Pathway to Japanese Literature

Miyazawa Kenji: Translated and Narrated

At that time, I was employed at the Museum Bureau of Moriō City. As an 18th-rank official, I was near the very bottom of the bureau hierarchy, and my salary was meager indeed. However, since my duties involved collecting and organizing specimens—work I had loved since childhood—I found each day’s labor quite enjoyable. Around that time, as Moriō City was renovating the racecourse into a botanical garden, the extensive grounds—planted with acacia trees around their scenic perimeter, complete with ticket offices and signal buildings—were transferred to our bureau. Thus I came to live alone in that guardhouse, bringing along a small phonograph purchased on installment under the name of night watch duty and about twenty records. I built a small wooden enclosure in the horse stall there and kept a goat. Every morning I would milk its milk to soak cold bread for breakfast, then place some documents and magazines into a black leather bag, polish my shoes until they gleamed, and stride across the shadows of poplar trees lining the avenue on my way to the city office.

The translucent winds of Ihatov, the blue sky holding coldness at its core even in summer, Moriō City adorned with beautiful forests, the glittering waves of grass in its suburbs.

And the many people I encountered among them—Fazero and Rosaro, shepherd Miro, red-cheeked children, landowner Tēmo, Mountain Cat Doctor Bogānto Destupāgo—as I now sit contemplating within this dark colossal stone edifice, they all appear like nostalgic blue magic lantern slides from bygone days. Now, appending small headings as I once did before, I shall quietly transcribe those months from May to October of that year in Ihatov.

1. The Escaped Goat

It was the last Sunday of May. I awoke to the clamor of city church bells. The sun had already climbed high, setting everything aglitter. When I checked my watch, it showed precisely six o'clock. I pulled on my vest alone and went to inspect the goat. The shed lay hushed - only dented straw remained where those stubby horns and white beard should have been. "The General must've gone solo thanks to this splendid weather."

Half-laughing, half-muttering to myself, I surveyed everything in a sweeping glance—from the signal house ahead to the racetrack's inner field where I usually let him roam, then across the poplars to the white church tower that peeked out from the city's outskirts. Yet nowhere could I see that white head or back. I circled around the stable but still found no trace anywhere. "I wonder if goats remember their old homes or the paths they came by," I thought, "returning to them like horses or dogs do."

I thought to myself. Once that thought took hold, I became unbearably eager to know the answer immediately. However, unlike at the government office, there were neither knowledgeable elderly clerks nor any dictionaries containing such information at the racecourse. So without any particular plan, I walked halfway around the racetrack, then set off across the field along the same path where the villagers had brought the goat before.

In those fields, both oats and rye had already sprouted, and there were areas that appeared freshly dug up for planting something new. And before I knew it, I had entered the road leading southwest from the town to the village. From the opposite direction came a great number of farmers' wives in black kimonos with white cloths draped over their heads walking this way. I realized this and thought I should turn back already. I had rushed out exactly as I had gotten up—wearing only a vest, face unwashed, hatless—into the middle of that vast field where I didn't even know whether the goat was present. But by then, the prospect of turning back had already become rather awkward. The people from ahead were nearly close enough for their faces to be visible. I resolutely walked up briskly, bowed, and inquired.

“Might a goat have wandered over this way by any chance?” The women all came to a halt. They appeared to be heading to church, Bibles in hand. “A goat has wandered over this way—have you seen it by any chance?” They exchanged glances among themselves before one answered. “Well now, we’ve come straight along this road ourselves.” Of course—when goats stray, they don’t keep to paths like people do. I bowed courteously.

"Oh, no—thank you anyway." The women went away. I ought to head back—but turning around now would mean overtaking those women again. Well, I might as well continue a bit further as if taking a stroll—though this was becoming a thoroughly aimless stroll indeed—and found myself laughing involuntarily. At that moment, a young man in his mid-twenties and a child of about seventeen came walking from the opposite direction, shouldering a shovel. There was nothing else to do. I would ask them perfunctorily. I bowed once more.

“A goat has wandered over this way—have you seen it by any chance?” “A goat? No. “Did it run off while you were walking it?” “No, it escaped from the shed. “Oh, no—thank you anyway.”

I bowed and started walking again. Then the child spoke up from behind. “Oh, someone’s coming from over there.” “I wonder if that’s it.” I turned around and looked in the direction that had been pointed out. “That’s Fazero—but wait, could that be a goat?” “It’s a goat.” “Ah, that must be it!” “There’s no way Fazero would be walking around with a goat at this hour—he’s got no reason to.”

That was indeed a goat. However, it might have been a different one being taken to town for sale. Well, I thought I would go as far as that guidepost and see—so I moved in that direction. A ruddy-cheeked child of about seventeen wearing only a vest approached me laughing, holding the end of a leather strap fastened around the neck of what looked like my female goat. Though it did appear to be mine, I stopped while wondering what to say. Then the child too came to a halt and bowed to me.

“This goat’s yours, right?” “It does seem that way, yes.”

“When I came out, it was wandering all alone.” “Do goats also remember a path they’ve walked once, like dogs?” “Of course they do! There you go. Here you go.” “Ah, thank you so much. I came looking without even washing my face, you know.” “Did you come all the way from there?” “Ah, I’m at the racecourse, you see.” “From there?” While removing the leather strap from the goat’s neck, the child looked at the row of faintly bluish acacia trees shimmering in the heat haze beyond the field.

“You’ve come quite a long way, haven’t you?”

“Ah, well, I’ll be heading this way then. “Goodbye.”

“Ah, wait a second. I want to give you something, but I don’t have anything, you know.” “No, I don’t need anything. Bringing back the goat was interesting enough.” “But I just can’t leave it at that. Oh right—you don’t need this chain.” While thinking I could manage without a watch chain, I removed the silver one. “No.” “It has a magnet attached too.”

Then the child's face flushed crimson, but soon resumed its usual composure, "It's no use—you can't find it with a magnet," he murmured distractedly.

“You can’t find it with a magnet?” I asked, startled. “Yeah.” The child became slightly flustered, as if something he had been concealing within his heart had been seen. “What are you trying to find?” The child hesitated for a while, but finally seemed to make up his mind and said.

“Polano’s Square.”

“Polano’s Square? Hmm, I think I’ve heard of that.” “What was it again, Polano’s Square?” “It’s an old story, but it’s been around again lately.” “Ah, right! I heard about it many times when I was little too.” “It must be that place in the middle of the field where festivals are held.” “I suppose you go counting the numbers on those white clover flowers.” “Ah, that’s the old story.” “But it seems like it’s been around lately too, you know.”

“Why?” “Because when we go out into the field at night, we hear those sounds somewhere.” “Why don’t you go toward where the sounds are coming from?” “We went together many times, but we always end up getting lost.” “But if you can hear it, it shouldn’t be that far away, right?” “But the plains of Ihatov are vast, you know.” “On foggy days, even Miro would get lost, you know.” “That may be so, but there’s also the map, you see.”

“There’s a map of the field?” “Ah, it must spread across about four sheets, you see.” “If you look at that map, can you see everything—the roads, the woods, all of it?” “It might be somewhat outdated, but you could generally make sense of it. So then, shall I buy that map and send it to you as thanks?” “Yeah.” The child blushed and said.

“So you’re called Fazero, then? How should I write the address?” “I’ll find time and come to your place.” “If it’s about time, today would work.” “I’ve got work.”

“But today is Sunday, isn’t it?” “No, I don’t have Sundays.”

“Why?” “But I gotta work.” “Is this work yours?” “At the master’s. Everyone’s already gone into the ridges. They’re weeding the wheat fields.”

"So you're employed at the master's place, then." "Yeah." "What about your parents?" "None." "Do you have an older brother or someone?" "I have a sister." "Where is she?" "She's still at the master's place." "I see..." "But my sister might end up going to the Mountain Cat Doctor's place." "What's that? This 'Mountain Cat Doctor'—" "It's a nickname. His real name is Destupago."

“Destupago? You mean Bogānto Destupāgo?” "The one who's the prefectural assembly member?" “Yes.”

“He’s a bad guy. Is his house around here?” “Ah, from my master’s place, you can see it…” “Hey! What are you dawdling around for?” A loud voice came from behind. When I looked, there stood an elderly but sturdy-looking farmer wearing a red hat, holding a leather whip in his hand, furious. “I came thinking you might’ve worked another stretch by now, but here you are still standing around yapping. Get to work already.”

“Okay then, goodbye.” “Ah, goodbye then. I’m always back from the office by five-thirty.” “Yeah.”

Fazero, carrying a water bottle and hoe, hurriedly entered the opposite road. The farmer now spoke to me. "I don’t know who you are or where you’re from, but from now on I’ll thank you not to meddle in my business." "Well, you see—when my goat ran away and I came searching for it, that child had brought it back, so I was simply expressing my thanks." "No need for that. "A goat, you see, has legs and walks around." "Hey Fazero, run along! You idiot, run along I said!"

The farmer turned his face bright red, raised his hand, and snapped the leather whip with a crack. "Using a leather whip on people—isn't that rather violent?" The farmer deliberately thrust his face forward and said: "This whip here? "Are you referring to this whip? "This whip here, you see, isn't for using on people. "It's a whip for driving horses. "There's four horses gone over there, you see. "Look—like this."

The farmer snapped his whip fiercely right in front of my face. I felt a sudden rush of blood to my head. But then, deciding now wasn't the time for confrontation, I turned my gaze toward the goat. The goat had made its way off into the distance, grazing here and there as it went. The farmer went in the direction Fazero had gone, and I too started walking toward the goat. When I caught up to the goat and looked back, the entire field was shimmering with a glistening heat haze that stretched to the indigo horizon, and all the farmers' red headscarves swayed in chaotic disarray. In the even more intense heat haze beyond that, I saw a farm tool glinting white, a horse walking like a black shadow puppet, and what looked like Fazero—or perhaps another child—waving his hands vigorously to move the horse.

II. The Light of the White Clover

Then, about ten days later, in the evening, as I returned from the office and was taking off my cuffs with both hands, suddenly Fazero poked his head through the doorway. And while I was still startled, he said, “It’s finally come—tonight.” “Ah, thank you for earlier,” I said. “I’ve got the map all prepared. Do you still hear that sound from before?” “You bet. Last night was really bad,” he replied. “Tonight I just had to go searching no matter what, so I came out here with Miro the shepherd—just the two of us.”

“Is everything ready on my end?”

“Yeah.” Fazero answered somewhat vaguely. “Your master is quite a fearsome person, isn’t he? What do they call him?” “Tēmo.” “Tēmo... That name does sound familiar after all.” “You might have heard. Because he’s been supplying fruits and vegetables and such to various government offices.” “I see... “Anyway, here’s the map.”

I spread out the map I had purchased and kept by the doorway. “Can I call Miro too?”

“Is someone here? Of course.” “Miro, come here. Let’s look at the map.” Then from the goat shed emerged a young man about three years older than Fazero, wearing proper work pants and a tattered blue leather jacket, with a handsome face, who bowed to me. “Hmm, I’m not very good with maps. Which way is west?” “The top is north. Go ahead and set it like that.” Fazero aligned the map with the outside scenery and placed it on the floor.

