Pathway to Japanese Literature

For about two days now, an unprecedentedly strong north wind had been raging, showing no sign of abating even today. It had been over a decade since I came to live in Tokyo, yet this was my first experience of such ferocious northern gusts. The north wind's distinctive creaking groan brought back memories of an incident I had encountered over twenty years earlier on Seal Island - that place shut off by ice and sea fog. The children had long since gone to bed, leaving me alone in an overly spacious study. The elegiac howl of this north wind suffusing the void stirred unwelcome recollections, compelling me to record those events exactly as they occurred.

Seal Island (Russian names: Cheren Island, Roppen Island) was a remote solitary island floating in the Sea of Okhotsk off Karafuto's eastern coast, situated eighty nautical miles from Shikuka by sea. Measuring two hundred fifty ken (~450m) in length and thirty ken (~54m) in width, this small table-like rocky mass composed entirely of Tertiary period rock layers stood encircled by desolate sandy beaches. One of only three fur seal breeding grounds worldwide alongside the American-administered Pribilof Islands and Russian Commander Islands, this uninhabited stretch of sand transformed annually from mid-May through late September into both a birthing ground for the creatures and a bed of savage carnal desire. The roars and screams of tens of thousands of dark brown grotesque sea beasts—crawling, challenging, clashing, fleeing in confusion and pursuit—intertwined with the shattering cries of countless sea crows to create a clamorous uproar that ceaselessly shook the island day and night.

Around the time when carrion-like remnants of drift ice still drift upon the northern sea’s waters，forty to fifty monstrously large beasts—ordinarily called adult males—arrive first，occupying landing-friendly spots to await the females that come later． In early June，a massive swarm of round-headed brides with gentle eyes arrives，darkening the offshore waters． Then，in their competition，the beach becomes a hellish scene too ghastly to behold． Due to the fierce competition，countless females are torn apart miserably．

When the fighting subsided, these champions of lust would each monopolize about a hundred females to create spacious bedchambers, ceaselessly repeating their vigorous couplings. Therefore, inevitably, a great number of unfortunate young males who could not secure even a single mate were produced. The inept, feeble fellows would gather in a corner of the sandy beach some distance away, peering with sorrowful eyes into others’ bedchambers as they lived out their days in dejected bachelorhood. They would drive unmanageable young females to drown or indiscriminately devour fish to find meager consolation. Then, when late September came, on dimly lit dawns or moonlit nights, these good-for-nothings were slaughtered without exception by the breeding males. The fur seal pelts adorning the coats of ladies and young misses strolling through Ginza were solely the mementos of these unfortunate young males.

In 1905, when this unique island came under Japanese control, hunting was prohibited, and the Karafuto Government began dispatching watchmen annually to protect the fur seals. However, with prospects of a tripartite treaty between Japan, America, and Russia (the 1911 "Fur Seal Protection Treaty") being concluded in 1911, it was decided that hunting would commence simultaneously with the treaty’s ratification. That same summer, carpenters and laborers were sent to begin hasty construction of facilities including seal population observation towers, watch stations, flaying grounds, salted hide storage buildings, and drying chambers. Yet even by late November when shipping routes closed, completion remained unrealized. To meet the May opening ceremony deadline the following year (Taishō 1, 1912), they reluctantly decided to leave two carpenters, two laborers, and one flayer behind to overwinter and continue the work, appointing a fisheries technician named Shimizu as supervisor.

At that time, I served as an engineer in the Fisheries Section of the Karafuto Government's Agriculture and Forestry Department, holding supervisory authority over fur seal hunting operations. To verify completion of all facilities prior to the May 8th opening ceremony, accompanied by a subordinate technician, I boarded the year's inaugural mail ship in early March and ventured to Seal Island through hazardous drift ice. With American and Russian technical staff scheduled to attend the opening ceremony, there existed an imperative to ensure all arrangements met presentable standards.

Seal Island Stay Log

Day One

1. The Dai-Ni Otaru Maru, having departed Odomari Port on March 8th, arrived approximately four nautical miles off the west coast of Seal Island around 10:00 AM two days later on March 10th.

The wind shifted and the sea fog drifted; from amidst a gray murk that could have been clouds or smoke, the lifeless, gloomy outline of a snow-capped island began to emerge hazily. However, this proved fleeting. A miasma-like eerie mist began drifting hazily around the island once more, rapidly concealing it as though recoiling from human gaze, then sank back into the boundless milky whiteness just as it had first emerged.

The moment I laid eyes on that island, I was seized by an indescribably profound melancholy. My heart sank heavily, and loneliness tightened my chest with great force. What triggered this abrupt melancholy? I could think of nothing else but that the gloomy island scenery made the heart ache. Or perhaps it might have been something like a premonition. It was an elusive sentiment steeped in sorrow, anxiety, and despair.

I leaned against the ship's rail, gazing at where the island had vanished like a phantom, but my mental stagnation only deepened further, leaving me too listless to do anything. The cold had been unusually severe that year, causing remarkable growth of sea ice that left over four nautical miles between the ice field's edge and the coast, making sled or foot travel the sole means of reaching the island. This troublesome circumstance served only to deepen my melancholy. Though inspecting the island was crucial work, after much hesitation I resolved to delegate the task to my subordinate technician, dispatching him around noon with a sled laden with rice, vegetables, and other provisions.

1. Having resolved to leave promptly upon receiving my subordinate’s report—first traveling to Shikuka before returning overland to headquarters—I had been sitting by the captain’s cabin stove when my subordinate’s swift return brought news of an extraordinary incident on this island, making my planned course of action impossible. It was an extraordinary incident in which, on the night of January 4th this year, a fire broke out in the drying chamber, reducing all buildings to ashes except for part of the salt storage facility and the laborers' hut, leaving only one survivor—a flayer named Sayama Ryōkichi—while Technician Shimizu and five others perished in the flames. Consequently, professional duty required me to investigate the incident thoroughly and report the findings to my superiors and the police department. However, the Dai-Ni Otaru Maru—a mail ship operating on a Ministry of Communications-designated route carrying post for towns like Tōsen, Tōnai, and Shikuka—could not be detained offshore until the investigation concluded. With no alternative, I ordered my subordinate to telegraph a summary report of the incident to headquarters from Shikuka and decided to remain on the island under the condition that the ship would call here on its return voyage. As the ship would visit the island no later than the evening of the day after tomorrow, I anticipated no major inconvenience and believed I could complete my investigation without delay by then.

