Pathway to Japanese Literature

Crimson-Haired Enchantress

Prologue: On the Location of Bering's El Dorado

and the Pirate Fortress on Kuril Rashowa Island

Since April I had been unable to cease taking medication, and even without that affliction—being as I was particularly vulnerable to summer’s heat—this summer found me increasingly tormented by occasional strange sensations as the swelter intensified.

It was precisely that—the peaks and valleys of undulating heat, as if the rhythm of my heartbeat were ceaselessly changing within my chest. They were perceived clearly—and with an eerie intensity.

However, during such times, I would order the household to build a fire in the garden and cast unnecessary miscellaneous writings into it.
It was an attempt to create a shield of images and desperately escape the torments of illness.

Thus I would create midday flames like tongues in midsummer, gazing endlessly at the long stems of summer chrysanthemums trembling under wavering heat haze, and habitually lose myself in maritime fantasies.

However, one day, I suddenly caught sight of a writhing whale within those flames.

There, in my complete panic, I hastily scattered the embers with my feet and retrieved two books that had been among them.
Ah, I had nearly burned those precious materials to ashes.

Since the two coverless books bore only a Peabody Museum inspection seal, I had carelessly mistaken them for some insignificant catalog and apparently thrust them straight into the wastepaper.

However, when I thus newly obtained those two volumes, I thought: this must be one of the stone monuments sinking into the quagmire.

They were formerly part of the collection at the Peabody Museum in Salem, Massachusetts, USA, donated by the renowned whale art collector Mr. Alan Forbes.

And one of them was an 1866 edition titled Whaling Expedition Copperplate Print Collection, with an Appendix: A Brief History of Whaling, authored by a man named J. A. Brown.

Among them were inserted old prints beginning with Jonah and the Whale, intermingled with Katsukawa Shuntei's "Whale off Shinagawa as Seen from Takanawa" and Utagawa Kuniyoshi's "Whaling at Seven Bays" and "Miyamoto Musashi Subduing a Giant Whale."

However, the true surprise lay in the other volume, and as I read on, I came to realize I had made no ordinary discovery.

The other volume was of a much older edition, titled The Wreck of the Whaling Ship Brigg.

The ship’s name was recorded in Starbuck’s History of American Whaling as stated, with its first record being the return to Boston in the summer of 1784 carrying 600 barrels of whale oil.

However, since the same ship was later wrecked on Amalia Island in the Aleutian Islands in 1786, it naturally follows that this volume can only be Captain Frost’s account of the disaster.

However, near the end of the contents, several pages of awe-inspiring articles unexpectedly struck my eyes.

It was written in simple, unadorned prose, bearing the title of testimony from the native Nagaurai, who had returned after seven years’ absence.

However, as I read on, my hands trembled, and my pulse began to race like a galloping horse.

For within this same man's testimony were recorded first: the towering rock fortress built on Kuril Rashowa Island... then the matter of the pirate siblings Sokone who dwelled there... and further, Vitus Bering—(note: Bering—
Though this is not factually accurate—the Dane said to have discovered the Bering Strait.
In 1741, he boarded the St. Pyotr and navigated the Bering Strait alongside geographer Steller and Captain Grepnitsky; however, on October 5th they were shipwrecked near the Commander Islands, and on December 8th he perished from scurvy.
(the island being called Bering Island) had heard rumors that El Dorado might indeed be this island—and the fact that he even left this belief in his will is recorded here.

El Dorado—it was the legend among legends whose location the Inca people had ultimately succeeded in concealing. That golden city had been one that bloomed as a phantom flower in Spanish colonial history, believed solely to lie within South America's Essequibo valley—a place that claimed thousands of victims beginning with Martinez. But why would Bering have likened that fabled city to Kuril Rashowa Island? Ah, why then had he transferred its location from scorching sands to a solitary island in icy seas?

I too, upon finishing reading, remained for a time in a dazed state from the flushed heat.

However, when I thought of that blood-drenched tragedy that had tormented Rashowa Island's White Night—all surrounding El Dorado's location, that mystery spanning centuries—I found myself strangely reluctant to publish this as a factual record.

And thus yielding to this fleeting impulse, I found myself unable to withstand the temptation to present this to the world as a novel.

Green-Haired Mermaid

Until just half an hour ago, a clammy, milky sea fog had clung thickly over every valley and peak of the shore's rocks, its drifting semblance akin to malevolent spirits denied slumber.

By now the hour neared midnight, and as the sea fog began to show signs of clearing, Rashowa Island’s rock fortress was sinking into deep slumber.

With the changing of guards appearing imminent, flames from fish oil bonfires rose through interweaving tendrils of fog—slowly, tracing eerie ripples in their ascent.

Then, moments later—what could have occurred?—BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM went deafening drumbeats.
The drumbeats overpowered the roaring waves and resounded from the watchtower.

“Jihitaro, what say you?”
“It must be visible, no?”
“That two-masted brig has a barbette turret attached to it, I tell you.”
“Ha ha ha ha! There’s no need for surprise—that is none other than a warship, I tell you.”
“It seems Russia has finally flown into a rage this time—apparently they’ve deployed cannons against us, I tell you.”

Sokone Yokozo set down his plectrum and displayed his usual unfathomable fortitude that never wavered. Then, turning his aquiline nose—weathered by sea air—toward his brother, he gently shook his topknot.

“But Elder Brother, I can only pray for the waves to grow higher,”
“And that the cannons along the ship’s flank prove ineffective.”

The younger brother, who knew of this island’s feeble armament lacking firearms, could do nothing but tremble at the approaching naval battle. But to this, Yokozo erupted in a wave-like burst of laughter.

“Now, now—though they be called cannons, they’re naught but weapons when trained in deployment and firing,”
“Those Russian sailors need neither protractors nor measuring gauges, I tell you.”
“Horizontal volleys they might manage, but let them alternate between high and low trajectories—they’ll all stiffen like lifeless things, mark my words.”
“Jihitaro, I shall now demonstrate exchanging broadsides with that warship using fire arrows!”

It was like a mirror refusing to cast any shadow’s reflection; outside was thrown open to the White Night.

That pallor—the glimmer of a hue beyond description—was precisely like colorless clouds blanketing the entire expanse.

Amidst this, conch shells resounded across the shore, and the natives leaped onto oars and spars.
Gradually, the violent noise grew more intense, until at last it coalesced into a single, throat-swollen, menacing roar—like that of a timid dog trying to intimidate.

However, as the several small boats left the shore and became nearly indistinguishable dots, the depths of the inlet returned to their former silence.

At that moment, Jihitaro quietly stepped onto the sand and began walking toward the tip of the cape encircling the inlet.