“Here’s east and here’s west. Where we are now is right here—this rounded part of the racecourse.” “Which one’s the dry distillation plant?” Miro said. “The dry distillation plant isn’t on this map. Maybe it’s over here?” I spread out another one. “It’s not here either. When was it built?” “Since last year.” “That explains it—this map was surveyed way before that. What kind of location is the factory in?”

“It’s at the edge of Murad Forest.”

“Ah, this must be it. What kind of tree is this? Oak or birch, perhaps? It’s not larch or cypress, is it?” “They’re oak and birch. Ah, this here—I think... I really believe the sound last night came from there.” “Let’s go, let’s go! Let’s go check it out.” Fazero had already grabbed the map and sprung up. “May I come along too?” “Of course! I was wanting to say that myself.” “Then I’ll come along too. Wait a moment.”

I hurriedly prepared. Even though the moon would be out, I thought we still might not see the map, so I also took a glass-cased lantern. “Alright, let’s go.”

I shut the door firmly and took my place behind Fazero and Miro. The sun had already set, and the sky had turned blue like an ancient pond. The grass there and the acacia trees appeared their bluest at that time of day.

We had already crossed the middle of the racecourse and were entering the small path leading straight to the field. When I looked back, my house was shining quite small and yellow. "What do they say is at Polano's Square if you go there?" Following Miro, I asked Fazero. "They say there's orchestras and wine and everything there." "I don't wanna drink wine or anything, but I wanna take everyone there."

“You did say that, didn’t you? I heard such things too when I was little.” “And most importantly, they say if you go there, anyone can learn to sing well.” “Yes, yes, I did say that.” “But does such a thing still truly exist now?”

“But you can hear it, can’t you?” “I don’t need anything else, but I want to sing well.” “Hey.” “Miro feels the same way, right?” “Yeah,” Miro nodded. I had always thought that Miro was actually quite a skilled singer to begin with. “When I was little, I always went out to play in the fields around this time,” said Fazero.

“Hmm, is that so?” “Then Mother would say, ‘Go ahead and go,’ warning me not to be tricked by the owls.” “What did she say?” “Mother, you see, would say, ‘Go ahead and go,’ warning me not to be tricked by the owls.” “By owls?”

“Yeah, the owls. “Well, when I was even younger—I mean, really little like this—I went out to the field. Then in the distance, there was something going, ‘Who got eaten? Who got eaten?’ That was the owls, you see. Because I was a foolish little kid back then, I just charged ahead. And I went into the woods, got lost, and cried. And from then on, Mother would always say that, you see.”

“Where is your mother now?” I quietly asked, recalling what had happened before. “She’s gone.” Fazero said sadly. “The other day, you said your sister might go to Destupago’s place, didn’t you?” “Yeah, Sister doesn’t want to go. But master says to go.” “Is it Tēmo?” “Yeah, master’s scared of the Mountain Cat Doctor, you see.”

“Why do they call him the Mountain Cat Doctor?”

“I don’t really understand. Does Miro know?” “Yeah,” Miro said, turning toward us. “They say he’s in the business of catching mountain cats and peddling them to foreign countries.” “Mountain cats? So it’s a zoo business?” “Nah, it’s not a zoo.” Miro too fell silent as if he didn’t know. By then, it had already grown completely dark around us, with only the western horizon glowing blue like the light from an old pond’s water, and the grass there had turned a bluish-black.

“Oh, the white clover flowers are glowing!” Fazero shouted. Indeed, within the dark thicket ahead, small round white clover flowers resembling lanterns lined up here and there, and the entire area was filled with a thick, stifling honey-like fragrance.

“That light, you see—when you look up close, it’s really a cluster of bluish-white lights shaped like tiny moths.”

“Hmm, I thought it was just a single sign.”

“Look, see? Right? They have numbers on them.”

We squatted down and looked at the flowers. Indeed, each flower bore small tea-colored markings that resembled Arabic numerals.

“Miro, what’s yours?” “1,256... No—maybe 17,058.” “Mine’s 3,420…6.” “Is it really written that clearly?” Try as I might, I simply couldn’t make them out so clearly. But the glow of the flowers had already spread everywhere around us, filling that entire space here and there. “Three thousand eight hundred sixty-six. If we just count up to five thousand, Polano’s Square should be right around here.”

“But there’s absolutely none of that nice sound you all were talking about, is there?” “You’ll hear it soon enough. This one’s 2556.” “Counting those numbers will never work.” Finally, I said. “Why?” Fazero and Miro both stood straight and were looking at me. “First of all, I don’t believe those numbers are actually written on the flowers—it must be my eyes playing tricks. If the sound truly does start coming through soon, I think heading straight toward it would be best. Anyway, let’s just keep moving further ahead for now. After all, I’ve come around here often enough. This area still hasn’t even reached as far north as that fork in the road. Mūrādo’s Forest must still be quite a ways ahead. Hey, Mr. Miro.”

“It’s still quite a ways ahead indeed.” “Well then, let’s go. Let’s head further ahead and check the numbers on the flowers.” “After all, they’re still around two or three thousand.” Miro nodded and started walking. Fazero also followed silently. We moved steadily through the field ahead, our bluish-white light fully illuminating the strange striped plain that lay before us like some wondrous fabric. At the pitch-black horizon’s edge, the sky gradually turned the dull hue of steel as small stars began appearing one by one, while the air grew sweeter still. When I noticed our shadows falling forward unnaturally, I turned to look behind—oh! From within Moriō City’s distant haze of murky lamplight, the sixteenth-day moon hung peculiarly flattened and blue, peering out halfway. We cried out involuntarily. Fazero leaped up with both hands raised as if greeting it.

Suddenly, in the dimly pale field beyond, something like the quiver of a cello or bass arose quietly. “There, see? There!” Fazero tapped my hand.

I too stood straight and strained my ears. The sound trembled quietly, quietly, like a whisper. But as for which direction it was coming from—I stood dumbfounded. Now whether south, west, north, or even the direction we had come from—when I listened with that thought—even beneath the ground, rising and falling, joyfully, joyfully, the sound was ringing. There didn’t seem to be just one or two of them either. Now flickering out, now tangling together, now merging into one—it was truly indescribable.

“It’s exactly like the stories from long ago say. I’ve become completely lost now.” “The numbers around here are still about two thousand three hundred.” Fazero examined the clover flowers’ glowing lights under the now brighter moonlight before speaking.

“Numbers can’t be trusted,” I said. I crouched down. At that moment, I saw a small black bee moving from one glowing flower to another. “Ah! Look—those vibrations we’ve been hearing? The moon’s come out, so the bees have started working.” “See? The whole field’s full of them now.” I thought this would settle matters, but Miro and Fazero stayed silent, refusing to concede.

“Hey, it’s the bees, right? That’s why we couldn’t tell where they were all coming from in the field.”

Miro finally spoke.

“That’s not it. If it’s bees, I’ve known about them forever. But last night I could hear people’s laughter clear as day—even their deep booming voices.” “People’s laughter—those thick, rumbling voices.”

“Nah.” “Hmm, is that right?” I became confused again and stood up with my arms crossed.

At that moment. In the far northwest of the field, boom—there unmistakably came the sound of a trombone or bass. I turned firmly in that direction. Then from the western direction as well, it could be heard. I involuntarily shuddered. Whether someone had cast a spell over the entire field, or else—as the old tales said—the mysteriously joyful Polano’s Square truly formed at noon in what should be an empty plain, I found that my daytime activities at the government office—attaching labels to specimens and carrying documents to the director’s office—had come to seem like things from another world entirely.

“So there really is something here after all, I wonder.” “There is. But this still isn’t the place yet, you see.” “If we can’t tell directions at all like this, we’ll have to follow the numbered markers like in the old legends after all—but just how far do we need to count before reaching Polano’s Square?”

“Five thousand.” “Five thousand? What number did you say this place was again?” “About three thousand.”

"Then should we check whether the numbers increase if we go north or if we go west?"

At that moment.

“Ha ha ha!” “You lot wanna go to Polano’s Square too?”

There was someone laughing loudly behind us. “What’s this, you old Mountain Cat Coachman?” Miro said.

“So you three’ve been crawling around counting those glowing numbers, huh? Ha ha ha!” The bent-legged, one-eyed old man kept his hands stuffed in his coat pockets as he laughed again. “We’re counting them all right,” Fazero pressed on. “Then tell me—does Polano’s Square still exist now?” “Oh it exists,” the coachman sneered. “But not your precious crawling-through-flowers-and-counting-numbers sort of Square. That kind’s long gone.”

“Then what kind is there?”

“There’s a better kind.” “What kind is it?”

“Well, you lot have no business with that.” The old man cleared his throat sharply.

“Do you go there often, old man?”

“It ain’t like I never go—it’s a fine place, after all.” “Old man, you’re drunk tonight, huh?” “Ah, ’cause I had some premium straw wine.” The old man cleared his throat sharply again. “Couldn’t we go there too?” “Ain’t goin’! Ah, ain’t goin’! Devil’s got me at last!” The old man clutched his forehead and staggered. A beetle flew in and seemed to collide with him. Miro said.

“Old man, if you tell me which way Polano’s Square is, I’ll sing you a devil’s song.” “Ain’t no damn good luck in that. Well, why don’t you just keep crawlin’ around some more.” The old man, fuming with anger, strode briskly across the clover field and headed off to the south. “Old man! Wait up! I’ll take your horse to cool it down again!” “Wait up!” “I’ll take your horse to cool it down again!” Fazero shouted, but the old man kept going. Miro remained silent for a while but finally seemed unable to contain himself,

“Hey, I’ll sing now,” he declared. Fazero did not seem to be in the mood for that, but I had long thought Miro must be a good singer, so I clapped my hands. Miro unbuttoned his coat and shirt buttons and took a small breath. “The wild boar warrior’s rhinoceros beetle, The moonlight and the white clover flowers’ Nor do the kindled lights reach their eyes. Blindly flying in colliding with the Mountain Cat Coachman”

Panicking and swaying unsteadily, Barely catching itself from falling, Hurriedly refastening its helmet, The moonlight and the white clover's Nor do the kindled lights reach their eyes. "It flies off in a direction it shouldn’t."

However, from the direction where the old man had gone came a thin, high-pitched voice: "Fazero, Fazero," it seemed to call. “Ah, Sis! I’m coming now!” Fazero turned toward it and shouted loudly. The voice beyond fell silent.

“It’s no use—the master must be calling.” “We should’ve gone to check the forest sooner.” Miro suddenly became animated and spoke rapidly.

“It’s okay. I’ve always thought there was something fishy about that coachman and the old man from the dried goods store. Lately they’re always drunk—those guys definitely know about Polano’s Square. Plus I’ve come across carts loaded with dead grass in weird ways out in the fields plenty of times. Fazero, you listen—pretend you don’t know anything and go home to sleep tonight. I’ll definitely find Polano’s Square within five or six days.”