1. As I descended the gangway onto the ice field, the steamship sounded a long, choking whistle as its hull vanished into hazy sea fog, leaving me alone on this vast ice field shrouded in oppressive mist. The gray infinite expanse was utterly devoid of sound, filled with a hushed silence. The ice field, where the undulations of waves had frozen in place, presented a coldly desolate appearance akin to the surface of a lifeless moon—so transparent one might see through to its eighteen-meter depths, yet tinged with a ghastly, eerie green.

While battling the sense of loneliness, I began walking toward the island as if adrift. The cold was excruciatingly severe; my boots froze rock-hard in moments, and when my toes struck the sharp needle ice, the pain was enough to make me leap up. With an ordinary way of walking, not a single step could be taken. I had no choice but to leap from ridge to ridge across the ice. Because I had to strain my toes to the utmost, my calves began to ache, making it impossible to continue walking for long.

As I advanced, falling several times, the fog shifted again and the island's full panorama abruptly materialized before my eyes.

A cloud-shrouded black rocky mountain formed a cliff that hung gloomily toward the coast, around which snow flurries and gray mist crept darkly. A hellish island where rock, ice, and snow had frozen solid together. In that eternal silence, sea crows were tracing slow circles around the cliff’s edge.

1. Carving footholds into the ice-covered slope facing the coast and ascending step by step, I found the laborers’ hut clinging stubbornly like an oyster shell to a rocky recess halfway up the mountainside. It was a long, low Kamchatka-style wooden hut with a snow enclosure around its entrance, revealing only its chimney and part of the entrance above the snow, resembling a pitiful shipwreck on the brink of sinking. The entrance’s earthen floor spanned about ten tatami mats. In a dim corner lay a jumble of laborers’ raincoats, various wooden boxes and barrels, peeling-painted oars, dinghy clutches, and other such items. I knocked on the door and called out, but receiving no reply in the utter stillness, I gave a perfunctory push and entered the room.

It was a crude, desolate room with deeply recessed exposed beams, more than half of its windows buried in snow leaving it dim, where the shapes of things wavered indistinctly. Along both plank walls stood about eight tiered wooden bunks modeled after silkworm shelves, while at the far end of the back wall gaped a rear exit door. As the right side appeared to be the kitchen area, I went to peer inside, but found only cooking utensils and empty canned goods haphazardly strewn about, with no sign of anyone there.

Returning to the large cast-iron stove installed at the room’s center, I sat down on a bench there, but the stove had gone completely cold, serving only to amplify the cold and desolation. There was firewood right beside me, but I found it so vexing that I couldn’t bring myself to light a fire. I waited for Sayama Ryōkichi to return while my teeth chattered, but he never showed up.

1. I grew irritable from the cold, exhaustion, and hunger, sitting with my arms crossed and a scowl on my face when, after nearly an hour had passed, a heavy limping footstep sounded from the rear entrance and someone slowly opened the door to enter. When I peered through the dimness, a large man stood blocking the inner entrance entirely. I was at the peak of impatience when suddenly, “You there—Sayama?” I called out, but he merely stood blankly staring in my direction without responding.

“Quit lumbering around over there and get over here!” I barked, and Sayama drew near like a swaying mound, coming to an abrupt halt on the other side of the table. Before my eyes was an uncanny face. The forehead was entirely absent, leading to a flat crown of his head devoid of even a single hair, beneath which sparse eyebrows hovered over large, dog-like eyes glistening wetly. Small, round ears resembling dried scallops were pressed tightly against his temples, while his thin, slack lips curled back beneath them. His jaw bore a dreadful mass of flab, constricted in three distinct folds before abruptly merging into a thick chest. His limbs lacked only flippers to make him the very image of a fur seal. Tormented by the meaningless delusion that what I faced here might be a fur seal freshly emerged from the sea, and growing weary of confronting this grotesque visage in the dimness, I ordered Sayama to bring a lamp.

Sayama Ryōkichi dragged his feet toward the kitchen area, lit a seven-wick lamp and brought it back to hang on a beam nail, stoked the stove with movements so painfully sluggish they grated on my nerves to watch, then lumbered onto the stool facing me. In the lamplight, Sayama’s face emerged as a thing of utter wretchedness. Sayama had contracted scurvy; his gums were swollen purple, and his skin was covered with hemorrhagic spots. The hair had completely fallen out; what little remained of the eyebrows had roots filled with bloody pus. From this, I surmised that swelling had likely begun in his knee joints as well. His sluggish movements were proof of this.

I had thought Sayama was shirking his duties and had grown furious at his seemingly indolent attitude, but upon realizing it was a misunderstanding, I regained my composure. “You—where have you been all this time?” I asked. Sayama slowly raised his face with a leaden demeanor, drew down the corners of his lips, tensed his brow, kept his cheeks quivering spasmodically, stared unblinkingly at my face, and obstinately maintained his silence. It was that countenance often observed in melancholia patients—what is termed epileptic sullenness. I endeavored to soften my tone and posed various questions, but no matter what I inquired, he offered no reply.

On this desolate island sealed away by ice and fog, having lived utterly alone for so long, this man might have forgotten how to speak altogether. Willem Barents' reports describe how prolonged solitary existence in polar regions gradually strips away one's capacity for articulate speech. I concluded the island's dreadful loneliness had induced melancholia or some akin mental disturbance. Having exhausted all approaches, I sat blankly studying Sayama's face when abruptly he parted his lips—asking in a voice like surf surging through a sea grotto, unnervingly resonant—how much longer I meant to stay. "I'll remain until the day after tomorrow when my ship returns," I replied, forcing cordiality into my tone,

“Even that’s not something anyone can say for certain.” “If the ship were wrecked en route here,” I continued through chattering teeth that mirrored my growing unease, “we’d have no choice but remain until thaw.” Sayama stared unblinkingly across at me through rheumy eyes that held neither comprehension nor mercy. The notion that someone of my station could be abandoned alone on this godforsaken island defied all bureaucratic logic.

1. This is how the island’s calamity began. Since New Year’s Eve, everyone on the island had been holed up in the drying chamber. That day too, they started drinking in the evening and soon collapsed drunk—having begun on New Year’s Eve and continued for three straight days, they had all lost their senses, and none noticed the drying chamber’s overheated boiler gradually nearing its bursting point. Like a volcanic eruption, everything vanished in an instant—both people and drying chamber blown apart. The men were hurled skyward like volcanic projectiles only to plummet into roaring flames. Scalded by boiling water before being meticulously incinerated anew. They likely never even stirred awake—an end beyond all endings.