Pale sunlight was so clearly visible in the desolate solitude, yet at the tip of the cape, the sea lay in wait to swallow its sacrifices.
Could this be what they call that oppressive stillness before a storm?
No—there wasn’t even the sound of seabirds crying wildly to herald the storm.

Behind them towered the rock pillar fortress, its gloomy hue unchanging through all seasons, while before the gray horizon, a leaden-hulled ship—appearing just a shade darker than the sky’s own color—drew near with drowsy languor.

Indeed, those two things seemed like apparitions that had materialized over the cold sea—or perhaps could only be perceived as dim shadow plays.

Yet our allies skillfully maneuvered their boats—sometimes vanishing within veils of spray, sometimes advancing through valley-like troughs of waves that roared like rapids—never once revealing themselves until they closed in on the warship.

In the midst of this, no sooner had they seen a pale blue mountain-like surge rise up and come crashing in than the first fire arrow came trailing from that gorge, hurtling straight toward the warship.

However, at that very moment—when cannon fire was anticipated—unexpectedly, a mournful chorus emanated from within the warship.

And then, while casting gray human-shaped objects into the sea, the warship began quietly circling them.
Upon the warship, both the tin-colored sails and the green of the gunports appeared as though aged, as if they had entered a cold slumber.

The superstitious Russian sailors, paying no heed to the crisscrossing firelights dancing in intricate patterns around them, continued chanting their hymn with perfect composure—it was the solemn, unmistakably Greek Orthodox sea burial rite.

One, two—and just as they had counted to twenty-five of those gray forms being thrown from the deck—

Jihitaro involuntarily felt a shudder that made his entire body stiffen.

Could it be... this warship is a plague ship...?

However, by the time he realized this, it was already too late.
Flames erupting from the mizzen’s triangular sail whipped up fresh winds, and now past the cape’s tip, the warship pressed deeper into the inlet.

And when finally the twenty-sixth corpse—wrapped in hemp cloth, still bearing its weight and latitude-longitude plate—was thrown in with a dull splash, the firebox ignited by the flames erupted in a pyrotechnic burst.
And thus, the warship had completely lost its combat capabilities—but at that very moment, from one of the small boats arose a cry that could be called neither a groan nor a gasp—an indescribable shriek.

This was because a strange school of fish had risen from the seabed, trailing a silvery stream of bubbles.

At first, something green flickered far beneath the water's surface—then that shadow twisted around, slapped its tail with a splash, twisted again, and sent up a violent surge.
As the silvery belly light flared, it radiated outward in all directions.

The undulating shadows, reflecting the stark white sky, overlapped countless times like blades.

However, though at first it appeared as a large, distant fish-like form, before long something had surfaced near the shore.

In that instant, Yokozo was struck by a violent shock so intense it threatened to blind him.
Losing his balance, he unwittingly thrust one foot into the shallows.

Now that its sails had been burned away and its match cords lost, was not even the warship's speed diminishing?
Why—despite this being the perfect opportunity to pursue an attack—had all warlike spirit drained from Yokozo?

He remained utterly still without changing his posture for some time, entranced by the unearthly enchantment before his eyes and determined not to shatter his own phantom.

It was a sharp stare—as though the optic nerves at the back of his eyes were on the verge of being laid bare.

Under the pale sun overhead pouring down its clear, icy night air, a woman rose up from among the decaying seaweed on the shore.
And with each movement of her body, pieces of seaweed brushed away, until soon it became clear that she was completely naked.

Even at this late hour, the single blue lamp left burning in the midheaven made the woman’s slender figure appear fairy-like.
It was as though a translucent, beautiful coat enveloped everything—her shoulders, her chest, her full-fleshed hips—all her silk-smooth skin veiled in a mysterious light both half-transparent and half-hazy.

Thus, what had initially been anticipated as a blood-soaked situation was unexpectedly transformed. The warship and gun batteries, the poison arrows and fire arrows—all resolutely melted away into the dreamlike haze.

Yet amidst this astonishment, a strangely superstitious dread—baseless yet profound—began to swell.

For in a part of the woman’s body, something unmistakably inhuman had been recognized.
From every strand of hair she possessed—from the wet locks draping her shoulders to the body hair that seemed ready to rustle like wind through thickets—there blazed a singular, mysterious flame: green hair.

Therefore, Yokozo would often find himself drawn into the illusion, muttering as he dreamed of a mermaid amidst the golden body hair that covered the entire form.

"Hmm, a green-haired woman—when she crawled up from the shore earlier, I indeed saw shell-like small feet."
Our parents were castaways who drifted to Sagaren in the Kan’ei era of old, and we were raised at a Japanese-language school in Irutsuku.
When we were denied landing by the Matsumae Domain, we sought our stronghold on this island—until now, we had encountered blondes and flaxen-haired women aplenty...
"Yes, we’d done well enough—but of all things across five continents and six hundred eighty-two islands, green hair—"

However, as this went on, Yokozo's eyes began flickering almost painfully.

As he watched, the woman staggered forward and continued frantically stripping off her seaweed garments.

Pursing her lips tightly as if enduring the cold, she tightened her arms beneath her neck—the coarse fabric slipped away, revealing shoulders like a doe's beneath.
Her breasts were hard as stone—the fully erect nipples, the dimple-like navel, and around it the swelling plumpness of her lower abdomen's lush flesh.

Her movements were large yet feeble, her well-formed calves seeming on the verge of snapping. However, she—instinctively at that—assumed a posture of shame when her eyes caught sight of Yokozo. At first, like the Medici Venus, she bent one hand over her breast and placed the other outstretched palm upon the thick triangular shadow. But immediately this time, she crossed both hands over her chest in the manner of Canova’s statue.

And maintaining that pose without a trace of timidity, she said to Yokozo.

“I’m terribly cold, you see.”
“I’m about to freeze to death.”
“No, no, I am absolutely not your enemy.”

Though frequently drowned out by the clattering of her teeth, it was unmistakably Russian speech.

“Hmm, I shall of course provide warmth—and depending on circumstances, even a house and garments.”
“So then, woman—where have you come from?”

As he spoke these words—driven by a carnal urge to press his lips against and twist the wet underarm hair—Yokozo shuddered violently through his entire frame.

“It goes without saying, you see.”
“From that warship—the Aleut.”
“In truth, about ten days ago, we were struck by plague—I very nearly received a water burial myself.”
“But rest assured.”
“I was simply confined to a single room—thrown in there out of fear of contagion—but as you can see, I am in fact perfectly healthy.”

That the woman’s heart was not pounding as violently as Yokozo’s was evident even from her speech.
And then, quietly turning her face, she gazed longingly at the fortress’s lights—when at that moment, the warship’s helm was utterly destroyed.
A new prisoner had been taken—a thunderous battle cry of jubilation rose up all at once.