“Is that so? I don’t really get it.”

At that moment, a voice sounded again. “Fazero, come here. You have to go to town on an errand.” “Ah, I’m coming now. I’m heading straight to the master’s place, but can you get back to the racecourse alone?” “Of course I can go back! I come around here often during the day. Then I’ll give you the map.” “Yeah, let’s give it to Miro. I don’t have time to come to the field during the day.” At that moment, amidst the white clover flowers and moonlight, a beautiful girl stood. Fazero said.

“Sis, this person here.” “I got the map.”

The girl did not come over here and silently bowed. I also bowed silently. “Well, goodbye—I gotta hurry now.”

Fazero started running. Rosaro greeted us once more and then hurried after him. Miro silently turned north and cupped his hand to his ear. I remarked, thinking that Polano's Square was exactly what this place should be called as it was, and that both the coachman and Miro still hadn't woken from their dream. "Miro, you're quite the singer." "You don't need to go all the way to Polano's Square just to learn." "Well then, goodbye."

Miro bowed politely. I then made my way back toward my home through that beautiful field, filling my chest with the scent of honey as I went.

III. Polano’s Square

It was exactly five days later, on a Tuesday evening. That day, having grown terribly irritated after vehemently arguing with colleagues at the government office about whether to taxidermize the dead polar bear, I was drinking tartaric acid dissolved in cold water to settle my nerves when I heard a piercing whistle in the far distance. The cadence unmistakably matched Fazero's characteristic rhythm when bringing his goat or hastening through the fields, and before I knew it, I muttered, "It's finally come."

It was Fazero after all. Before I could finish drinking that cup of tartaric acid mixture, he was already standing at the doorway, his face bright red. “I get it—finally. I’ve put full directional markers along last night’s path. You can tell even by looking at the map. Tonight we can definitely reach Polano’s Square without fail. Miro’s been there since daytime and promised to come meet us. I’ll go check—if it’s really there, tomorrow I’ll take everyone there without fail.”

I too was swept up, my heart leaping.

“Is that so? I’ll go too. What should I wear when going? I wonder what sort of people have come.” “What does it matter how you’re dressed? Let’s hurry. I don’t even know who’s there.”

I hurriedly tied my necktie, put on my new summer hat, and went outside.

When we reached the place where we had previously parted, the evening's blue light was faintly spilling over the white clover flowers, and the claw-mark-like patterns on their leaves had already begun fading from view. Fazero stood on tiptoe and looked around for a while, but suddenly ran off in that direction. After some time had passed, Fazero came to an abrupt stop.

“Ah, this is it! See?” When I looked, there stood something Fazero must have made—a pole set up with a cardboard arrow on top pointing northwest. “Come on, we’re going this way. "You can see two small birch trees over there." “That’s our next mark.” “Let’s go quickly before it gets dark.” Fazero broke into a run. True enough, the white clover flowers there had already begun glowing. I ran after Fazero again.

“Let’s go, let’s go! If that Mountain Cat’s Coachman spots us, it’ll be trouble.” Fazero looked back and kept running while saying this. Yet reaching the two birch trees we’d seen earlier proved no quick matter. Fazero ran fiercely. I too ran with genuine resolve. When we finally arrived there and Fazero stopped, the surroundings had turned fully to night, the birch trees now jet-black silhouettes against the sky.

The white clover flowers shone with contrasting brightness, as if truly fashioned from quartz lamps. Upon closer inspection—just as we had all discussed the previous night—each marker consisted of small white moth-shaped illuminations that glittered magnificently. Here and there stood tall crimson lights burning crisply, each stem adorned with crisp green leaves. Fazero swiftly scaled the birch tree. After surveying the western field for some time, he suddenly swung down from the branch and leapt to the ground.

“I can’t see the next marker anymore. But since Polano’s Square must lie exactly due west from here, let’s walk using that faintly bright patch in the clouds as our guide. It shouldn’t be much farther now.”

We started walking again. Suddenly, from somewhere, came a multitude of sounds—like the steel wings of beetles clanging as if stretched taut across the sky. Amidst that noise, we caught intermittent traces of different instruments and the clamor of people’s voices, only for them to dissolve again into indistinctness.

After walking for a while, Fazero suddenly stopped, grabbed my arm, and pointed to the western edge of the field. I peered in that direction, staggered, and rubbed my eyes. There, seven or eight trees of some kind were glowing blue as if emitting light from their very bodies, making the surrounding sky dimly bright.

“Fazero?”

Suddenly, a voice called out from ahead.

“Ah, you came,” “How goes it?” “We’re managing,” “It’s properly lively,” “Seems the Mountain Cat Doctor’s come too.” “Mountain Cat Doctor?” Fazero appeared to stiffen. “Still, let’s go together,” “Polano’s Square lets in any who’ve found it—that’s the rule.”

“Alright, let’s go.” Fazero declared clearly.

We walked toward that light.

Both Miro and Fazero seemed deeply troubled about something. They had fallen utterly silent. Then it was my turn to feel energy surging through me. Was there truly something here matching the old tales? Could this be something else entirely? What business did the Mountain Cat Doctor have coming here? I became absolutely compelled to go investigate. Particularly since that day I still retained over half my remaining salary - even if payment became necessary, I judged I could easily afford to treat both Fazero and Miro.

“Alright, this time, you follow me. There’s absolutely nothing scary about the Mountain Cat Doctor.” I now stood at the very front and hurried briskly. The sound of beetles’ wings grew ever louder as each branch of the blue tree became clearly visible. Under the trees, white shirts and black shadows darted about among figures coming and going. I could see someone raising a hand and saying something.

As we drew nearer, I thought this must indeed be the real Polano’s Square. The blue one from earlier was a rather large alder tree, with numerous tinsel garlands hung from its treetop that made even its leaves sparkle and sway. Above it, various butterflies and moths formed lines swirling round and round in circles. In the beautiful summer sky, the Milky Way now began shifting from where we'd come toward that side, while near the southern pitch-black horizon it appeared faintly white like an explosion. The scent of white clover mingled with various fruits; amid everyone's laughter, they soon formed groups and began dancing. Though there seemed only seven or eight people, a genuine orchestra started playing a cheerful waltz. When they finished circling through the dance once, everyone scattered to grab cups. They gulped their drinks while shouting boisterously—whether imagined or real, their cries sounded like cheers of 'Long live Destupago!'

"That must be the Mountain Cat Doctor." Fazero pointed at a broad-shouldered man sitting alone at a table across the way—a man in a yellow striped shirt and red leather jacket, gulping down liquor. Six or seven people threw confetti and strings that glittered like snow and flowers as they fluttered down around us. We now came to the front of the square and stopped. Just then Destupago stood up with a glass.

“Hey waiter, why aren’t you pouring me any wine?”

Then a waiter in a white uniform hurriedly rushed over. “Yes yes, most terribly sorry. Since you were seated there, it completely slipped my mind.”

“Whether seated or standing, I remain myself!” “Ah, that’s enough.” “Gentlemen, I presume you mean to toast to me.” “There there, Pr-pr-prosit!”

At that, everyone drank it down. I was so intimidated that I even thought about leaving, but since I had said such things to Fazero and the others earlier, I couldn't stand there or flee. Resolving to let come what may, I led the two in, removing my hat as we entered the light. Then everyone suddenly stopped their commotion and looked at us with suspicious expressions. Then they looked toward Destupago.

Then Destupago tilted his head slightly in thought. He seemed to have seen me before but couldn’t quite place me. Then a man in a summer frock coat went to his side and whispered something. Destupago gave me a displeased glance before nodding reluctantly. Then, sure enough, Tēmo arrived wearing a frock coat. That Tēmo brought three glass cups with handles and silently handed them over, starting with me, then Miro, then Fazero. He glared silently while handing it to Fazero. Fazero recoiled. The waiter tried to pour from a large unlabeled bottle beside him—the same liquor everyone had been drinking. I spoke up.

“Well, we don’t drink alcohol, so give us carbonated water instead.” “There’s no carbonated water,” the waiter said. “Then just give me plain water,” I said. For some reason, everyone fell completely silent and stared at us so intently it felt like their gazes might bore holes through us. I too became somewhat embarrassed. “Oh, Lord Destupago doesn’t serve water to people,” Tēmo said.

"I'm not here for hospitality. In the middle of the field, at Polano's Square where I counted clover lights, I'm thirsty and want water." With no retreat possible now, I resolved, and stated clearly. "Clover lights? Ha ha ha!" Tēmo burst into laughter. Destupago laughed too. Everyone followed with laughter. "Polano's Square too—regrettably—belongs to Lord Destupago." Tēmo said quietly. Then the Mountain Cat Doctor spoke.

“Alright, alright, if they want water so badly, let them have it. But whenever this water-drinking crowd shows up, Polano’s Square loses a bit of its luster, doesn’t it?” “Yes, sir.” Tēmo bowed, then whispered to Fazero: “Fazero, what are you doing here? Get lost. When we get back, I’ll thrash you till you can’t stand—remember that.” Fazero recoiled again.

“What’s that child?” Destupago asked. “He is Rosaro’s brother.” Tēmo bowed and answered. Then Destupago turned away without replying. At that moment, the band began playing something resembling a folk song. Everyone began forming a circle to dance again. Then Destupago— “Hey now, scrap that one—play me that number called Cat’s Whiskers.”

Then the person holding the cello from the band said, "We don't have the sheet music for that piece right now." Then Destupago, who was already quite drunk, "I said do it—do it, do it!" he barked.

The band reluctantly began playing Cat’s Whiskers, all using the same score. Everyone also reluctantly began to dance. Then Destupago also started dancing. Instead of dancing together with everyone, he deliberately moved around to get in everyone’s way.

Everyone, exasperated, gradually stopped and ended up standing in a circle around Destupago. Then Destupago began dancing all alone in a clownish manner. In the end, he would stride forward as if about to trample over everyone, then suddenly leap up like someone picking a fight, and each time, the crowd would scatter in a flurry. The gentleman in the summer frock coat from earlier tried to say something while anxiously wringing his hands, but Destupago intimidated even that into silence. The band reluctantly kept going for a while but finally stopped in exasperation. Then Destupago too sat down in his chair as if exhausted,

“Hey, pour!” he said while gulping down two more cups in quick succession.

Then two figures who appeared to be Miro's companions came out and said to Miro.

“Hey Miro, you came all this way—at least sing us one song.” “They’ve been singing and dancing since earlier—they’re worn out.”

Miro shook off their hands with a "No," though truth be told he'd come wanting to sing from the very start—and when he braced himself to accompany the band should they begin playing, his face turned full rose-colored, eyes gleaming and breath turning frantic. I found myself blurting out unbidden— "Go on then—do it properly!" Then Miro finally steeled himself, suddenly baring his throat as he climbed onto an empty crate beneath the beech tree.