The fierce fire, driven by the north wind, instantly spread to the adjacent storage shed. After completely consuming provisions, vegetables, hunting tools, and the workers' assorted personal belongings, it leapt to the flaying area and watchman’s hut, devouring them in one gulp. Only when it had half-burned the salt storage shed for pelts did the flames finally subside. At that moment, the wind shifted. Sayama had passed out drunk in the depths of the drying chamber. At the moment of the explosion, Sayama too was of course blown away. However, he didn’t fall into the flames but was instead slammed onto the ice. It was a minor thing, but this made all the difference. He injured only his back, with no threat to his life. Sayama himself was unaware of it. After a considerable time had passed, he slowly opened his eyes. For some time, he couldn’t comprehend what had happened. He was blankly gazing at the raging flames.

1. The fur seal pelt salt storage shed had survived the fire with an unassuming simplicity amidst the snow beneath the cliff.

The five or six burnt posts standing sparsely had ice and snow clinging to them, glittering like rime-covered trees as they lent a modicum of poetic charm to this barren landscape devoid of a single standing tree.

The five corpses had been placed against the plank wall beneath the barely-there remnant of a roof and carelessly thrown onto ground hard as stone—a mix of salt and snow in equal measure—like discarded railroad ties. There was nothing about them that invited compassion. Every corpse had frozen solid in grotesquely comical poses. Some sat with a knee raised, others lifted a leg as if mid-dance step, still others had arms crossed in pensive contemplation. All had been smoked like cured meat and shone with a dull bronze-black luster.

When they had fallen to the ground—likely where they first made contact with the snow—each corpse retained one unburned patch that alone bore an eerie, waxen pallor. Each and every one had faces twisted as if crushed, white bones peering out from between wounds pecked open by seabirds.

I grew furious at Sayama’s haphazard disposal,

“Why didn’t you dig a hole to bury them? This way they’ll just become bird feed!” When I pressed him, Sayama indicated the Ainu knife at his waist and answered that all the pickaxes had burned up, and with just this single knife, there had been nothing he could do.

1. Upon returning to the hut, Sayama boiled common murre eggs with celadon shells speckled black and fed them to me, while he himself greedily devoured ship-delivered daikon radishes and onions raw. 2. All fishing gear and hunting guns had burned without exception, he said—for these two months he had sustained his life solely on common murres and their eggs.

1. Around eight o'clock, snow began falling within the fog as a wind howled in from offshore, transforming into a fierce blizzard. A blizzard so violent it threatened to turn the entire island into solid snow—the wind roared, howled, raged insanely, joined by thunderous waves. The hut groaned and creaked incessantly, seeming ready to be blown away at any moment. As midnight approached, the wind grew ever more violent, but amidst heaven and earth's cacophonous roar, I heard an indescribable groaning. Threading through the storm's fury came a feeble voice—like subterranean spirits sorrowfully wailing—that would cease only to resume, falter only to return, sobbing endlessly like unwinding thread. This unearthly voice clung to my ears until I lay wide awake through dawn.

The Second Day

1. The blizzard had ceased, but the wind’s force showed no sign of abating. It swept across the ice, scattering rock fragments and ice shards together as it continued to blow in a frenzied manner. It was a monstrous gale like the end of the world.

After breakfast, I set up a desk beside the crimson-glowing hearth and began drafting my report, but could not make progress with my thoughts fixated on the ship. In this great tempest, there was no hope of leaving the island on the scheduled day. The thought of having to spend days on this desolate isle—where nothing existed but ice and rocks—with no purpose or prospect filled me with a castaway's bleak despair and sapped all will to continue working.

1. Before I knew it, I had dozed off. When I opened my eyes, night had fallen. I started heading toward the kitchen's water tank to drink when I suddenly discovered a dun-brown dog-like creature crouching beneath Sayama's bed. Crouching down to look closer, I found a female fur seal about two years old—its supple back turned toward me—sleeping peacefully with its front flippers cradling its head. This had been the source of last night's groaning. When I asked why there was a fur seal here, Sayama answered that last autumn it had become separated from its group and crawled up toward the rounding-up area on the inland side; he'd captured and kept it, explaining it had grown as attached as a child. Reaching under the bed to tap its back lightly, I watched the seal open its eyes, stretch languidly, then crawl out from beneath the bed with wobbling steps.

As she supplely bent her body，a swift，beautiful sheen raced across velvet-like fur with each flex．Her chest traced voluptuous curves as alluring as an adolescent girl’s，while the webbing on her limbs shone translucent pale pink like a spring haze．The eyes opened softly and gently，appearing kinder than those of any other animal． Sayama gazed at her with adoring eyes that seemed ready to lick every inch，as if overwhelmed by her cuteness，but in a sickly-sweet voice—one would never expect such tones from this grotesque giant of a man—

“Hanako, why ain’t you bowin’ to the master?” he said. The fur seal looked quizzically at Sayama’s face but, seeming to grasp his meaning, repeatedly raised and lowered its head in motions resembling a bow. Sayama shook his head and chuckled, but seemingly wanting to flaunt his affection with the fur seal, he began issuing various calls. The fur seal, with eyes gazing into the distance, would lean against his shoulder or clamber onto his lap. Despite being vacant gestures that could even be called endearing, for some reason, they struck my heart. It was an oddly haunting scene.

The Third Day

1. The wind continued to blow unabated, and night fell without the arrival of the expected ship. Around noon, the fur seal began hanging its head dejectedly and appeared listless, but as evening approached, it lay prone on the floor and started moaning in pain. Sayama’s grief and panic were nothing short of spectacular—he bundled the fur seal in every blanket and rag he could find, murmuring gentle words as though speaking to a human while continuing to frantically stroke its back. But the fur seal gradually weakened until it could no longer even groan, its spine heaving violently with each breath as its flippers beat the floorboards in apparent anguish.

Sayama, tears streaming down his purplish-red cheeks, beat his chest with both hands like a fur seal and sobbed convulsively; then, thrusting his stiff legs behind him, he crawled frantically around the fur seal with both hands. For a while, he staggered aimlessly about, but upon clutching the fur seal in his arms, he suddenly let out a shrill laugh. His eyes took on a savage hue and shone unnervingly, while his head shook violently back and forth and side to side in manic excitement. Within the sole hut on this desolate island layered with ice and rock, I found myself alone with a giant of a man teetering on the brink of manic violence. My circumstances had grown exceedingly perilous.