Oh, the Russian warship Aleut had fallen into our hands.
And then—Yokozo abruptly began conjuring up various aspects of his loveless past.

After perhaps half an hour had passed, the woman seemed to have regained vitality.
Surrounded by three siblings in a stone fortress chamber, she now bore rosy undulations rising to her cheeks.

She was a captivatingly young girl of about twenty years.

The hair, eyebrows, and even the faint mustache were all completely green—that mysterious hue lending this girl something divine in her appearance.

That place, though called a room, would be more aptly named a rock chamber.
Or perhaps it was the gloom of the chapel—nestled among bizarre rocks and rare stones—or the darkness of the rocky crevice that created that effect.
Carved from rock, each of the several rooms had walls embedded with diagonal checkered cut glass here and there, but overall remained unadorned—merely scattered with soot-blackened chairs and bentwood beds.

Even on the monolith walls, one could see here and there relief-like carvings whimsically wrought by nature—yet all of them bore an ashen antique hue, blackened by soot.

However, there the woman discovered a beautiful woman no less striking than herself.

That woman was Koukinyo, sister to Yokozo and Jihitaro.

She appeared several years past thirty—a woman with a pointed nose and translucent skin, yet lips bearing crimson applied too thickly—an incongruous figure marked by a shadow of sickness.
And there she lay her slender, delicate frame upon a rocking chair, wearing high-heeled wooden clogs on her feet, with a deep black sable coat covering her from the neck down.

The woman, prompted by Koukinyo’s compassionate questioning, initially gave her name as Flora Steller.

“Having given you the general picture, I must ask you to understand why I had to board this warship… why I had to escape… and then too, the orders that directed the Aleut toward this island.”
“But I suppose that won’t be easily grasped.”
“It’s too removed from ordinary life—truly a most peculiar story indeed.”
“In truth, I killed my father in Tyumen of Saghalien—that Zarkevich Steller.”

As a single pallid vein surfaced on Flora’s temple, Koukinyo stared at it with apparent surprise and said—

“What was that you said—Zarkevich Steller, I believe I heard?”
“Then—that naturalist Steller who boarded Bering’s expedition ship *Saint Pyotr*—is he your father?”

Flora acknowledged this with an ocular nod and retorted coldly.

“Though this may also be because Mother Dora was his cousin, Father and Bering shared a bond like no other.”
“I remember presenting them with bouquets of snowdrops on that departure morning—though it was six in March—and having my head patted by both.”
“However, Lord Bering passed away on December 8 of the following year on Bering Island.”
“Father too was initially rumored to have frozen to death in Tyumen five years later.”
“This drove her into a mental illness, and before long, my mother passed away, leaving me behind.”

"However, even after that, my misfortunes showed no sign of abating. My merciless relatives sold me off to a Kagotsu community—a type of outcast people dwelling from Central Europe northward."
"And so, from Prussia through Poland into Russia proper, I continued thence on an endless journey."

During that time, while wondering when—when I might see the sea—I painted its vast illusion at the edge of the grasslands.
"The reason being—having seen the sea that had taken my father, that free and mysterious water realm—I found myself neither able to weep nor grieve over my fate, while simultaneously wondering whether resignation might not lie buried in its deepest depths."

“And so I finally reached Tyumen near the sea—it was May when the ice cracked and new moss sprouted buds—and through the dozen years that journey consumed, I had become a thoroughly ripened virgin.”

“However, on the third night after seeking lodging in Tyumen, I unexpectedly came face to face with my father.”

“But how did your father recognize you now that you’ve reached womanhood? Recalling your childhood countenance as he surely must have, your father would have wept.”

As if it were her own affair, despite Koukinyo’s urgent interjection, Flora’s expression remained utterly unchanged.

“No, it is thus.”
“In truth, during a fireside chat, I carelessly revealed my real name.”
“Then an elderly man of apparent wealth who had been nearby abruptly seized my wrist and pulled me into a separate room.”
“That old man was Grepnitsky, who had been captain of the Saint Pyotr.”
“He told me my father still lived in this town—moreover, he vowed then and there to let me meet him.”
“But when morning came, I realized this world—present and future both—had plunged into a terrifying abyss of emptiness.”

Without realizing it, I had settled into a chair by the wall, wishing only for my life to end and to sleep peacefully beneath a gravestone—anything to escape this unbearable suffering.
It was because there lay before my eyes an old man, cold and lifeless.

“It was Father—yes, Father indeed. No matter how young I was, how could that visage ever fade from my memory?”
“But Father appeared to have suffered apoplexy, for he retained no memory of me whatsoever. To make matters worse, his left eye was crushed shut, his right hand had become a twisted limb from frostbite, and the fingers of both hands were flattened and warped like the ugly sores of leprosy.”
“He spread those arms and, unthinkably, began making lewd advances toward me.”
“And that beast-like frenzy finally came to me—”

And Flora—her words trailing off at length, her voice sinking deeper and deeper—continued.

“But the merciful Lord Christ will likely forgive me.”
“Could there exist upon this earth a love so steeped in wonder and mystery?”
“I stabbed Father to death—thinking of life after his passing—to prevent him from committing an act of shared blood and flesh.”
“Yet the bond between parent and child—that mystery of blood ties—is no mere aimless words spoken in dreams.”

Though I had guided my father to peace in that manner, I found myself suddenly feeling a surge of grievous sorrow at the thought that that mad, pitiful man would never appear again. Yet a single doubt lingered—was that man truly my father? Once this thought took hold, though his features remained etched in memory, I found myself unable to decisively conclude it was so.

And so I, accompanied by Grepnitsky—who had disposed of my father’s remains—embarked on an endless journey of anguish and doubt, with no end in sight.

What must now be told is why Grepnitsky had come all the way to Saghalien.
"In truth, Madam, that man was appointed captain of the Aleut by Empress Catherine and ordered to explore El Dorado on this Rashowa Island."
"The radiance of that golden city—even now I saw it clearly."

At those words, the eyes of the three abruptly converged into one.

It seemed less a wonder than a terrifying void—something no word could truly capture.

Above all, Yokozo’s eyes blazed fiercely, so much so that one might think the entire world was about to prostrate itself at his feet.

Flora continued her words,

“Therefore, I must explain from the beginning—according to Grepnitsky’s account, it was a certain morning in June 1741. While advancing two nautical miles south-southeast of this island’s waters, Bering and Father—who were on the deck of the *Saint Pyotr*—distinctly saw a circular golden vision-like halo above this island.”

“It is said that within the sea mist, a cluster of yellow stars wandered as if lost, and that golden disk enveloped the island like a halo. And it was said that Bering alone rowed a small boat to this island—uninhabited at the time—and landed there, but what became of that outcome was never heard even after his return.”