“What shall we play?” The cellist asked with a laugh. “Please perform Florentry.” “Florentry... We don’t have the sheet music for that one. And it’s such an old song.” The band members laughed, exchanged glances, and conferred briefly among themselves— “Well then—since only the clarinetist knows it—we’ll have the clarinet and drum keep time. If that suits you, please join in singing from the second verse.”

Everyone clapped their hands. Tēmo tilted his head as if making an effort to listen. The band played. Miro began to sing. "Around six this morning at Waltrawara Pass,

When I tried to cross Waltrawara Pass,

The morning mist was just beginning to dissipate at that moment, A single chestnut tree Was emitting a radiant aura

I sit on a rock at the summit, As I begin gnawing my morning hardtack, The chestnut tree suddenly starts shaking— What comes down are two electric squirrels.

"I hurriedly…" "Hey now, you can't go making mistakes like that." Mountain Cat Doctor suddenly began shouting.

“What the—?” Miro said, dumbfounded.

“There’s no way electric squirrels were at Waltrawara Pass this morning—that must’ve been a weasel’s blunder. You ought to put more thought into your songs.” “That doesn’t matter one bit!” Miro angrily stepped down from the platform. Then Mountain Cat Doctor stood up.

“This time I’ll show you how it’s done!” “Hey band, play ‘In thegood summer time.’” The band members, having apparently played this tune many times before, began together immediately. Mountain Cat Doctor began singing surprisingly well. “On evenings when white clover flowers bloom, Polan's Square's summer festival Polan's Square's summer festival Without drinking alcohol They drink water When such people come out, Polan's Square too will dawn Polan's Square too fades to white.”

Fazero was on the verge of tears and listening in silence, but as soon as the song ended, he rushed up to the platform before I could catch him.

“I will sing. To the same tune.”

The band began playing again. Mountain Cat Doctor, “Well now, this has turned into quite the spectacle,” he said while taking two more big gulps from his large glass. Fazero began to sing with all his might. “On nights when white clover flowers scent the air, Polan’s Square’s summer festival”

Polan's Square's summer festival The Mountain Cat with a nasty drinking habit In a yellow shirt / When he goes out, Polan's Square / Rain falls "Upon Polan's Square / The rain descends."

Destupago now stood up indignantly. "What insolence! A duel, I say! A duel!"

I too instinctively stood up and shielded Fazero from behind. “Don’t talk nonsense! You’re the one who started slinging insults first.” “Since when does anyone duel a child?!” “I’ll take you on myself.” “Hmph—this isn’t your stage to hog.” “Stay out of it!” “This brat insulted me—an honorable prefectural assemblyman!” “That’s exactly why I challenged this whelp to a duel!”

“No—you’re the one who started insulting me! I challenge you to a duel! Damn it all—you’ve been strutting around like you own the whole damn field since this began! Now choose—pistol or sword!” Then Destupago suddenly gulped down his drink.

Ah, Fazero will be fine. This guy’s really weak.

I laughed quietly to myself. Sure enough, Destupago began shouting in a hollow voice.

“Shut your mouth! You don’t even know the formalities of a duel.”

“Alright. A coward who can’t even talk without guzzling booze deserves nothing better than a child for an opponent. Hey Fazero, give ’em hell! This guy’s nothing but a field caterpillar. I’ve got your back—go beat that bastard to a pulp!” “Alright! Hey, someone be my second!”

At that moment, the summer-frocked man from earlier appeared. “Now now, there’s no need for you to trouble yourself with such a child,” he said. “Tonight is an important occasion—please.” Then the Mountain Cat Doctor suddenly struck the man.

“Shut up! "I know that already! “Shut up and stay put! “Hey! Someone be my second! “Tēmo.” “Yes. “Please forgive me. "I will deal with him properly later.”

“Shut up! Hey, Kurōno! You handle this!” A man who looked like a farmer and was called Kurōno “Well, this ain’t for me,” he said, retreating behind everyone. “Coward! Hey Pōsho—you handle this!” “Ain’t no way I can do this.” Destupago finally flew into a rage. “Fine! I don’t need any seconds. “Now get ready.” “You hurry up and get ready too.” I said to Fazero while having him remove his jacket.

“Bring whatever you like—a sword or a cannon!” “Pick whichever one you want.” "Where would such things even be?" I said while thinking. “Alright, you there—waiter! Bring two swords.”

Then the waiter said as if he had been waiting for this. “We don’t have any swords out here in this field.” “Would knives be acceptable instead?” Then Destupago, while appearing relieved,

“Fine! Bring them here!” he barked in a booming voice. “Very well, sir.” The waiter brought two dinner knives and deferentially handed them to Destupago. It was exactly like a theatrical performance, I thought. Yet Destupago was meticulously examining both blades. Then, “Take whichever one you want,” he said, handing both knives to Fazero.

Fazero immediately threw one of them back at Destupago's feet. Destupago picked it up. At that point, I stepped forward into the center.

“Listen carefully. We’ll follow duel protocols. No grappling allowed. One, two, three, go!” As it turned out, Destupago gripped his short knife like a sword and desperately thrust at Fazero’s chest while retreating backward; Fazero, gripping the hilt as if holding a dagger, aimed for Destupago’s wrist. After spinning around about three times, Destupago suddenly dropped his knife and clutched his right wrist with his left hand.

“Hey! I’m done for! Does anyone have iodoform? Don’t you have hydrogen peroxide? Finished! I’m finished!” Then he plopped heavily into the chair. I laughed.

“You certainly know about all sorts of medicines. Someone bring water here.”

However, Miro brought that water. And then, as he poured it down with a watering can—splash!—Destupago stood up drenched from his knees to his chest. And then, as if to cover up his discomfort,

“Well then, I shall take my leave. Everyone make sure you all keep it up properly!” he barked with forced vigor while bolting swiftly into the field.

Then Tēmo, the man in the summer frock, and four or five others hurriedly chased after him and were gone. When they had left, everyone suddenly became lively. “Hey, Fazero! You really pulled one over on him!” “Who on earth is this gentleman?” “He’s the person at the racecourse.” “What on earth is tonight all about?” I finally asked. “No—this Mountain Cat Bastard’s just prepping for next year’s election.” “What a clever idea—using Polano’s Square to give out free booze!”

“Since spring, they’ve been taking turns gathering everyone like this and making them drink.” “That liquor too...” “Don’t talk about that. “Come on, let’s have a drink!” “No, we will not drink.”

“Oh, come now. Have a drink.” I became unbearably sick of it all. "Hey, Fazero. Let's go. Let's get out of here."

I abruptly started running into the field. Fazero immediately followed. The crowd continued clamoring noisily behind us. Anew, the band began to play. The sound of someone’s speech could also be heard. The two of us hurried through the glow of white clover flowers, aiming for the faint light of Moriō City in the distance.

At that moment, a blue twentieth-day moon rose quietly above the black horizontal clouds. When we looked back, both the half-tree and the lights had already grown small, the Milky Way had shifted far to the west, and Scorpius’s red star had come fully south. We soon arrived at the vicinity where the three of us had previously parted ways. “Are you going back to Tēmo’s place?” I abruptly asked. “I’m going back.” “There’s my sister.” Fazero said in a very sorrowful, urgent voice.

"Yeah." "But you'll get bullied." I said. "If I don't go, sister will get bullied even more." Fazero finally began to cry.

“Shall I go with you?” “No way.” Fazero kept crying for some time. “Would you come to my place?” “No way.” “Then what will you do?” Fazero stayed silent awhile, then suddenly straightened up and spoke. “It’s fine. I’ll be okay. “Tēmo won’t bully me that much.” I—perhaps owing to that bureaucratic habit of ours—found myself vaguely contemplating tomorrow’s office work while deciding that if Fazero said so, it must be all right.

“Then that’s settled. If anything happens, come inform me.” “Yeah... I might come ask about my sister.” “Of course.” “Well... goodbye.”

Fazero headed south, casting a long black shadow through the white clover flowers. I returned home, looking back again and again. When I entered my house, on the desk lay the evening’s tartaric acid cup exactly as I had left it, the desk lamp was shining, and the hands of the alarm clock pointed to two.

IV. Police Station

But it was two days later in the afternoon. While I was copying from an old ledger at my office desk, the attendant came and poked my shoulder, “The director said to come immediately.” I immediately set down my pen, wove through everyone’s chairs, opened the intervening door, and entered the director’s office. Then the director—holding a piece of paper and wearing an intimidating expression even before I opened the door—had been watching me, but when I stepped forward and bowed respectfully, he silently scrutinized my demeanor before wordlessly handing over that slip of paper. When I looked,

Ihatov Police No. 3256: You are hereby requested to appear before the Personnel Section of this police station today at 3:00 PM for necessary inquiry. Ihatov Police Station June 29, 1927 Leon Küst, 18th-grade Official it read. Ah, so this is about that Destupago. This should be interesting, I thought with an inward laugh. Then the director remained silent, still watching my expression, but— “Do you have any idea?” he said.

“Yes, there is.” I stood with both arms straight at my sides and answered. The director finally relaxed his expression as if relieved and glanced up at the clock, but— “Alright, go right away,” he said.

I once again bowed respectfully and left the room. Then I returned to my seat, tidied up my desk, and quietly left the office. Walking beneath the grand cherry-lined streets and arriving before the red brick police station, even I found my heart pounding a little. But since I hadn’t done anything wrong, I encouraged myself and energetically approached the reception desk right at the front entrance. “I have come as summoned. Leon Küst at your service.”

Then the officer at reception silently flipped through five or six pages of the ledger, “Ah, the missing person case. Go to the Personnel Section—enter through that left entrance over there and wait,” he said. What could this “missing person case” be about? If they meant the duel incident, I already knew that—after all, that duel had been fought with blunt-edged dinner knives, and I wasn’t even sure whether Destupago had bled from it. Thinking it must be some mistake, I entered the room. It was a desolate, spacious room with about seven windows, where in one corner sat that Mountain Cat Doctor’s coachman—his body stiffened unnaturally, wearing an intensely pale and strange expression as he waited.

“Oh, old man, good day. Were you also summoned?” I went over to his side and greeted him with a laugh. Then the old man stood up—pacing restlessly as though searching for an escape route, as if fearing what misfortune might befall him from conversing with such a villain—and plopped back down heavily. “Is your master not present?” I asked again. “He ain’t here.” The old man finally spoke, but then began trembling violently.

“What on earth has happened?” I asked, still laughing. “She’s bein’ questioned now.” “Who?” I asked in surprise. “Rosaro.” “Rosaro, why?” I had become completely serious. “Because Fazero’s gone missing.”

“Fazero?” Involuntarily, I let out a loud cry.

Ah, so something must have happened to Fazero on his way home that night... “You are not to speak.”

Suddenly, the inner door opened with a clatter. “Summoned persons are not permitted to converse with each other. Hey, you—get in here and stay put.” The old man was called and staggered to his feet, going into the next room. Having been told this, I realized that in the next room, Rosaro did indeed seem to be undergoing questioning by someone—and I also became aware that I had been faintly sensing her repeating something over and over in a quiet voice for some time now. I felt as though my chest was constricted.