Outside the hut raged a monstrous north wind like the end of days, its minus-twenty-degree chill freezing the earth solid. Staying upright for even ten minutes proved impossible. Ultimately, to escape the threat of his manic fits, I had no choice but to barricade myself in the earthen-floored entryway. Moving cautiously to avoid provoking Sayama, I gradually ferried bedding and provisions into the space before locking the door—yet this precaution brought little comfort. I stacked crates and barrels before the threshold to form a makeshift bulwark, then readied what passed for a weapon. This so-called weapon was an iron frame salvaged from a dinghy; few implements could be less reassuring. Clutching this feeble metal in my weakened hands—how much protection could it truly offer? Dread consumed me utterly.

After lighting a fire in the earthen-floored entranceway’s hearth, I resolved to sleep leaning against the barricade against any sudden intrusion. Should Sayama force the door open, a barrel or crate would crash onto my head—this would rouse me and let me swiftly escape outside. Yet even if I fled the hut to the island’s edge, what awaited me there? Upon the ice field lurked a bitter cold ready to strike, while at its margin raged the Sea of Okhotsk’s furious waves thundering. Clutching the iron frame, I closed my eyes against the barricade, but fear and anguish sealed my heart shut—in the end, sleep never came. Sayama’s deranged laughter and bellows persisted until daybreak.

The Fourth Day

1. From around dawn, the wind calmed, sea fog crept around the island, and a dimly bright morning—like the depths of water—arrived.

From around that time, Sayama’s roars ceased, and the sound of something being roughly clattered began reverberating through the hut. Wanting to know what changes had occurred in the adjacent room, I pressed my ear against the door until Sayama’s heavy footsteps approached and his voice came through the wood: “What’re you doin’ there?” His demeanor proved unexpectedly composed—no trace of illness colored his voice, his words measured and coherent. When I retorted, “You were bawlin’ and howlin’ so loud I couldn’t sleep—that’s why I moved here,” Sayama seemed to shrink into himself with apology before repeating how he’d been tormented thinking she might die, but had settled down near dawn and recovered his wits. Then he declared the meal was ready and told me to come out to his side.

Had Sayama truly regained his sanity, was he in some intermediate state, or was he attempting to lure me out with intent to harm? There was nothing unnatural in his manner of speech that suggested any ulterior motive, but if Sayama remained in that transitional state, opposing him might only invite graver consequences. Summoning courage, I resolved to go eat breakfast, but thinking I must at least retain the refuge against an unpredictable future, I gripped the handle and shook the door,

“I lost the key and can’t get out from here, so I’ll go around outside and come over there,” I smoothly fabricated. When I circled around the side of the hut and entered through the back door, breakfast lay ready on the table, and the fur seal rested by the hearth with only its face protruding from the blanket, gazing vacantly up at the ceiling as though nothing had occurred. Sayama carried himself with a composure that defied belief for one who had been in such tremendous frenzy, heaping bowl after bowl of rice and eating with deliberate slowness.

When breakfast ended, I decided to withdraw to the refuge and told Sayama, "I'll be writing my report in the other room, so don't make any noise," I declared brusquely before hurriedly darting out the back door, where I discovered a woodshed with an overhanging roof on the hut's rear side. Not knowing how long this hiding would last, I thought it necessary to prepare sufficient firewood. As I entered and started gathering logs, I noticed six pairs of straw sandals lined up in the corner. They were identical to Sayama's, with three pairs placed on a shelf and three pairs on the ground.

I returned to the dim shelter and sat listlessly by the hearth with nothing to do when a suspicion arose—that besides Sayama and the five burned victims, there might be another person on this island. I casually counted them without thinking, but there were indeed six pairs of sandals. Straw sandals are durable—one pair should suffice through even the longest winter—so given that there were five burned victims, there should only be five pairs of sandals.

Without any particular meaning, I kept this vague doubt in a corner of my mind until sleep took me.

The Fifth Day

As noon approached, a wan shaft of sunlight streamed dimly through the shelter's window and began illuminating a murky corner of the earthen floor that had lain in stagnant darkness. Drawn by sunlight I hadn't seen in ages, I turned my gaze toward the sunlit patch where a red hue—so vivid it seemed almost coquettish—struck my eyes with violent intensity. When I approached and looked, it was a brand-new crimson rose flower hairpin, so fresh it seemed ready to release its fragrance.

A crimson rose flower hairpin on this desolate rocky island seemed far too abrupt an occurrence. However, until the morning two days prior, it had lain behind a jumbled pile of crates and barrels. When constructing the barricade, I had moved those items before the door—thus through accidental circumstances had this object which should never have been visible come into view. As I fell asleep, the vague doubts vanished and were completely forgotten, but upon seeing the flower hairpin, they came back to me. Amidst the old nails and wood fragments on the earthen floor lay a small paper ball. When I smoothed out the wrinkles, it proved to be a page torn from the pillar calendar, with about ten strands of a woman’s long hair—wiped from a comb—rolled up inside. The pillar calendar was dated December 27th of last year.

The speculation that there might have been another person on the island besides Sayama and the five burned victims had now become an irrefutable fact. In addition to the six men ordered to remain, there was another person on the island. The seventh person was still a young woman who had lived on this island until at least December 27th.

December 27th— Transportation between the main island and this island was severed after the last scheduled ship, Taisei Maru, departed Shikuka on November 14th last year, and was resumed with the Second Otaru Maru, on which I had boarded, which arrived on March 8th this year. No steamships had called at the island during that period. Due to dangerous ice floes and thick fog, it was impossible to approach these coastal waters. Given there was absolutely no means of departure, this logically meant the owner of the flower hairpin must still be on the island—yet our hut stood directly upon Tertiary period bedrock with no crawlspace beneath, its ceiling rafters fully exposed so one could look up at the attic from below. The walls on all sides were bare plank walls, with not a single closet to be found. The beast skin salt storage had only fragments of its roof remaining atop charred pilings, while the woodshed was an open plank enclosure with a roof hastily propped over it.

I attached snowshoes to my boots and followed the snow-covered path along the side of the hut, climbing upward.

The island became steep cliffs along its western coast, while the eastern side sloped gently down toward the sandy beach where fur seals dwelt in summer; from that shore stretched a vast ice field extending beyond the fog, where the waters of the Sea of Okhotsk stirred restlessly. Fog risen from the sea clung hazily to the crags like a burial shroud, while black scoters lay scattered across the twilight-hued snowfield like mourning badges. It was a sorrow-laden landscape.