However, on the morning of his death—December 8 of that year on Bearing Island—the secret was regrettably laid bare by Vitus Bearing’s own hand.
Afflicted by scurvy upon his festering thigh—with sightless eyes—he had even written 'EL DORADORA,' and thus gripping Georg Wilhelm Stellar’s hand tightly through rigor mortis contractions characteristic of terminal scurvy-induced paralysis documented in naval medical records of that era—he departed for what passed as an afterlife among Arctic explorers.

That RA constitutes the first syllable of Rashowa Island was already beyond doubt.
However, upon seeing this, Father was driven mad by sheer astonishment, but Grepnitsky returned to the mainland the following year and reportedly conveyed this information to Empress Catherine.
“Yet Madam, I came to experience that beastly stench of terror once again aboard the Aleut.
“For how could it be? My father—his heart pierced through and body stiffened in death, who should have lain buried eight feet underground—had somehow boarded the ship and manifested before me in that dreadful form. Thus I saw clearly those blood-caked claws that had torn through earth and overturned gravestones.”

Obsessed with Love

“That occurred on the eighteenth night after boarding, when a terrifying storm raged in the darkness outside.”
“A cold wind slipped through unseen gaps, causing the corner lamp to flicker perilously—yet I sat idly in my chair, dreaming of Siberian villages I had once traversed.”
“Then, as mist condensed into fine droplets upon the glass-paned door, there emerged beyond it a most dreadful apparition.”

A dusky black, mottled arm—twisted into a hook-like curve—emerged from the right edge of the latticed glass, poised to grasp the handle... Oh, Father had returned from the dead. By all means, there was not a single man among the crew with such a crippled-looking twisted arm. When this realization struck me, I felt the blood in my head rush back to my heart and staggered dizzily toward the door. Then, calming my breath and struggling to steady myself, how long did I cling to that chair braced against the door?

However, though Father’s arm vanished in that instant, something gratingly pierced my chest in its wake.
“This was because, shortly after setting out to sea, an inexplicable plague had begun to spread throughout the ship.”

“Plague.”

The three let out voices as if jolted upward.

“That is correct.”
“At first, when diarrheal symptoms persist for two or three days, they become utterly drained, their skin gradually turning translucent.”
“Thus, when sensing death’s approach, the patients would invariably crawl out from their sickbeds near the ship’s hold.”
“And though driven mad enough to seek the deck, there awaited boots like stone and whips that whistled through the air.”
“Until at last, pinned beneath death’s hand, they could do no more than feebly lift their necks and weakened heads.”

However, after that, Father’s hands appeared two or three times more, always emerging from the direction of the iron ladder leading to the ship’s hold.
From then on, I became obsessed with pondering whether there might be some mysterious connection between Father and the plague—whether such a link existed or not.
Thus, within that warship lay a terrifying plague slowly, relentlessly spreading and—
And then, evil spirits that try to violate children like wild birds and smoke-like phantoms lurked within.

“Sink it... I beg you.”
“…Please sink it.”
“Otherwise, I’m certain not a single bird will come near this island anymore.”

Flora, who had gradually raised her pitch, screamed her final words with ear-splitting sharpness.

Then Yokozo—who had answered “Understood”—took up the drumsticks and beat the war drum rapidly, whereupon eerie shrieks rose from the small boats encircling the warship, and the raining rockets blazed like fireworks.

For a time, the Aleut’s flames split apart into myriad shapes, carving crimson patterns into the glimmering water’s surface—but as ripples layered into a soft mirror-like stillness, seabirds began to flock once more to the mast’s barely protruding tip.

And thus, the spectral ship that had so abhorrently pursued Flora—the plague-ridden Aleut—never again rose to the water’s surface.

During that time, amid the flickering firelight, Koukinyo continued listening to Flora’s story.

“That’s how it was.
It would not have been impossible for me to try time and again to escape that ship someday.
However, while writhing in such torment, I unexpectedly caught sight of El Dorado’s gleam this very morning.”

In the whitish light as the White Night had begun, the golden ring covering the island’s summit expanded and contracted like a halo, appearing as an image in a watermark.
Yet that cold, damp sensation seeped deeply into my lungs.
Now is the time to escape—I resolved, my briny palms sweating, to feign illness.
And thus came the circumstance of receiving such generous hospitality.
“I beg you to forever keep it in your hands, that it may serve as a humble monument.”

Flora’s long-drawn-out story came to an end.

It was precisely like breath fogging a mirror.
The abominable nightmare world that had threatened her—everything, absolutely everything—had sunk into oblivion beneath the sea.

And so Flora embarked on a new life.

However, the location of El Dorado—which Bering and even she had reportedly glimpsed from afar—ultimately remained unclear as to where on this island it lay.
Just as Flora—the green-haired maiden—was inherently a mystical being, so too did merely hearing the name “El Dorado” make the three feel as though they were swept into a tornado.

However, beginning the very next day, a violent whirlpool of desire surrounding Flora erupted across this island.

The next day—when Flora awoke to refreshing sunlight, she heard eerie shrieks approaching from the beach.

When she looked, she gasped and clutched her chest.
There, surrounded by natives, was Grepnitsky—who had seemingly sealed his fate along with the ship last night—now pitifully displaying his prisoner’s state.

Around his neck was bound a driftwood harpoon, while his head had been styled in an outlandish manner, its hair tightly knotted high with Tenjiku beads.
And this gloomy old man with a yellowed face and cavernous eyes—prodded and stumbling—gradually drew near the rock fortress.

However, Yokozo’s blazing interrogation that followed ultimately proved ineffective.

As expected, he too only repeated what Flora had said, and the location of El Dorado remained shrouded in mist.
After that, Grepnitsky was confined to a native hut, but the astute Koukinyo had already perceived the ominous signs between the two men.

“It appears you two have forgotten that this Rashowa Island—though small—constitutes a sovereign state.”
“Generally speaking, those of noble birth are inclined toward decadent indulgences.”
“Are you acquainted with the love song that speaks of casting one’s heart beyond even rainbows and clouds?”
“Precisely so. To desire violation—even of royal consorts—lies within their very nature.”
“Thus do we array courtesans in noblewomen’s finery, styling them as Lady Tayū or Lady Kono-kimi, seating them above their patrons.”
“This too reflects discernment befitting guests of stature.”
“You must never violently wrest compassion from a woman.”
“Therefore, from this very hour, I shall robe Flora as a courtesan and grant her both pride and prerogative—the right to refuse sharing a bed.”
“Only by yielding to her will while surmounting that wall may you two be called this island’s true masters.”

Following last night, once more upon this island, a world strange even to hear of was beginning to unfold.