Fazero was gone, Fazero was gone—bearing that indescribable severity of mood lingering after struggling and prevailing beneath the blue half-moon's light, Fazero had cast a long, long shadow across the whitish-blue glow of clover flowers as he trudged dejectedly homeward. There stood Destupago in his linen summer coat with collar upturned, accompanied by three or four underlings lying in ambush. When Fazero saw them and froze, they closed in quietly with laughter. Suddenly one henchman struck Fazero down. The others swarmed over him, stomping and kicking as he flailed his arms in vain. Fazero ceased moving. Destupago trampled him mercilessly once more. "Enough! Take him away! Take him away!" Destupago barked. They stuffed him into the dry distillation plant's furnace. I shuddered and opened my eyes, having conjured this vision alone.

(Ah, why did I just go home and fall asleep that time? Why, at that hour when I should have been unable to sit still or stand still, did I succumb to sleep in some incomprehensible manner? And that gentle, beautiful Rosaro was now in the next room being threatened and having a sickle held to her.) I could no longer bear it and walked round and round the room several times. Outside the window beyond the cherry tree, various people came and went. I couldn't endure feeling that every single person passing by might be Destupago or Fazero. When a boy wearing a deep bird-hunting hat passed by, I thought Fazero might be sneaking through there, and when I saw a stout person, I imagined Destupago had deliberately disguised himself like that to spy on the situation. Suddenly my head went numb. In the next room came a faint sound of sobbing, then someone shouted something like "What's this?" while threateningly stomping their foot heavily. I nearly opened the door and tried to rush in. Then it fell silent again for a while, but soon the door handle clattered weakly as it turned, and Rosaro emerged with wide eyes, staggering unsteadily.

I found myself at a complete loss for words, utterly flustered. Then Rosaro silently bowed and quietly passed before me to go outside. When I regained my composure, I realized I had been watching a man who appeared to be the inspector or a police officer from earlier emerge from the door and follow after Rosaro. When I looked that way, the face withdrew and the door shut. Inside, it now seemed the Mountain Cat Doctor's coachman was being questioned—every time someone barked a loud command, the coachman's trembling voice could be heard. I tried to collect my thoughts thoroughly during that time, but everything became jumbled and I simply couldn't manage it. In any case, having concluded that fully confessing and telling everything to the officials was best, I had now settled down and was sitting still. Then before long, the same door clattered open, and the Mountain Cat Doctor's coachman emerged deathly pale and staggering unsteadily.

“Are you the 18th-rank official, Mr. Leon Küst?” The same man reappeared at the door and said. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Then, this way.”

I entered. There was another man who appeared to be an inspector—with an imposing beard and documents spread across the desk before him—blinking rapidly as if he had just yawned, looking in my direction. “Take a seat there.” I bowed courteously to the inspector and sat down.

“Are you Mr. Leon Küst?” The inspector said. “That’s correct.” “Occupation: government official. Rank: 18th-class. Age, domicile origin, current residence—is this all correct?” The inspector showed me documents bearing my name and various other details. “That’s correct.” “Now then, I will ask: where have you hidden Mr. Tēmo’s farmhand Fazero?” “The farmhand Fazero?” I tilted my head in puzzlement. “He’s a farmhand.” “Anyone sixteen or older is a farmhand, even if they’re a child.” The inspector said impatiently.

“You’re hiding Fazero somewhere.” “No, I last parted with him west of the racecourse the night before last.” “Lying about this will make you liable for criminal charges too.”

“No. At that time, the twentieth-day moon was out, and the field was full of clover light.” “How’s that supposed to be evidence? We don’t have time to write down every little thing like that.” “If you think it’s false, search wherever you like—you’ll see.” “Whether we search or not is our call. You’re the one who hid him.” “I don’t know.” “I’ll prosecute you.” “Do as you please.” The two locked eyes.

“Now then, I will inquire: under what circumstances did you become acquainted with Fazero?”

“Because Fazero caught my escaped goat for me.” “Right. When was that, and where?” “The last Sunday in May, the 27th, I believe.” “Right.” “The 27th.” “Where?” “What is that road called?” “It’s about one kilometer along the road leading from beside the church to the village.” “Right. You barged into the village garden party with Fazero on the evening of the 27th, didn’t you?” “It wasn’t exactly an intrusion.” “Because it was bright and there were various sounds, I went to take a look.”

“Then what did you do?” “Then when we said we wouldn’t drink alcohol, Tēmo became angry.” “How long have you known Tēmo?” “It was when I became acquainted with Fazero. At that time, Tēmo claimed that I had interfered with Fazero’s time to go to work and cracked a leather whip right in front of my face.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.” “At the garden party—what happened after that?” I recounted all the events that had occurred at Polano’s Square there. One of them kept writing it down rapidly. The inspector said: “Didn’t you know until just now that Fazero was missing?” “Yes.” “Can you present any evidence?” “Yes, well—if you would examine my work at the office yesterday and today, you would understand. I believed that matter had been fully resolved and was working with a clear conscience.”

“That doesn’t constitute evidence.” “Hey you—quit playing innocent already.” “Mr. Tēmo has filed a missing person report.” “Tell us his whereabouts now and we’ll handle this discreetly.” “Otherwise, this won’t end well for you.” “I genuinely know nothing.” “You may be doing your jobs—but observe my voice and expression closely.” “Doesn’t this make everything clear?” I responded tersely, irritation seeping into my tone.

Then the two men exchanged looks again. “Very well, let matters take their course,” I said again. “Why haven’t you summoned Destupago before me? No matter who considers it, Fazero’s disappearance is Destupago’s doing. Surely he wouldn’t commit murder.”

“Mr. Destupago isn’t here.” I started. Ah—perhaps Fazero had been in earnest, or maybe he’d been killed by mistake.

The inspector said. “Your testimony differs from Mr. Tēmo’s in several points.” “However, we consider that to be only natural.” “I will now read the deposition, so listen carefully to see if there are any discrepancies with what you’ve said.” One of them began to read. “There are no discrepancies.”

I answered absentmindedly while thinking about Fazero.

“Sign here.” I signed at the beginning of the document. I had grown so unbearably worried I could no longer stand it. “You may leave now.” “We’ll call you again tomorrow.” The inspector said. I could endure it no longer. “What’s happened to Fazero? Why aren’t you arresting Destupago?” “You have no right to say that.” “But what’s happened to Fazero?”

“If you’re so worried, go look for him yourself.” “Now be off with you.” The two men already seemed tired and eager to conclude matters. I rushed out of the police station—its lights now lit—in desperate haste. There at the exit’s cherry tree trunk, within the blue evening haze, Rosaro leaned dejectedly against it, gazing sorrowfully at the distant sky. I instinctively hurried toward her.

“You are Ms. Rosaro, aren’t you?” “Where ought I to go search?”

Rosaro said while looking down.

“He must be far away. If he’s alive.” “It was my fault. But I will surely find him.”

“Yes.” “Isn’t Destupago here?” “He isn’t here.” “What about the coachman?”

“I didn’t see him.” “Doesn’t your master know?” “Yes.” “Your master deliberately filed the missing person report, didn’t he?” “No. People from the police also came and investigated.”

“Are you returning to your master’s place now?” “Yes.”

“Let me accompany you that far.” We began walking. I attempted various topics of conversation, but Rosaro appeared so sorrowful that she would only reply in one or two words, and thus I found myself unable to press further about matters concerning Fazero and the two of them. And when we reached the place where I had previously caught the goat, Rosaro—

“It will be soon,” she said, bowing of her own accord before walking away. My chest was filled with loneliness and worry.

And from that evening onward, I went out to search for Fazero in the field night after night. On Sundays, I went out during the day as well. In particular, between where I had last parted with Fazero and Tēmo's house, I searched for anything that might have fallen there; checked around the white clover flowers to see if there were any footprints left by Destupago or Fazero; and walked around Destupago's house night after night, listening for any suspicious sounds.

From the area around the two birch trees from before, I went to Polano's Square many times. In time, the white clover flowers gradually withered to brown, and on the alder trees of Polano's Square hung only a few strands of torn, faded tinsel; I didn't even meet Miro anymore. Since there were no further summons from the police, I went out on my own to inquire about developments, but at the station they kept repeating the same refrain: though no leads had been found regarding either Fazero or Destupago, there was surely no cause for concern. And I too—whether through some inexplicable acclimation or sheer exhaustion—had come to feel that Fazero, for his part, was surely somewhere out there, carrying on as himself.

V. Sendardo City's Venomous Moths

And it grew increasingly hot. At the government office, yellow sunshades were put up on the windows, and in the director’s office next door, a large electric fan measuring seven decimeters in diameter—donated by the electric company—was installed. On particularly hot afternoons, the director would stand up himself and open the partition door, “Now then, gentlemen, do take in some breeze,” he would say something like. Then the wind roared forth from the large electric fan. Though my desk sat slightly off the wind's main path and therefore wasn't particularly cool, it was nevertheless genuinely pleasant to watch the documents and tablecloths across the way flapping about. Yet even amidst such work, whenever I suddenly remembered Fazero, my chest would flush hotly, and I’d be at a complete loss over what to do. In any case, the work I did throughout that entire July was:

1. Matter of Inquiry Regarding Polar Bear Taxidermy Methods to Teraki Specimen Production Office 2. Matter of Cost Estimate for Transporting Volcanic Bombs from Yaksha Mountain Summit 3. Matter of Plant Specimen Fading Investigation 4. Matter of Preparing 2,300 New Number Plates and so on.

And August arrived. On the afternoon of August 2nd, as I drowsily transcribed the explanation of carvings on a stone from China’s Han Dynasty, an attendant suddenly poked the back of my neck from behind, “The Director says to come.” When I turned around, slightly irritated, the attendant spoke again with arrogance. “The Director says to come immediately.” Without replying, I silently passed behind everyone’s chairs, opened that familiar door, and respectfully entered.

The Director was reading the newspaper while resting his chin on his plump white wrist under the electric fan, but when I approached, he languidly lifted his eyes slightly, then took a single command paper from the paper folder on his desk and slid it toward me. It stated: "You are hereby ordered to undertake a twenty-eight-day assignment to the Ihatov coastal region from August 3rd for the purpose of collecting coastal bird eggs." It was written there. I was positively beaming with delight.

To be sent to that rocky, beautiful coast of Ihatov and ordered to search for eggs that don't even exist at this season—this must be their way of granting recuperative leave. Was I considered such a diligent worker by both the Director and everyone else? Grateful, grateful—my heart leapt with gratitude. Then the Director, without once looking at my face and still reading his newspaper, “Proceed to Accounting to receive your estimated travel expenses,” he stated curtly.

I offered a polite bow and left the room. Then I went around showing the official order to each colleague individually to bid farewell, and when I finally went to Accounting, the elderly accountant wore a somewhat sullen expression but silently accepted my seal and handed over eight large bills. I also borrowed the government office's bulky photographic equipment and binoculars. When I returned home, I sold all the records I owned to the town's antique clock shop. And I purchased a wide-brimmed Panama hat and an eggshell-colored linen suit.