A bone-stabbing cold wind blew through the space between my ribs. When I reached the slightly elevated area at the summit with a staggering gait, Nikolai Aert’s grave lay half-buried in ice beneath a rocky overhang, its appearance desolate. The epitaph was written in Russian as follows: (Tomb of Nikolai Aert, Zoologist. He perished on this island during an academic survey. March ×, 1916)

The cause of Nikolai Aert’s death remains unknown to this day. Nikolai Aert had died leaning against the creviced rock wall on the western coast, his eyes wide open. In his left hand he held a pipe, while his right remained thrust into his coat pocket. It was a death that could only be explained by some mysterious force having suddenly assailed him and brought his research on the island to an abrupt end. Having thought of this, I started walking in that direction. A crevice resembling a vertically split chimney was deeply embedded in the rock wall, its depths forming a somewhat spacious cave. I thought that a small hut could likely be concealed there without being exposed to outside view.

When I gripped the rocky ledge and descended to investigate, even those gentle crevices where modest subarctic plants like lion's beard, rock chrysanthemums, and pale red snow poppies would bloom shy flowers come summer now lay entirely encased in ice and snow, with several long icicles hanging down like stalactites to barricade the cave entrance. Heart pounding, I slipped through gaps between the icicles into the cave’s depths, only to find it ending abruptly after four or five ken. All that met my eyes were ferns and reindeer moss clinging to the rock walls—not a single trace suggesting human habitation.

The cave interior was dimly lit, and from the oppressive darkness within, I felt as though Nikolai Aert's specter might at any moment stagger forth faintly. Standing midway into the cave, I peered meticulously into every nook and cranny when it suddenly struck me that Aert had died on this very day five years ago. Overcome by terror, I dashed toward the entrance and, gripping a crevice in the rock, clambered up the cliff face like a madman.

I sat down on the edge of the cliff, wiping the cold sweat dripping from my forehead as I caught my breath. Looking down, I saw the salt storage’s charred pilings standing in ominous array across the desolate icy shore, stained by the feeble winter sun. Beneath the hill lay five charred corpses... In the cave's dim light lingered unfortunate souls who met violent ends... I took out a cigarette, lit it, and with all possible deliberation blew out smoke while striving to dispel these inexplicable delusions—yet my loathing for this island only deepened further.

I went to investigate the end of the cape stretching north-south, but there was nothing there except an ice cliff. I crawled down the eastern slope of a hill near the cape, circled the island along the coast, and even entered the underground tunnel running from west to east coasts used for driving fur seals—yet there was only a slashing cold wind raging through, with no horizontal caves where humans could hide.

When I reached the hut and entered through the back door, under a dim lamp choked with stifling air, Sayama sat with his back turned toward me, utterly despondent. His frenzied state seemed to have subsided; he sat sullenly with his arms crossed, seemingly insensible, not even attempting to rise when I entered.

When I said, “Quit lumbering about and prepare the meal,” Sayama muttered sullenly under his breath while arranging dishes on the table with insincere care, then withdrew to the dim rear area where his bed stood. Ravenous, I kept eating without glancing away from my food, but feeling eyes upon my back, I turned to find Sayama propped on one elbow atop his bed, leaning forward from the silkworm shelf as if poised to spring, glaring at me with eyes that blazed with a horrifying mixture of fury and loathing. It was so vicious a stare—so utterly pitiless—that I nearly vaulted up from my stool.

When I turned around, Sayama abruptly averted his gaze and, with feigned courtesy that reeked of affectation, said “The teakettle’s by the stove” before swinging sharply away. The rasp of teeth grinding carried through the air. My domineering manner toward Sayama had been mere bluster—a misstep that only inflamed his resentment. Seeking to mollify him, I produced from my knapsack a square whiskey bottle whose seal I’d just broken.

“Don’t skulk back there—come out here and have a drink,” I said, whereupon Sayama reluctantly left his bed and came to sit on the stool facing me. Sayama gulped noisily at the whiskey, gradually slipping into a morbidly cheerful state as he began laughing boisterously and recounting—without prompting—the circumstances surrounding the fire and events on the island since their winter isolation. Putting together Sayama’s account, until that calamity occurred, an unruly and dissolute life without parallel had persisted on this island. The four carpenters and laborers were all handpicked riffraff—the laborers Araki and Kondō being ignorant, violent men who had served seven years in Abashiri Prison for attempted murder and assault, while the other two carpenters were lawless brutes who had drifted through Saghalien and Primorsky Krai engaging in placer mining and illegal logging in government forests. When the watchmen withdrew from the island, they immediately revealed their true natures, neglecting work to indulge in drinking and gambling from morning onward—inevitably culminating in blood-soaked brawls once thoroughly drunk.

Technician Shimizu had locked the warehouse containing alcohol barrels to maintain order on the island and barricaded himself in the watchman’s hut after gathering firearms, but he was soon dragged out and subjected to a brutal tossing that nearly stopped his breath. After laying Technician Shimizu on a blanket, the four ruffians took hold of each corner and tossed him high like a ball, catching him each time. Technician Shimizu was flipped upside down, tilted sideways, flailing both legs—he moved frantically between air and blanket without even a moment to catch his breath. At first he let out piercing shrieks, but in the end, even his moans ceased. The violent tossing had pulverized his internal organs and stopped his breathing, yet the four drunken brutes continued their cruel game with laughter, undeterred. He had merely vomited blood and hadn’t been killed outright but had remained bedridden for about half a month without moving; then they forced him to stand and visibly reenact the scene before clutching their sides and laughing uncontrollably. They began exhibiting an eerie playfulness, crawled toward their beds and dragged out the fur seal, then with what seemed unbearable affection started performing deranged acts too grotesque to behold—pulling it down, rolling it about. The fur seal let out a mournful wail that sounded as though someone were clawing at their own entrails. I could no longer bear to stay and fled the hut.

In the fog, distant thunder rumbled.

Day Six

Around ten o'clock at night, a fierce north wind began to blow, transforming into a blizzard by morning that raged like something possessed. The hope of leaving the island—which I had thought might materialize today—now lay completely shattered. Too lethargic even to sit upright, I collapsed onto the bed fashioned from wooden crates and listened to the blizzard's howl while turning over the problems accumulated over these past three days. If no human could possibly remain hidden on this island, then one must conclude the hairpin's owner was dead—but what then became of the corpse? There were five charred bodies, yet why did none belong to her?

Last night, Sayama recounted life on the island since their winter isolation, though much of it concerned trifling matters unworthy of mention. That a young girl had existed on this island and died here should have been a spectacular incident for such a place—naturally demanding to be raised in conversation—yet he hadn't breathed a word about it. As I turned these matters over in my mind, I came to believe the girl had been killed before January 4th.