Was it because she had discerned the flames of passion secretly blazing in the depths of Yokozo and Jihitaro’s eyes that Koukinyo, seeking to prevent their conflict before it could erupt, resorted to an exceedingly wise measure? And for Flora, the hurried first impression of spring struck her heart.

When her verdant-green hair—damp like young leaves—was swept into a Tatehyōgo updo and she lightly touched the nimbus-like kōgai hairpins inserted throughout… a rippling sensation arose through Flora’s entire body.
And when she saw these dyed hues from love’s picture scroll reflected in her own brows and vivid jade eyes, Flora—without conscious intent—felt she had discovered a fountain of beauty in that contrast’s fragrant, mysteriously-hued palette.

She let out a "Ha ha" and flushed crimson, her hips beginning to squirm restlessly.

Then she donned an ochre-yellow silk underrobe, layered a wisteria-purple outer garment over it, and tied a sash of blazing crimson.
The disarray—the disheveled hem, the blazing hem—against calves that rivaled white snow.
When she finally draped the waistcoat over herself, the heavy garment formed a torrent of gold and vermilion that surged and cascaded.

Thus when Flora was arrayed in courtesan attire, the tormenting nightmares of her past vanished into oblivion.

She had clearly crossed the boundary between two worlds, now utterly intoxicated by the realm of love soon to arrive.

However, from the next day onward, it was Yokozo who visited her, and Jihitaro showed no signs of approaching on his own.
It appeared as though he were enjoying himself in a hazy dream while embracing Flora’s shadow.

“Flora, as we practice these first lessons of love together like this, I’ve come to fervently wish these days that no ships would pass offshore—not a single one.”
“Thus you do naught but comb my hair—why do you not turn toward me?”
“Use your wits.”
“All day long I’ve been sniffing your breath—naught but your neck—yet you...”

As Yokozo spoke words filled with resentment, it was above all his glossy hair that had captivated Flora.

Yokozo’s face—weathered by sea air into pure vigor—with its sharply upturned eye corners, high-curved nose, and lips evoking rigidity—yet his hair overflowed even its abundant chignon, and when loosened, seemed like a water spirit coiling around an arm in slumber.

However, there was a reason for this—once in a town near the eastern coast of the continent, Flora had by chance come to know of Japan through a single woodblock print.

It depicted a noblewoman holding a cypress fan to her face, her full-length hair spread out as she sat behind an ornamental screen—and the vague longing she had felt toward this image now flared up unconsciously within her whenever she beheld Yokozo's beautiful hair.

“Ohoho, do temper your lamentations.
“I’ve only just tightened the first string and tuned it properly.”

With slender fingers pinching a strand of hair and unraveling its coiled loop,

“In that case... what if we used paired mirrors?”
“If you wish to see my face so much—how about this?”

It was when she had positioned the two mirrors she had brought at just the right angles and peered intently into the foremost one—reflecting Yokozo’s face within.

What she saw—Flora cried “Ah!” and dropped it.
For there, reflected alongside Yokozo’s coppery-gleaming half-face, was something utterly unexpected—a grotesque vision that had leapt forth as though daubed in extremis.
The face of her father Steller—who should have vanished into seabed detritus—now stared chillingly back at her, his crushed left eye sunken darkly into its socket.

The yellowish skin and grime-covered folds were unnervingly eerie, like creases on a karmic scroll, and Flora felt as though every secretion in her body had been wrung dry. After that, Flora harshly drove Yokozo away and, unaware that Jihitaro had passed through the winding corridor, simply kept calling her father’s name, sitting there as if numb for what felt like eternity.

In that single moment, her eyes sank hollow as though belonging to another person.

She felt an iron band constricting her temples, and her tongue held a feverish taste.
However, as she did so, suddenly recalling Yokozo’s pressing approach, that terror she once encountered at Chiumen came fluttering back with a dull throb.

A man bearing her father’s shadow—if she must someday yield herself to him, then by God she must flee this unholy union.
As this thought took hold, Flora rose abruptly and steeled herself with a dreadful resolve—to eradicate that detestable phantom, driven by an utterly incomprehensible psychology and unbelievable purity, she must deny Yokozo’s very survival.

“Flora, by my sister’s wisdom, we’ve decided to admit Grepnitsky into the castle starting today.”
“And we’ve resolved to make El Dorado’s location seep out drop by drop.”

Yokozo’s lips seemed uncommonly sluggish as he spoke these words—then days later, as though timed to Steller’s apparition, the plague’s seedlings began budding within the castle walls.

It was as if a baleful miasma rose from every surface—first taking root in Yokozo himself—and even that stalwart man dwindled daily.
The drill-like beard encasing his cheeks grew brittle as resilience ebbed from his ash-hued skin.

Therefore, Flora’s resolve—when considering the encroaching tendrils of nature that would soon descend—could not help but gradually dull over time.

However, one month later on a certain morning, Yokozo was unexpectedly discovered in a ghastly state—a dagger thrust into his chest, his figure dyed with writhing blood.

That day, the clouds hung low, deeply dark, while outside stretched an infinite wilderness of sea fog and waves.

That night, Jihitaro began recounting before Flora and Koukinyo the strange sounds he had heard.

“Just when I heard the Tiger-hour drum—amidst something rattling in the wind and Brother’s groans—there came an eerie noise.”
“Elder Sister—after I left my chamber door, click-clacking footsteps headed toward Brother’s neighboring room.”

“No—no, it seems you are being haunted by delusions.”
“What you call a presence is naught but a robe—a tattered wisp of cloud.”

“However, there existed clear, irrefutable proof of it…”
“In the usual manner of walking—where two steps would typically be taken as one—the intervals between them were very far apart. Thus I surmised that someone was walking while deep in thought, but…”

“Oh, then…”

Flora suddenly grabbed Koukinyo’s arm and let out a shrill scream.

“Then are you saying my Father’s ghost was walking? My Father who suffered from paralysis would swing his disabled foot inward horizontally, tracing an arc as he moved—naturally it would sound that way. Ah—that Father of mine—killed at Chiumen—the Father who was supposed to sink with the Aleut…”

Overwhelmed by heartache and terror, Flora's teeth clattered violently as hoarse moans streamed ceaselessly from her parched lips.

However, Steller's unholy specter, for some reason, did not manifest itself in any tangible form, and no suspect resembling Yokozo's assailant was discovered.

And so, even those memories had imperceptibly faded away, until now Flora found herself in a relationship where she could press her lips to Jihitaro's.

Jihitaro, unlike his brother, was wrapped in plump white flesh that made him appear almost feminine—yet it was the elasticity of that flesh, its gauze-like smoothness, that inexorably intoxicated Flora.