The next morning, I securely locked up the guardhouse and departed on the first train to Sarmo Town at the northernmost end of Ihatov Coast. Along that sixty-ri stretch of coast, I gradually moved southward over twenty-odd days—from town to town, cape to cape, reef to reef—pressing seaweed into specimens, collecting rock samples, photographing ancient caves and model-like landforms through both photos and sketches, all while packaging these findings one after another to send back to the government office. The coastal people found someone like me—a low-salaried official—quite a novelty, welcoming me wherever I went. When I tried to cross to offshore reefs, they would hoist red and yellow flags on their boats, with as many as sixteen people joining in to row in unison for me. At night, they would light bonfires before the inn where I stayed and show me various dances. Often I thought I could die then and be content. But Fazero—beautiful Rosaro who still toiled daily at the heart of that scorching field—when I considered this, seeing before my eyes these young women and men dancing and singing with bodies weary from a full day's labor, I shook my head vehemently many times, then swore alone in my heart: Come, we must do it—do it properly—for everyone's sake.

And around noon on August 30th, I arrived at Shiomo Port in the neighboring prefecture via a small steamship, then traveled by train to Sendardo City from there. On the 31st, I had sent a letter in advance requesting to view the specimens at that science university. The time when I disembarked at Sendardo Station with my photographic equipment and numerous backpacks was just when the lights had finally been lit. I boarded an automobile sent from the hotel near the university along with five or six other guests. As I rode in the automobile through those enormous buildings with the numerous specimens I had collected, I felt exactly like a triumphant general. However, when I arrived at the hotel and looked, despite this heat, the windows were completely closed. When I was shown into the room and found it quite stuffy, I said to the attendant,

“Hey, what’s going on? Why don’t you open the window?” I said. Then the attendant lightly smoothed his glossy hair, “I deeply regret to inform you that due to a severe infestation of venomous moths in this region, we are unable to open windows from evening onward. I will bring an electric fan immediately,” he said. Indeed, when I looked at the attendant who had said that and was now leaving, he wore a thick bandage around his neck like a stone ring, and his face was quite swollen—so I thought he must have been bitten by those venomous moths. However, before long in the neighboring room, the attendant seemed to be arguing with a guest about something. It was both quite prolonged and intense. What with the heat and exhaustion, I had become completely fed up, so thinking I’d go to the barber now while I could, I left the room. And when I passed by the neighboring room’s door, it was left wide open, and the same attendant stood there with a dejected posture, his head hung low. On the other side sat a fat, owl-like old man with completely gray hair and beard, slouched in an armchair as the electric fan whirred away at him,

“You work as a hotel attendant, yet don’t even know basic etiquette?!” he berated the attendant, his cheeks puffed out. As I thought Ah, the electric fan business, and tried to pass by with a wry smile, the attendant turned slightly toward me and closed his eyes in an unmistakably apologetic manner. That completely lifted my spirits. And stomping down the stairs, I descended to the street.

Indeed, once I understood about the venomous moths and walked through the town, even the various strange sights I had seen earlier on my way from the station to the hotel now seemed entirely reasonable. The sidewalks bore numerous traces of bonfires, and people walked about applying bandages or dabbing their faces with white cloths. Moreover, on each willow tree along the avenue, a kerosene lamp was hanging.

I entered a barber shop. It was quite a large barbershop. The mirrors on the opposite wall were skillfully joined in nine panels, making the shop appear exactly twice as spacious. Italian cypresses and Japanese umbrella pines in plant pots stood neatly lined up, and besides the man who seemed to be the master giving instructions in the corner, there were six craftsmen in total. Immediately above on the wall hung a large plaque where four of their names were splendidly listed as barber artists, while two were recorded as assistants.

“Is this hairstyle to your satisfaction?” When I sat in the premium chair before the mirror—its white cloth draped neatly—one of them asked me. “Yes.” I replied absently, my mind already drifting to Ihatov’s fields where I’d return tomorrow. Then the man beckoned to two other available colleagues across the room with a finger and said: “What do you think? “Though the customer states this style suffices, what’s your opinion?”

The two came up behind me and stared intently at my face reflected in the mirror for some time, until one of the artists crossed his arms in his white uniform and answered. "Well now, considering the customer's chin is pale and rounded, and he has such a gentle demeanor, wouldn't Neo-Greek style suit him better than Allback?" "Yeah." "I think so too," another agreed as well. The barber artist attending to me nodded as if he too had been thinking the same thing, then said to me,

“How do you find this proposal? The Neo-Greek style would harmonize more gracefully with your features than your current haircut, if I may say so.”

"Hmm, yes. Then let us proceed with that request." I responded courteously. Because I considered these people to all be splendid artists.

Now my head became steadily neater and my fatigue subsided greatly. Thinking that with this I could sleep soundly tonight and spend tomorrow in the university's underground specimen room with their assistant all day without issue, I contentedly observed the blue flowerpot, the artists' white fingers moving deftly, and the shadows of their clattering scissors.

Then suddenly, the person next to me, "Ah, no good, no good! Hold it down!" "Damn it, damn it!" he shrieked in an extremely high-pitched voice. Startled, I looked in that direction. The artists all came rushing over. The person who had shouted—indeed, with only one side of his beard shaved and looking terribly gaunt—was unmistakably Destupago. I had grasped it, I thought. Destupago, not having noticed me at all, was still contorting his face in a frightened manner.

“Where did it touch you?” The master barber artist from earlier stood pushing through the crowd while wearing a linen morning coat and holding a large flask. Before long, two or three of the artists had caught that small yellow venomous moth using an insect net. "Here! Right here! Hurry!" Destupago said as he pointed beneath his left eye.

The master barber artist hurriedly soaked cotton with the water from the flask and rubbed it under that eye. “What the hell is this medicine?” Destupago shouted. “Ammonia two percent solution,” the master answered calmly. “Ammonia doesn’t work—wasn’t that in this morning’s paper?” Destupago rose from his chair. Destupago was wearing a peach-colored shirt.

"In which newspaper did you see that?" The master answered with even greater composure. "The Sendardo Daily News." "That is a mistake. The prefectural health director has affirmed that ammonia is effective." "Unreliable!" "I see. In any case, it seems to have swollen considerably." The master barber artist, visibly irritated, turned sharply away and walked off still holding the flask. Destupago puffed up with rage.

“This is outrageous! Tomorrow I have an important engagement with army veterinarians.” “This way, you’ll only end up offending them!” “I’ll sue your shop!” he said, watching in the mirror as his cheek steadily reddened and swelled. The master also snapped in irritation and said.

“What’s the big deal? Those venomous moths are all over the city anyway. If you get touched while walking through town, you could just as well sue even the mayor.” Destupago reluctantly sat back down in the chair. “Hey, hurry up and finish the rest. Quick,” he said, all while anxiously eyeing his face’s increasingly grotesque contortions in the mirror as he let them shave the remaining half of his beard.

I also hurried. But certainly I would finish sooner. Still thinking I'd leave immediately if he finished first, I quietly felt through my wallet, took out a large silver coin and clutched it. Yet for some reason my barber was hurrying even more than I. He kept glancing at the clock. My face was practically shaved off in about thirty-five seconds.

“Let me wash you now.” I stood before the marble basin，covering my face with my hand so that Destupago wouldn’t notice． The artist washed my head with cold water，splashing vigorously，and occasionally wiped my face with his fingers． Then，I washed my face on my own．And then，I sat down in the chair once more． At that moment，the master said，“Alright，one minute left! Get the crucial parts done while we still have electricity．And are the acetylene lamps prepared?”

“They’re fully prepared.” The small child in white clothes said. “Bring them here. Bring them here. “It’ll be too late once the light’s gone.” The master said. Thereupon, that child assistant carried out four acetylene lamps, lined them up before the mirror, filled them with water, and lit the flames. With a fierce roar, the acetylene began to burn. That was when— Factory whistles blared in unison from all directions, children shouted, even church and temple bells began to peal—and then the electric lights flickered out. With acetylene replacing the electric lights, the surroundings turned completely blue.

Then I saw, beyond the black transparent glass door of the azure room that looked like a sea reflected in the mirror, flames burning that evoked the crimson India of old. An artist was there, busily feeding firewood into the flames. "Tonight should finish off the Venomous Moths for good." Someone over there said. "Well, we'll see about that." The artist attending to me answered while sprinkling perfume from a gold-nozzled bottle onto my head.

Then the artist wiped my face thoroughly once more, then turned toward the doorway, “Take a look at this,” he said. The artists—some standing at the entrance, others having gone to the bonfire’s edge to gaze at the scenery outside—now all hurriedly gathered behind me. And then, after examining my face in the mirror with an utterly serious demeanor, “Looks good,” he said.

I stood up from the chair there. I paid with a single silver coin that had grown warm from being tightly clutched. And stepping out through that large glass doorway, I stood on the street. I intended to follow Destupago.

Standing there, I felt utterly strange and could not stop my heart from racing. There in Sendardo City's grand Western-style boulevard, not a single electric light remained - yellow lanterns hung from willow trees along the avenue, crimson fires lined the road, their smoke rising into the gentle depths of the night sky until Cassiopeia quivered unsteadily and Lyra flickered hazily through the haze. No matter how I looked at it, this scene seemed exactly like a summer night in some far southern land. I stood waiting, peering into some shop window. I also saw various winged insects truly flying into those flames. Both there and here, townspeople were building fires while applying bandages or pressing cloths to their faces.

Before long, I heard a high-pitched voice with strange intensity approaching from ahead. As it drew nearer, I saw it belonged to a sturdy old man with an oddly small bent waist, shouting repeatedly while carrying four whale oil candles on a wooden board clutched in both hands: “Extinguish all indoor lighting! Turning off electric lights just to kindle other lamps defeats the purpose! Extinguish all indoor lighting!”

Whenever there was a house with its lights on, the old man would stand at each doorway and shout.

“Put out the lights inside your houses! “Even if you turn off your electric lights, lighting other lamps won’t do any good. “Put out your house lights!” The voice echoed repeatedly through deserted streets before dissolving into darkness. This man commanded deep respect. Every last person bowed courteously. The old man strained his voice further as he pressed onward. “Extinguish all indoor lighting! “Turning off electricity just to light candles helps nothing. “Douse every lamp indoors! “Ah—good evening.”

Shouting all the while, he returned greetings to people on both sides as he went on his way.

"What is that person?" I asked the artist warming himself by the fire. "That's the fencing master." Yet that very fencing master came striding over briskly.

“Put out the lights inside the houses! Even if you turn off the electric lights, lighting other lamps is utterly useless.” “Hurry up and extinguish them!” “Ah, good evening.” “I see. In your trade, I suppose it can’t be helped.” “Yes, Master. Good evening, and thank you for your efforts.”