Published in Britain in 1903, *Confession of Swelldorepp* (London) documents the tragedy in which ten crew members of the Fram, left behind in Jones Bay during an expedition to Arctic Kungnest Island, faced near annihilation as they fought over a single woman. Two went mad while eight others slaughtered each other like wild beasts. Among them were two father-son pairs. The conflict raged endlessly until, when total extinction seemed imminent, a stalwart sailor secretly strangled the woman to save his surviving comrades and cast her corpse into the sea. This secret had been preserved through twenty years of collective silence before being unveiled by Swelldorepp’s deathbed confession. On a desolate island in remote seas where six rough men dwelled with one young woman... it was inevitable. The gruesome scene requires no great effort to imagine. To phrase it metaphorically—the six men, adopting this island of fur seals’ temperament, after fierce contention had mercilessly torn apart their female. That Sayama keeps silent stems from upholding their code regarding shared secrets—such constitutes this society’s moral conscience.

Then how was the corpse disposed of? The immediate thought that came to mind was incinerating it in the boiler’s fire chamber, but the Cornish boiler in the island’s drying room—a simple horizontal fire-tube type designed to efficiently utilize hot gases—had water tubes hanging within its combustion chamber, and due to its use of pulverized coal, featured a specialized structure with a small firing hole and double fire grates that made cremating a human body in the fire chamber impossible even if dismembered.

Moreover, since the ice covering this island rests upon Tertiary bedrock, the notion that someone might have dug through it to dispose of a body was absurd, while burying it in the sandy beach would risk the corpse suddenly surfacing come spring due to tidal forces during the thawing season. In short, they must have either thrown her into the sea or dismembered the body for seabirds to peck at.

While having lunch, I decided to consult Technician Shimizu’s weather log to determine the ice formation period and headed to the hut around noon. Sayama sat on the stool with his usual gloomy demeanor, while the fur seal lay sprawled out wearing a famished expression. I retrieved the weather log from beneath the lamp and discovered the following entry under December 20th as I meticulously turned its pages: December 20th, clear weather... Yesterday, the 19th, around 5:00 PM, numerous drifting ice floes were observed NWN of the main island. Since midnight, they have rapidly developed into field ice. Extending approximately five nautical miles from the coast to the edge of the ice embankment.

Based on this entry, I concluded that the corpse had not been discarded into the sea. The girl must indeed have survived until December 27th, but a week prior on December 20th, the sea had frozen solid up to five nautical miles offshore. Transporting a corpse five nautical miles across an ice field with severe undulations would not only be arduous work; from surface observation alone, one could not distinguish between drifting ice floes and solid field ice at its ever-shifting edge. To dispose of a body in the sea would require venturing to that precarious boundary—an undertaking too perilous to attempt without suicidal intent.

I recalled the numerous scattered white bones I had seen in the shadow of the salt storage building's rocks and, on my return journey, took a wide detour to investigate them. With my heart pounding, I rummaged through them but found only walrus and fur seal bones—no human remains whatsoever.

I sat down beside the stove in the shelter, toying with the blood-red rose flower hairpin in my hand as I wondered what sort of girl she must have been.

Day Seven

Around nine in the morning, a fleeting notion brushed through my mind—one I sustained with tenuous awareness in my half-slumbering state—but upon awakening, it coalesced into a perfectly defined form that took root in my consciousness.

Could she still be alive on this island? Even if there had been a young girl on this island, that would have fallen within their rights as inhabitants—hardly a matter requiring concealment. Moreover, even if they had killed the girl, the corpse would likely have been left carelessly. In Karafuto (at that time), there existed no oversensitive custom of making undue fuss over a single human death. Death was treated as a "postulate," its causes left unexamined. If necessary, they could simply spout whatever absurd excuse they wanted—that she fell off a cliff or succumbed to beriberi—and be done with it; thus those indolent men would have had no conceivable reason to attempt corpse disposal.

Nowhere was that corpse to be found. Given there existed no reason for concealment yet no corpse could be located anywhere on this island, it became more reasonable to conclude she still survived here rather than having perished. Though my emotional investigation confirmed her absence everywhere, logic dictated she absolutely must still be surviving on this island. Where could she be? Considering survival limits—no human could endure sustained existence in this exposed minus twenty-to-thirty-degree atmosphere—she would necessarily reside within the workers’ hut. Yet inside that hut dwelled only three living beings. Myself, Sayama, and the fur seal.

Following the inexorable logic that she absolutely had to be surviving within this hut, one of these three creatures had to necessarily be her. Now, I remained myself, and Sayama remained nothing other than Sayama. I had grown weary of thinking and kept my eyes closed for some time when an indescribable, overwhelming emotion struck me—suddenly I sprang upright on the wooden crate.

This island was governed by some unknowable occult force—the thought that all who came here might be transformed into fur seals—flashed into my mind like autumn lightning at a field’s edge, without warning, and in that instant cast a pale illumination upon forms that had been shrouded in profound darkness. Now that I thought of it, Sayama was growing more akin to a fur seal with each passing day. The crown of his head was flattening gradually, the excess flesh at his throat swelling in an increasingly grotesque manner until it nearly erased the boundary between chin and chest... Even the hands and feet that still faintly retained human form would soon morph into grotesque flippers etched with five furrows. If this were so, I realized that fur seal must be none other than her wretched metamorphosis.

The mystery of why tens of thousands of fur seals gather exclusively on this island every summer—at that moment, I solved it with crystalline clarity. Those sea beasts howling mournfully upon this island's shore were in truth unfortunate humans who had been transformed into fur seals while still living through the island's curse. Thus, seeking to be reborn as humans at the earliest possible moment, they had journeyed all the way from southern seas to this accursed homeland—only to be clubbed to death.

The reason I had been seized by an irredeemable melancholy the moment I first glimpsed this island that initial morning now became clear through this. Though I couldn’t comprehend why or from what source this melancholy arose, now in retrospect I realized the accursed visage of this island, steeped in malediction, had acted upon my senses, making me feel—in the depths of my consciousness—an inescapable ill-fated destiny. I was driven by terror, ran to the window, and peered at my reflection in the faintly glowing glass.

What appeared on the surface of the glass, frosted over with snowflakes, was unmistakably the face of a fur seal. The crown of the head had flattened out; the nose had melted into the face; the ears had adhered to the temples; and the lips were twisted eerily back toward the ears.

"Damned." I sat down on the dirt floor in despair and began crying out loud, calling out the names of my wife, children, and close friends one after another. Strangely, my tongue seemed to have stuck to the roof of my mouth, and the more frantically I tried to speak something, the more it turned into a wretched roar.

Exhausted from crying, I must have fallen asleep without realizing it. When I opened my eyes, it was already nearing evening.