That day, the sky seemed to emit a blue light, and the crests of the billows raised rosy undulations.

“When I place my hand upon your snow-white skin like this, my own hand somehow appears sullied—nay, yellowed—to my eyes.”
“How I wish to obtain Madam’s permission soon and truly make your skin my own.”

Casting a vexed gaze at him amidst their faintly crimson-tinged visual exchange, her eyes ignited into azure flames. When he removed one side of her garment and slid his palm through the opening of her gauze underrobe to gently rest it upon her shoulder, Flora gasped and shut her eyes that instant. Like a timid beast leaping back to evade some unseen threat, she made no move to direct her gaze toward that cursed space again.

For at the very moment she withdrew her hand, she saw through the window a single smoky palm being extended.

It was likely perceived as an extreme manifestation of real-world ugliness—for what she saw was Steller’s hand, its tip flattened and broken off like a backscratcher’s claw-like end.

That night, throughout the small hours, Flora sat with her head resting against the wall, crouched as though coiled upon herself.

Why did her father Steller’s supernatural phenomena—those spectral, phantasmagoric manifestations—always coincide in timing with moments of utter madness? No matter how intensely she pondered this, the same chaos and same madness stretched on endlessly, and she knew only that she alone remained stranded at its very center.

Then suddenly, a fierce howling sound tore through the sky.

If her father’s jealousy hurled from beyond the grave were to cast its shadow over every man who became her companion, then surely mold would fester upon her flesh—even entombed in a bluish coffin’s embrace, not one memory of love would be carved upon her gravestone.
Once more—yes…
Should Jihitaro be made to tread Yokozo’s path, then that detestable thing called man which threatened her would vanish utterly from this island.

Or perhaps it was her imagination—from the roar of the waves and the howl of the wind, growing ever more frenzied than before, something had warned her thus.

However, the peculiarity lay in how Jihitaro had been struck down by the plague, as though his fate soon coincided with Yokozo's own.

And as the season neared autumn, when the roar of drift ice grew frequent—on that day, as dusk fell, a terrifying night unfolded.

Moment by moment, the wind intensified; the sea became crowned with white foam and raised mane-like plumes of spray.

At that moment, compelled by an uncanny premonition, Flora raised her head and began peering intently into the room’s thick darkness. This was due to a vague sound—one echoing through gaps in the storm from some indeterminate origin.

And so, in the dead of night, as she gazed through the lattice-paned glass bordering Jihitaro’s room at the candle flame that occasionally emitted a pale flicker, she was suddenly overwhelmed by intense terror.

When she looked—when had the door been opened?—the torrential rain, driven by the raging gale, slammed against the lattice-paned glass.
No sooner had she thought this than—amidst a thunderous roar that resounded instantaneously—a pale, translucent arm emerged: *his* arm, her father’s warped wrist with its mangled fingers, grazing Flora’s vision as it swiftly crossed before her eyes.

The Secret of El Dorado

By the next morning, Jihitaro had indeed become a cold corpse, a dagger thrust into his chest in precisely the same position as Yokozo’s.

That afternoon, Flora stood at the tip of Shonbori Cape, contemplating the dead who would soon be enveloped beneath the ice.
It was a scene of the communal cemetery desolately clustered on the outskirts of the villages.

Moreover, never before had she felt her own destiny and the horror of her sins so keenly as at that moment.
She was captured by a single strange, tenacious hand hidden within the mist.
Was that very proof not her father’s arm—the one that had so vividly reflected in her eyes last night?

And then—even if that single eye reflected in Yokozo’s mirror had indeed been real—Flora began a strange self-interrogation.

This was because she had belatedly noticed that the mirror at that time was an aged tin mirror.

Tin mirrors are originally made by laying tin over glass then compressing mercury applied over it; consequently their surface reflections remain imperfect, and particularly when aged through time, they grow utterly dim.

Then the one placed behind Yokozo became problematic: should its angle align parallel with light rays, the mercury would naturally appear tarnished—meaning a shadow resembling some sunken hollow might well have been reflected in Yokozo's eye as viewed from the front.

Moreover, the hand of her father that had appeared on Jihitaro’s shoulder also began to seem like an illusion.

This occurs because when one places a yellow wavy shape upon a white ground and covers it with gauze-like material, upon removal an afterimage instead manifests upon the white ground as black.

Furthermore, considering factors like the displacement of light, that which I thought at the time to be my father's crushed and flattened palm might—when the lid was broken open—have been a surprisingly trivial illusion after all.

And so Flora—after rubbing her cerebral cortex raw and wringing out every drop of brain matter—had finally constructed her hypothesis, yet the arm of her father she witnessed last night defied all explanation.

She lost her youth overnight and felt the burden of her sins press bodily upon her.
And she resolved to lay bare everything before Koukinyo and submit herself to the woman's judgment.

“That is why, Madam, I am a sinner unworthy to utter Christ’s holy name—whether during Lord Yokozo’s time or Lord Jihitaro’s—though the plague aboard the Aleut was indeed the root cause—in truth, I had mixed arsenic into the candle wicks.”
“And with the billowing arsenic vapor, I have whittled away the lives of many people.”
“I believe you must have noticed—those blue flames you occasionally saw were precisely that.”
“For even if that murderer—whoever they may be—were to make the sign of the cross a hundred times, a thousand times, resolving themselves with a pure heart, they could never rid themselves of this sorrow and anxiety.”
“Please—Madam—pass whatever judgment upon me your heart desires…”

When she finished speaking, Flora slumped as though she had vomited up all filth.

Yet Koukinyo showed not a trace of agitation, her gaze fixed upon the sunset's reflection on the stone wall; before long she urged Flora out of the rock fortress and ascended the hill behind.

The summit was a lead-colored, desolate tundra marsh.

There, low-growing nameless plants adorned with dew crawled across the ground, while from the distant shore came a faint briny scent mingled with seaweed.
Koukinyo’s face, burning in the setting sun just as the white night was about to begin, appeared vividly alive.

She uttered mysterious words quietly to Flora.

“Your sorrow is dew upon a leaf’s tip—should you gaze upon your reflection, it shall vanish.”
“Alone with this aching heart, I do truly feel sorrowful.”
“Since you have already ascended the cross, not even Christ couldst condemn your sins.”

When those words reached her, Flora knew a miracle beyond this world had manifested before her eyes.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, her gaze settled upon a single point and ceased to move.

There, reflected in the dewdrop at the leaf's tip above her own head, a halo of dazzling brilliance shone resplendent—and that light now enveloped the space from her neck to shoulders in a translucent pale, crystalline radiance spanning barely a hand's breadth.

Endlessly, heavy tears streamed down both her cheeks, and a sob of joy surged deep within her chest.