The master came out and greeted him. "Ah, good evening. This dreadful heat is truly something tonight." "Yes, truly, with the place completely overrun by insects, it's quite unbearable." "Hmm, well... Goodbye." The fencing master once again gradually made his way into the distance, continuing to shout. When this voice had grown distant enough to suggest it had turned some street corner, Destupago finally emerged from within the barbershop—its interior like the depths of a blue sea—and after surveying the street for a time, began striding briskly southward. I turned my back and pretended to watch moths falling into the flames, but immediately followed after him. Destupago appeared quite unsettled, having been touched by the venomous moths. Moreover, he seemed thoroughly dejected in some way. As I followed behind, I found myself feeling an odd sense of pity. Of course, not a single person greeted Destupago, and Destupago himself was walking through the shaded area beneath the trees along the boundary with the roadway, doing his utmost to avoid catching anyone's eye.

I couldn't help but think how utterly false it seemed that Destupago would openly associate with army veterinarians and such. Finally, Destupago came to a stop, looked all around for a while, and then turned from the main street into a small alley. I pretended not to notice and walked briskly on. Shortly after entering that alley, Destupago passed through a small gate with a front garden. I had been considering up until then whether to meet Destupago after fully investigating the circumstances or go to the police and have them apprehend him by saying he was the Destupago being sought in Ihatov, but upon now seeing Destupago enter his house, I forgot all prudence and ran up.

“Mr. Destupago,” “It’s been some time.” Destupago startled and stood rigid, but upon seeing me, he didn’t flee and simply remained standing there dejectedly. “I have come to inquire about Fazero. I must ask that you hand him over.” Destupago violently shook both hands. “That’s a misunderstanding, a misunderstanding.” “That child—I don’t know anything about them.”

“If that’s truly the case, then why have you hidden yourself away in a place like this?”

Destupago turned deathly pale.

"The police in Ihatov are searching for you together with Fazero. Everything has already been arranged. Tonight, no matter what happens, you will be caught. Where is Fazero?" I had inadvertently told a lie. Destupago, his face grotesquely swollen from the venomous moths, glared at me askance while trembling violently and speaking in rapid-fire words that were nearly unintelligible.

“That can’t be! That can’t be!” “On my honor! On a gentleman’s honor!” “Then why have you hidden yourself away in a place like this?”

Destupago finally stopped trembling, considered for a moment, then began speaking slowly. “I was merely summoned by the police—that should’ve been resolved by submitting a travel notification and sending a proxy. Regarding that matter, I’ve secured full clearance from the station chief. The police have no reason to suspect me of anything.” “If that’s truly the case, then why did you file a travel notification and run away?”

Destupago finally calmed down.

“Ah, please come in. Let me explain in detail.”

Destupago led the way and pushed open the small front door. Then an old woman, who seemed to have been standing inside watching all along, came out to greet them. “Bring tea.”

Destupago immediately entered the room to the right. I thought it was probably safe now, but fearing he might try to escape, I remained standing at the entrance. Destupago emerged while pressing a white cloth to his face after clinking some sort of bottle. “Now, please come this way.” I was shown to the reception room. Destupago had finally calmed down. "The reason I have secluded myself here involves entirely different circumstances. As you are likely aware, I became president and established a wood distillation company in that forest. However, due to recent fluctuations in chemical product prices, it gradually started incurring losses and became utterly unsustainable. I tried various approaches, but nothing worked out in the end. Of course, I had staked my entire fortune on that enterprise. Then at the board meeting, one director proposed converting it into a brewery as it was. So we also agreed and tried producing a very small amount on a trial basis, but we did not report it to the tax office. However, using that as a pretext, a certain subordinate of mine threatened me. That night was truly a sixfold crisis. The ones who had gathered there were all shareholders. I deliberately chose that location. However, the shareholders' resentment was truly extreme. I had given up all hope and was drunk in that manner. And then you showed up, you see."

I began to clearly understand those past events for the first time. And along with that understanding, Destupago before my eyes became someone pitiable. “No, I understand. But oh—what has become of Fazero?” Destupago said: “I do not hate that child. Were I still blessed with favorable circumstances as before,I would care for him and even enroll him in school. Yet mark my words—that child is surely engaged in some mischief somewhere. The police share this view.”

I abruptly stood up and bid farewell to Destupago.

“Then I will take my leave. You must kindly vacate this place. Since I cannot return without reporting this matter.” Destupago said dejectedly. “I currently have absolutely no means of income. Kindly understand.” I bowed politely. “Is Rosaro well?” Destupago said in a very rapid manner.

"Yes, she seems to be working." For some reason, I replied in a voice unlike my usual one.

Six: Wind and Seedheads

On the morning of September 1st, I went to the government office at the appointed time, carrying my itinerary and various reports. I greeted everyone around, and as soon as the director appeared, I knocked on that door and entered. "Ah, you've returned," he said while fastening the detached collar button with his left hand. "How was it?"

“Yes, thanks to you, I managed to return last night. This is the report. After organizing the collected specimens, I will prepare a catalogue and bring them at a later time.” “Hmm, there’s no need to rush.” The director finished fastening his collar and straightened up. I bowed politely and left the room.

And so that whole day passed with me unpacking the luggage that had arrived and organizing the documents piled up on my desk until evening came without my noticing. I left the government office after everyone else as usual, ate at the public cafeteria, and returned to the racecourse. Then it seemed I really had been quite exhausted after all—no sooner had I settled into my chair than I found myself drifting into sleep. In that sickly-sweet evening dream, I was still rowing a small boat among Ihatov's reefs where smooth brown kelp lay drying. Suddenly the boat began rocking violently; some terrifyingly ancient-looking dragon appeared from nowhere, and thinking I'd been hurled against the rocks, I jolted awake. Someone was shaking me.

I focused my gaze several times and looked at that face. It was Fazero. “Ah, what’s happened? Have you been here all along?” I asked in surprise. “I came back on August 10th, you know. You haven’t been around until now, have you?” “I wasn’t here. I was away on a coastal assignment.”

“Tonight, come to our factory.” “Your factory? What’s happened? Where in the world have you been all this time?” “Well, I was working at a leather-dyeing factory in Sendardo City.”

“Sendardo. Why did you go all the way to a place like that? And now tonight you’re telling me to go to Sendardo again?” “That’s not it.” “Then what is it? First of all, why did you go all the way to a place like that?” “I just couldn’t go back home. And I walked right past my house and kept going. Then the night dawned. When I was sitting there in distress, a leather buyer passed by, let me ride in his cart, and gave me some food. Then I gradually started helping with the work and finally made it to Sendardo.”

“I see. That’s truly a relief. I thought you’d been thrown into that acetic acid factory’s furnace and steamed alive.” “Well, I worked as an engineer’s assistant over there. Then he taught me everything. All about chemicals too. When it comes to leather now, I can do anything—tanning, dyeing, whatever you need.” “And why did you come back?”

"The police were looking for me." "But I didn't get scolded much." "What did your master say?" "He said, 'Go wherever you want and do as you please!'" "And what will you do?" "The elders, you see—they're at the factory in Murado Forest, telling me to do leatherwork."

“Can you do it?” “I can do it. Plus, Miro can make ham. We’ll all do it together.” “What about your sister?” “Sister will also come to the factory.” “I see...” “Let’s go—they’re sure to come again tonight.”

I suddenly forgot my fatigue and stood up. “Well, let’s go. But is it far?” “Just a bit beyond where Polano’s Square was before.” “It’s a bit far, isn’t it. But let’s go.” I quickly changed into my traveling clothes and left the house with him. Fazero started running again.

The clouds, tinged yellow and shining fiercely, raced from south to north. Yet the field lay silent without wind, only various grasses putting forth tall ears or becoming strangely tangled; all the summer clover flowers had withered to tawny hues, and even their three leaves seemed to have shrunk remarkably small.

We continued running steadily onward. “Look, there’s a light over there.” Fazero stopped briefly and pointed into the grass on the right. In the shadow of the grass spikes there, a tiny clover flower had bloomed suddenly, pale bluish-white and forlorn. All at once a wind came roaring from ahead, making the dark field of grass spikes ripple like waves, and through the gaps in my clothes, that icy wind seeped into every part of my body.

“Whew… Autumn’s arrived hasn’t it?” I took a deep breath. Fazero had taken off his jacket at some point and was holding it under his arm,

“All the lights along the way have gone out, but…”

What he had said at the end—the wind came roaring in and carried his voice away.

At that moment, I saw two farmers carrying large sickles cross our path as they passed before us. The two of them seemed to glance our way briefly, then after exchanging words, stopped and appeared to be waiting for us to approach. We hurried over.

"Oh, you've come back, have you. "Well, it's a relief to see you've returned safely." One of them greeted me. He seemed to be the man who had been told by Destupago to act as his second at Polano's Square before and had run away.

“Yes, thank you. Fazero has also returned, and everything’s completely back to normal now, hasn’t it?” “The Mountain Cat Doctor’s gone.” “Mountain Cat Doctor? Destupago? I met Destupago in Sendardo. He’d fallen into such decline it was almost pitiable.” “No way Destupago’s fallen on hard times! The Boss has plenty of land in Sendardo City.” “Hmm, but he said he’d put all his assets into that dry distillation company.”

“No way! No way would the Mountain Cat Doctor do such a thing! The company’s shares turned worthless, so the Boss fled.” “Well, I heard an executive tried entering brewing but failed to follow procedures and was held responsible.” “No way, no way! The entire liquor-making scheme was the Boss’s idea from start to finish.” “But I heard the company only produced a small experimental batch.”

“You’ve been thoroughly hoodwinked.” “What they barreled up and shipped out from that factory as acetone was all high-quality blended liquor.” “In the bad batches, they even mixed in wood alcohol.” “That moonshine racket had been running for two whole years.” “So they were using that at Polano’s Square too?” “You bet they were.” “No two ways about it—the Boss is a slippery one.” “Since everyone’s got their own vulnerabilities too, we’ll just have to swallow our tears and let it be.” “But this time we’re all going to put that factory to proper use—make whatever tools and goods we need ourselves, each lending a hand where we can.”

“I see...” “Is Fazero going to do something?” “Well, it’s not like we need any new capital. We’re planning to do various things—tanning leather, making ham, steaming and drying chestnuts, that sort of work.”

“Come on, let’s go now.” Fazero poked me. “See you later.” “Good night.” Whether Destupago’s words were true or everyone else’s were true—I couldn’t quite tell which—was what I thought as I started walking. “Straight ahead, straight ahead. I’ve come here many times since then and know the way by now.” I went near Fazero and spoke so my voice would carry in the wind. Fazero nodded faintly and started running again. In the dusk, only that white shirt swayed faintly as he ran.

Before long, I saw five or so pale lights at the edge of the distant field and, above them, the alder tree from before glowing faintly blue like an umbrella. As we gradually drew closer, it became discernible how the leaves seemed to surge endlessly as the wind tossed them about, how the branches clashed against each other while emitting their own pale light, and I also saw five or so black shadows standing beneath holding acetylene lamps of the kind used when catching fish. Today, there were no tables, chairs, or boxes in the square. There was only a single empty box. From within it emerged Miro—his familiar large hat and rounded shoulders—coming toward us.