I had been having a sad dream. I was on a moonlit beach, playing innocently with a single beautiful female. Waves of ebony edged in silver ceaselessly advanced and retreated at my feet, while the moist sea breeze carried faint traces of seaweed and reindeer moss that invited a pleasant drowsiness. On the wide beach, countless fur seals crawled and swarmed, their wet bodies reflecting the moonlight to shine with a phosphorescent glow like fireflies. Their crisscrossing created an undulating illusion of pale heat haze. My lover with beautiful foreflippers would gently hold me and rest her sleek round face against my chest. I ate silver fish flung up onto the sandy beach and felt contentment, then spoke at length in the language of fur seals.

The fire in the stove had gone out completely, and the room had grown dim. I rose and lit the candle, then sat on the edge of the bookcase and folded my arms. Moderate drowsiness and cold adequately calmed my oversensitive nerves, and as my mind cooled, I came to regard all that talk of reincarnation and metamorphosis influenced by transmigration theories as nothing more than baseless delusions unworthy of consideration. I took out a small hand mirror from my backpack and held it close to the candle's light to examine my face, but what appeared there was my usual utterly ordinary countenance—one that could hardly be called handsome, though somewhat fever-flushed—while that horrifyingly strange visage reflected in the window glass earlier in the day had merely been distortions and air bubbles in the poorly made glass.

Since it was an utterly absurd notion in any case, I resolved to stop thinking about the girl—but just then, a passing insight unraveled this mystery for me.

Given the island’s particular characteristics, all taxidermy tools and materials—plaster powder, collodion bandages, suturing needles, glass eyes, and so forth—were fully available without lacking a single item; and Sayama was a skilled flayer. By my visual estimation, the fur seal’s height fell between 1.4 and 1.5 meters—meaning a petite woman could easily conceal herself within it and, while wearing the sealskin, take any action to mock others.

The girl was inside the fur seal. I felt thoroughly outsmarted, “Damn,” I clicked my tongue in frustration, but I struggled to discover why they had put the girl inside the fur seal. My curiosity grew so unbearable that I could hardly resist seizing the fur seal to verify the truth. To execute this plan, I had no choice but to wait for Sayama’s absence—an opportunity that came only once per day. It was only when Sayama went to fetch firewood from the shed.

I moved the wooden boxes and old desk piled before the door back against the wall as quietly as possible, unlocked it, and prepared myself to dart out at any moment. Before long came the familiar sound of a hand hook catching and dragging out the firewood box, followed by the back door slamming shut as Sayama went outside. I tore open the earthen-floored door and rushed to Sayama's bedside. The fur seal lay curled in sleep, its slender back visible. I seized it by the neck and pulled it out from beneath the bed. The creature stared at me in bewilderment before shuddering, curling its bearded lips to bare fangs in warning. Paying no heed to these threats, I pressed down on its spine and flipped it onto its back to inspect the abdomen—yet found no suture marks, only the transfer of tepid body heat and clammy blubber to my palms. This was indisputably a real fur seal. Beneath its beautiful sepia-hued pelt lay flaccid fat layers and the distinctive skeletal structure of the species, joints creaking faintly with each flipper movement. The seal thrashed its flippers wildly in my grasp, gaping its maw wide enough to reveal the throat's depths in threat before lunging forward to sink teeth into my hand. Within that mouth glimmered a red tongue like a peony petal.

When I rushed back to the dirt floor, both my excitement and anxiety dissipated at once, and I sat down on a wooden box with a feeling of utter bewilderment. When it came down to it, this whole affair had begun with the woman’s hair entwined around the flower hairpin and pillar calendar in the dirt floor. But when I thought about it, that flower hairpin might have been something one of the islanders obtained from a familiar prostitute, and there was no reason to assume the date on the pillar calendar was from last year. It could have been from the year before last—or even three years prior.

I felt both relief and exhaustion simultaneously and slept soundly for the first time since arriving on this island. I don’t know how long I had slept when a clamorous noise roused me from slumber. Sayama was running about frantically, calling the fur seal’s name in a grief-stricken voice. The fur seal had fallen ill again. As I stood observing Sayama from the threshold of worthless delusions—indulging in arbitrary disgust and fear—I found that once I shook off my self-righteous assumptions, my aversion toward him seemed to disappear. Instead, I even began feeling something like camaraderie through this awareness that only this man and I remained together on this desolate island. Unable to disregard the grief of the man who had been my companion these past days, I resolved to offer whatever help I could manage. Snatching up my coat, I went to where Sayama was.

In the dim lamplight, the fur seal lay stretched out, convulsing its back like undulating waves while making motions as though vomiting. Its coat lost its luster, its whiskers drooped limply, and even to an amateur’s eye, it appeared on the verge of collapse. Sayama seemed not to notice me standing beside him at all, tears streaming endlessly down his ruddy-black cheeks as he—

He called out through tear-choked voice—"It'll pass soon," "Stay strong"—pried open its mouth to give water, warmed his palms at the stove, then devotedly rubbed the fur seal's back. The fur seal groaned painfully as it raised its head to look up at Sayama, wrapping its foreflipper around his arm in a sorrowful show of affection. Then Sayama stopped rubbing its back and burst into loud sobs. Intermittent intense pain seemed to strike—even as this occurred, it arched its back like a bow and trembled from head to toe, growing visibly weaker with every spasm. Sayama appeared at a complete loss for solutions, cradling the fur seal in his arms as he rocked it ceaselessly—without reason or purpose—as one might soothe a child. On this desolate, remote island sealed off by blizzards and north winds' howl, where Sayama had lived with only fur seals as companions—was such profound grief only natural? My heart was struck by this pure spiritual communion transcending human and beast—I nearly shed tears, but my breaths grew increasingly shallow until finally I began to hiccup.

Sayama had been clinging to the fur seal with the tenacity of a child guarding a prized possession, but perhaps deciding he didn’t want to prolong its suffering if it couldn’t be saved, his expression suddenly hardened. Drawing the fish-flaying knife from the wooden sheath at his waist, he plunged its sharp tip into the creature’s neck. I couldn’t bear to look directly and was about to turn away when Sayama flung aside the knife, gripped the wound with both hands, and deftly peeled back the skin as one might peel gloves from a noblewoman’s hands.