But at that moment, she heard Koukinyo’s voice of solemn authority behind her.

“But even if your sins have been erased, the deeds of the lowly one who slew two men are eternal. I shall now, this very day, interrogate that wretch before your eyes.”

Then, after about half an hour had passed, a tall man stood trembling among the natives gathered on the beach.

Sea mist turned into glistening droplets that lined up across his burnt skin and beard, but the man did not attempt to stop—instead seeming to faint as he trembled.

Koukinyo glared at the man with loathing and said:

“Well now, Grepnitsky.”
“Now, at last, you have come to know my hatred.”
“Even were I to crucify you, your sins run too deep to be redeemed.”
“The sins of you who harmed Yokozo and slew Jihitaro—I shall make you atone for them here and now.”
“Surely you have not forgotten the proof of the footsteps Jihitaro heard.”
“Someone, make haste—take off this man’s boots!”

At the commanding voice, four or five men who had sprung into action removed the long boots, and at that very moment, Flora felt violent palpitations.

Looking closer, Grepnitsky’s right leg had been amputated below the knee due to frostbite, with a large cloth fragment tied to the end of the prosthetic.

However, Grepnitsky—having grasped the situation—unexpectedly erupted in what seemed like relieved booming laughter.

“Madam, this jest has gone far beyond propriety.”
“Admittedly, with the boots removed, my missing leg makes no sound—thus your conjecture holds merit, Madam. Yet why would I harm the two esteemed lords with whom I swore to explore El Dorado together?”
“May God be my witness—though I give thanks for your generous hospitality, I harbor not a shred of hostile intent within me.”

And with that, he pulled out a crucifix from under his disheveled shirt and kissed it.

However, Koukinyo continued speaking without ceasing her intense gaze.

“Yes, I have no ear for such delusional ramblings.
The law of this island is none other than myself.
You would do well to confess the truth thoroughly and pray for the next life.”

Then Captain Grepnitsky stared fixedly at her face, but as despair contorted his features with terrifying intensity, he clawed at his chest and let out a roar-like cry.

“Fool! To act with such reckless haste—you imbecile, on the verge of obtaining El Dorado yet poised to lose it! But Madam, you would do well to search your heart and reconsider once more.”

“Ho ho ho ho ho… To call that El Dorado—”

The warrioress tightened her pallid cheeks sharply and sneered in retort.

“As for its location—I would say you have no need of it. Precisely because I knew that truth, I built this fortress upon Rashowa Island.”

No sooner had she given what seemed a signal with her eyes than several silver lights intertwined above Grepnitsky—now cast down and thrashing.

He thrashed his limbs wildly and writhed madly for some time, but when at last his eyelids grew heavy and his groans ceased, he stiffened and moved no more.

Koukinyo averted her gaze for a while and stared vacantly at Grepnitsky’s corpse.
In the pallid, murky light, seabirds cried out frantically, but when the blood mingled with saltwater and was swept out to sea, the beach returned to its former silence.

Thereupon, Flora—wearing a suspicious expression—leaned her mouth close to Koukinyo’s ear.

"But is this true, Madam? Do you truly know El Dorado's whereabouts?"
“Do you truly know the location of El Dorado?”

“If I didn’t know, what would we do?”
“Flora, regarding revealing its location to you, there may be ears that listen on land.”
“Let us two head out to the open sea to talk.”

Despite having shown ferocity that could sever iron moments earlier, Koukinyo now smiled forlornly and had a small boat prepared.

Gradually, salt began to cling to Flora's body as the summit of the stone fortress appeared hazily in the distance like a specter.
The swells rolled gentle and vast, their boat having already reached two nautical miles offshore.

At that moment, Flora started upon seeing moisture glistening on Koukinyo's eyelids.

“Oh Madam, why do you weep?”
“Though you’ve lost two brothers, tears ill become you—now sovereign of Rashowa Island and queen of El Dorado.”

“Nay Flora—we must take our leave of this island now.”
“Ah, that stone fortress—Yokozo, Jihitaro—none shall ever come to tend their graves.”
“You may not grasp this—but with those two gone from this world, none remain on this island fit to forge firearms or command the natives.”
“Understand this reason clearly—then shall you comprehend why I slaughtered the guiltless Grepnitsky.”
“I could not endure the thought of that wretch ruling here after our departure.”
“I am no longer Rashowa’s sovereign nor El Dorado’s queen.”
“Now I am but a woman—the same as you.”

Koukinyo, straining upward repeatedly, lingered regretfully over the island’s shadow as it gradually dwindled to a speck—when suddenly, at the island’s summit, she felt what seemed like a silent explosion.

For abruptly, from far below the horizon, a brilliant golden halo appeared as if thrusting up through the white night.

When she saw this, Flora threw herself weeping at Koukinyo’s hem and sobbed with convulsive gasps.

“Ah, such recklessness, Madam! How can you bear to abandon El Dorado before our very eyes? Where do you intend to go, Madam?”

“No, no—we are going to El Dorado.”

Koukinyo said this in an unexpectedly calm voice.

“To tell the truth—starting with Grepnitsky—we were all deceived by the mineral veins at the island’s summit.”

“That brass—though its hue resembles gold—holds no value worth pursuing. When fragments lie exposed with the sun behind them and tattered sea mists coil nearby, they conjure that golden phantom halo you witnessed.”

“Therefore I swear—the final key resides in Bering Island.”

“And how could we relinquish El Dorado’s dream until we see the testament carved upon Bering’s hollow?”

“Oh… Then… Then is it that we are now going to Bering Island?”

Unable to bear it, Flora—driven by anxiety and loneliness—uttered in a low, trembling voice.

However, at the same time, she appeared to have realized something, and her whole body began trembling uncontrollably. For the true nature of El Dorado—now explained to her by Koukinyo—had aligned with the same principle as the halo that had adorned her own head moments before.

This was the so-called Buddha's Halo—where dew acts as a mirror surface, manifesting the sun’s image upon blades of grass; then that image becomes a light source whose rays reverse direction to form an apparition on the side where the sun exists. And if human eyes occupy where this image forms, does it not appear as though light radiates from within the dew? That a luminous ring shining above one’s head through reflected dew constitutes a truth known to all?

Then, that anguish seeped back in once more, and she cried out in a voice struck by deep dread.

Thus, amid endless farewells and the mystery of the murderer—while Flora was left with doubts about father Steller’s spectral manifestation—the fragile small boat threaded its way through drift ice.

“I will go, I will go… Wherever Madam goes, I shall follow. And I am going to see my father’s ghost. That is not my true father—it must be my father’s ghost.”

And then, for ten-odd days, it was as though they made their way through an endlessly drawn gray veil.