“You’ve finally come. “Good evening. What a splendid evening it is.” Miro greeted me. Everyone seemed to have been waiting and spoke up all at once. We hurried straight through the square without stopping. The field’s grass grew increasingly coarse, black thickets rustled here and there in the wind, and every so often oak or birch trees stood jet-black against the sky, their branches swaying with a noisy rustle. Then before long, we found ourselves walking single file along a narrow path.

“Almost there!” Fazero shouted loudly from the front.

Both sides of the path had eventually become completely forested. And after walking in silence for about thirty minutes, they caught a sudden whiff of something like sawdust, and there appeared before their eyes a slender ash-gray roof.

“Someone’s here.” Fazero shouted. In the windows of that large black building, lights were flickering.

“Hey, Mr. Küst is here!” Miro shouted loudly.

“Hey!” came a reply from within as well. We entered the building. There, a gigantic iron kettle was placed facing us like a sphinx, and on the dirt floor, numerous large unglazed pots stood lined up. “Ah, good evening.” A single barefoot elderly person greeted me in the dirt-floored workspace.

“This is the drying kettle,” Fazero said. “How many people used to work here?” I asked. “Well now,” Miro answered, “back when profits were thriving, there must’ve been thirty people or more working here.” “Why did it fail?” Everyone exchanged glances. The elderly man from earlier said: “Because the price of chemicals dropped.” “Is that so? Is it truly unmanageable? But look here,” I continued. “Fazero, I still think we should make acetic acid with this kettle. Back when we tried to run it as a company, having too many people involved led to losses, but if it’s just us handling it ourselves, the effort should pay off. Even ten or twenty bottles—the pharmacies in town have said they’ll take on that much.”

“That’s right.” Fazero said. “It’d be good if we channeled the smoke from below here through the neighboring brewing chamber and used that space to make ham.” “Sarto says the same thing. Anyway, if we put it into this kettle, we can obtain all the charcoal we need. Even if the ham doesn’t sell immediately, we can distribute it just among our group.” “Alright then—let’s do it. Küst will come regularly to check on things.”

“Ah, I have friends in both livestock and forestry production, so I’ll invite them all to come.” “Tell them the story of Polano’s Square.”

“That’s right—we all searched desperately for Polano’s Square. But when we finally found it after all that struggle, it was just a drunken election feast. Yet I can’t shake this feeling—that the true Polano’s Square of old must still exist somewhere out there.” “Then why don’t we build it ourselves from now on?”

“That’s right—not that cowardly, disgraceful Polano’s Square full of self-deception, but one where if we go there at night to sing, if we breathe its wind, we’ll regain our vigor—a place so full of energy and joy that tomorrow’s work will overflow with life! Let’s all build that kind of Polano’s Square together!” “I believe I can definitely do it. Because we’re thinking about it right now.”

“No matter what we try to do, I think we must study more,” “Even if we understand this path leads to happiness, how exactly to begin—that still eludes us.” “The town has many schools filled with students.” “They can devote full days to study, with teachers eager to impart knowledge.” “We barely scrape three hours daily for learning.” “And even those hours find us exhausted and drowsy.” “For instruction, we have only mimeographed lectures.” “When questions arise and we send them off, answers tarry endlessly.” “Yet we must press on desperately with our studies.” “I want us all to forge some means—any means—to make true learning possible.”

The child sat down.

I involuntarily leapt up.

“Everyone, your studies will surely succeed.” “They will surely succeed.” “The town students balance work and study.” “But they’ve forgotten why they study.” “Their teachers cram knowledge until minds go numb.” “They chase tennis matches and running tracks with equal fervor.” “You don’t waste hours on such games.” “Yet your bodies already bear labor’s full weight.” “Which group will advance further?” “By any measure—they will.” “How can we overtake them after our toil?” “You spoke truth earlier.” “They study hard just years enough to build comfortable homes and drink away their evenings.” “We shall study with this fire until our last breath.”

“Everyone, by not drinking alcohol, you gain ten percent more strength than those who do. By not smoking tobacco, you gain twenty percent more strength. By determining a straight path forward and organizing all your mental faculties, you gain twenty percent more strength compared to those in disarray. Yes—we take all the energy those people expend on women and infighting, and channel it toward securing our true happiness. Look—you’ll soon possess double the strength of those people. But we must never impose this approach on others who came before us. Those people were born into times so bleak and lonely that they couldn’t survive without drinking that way.”

“Let us press on in silence.” “From the wind and from the shining clouds, new strength will flow to you all.” “And before long, you will create here—in this very field—a Polano’s Square more splendid than the fairy tales of old.”

Everyone shouted out joyfully. Fazero said, “Well then, let’s study during the winter.” “We’ll all read the same book beforehand, then gather at that factory one night every five days to take turns asking questions and teaching each other.” “Hey, Küst.” “You’ll teach us something, won’t you?”

“Ah, well—since I taught botany before—I can explain plant physiology and maybe three other subjects or so.” “You see...” “We don’t need to cram our heads with useless knowledge like before, trying to turn ourselves into walking encyclopedias.” “What really matters is focusing on the structural framework and essential points.” “After that, the work itself will teach you, and you’ll gradually learn to read independently.”

“Why don’t we gather at that factory in winter and craft all sorts of things? Fazero can handle leather dyeing; I may be clumsy, but I can make vests. Since Miro’s always been skilled at making hats, putting him on that job will make him even better.”

“That’s right, that’s right. We should exchange what we make in winter among ourselves, hmm? I enjoy creating things by working with wood!” “Let’s do it! In summer we’ll work fields and plains to gather food, and in winter we’ll make what we need and exchange it…” Miro suddenly sat down, squinting as the wind began blowing fiercely. The alder tree too had bent like a bow.

In that wind, I stood up again.

“That’s right, comrades—the new era has already arrived,” I declared. “In this field, soon a thousand geniuses will work together, mutually respecting each other while carrying out their respective tasks. Maybe I’ll join your group after all...” “Come on in,” Fazero urged. “Hey everyone—Mr. Küst’s joining our ranks!” “Why not marry Miss Rosaro instead?” someone shouted. I involuntarily flinched.

“No—I still have much to study.” “If I were to come to this field, that would not be good for me.” “No—I won’t join. I can’t join.” “Because I am no longer in a condition where I can do everything.” “I was born a poor teacher’s child and grew up reading nothing but books.” “I haven’t been raised enduring rain’s lash and wind’s buffeting like you all.” “My thoughts align completely with yours, but my body won’t comply.” “But I will certainly do my own work.” “For a long time now, I’ve contemplated how to triple this field’s bounty.” “I will see it through.”

(Manuscript page left blank)

And we stood up.

The wind roared in. Everyone instinctively turned their backs to the gust and crouched, while I—having shouted too much earlier—choked on the blast. The alder tree's branches bent low enough to graze the ground. "Alright, let's get to it! I've already soaked eleven hides over there and prepared a full kiln's worth of wood. Tonight marks the opening ceremony for the new Polano's Square." "Then shall we toast with water instead of liquor?" The elderly man proposed.

Everyone burst out laughing.

“Alright, let’s do it. “Head outside.” “Hey Miro—I’ll fetch water; you get the cups from the cupboard.” Fazero went outside with a bucket. Everyone carried acetylene lamps as they moved to the lawn beyond the factory.

Everyone formed a circle on the grass and sat down. Miro handed cups to everyone. Fazero came carrying the bucket heavily,

“Alright, wash your cups,” he said, pouring water from a ladle into everyone’s cups. I thought I would shudder from how cold that water was. Everyone washed their cups with stiffened fingers. “Wash them again.” Fazero said and poured water again. Everyone discarded the previous water onto the grass and poured anew. “Wash them once more.” “Because they still reek of old liquor.” Fazero poured water again.

“Fazero, are you washing cups more than anyone tonight?” The elderly man who had been making acetic acid earlier said. Everyone burst out laughing again. “Now we drink. “It’s cold!” Fazero poured for everyone again. The cups shone cold and white, their surfaces rippling violently in the wind. “Alright, drink up! “One, two, three!” Everyone drank deeply. I drank too and shuddered violently.

“Then I’ll sing. The Song of Polano’s Square.” On the night when the creeping daisy flowers fade Polan’s Square’s autumn festival Polan’s Square’s　　　autumn festival Without drinking water　　　drink alcohol When such people swagger around Polan’s Square’s　　　night does not dawn. “Polan’s Square too　　　sees no morning.” Everyone clapped their hands and laughed. Their voices too were immediately swept away by a roaring gust of wind toward the old Polano’s Square.

“I’ll sing now.” Miro stood up. “When clover flowers wither in night’s fall, Polan’s Square’s autumn festival, Polan’s Square’s autumn festival, The mountain cat ill-tempered from drink, In a yellow shirt fleeing far away, Polan’s Square sees dawn break, Polan’s Square welcomes daybreak.” “Alright, I’ll sing too.”

(Several lines blank in the manuscript.)

“Now let’s shout! For the new Polano’s Square! Hurrah!” I waved my hat high and shouted. “Hurrah!” Then we passed through the pitch-black forest, traversed the scattered oak grove from earlier, and reached the old Polano’s Square. There, the usual alder trees glowed blue whenever the wind tossed them.

Our shadows fell into the waves of wildly tossing grass—long and black under the acetylene lamps—and it truly felt as though each of us was a steamship navigating a vast river. When we reached the usual place, we parted ways. There was yet another tiny clover light lit there. I picked it and pinned it to my collar. “Well then, goodbye. I’ll come again.” Fazero said as he waved his hat along with everyone. Everyone else seemed to shout something as well, but it was already swept away by the wind and couldn’t be heard. And I walked on, and everyone went their separate ways, until that blue acetylene light in the wind and those black shadows gradually grew smaller.

And then exactly seven years passed. Fazero and his group's cooperative did not go smoothly at first, but they somehow managed to keep it going in an engaging manner. After that period began, I visited them many times both for leisure and whenever consultations were needed, and three years later Fazero and his group finally established an exemplary industrial association. Their ham, leather goods, acetic acid, and oatmeal came to be distributed not only in Moriō City and Sendardo City but widely everywhere. Then in that third year due to work circumstances I finally had to leave Moriō City myself; afterward I became an assistant at the university and also served as a technical officer at an agricultural experiment station. And yesterday in this friendless yet bustling room within Tokyō City's rough-and-tumble clamor beside roaring rotary presses—while filling my assigned fifty-line column with some curious natural history occurrence—I received a piece of mail.

It was a music score printed on a single sheet of thick paper so that everyone could hold it in their hands and sing. There was a song attached to it.

Polano’s Square’s Song Clover lamps aglow in the night square, Sing forth the ancient largo, Stirring clouds, lost to the night wind, With harvest near at hand, the year stays young. Though noble wishes contend, Across the galaxy, together we laugh, All troubles as firewood burning while A world of glory we shall build together. I thought that score had indeed been composed by Fazero, For within it was filled with those very melodies Fazero had always whistled in the fields. Yet whether it was Miro, Rosaro, or someone else who had created that song—that I could not discern.