It was an instantaneous transformation. Just as a phantom might vanish into nothingness, the fur seal’s form disappeared, and in the very spot where it had lain mere moments before, the white flesh of a young woman now lay sprawled. She smoothly extended both hands, her eyes faintly closed. The beauty of her countenance surpassed any image that could be conjured. Her skin was white as freshly fallen powdery snow, faintly luminous, as feeble as that of a newborn. Her beautiful form swayed ceaselessly like a heat haze, seeming as though it would vanish instantly if touched. Sayama kneeled on the floor, pressed his palms together in prayer, and stared without blinking with a rapturous gaze.

Morning sunlight leaked through the gaps in the fog, and the eighth morning arrived. Sayama had been sitting at the edge of the silkworm shelf, head bowed in grief, but he quietly stood up, sat down on the stool facing me, and began to speak.

"Agrapha" (The Unstated Parts)

“That was Araki’s niece, Yamanaka Hana.” “She was eighteen—a good-natured girl, yet with a touch of playfulness about her.” “In mid-November, she came to this island from Shikuka on the regular ship to visit her uncle.” “Of course she had no intention of overwintering here—was supposed to return immediately on the next ship—but the storm kept away the final scheduled vessel, leaving her no choice but to remain.” “To put it another way, it was as though a beautiful flower had suddenly bloomed on this rocky island.” “Leaving Araki aside, for us she shone too brightly—we couldn’t rashly draw near.” “Hanako was a straightforward girl who made no distinctions—she’d cling to everyone equally, crack jokes with them all, and what’s more, she’d diligently mend frayed shirts and tidy up their hair.” “Even the demon-like crew of this island—each and every one—became so refined they were unrecognizable, gaping in astonishment whenever they saw each other’s faces.” “The roughest brutes who’d caused nothing but trouble would turn docile as puppies before Hanako. Though she never once asked for special treats, they’d stay up nights fishing, hunt mandarin ducks, dig beach greens and goosefoot from under the snow, gather murre eggs—all for her sake.” “No matter how beautiful some highborn lady might be, I doubt she’d ever be celebrated on this island as Hanako was.” “And so it came to pass that very year—on New Year’s Eve itself.” “We started the farewell drinking that evening, but by night’s end everyone was dead drunk—showing their true colors—hurling lewd jokes at Hanako from all sides. Kondo even took her hand and said they should retire together.” “From the beginning I’d revered Hanako like my own sister—but seeing this spectacle became unbearable. I suddenly stood and declared: ‘From today Hanako’s mine! If any bastard objects, come at me!’” “The resentment of being mocked as ‘flayer’ and ‘old badger’ all this time fueled me—I stood before those wretches and spewed every insult I’d pent up.” “Then Araki flew into a rage—drink likely fueling him—and with pompous uncle airs declared: ‘Whoever takes down Sayama gets Hanako!’” “None could refuse—they rejoiced as if already her bridegrooms.” “Next morning around ten they gathered before the drying shed’s open ground, passed cold sake around for sips, and commenced their duel.” “It was a blindingly clear morning, everyone grinning in high spirits.” “My first opponent was Suzuki—he came at me with a dagger while I met him with a thick club for clubbing seals.” “Suzuki was an ex-gambler from Oshamambe with murder in his past—he turned to the others sticking out his tongue and cracking jokes.”

“He’d whip that dagger around like he was cracking a stockwhip, darting in with these quick little jabs—but to me, it was all just laughably pathetic.” “I humored him for a bit, but damn if it wasn’t tedious work. So I yanked him off his feet and bashed his skull proper with that club—down he went flat on his back.” “The face he made then—Christ Almighty—we near split our guts laughing.” “Then Saotome came at me next. Gave him the same treatment. Saved Mr. Shimizu for last—had ’em all laid out cold by noon.” “Started this whole mess thinking I’d rot in jail before letting those bastards have Hanako—but seeing ’em all sprawled out like that? Got me scheming how we might slip off to Obihiro instead. Dragged their stinking corpses to the boiler room, set aside just enough rice and greens for Hanako, then packed that drying shed so full of coal it blew sky-high with the stores still inside.” “Why no rations for myself? Knew you’d be making rounds come March tenth—planned to get good and scurvied by then. Swore off everything but dead scoters and murre eggs.” “Figured this way none’d suspect I’d taken ’em all down.” “Island’s too small for secrets—Hanako knew everything.” “She saw it all through the walls, trembling in that hut.” “At first she’d near piss herself if I came close—but in time? Came round sweet as summer clover. Ended up man and wife here—just us two lovebirds on this rock.” “Then my body started going to rot—hair falling out, gums bleeding stink—knew it was coming but Christ alive...” “Girls’re simple creatures—got scared once I turned ghoul. Now she’s holed up where you’re staying, staring blank-like out windows.” “Can tell she’s plotting escape—but your inspection day creeps closer all the same.” “Let you see her? She’d shred that sealskin faster than spit and run. Had to scheme how to hide her till your ship left—planned to catch next steamer north.” “No hiding outdoors in this freeze.” “Flayer’s trade gave me notions—stashed her among the seals.” “Never told her squat—said it was souvenir pelt for home.” “Worked that hide like fine leather—metal patches underneath, collodion for rot, plaster-smoothed till it shone. Waited on your ship like a kid at Christmas.” “When your whistle blew offshore? Spilled everything—she finally understood. Agreed to play seal.” “Why missing when you came? Was in woodshed stuffing cotton wads and stitching seams like my life depended on it.”

“Still, it was pure folly—I dismissed it as just a day or two’s matter and didn’t factor in storms or rough seas one bit.” “This must be what they call Providence.”

That night, when Hanako began to suffer, Sayama said he had considered killing me multiple times. Too much material had been packed around her body, preventing sufficient cutaneous respiration, and combined with the constrained posture and cold, this had induced stomach convulsions. If I hadn’t retreated to the dirt-floored room in good time, I likely would have been killed by Sayama. I realized I hadn’t completely shed my nervousness after all.

Even so, there remained something suspicious. I decided to inquire about it.

“I touched her directly with my own hands—it was unquestionably a real fur seal!”

Then Sayama answered nonchalantly: “I had another one kept in the kitchen trough. When I went to the woodshed to let Hanako breathe, I placed that one under the bed as a substitute.”

It must have been around eleven at night. Suddenly I found it hard to breathe as something crackled and popped. When I opened my eyes, flames already crept across the floor to my feet. Startled, I fled the hut and ran frantically to the shore. After catching my breath, I looked back to find the hut transformed into a mass of flames. The fire's glow reflected through fog and snow, bathing sky and ground alike in vermilion-gold radiance—a spectacle as terrifying as volcanic eruption. It seemed the earth had opened its maw, hell's inferno roaring forth to purge all impurity: Sayama and that beautiful human-beast corpse along with the entire island.