’s farthest edge. It was said that when the breeder first came to survey the forest’s trees, he had discovered the cold bodies of Budori’s father and mother. To keep it hidden from Budori, he quietly buried them and marked the spot with a single birch branch. Budori immediately took Neri and the others there, erected a white limestone grave, and from then on stopped by whenever he passed through the area.

And it was precisely the year Budori turned twenty-seven.

It seemed that terrifying cold climate was about to return once more. At the observatory, based on the sun's behavior and ice conditions in northern seas, they forecast this to everyone in February of that year. As each prediction gradually came true one after another—kobushi flowers failing to bloom, sleet falling for ten days in May—everyone recalled the previous crop failure and could no longer bear to go on living each day. Dr. Kubo frequently consulted with meteorologists and agricultural technicians and published his opinions in newspapers, but it seemed even he could do nothing about 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 bear to remain still. If things continued like this, in both forests and fields, many people would end up just as Budori’s family had that year. Budori spent night after night without eating a thing, consumed by thought. One evening, Budori visited Dr. Kubo’s house.

“Dr. Kubo, if carbon dioxide increases in the atmospheric layer, will it become warmer?” “That should happen. After all, Earth’s temperatures from its formation until now have largely been determined by the amount of carbon dioxide in the air—so much so that it’s said to be the main factor.”

“If Carbonado Volcano Island were to erupt now, would it emit enough carbon dioxide to change this climate?”

“I’ve calculated that as well,” “If that were to erupt now, the gas would immediately mix with the upper-level winds of the atmospheric circulation and envelop the entire Earth.” “And by preventing heat dissipation from the lower atmosphere and the Earth’s surface, I believe it would raise the average temperature across the entire globe by about five degrees.” “Dr. Kubo, couldn’t we make it erupt right now?”

“That should be possible.” “However, among those who go to carry out that task, the last person simply cannot escape.”

“Dr. Kubo, please let me do it.” “Please—give your word to Mr. Pennen so permission may be granted.” “That cannot be approved.” “You’re still young, and there’s scarcely anyone who could replace you in your current work.” “Those like me will multiply from now on.” “Because people who can do everything far better than I—far more splendidly and beautifully—will keep working and laughing as they go forward.”

“I won’t have any part in this discussion. Speak to Technician Pennen about it.”

Budori returned and consulted with Technician Pennen. The technician nodded.

“That’s good. But I’ll do it,” Technician Pennen said. “I’m already sixty-three this year. If I die here now, it would fulfill my deepest wish.” “Mr. Pennen,” Budori objected, “this operation remains far too uncertain. Even if we achieve a successful explosion once, the gas might soon be washed away by rain—or everything could go wrong entirely. If you were to undertake this mission now, I fear there would remain no means left for further solutions.”

The old technician silently hung his head.

Three days later, the volcano observatory’s ship hurried to Carbonado Island. There, many towers 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 coppery hue.

However, after three or four days had passed, the climate grew rapidly warmer, and that autumn’s harvest became nearly normal. And so it came to pass that just as this story began, countless fathers and mothers of Budoris—alongside countless Budoris and Neris—were able to spend that winter joyfully with warm food and bright fires.