At times, when low clouds lined up like embankments, one would startle with a leaping heart, thinking they might be island shadows—but those clouds would soon be shrouded in sea fog, leaving both sea and sky blurred like light within a dream.

And so, under a dead-leaden sky as they threaded their way through drift ice, one morning, something mysterious emerged from between the stratocumulus clouds.

That dark gray, spearhead-like promontory was Manachino Cape at the southern tip of Bering Island.

There was not a single tree to take shelter in—it was an infinite ice field.

In that world like a mirror streaming with milk, the two complex hues—the secretive sable coat, the blazing green hair, the vermilion and gold of resplendent courtesan robes—could only be gazed upon as quiet sorrow.

However, by the time they landed, provisions had dwindled to almost nothing, and fatigue and anxiety made steps grow hesitant.
It was as if bodies alone remained awake while minds had fallen into deep slumber—the two continued walking mechanically.

Even apart from that, clouds billowed forth from west and north to spread across the sky—already the signs of a storm were unmistakable.

However, when night fell, they would embrace beneath their lined jackets to warm each other—yet within those embraces, an abnormal attachment began to take root, one that threatened to make them forget the dictates of sexual propriety.

Eventually, as they traversed the icy expanse, passed Ryokko Inlet, and reached the upper reaches of the Commander River, they came to know that Bering’s final resting place lay at its estuary.

However, when they reached Bering’s burial site—as if it were a harbinger of tragedy—something cold like sand swiftly brushed against their cheeks.

It was the first snow of the year, gliding quietly through the sky like milk, like mist.

Upon realizing this, Koukinyo was aghast—yet before this mad desire to unveil antiquity's mysteries, what did anything matter?
The two of them, encouraging each other, broke through ice and dug down into sand—and there indeed appeared Bering's frozen corpse.

He clasped both hands to his chest, deep creases furrowed between his brows, his face bearing an expression of some torment. However, gasping for breath as they adjusted their thighs and focused their eyes upon the frozen rotten flesh, there indeed—just as Grepnitsky had said—lay inscribed the characters EL DORADO RA.

"Ah, so it has come to this at last—but to return to Rashowa Island now..." Koukinyo remained silent for a time. As she did so, her hairpins began slipping out soundlessly one by one—and gradually, the weight of Flora's body held in her arms grew heavier.

She had already used up every ounce of her vitality and was now quietly sinking into sleep at the very heart of the ice field.

Startled, Koukinyo opened her garments to warm her, but Flora merely smiled and kept tightly gripping Koukinyo’s hand.
This clearly made Koukinyo sense that the most tragic moment for Flora was drawing near.

She began screaming madly, exhaling hot breath against her own chest and face.

“Hold on, Flora—just a little longer.”
“You can still see it—hear it—can’t you? That endearing frailty makes my heart feel crushed.”
“I—here at this moment—have determined El Dorado’s location.”
“Flora—you yourself are queen of the immortal golden city El Dorado.”

In that instant, a faint flush tinged Flora’s cheeks, and from within death’s shadow emerged distinct surprise.

Koukinyo still continued,

“Having said that, it lies neither in returning to Rashowa Island nor on this island—it resides within your own kin.”
“In truth, what was inscribed as EL DORADO RA does not mark El Dorado’s location—it signifies the secret between you, your mother Dora, and Bering.”

“They say your mother Dora was Bering’s cousin, but before she wed Steller, she must have shared intimacy with Bering.”
“At that time, it was you who were conceived—Bering writing that name in his final moments served as a token of repentance toward Steller.”

“For the E in EL is a misread F, and the subsequent D is natural mottling that appeared on the rotten flesh. At that moment, Bering—having touched the nodule preceding D—now listen well Flora—a blind person perceives even a grain-like speck as tremendously large when touched. Therefore, he is thought to have skipped over the next D and written EL DORADO RA.”

“You see now, do you not? It does not indicate El Dorado’s location by hinting at Rashowa Island—it conjoins your FLORA with your mother DORA’s name. Therefore, your father is not Steller, but Vitus Bering—discoverer of the Bering Strait. Beloved Flora, your sorrows shall fall as noble tears upon your father’s face.”

Flora gazed at Koukinyo’s face with boundless emotion.
The faintly pooled tears no longer possessed the strength to fall.

Koukinyo embraced her neck fiercely and rocked her against her chest like an infant.

“I had perceived your past so thoroughly when first we met…”
“That blazing green hair—could it be aught but an emblem of torment and persecution?”
“You were banished even unto Nerchinsk’s copper mines, enduring harsh toil until such venom bloomed in your tresses.”
“But let us set that aside—now shall I disclose unto you the name of Yokozo and Jihitaro’s slayer.”

“The father you saw was no true arm—in truth, it was a wicked caprice appearing in lattice-patterned glass. You likely used sulfur fumes to block the arsenic vapors, but as they dissolved in water pooled in checkered depressions and turned murky, even straight objects appeared to warp backward, you see.”

“Whether aboard the ship or in Jihitaro’s chamber—one being ruffians who targeted you, and the other… this one here—myself—were you to hear it, you would be astonished, you see.”

Having said that, when she removed her tall wooden clogs, from within emerged something grotesque.
The toes of both feet were all deviated outward, with only the large big toes appearing like great spatulas.

It was, needless to say, foot-binding.

“Having seen this, there remains no need to tediously explain who owned the footsteps Jihitaro heard.”
“I was raised at a Japanese school in Irkutsk—developed an interest in Han people—was toyed with by one of the Lu people—and came to bear such scars.”
“Indeed, were I to remove these wooden clogs—without supporting my hand against the wall—I cannot walk.”
“Ah Flora—why did I kill my two irreplaceable brothers—Yokozo and Jihitaro?”
“That—as you must understand from having seen me dress you in courtesan attire—but even that was because I found you so endearing; envied you despite being comrades; watched you writhe like my own daughter yet take on demonic visages; and thus—free from doubt or hesitation—became utterly enchanted and intoxicated by love’s sorcery.”
“People walk toward love and single-mindedly advance in that direction.”
“Even were one righteous and chaste—what good would that do?”
“Doth thy hand stir no more? Having chosen this white—beauteous couch—now at last—thee and I—(eight characters excised)—Flora—though I move this arm to keep thy lamplight from extinguishing…”

However, Flora’s pure face remained motionless, her eyes closed—whether she was asleep or had entered eternal rest remained unclear.
Koukinyo’s eyes burned like flames, and driven by unending desire, she embraced Flora’s body.

The surrounding hills and rocks grew whiter and taller with each passing moment—like strange trees, like riotously blooming flowers.

Thus did El Dorado's secret, the ghost Steller, and Rashowa Island's murderer…… take on indescribable hues and dissolve into mystery, rest, and slumber.