Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Orphan from the Dragon Palace

I trust you, esteemed readers, have not forgotten the name of Orite Take Sonshichi, who played an active role in the previous work Tenbotō. As a renowned animal collector for the American Museum of Natural History, he was such an invaluable asset that he earned five hundred dollars weekly even when off-duty. In his pursuits—chasing rare beasts like dwarf qilins, seeking musk oxen, treading the spongy wetland soil of primeval forests where daylight dimmed at noon, or traversing polar plateaus where mercury froze in the bitter cold—he had unwittingly explored countless forbidden realms and demonic frontiers. And now, into this vault of my Orite's grandest tales—this repository of marvels—we shall finally venture forth.

“Hey, tell me about the sea—you’ve at least been to the Sargasso Sea, haven’t you?”

And so—as if determined to give him a hard time from the outset—I posed this question to Orite.

This was because I had yet to hear of any demon realms existing in the sea. When speaking of remote islands in the open sea, they still require soil after all. They generally lie at the heart of continents or in the depths of great precipices. Jungles, glaciers, poisonous miasma-filled demonic swamps—all existed on land and not within the oceans. If one must speak of such things, it would be the Sargasso Sea—but even that was merely a demon realm of the past...nowadays steamship propellers slice through that bizarre sargassum. In the Atlantic Ocean—right where the Gulf Stream swirls through its very heart, between approximately 20 and 30 degrees north latitude—there lay a dreadful sea of seaweed.

This began when Hanno, a Carthaginian explorer from ancient times, first discovered it. In the age of sail, ships became trapped there by windless conditions and circular currents, while slimy sargassum weed persistently clung to their rudders. Those tattered ships from unknowable centuries past—skeletal sailors slumped against masts—newly shipwrecked crews condemned to gaze upon them until death. Despair. Madness. Starvation. The creeping threat of scurvy. The shrieks of seabirds pecking at swollen eyeballs in rotting corpses. Should we call these visions gruesome? Or perhaps raw hell itself? Even these bone-chilling scenes from the sea of death now belong to the Sargasso's bygone era.

“Can we really claim there are absolutely no demonic realms in the sea⁉” When I said this, Orite made a disgusted face. “Hey now, it’s fine because it’s me, but don’t go saying that to others. If you drag out relics like the Sargasso Sea these days, people will start doubting your qualifications as a demonic realm novelist, you know. But in reality, there are few places in the sea that truly qualify as demon realms. One there, one here... Well, even so, there must be about three or so.”

What had been believed to be completely nonexistent—the demon realms within the oceans—were said, according to Orite’s account, to number about three. The unreachable demon sea—where exactly could that be? Furthermore, what makes this maritime demon realm—which rejects all human presence as thoroughly as any uncharted land—deserve that fearsome designation? Moreover, that it lay within our vast territorial waters—the Pacific Ocean—was something one could not help but be astonished by in Orite’s account. "It lies at 160 degrees east longitude and 2.5 degrees south latitude—less than a thousand kilometers from the eastern edge of the Bismarck Archipelago." "From Greenwich Island in our mandate territory, it’s about eight hundred kilometers to the southeast." "In other words, between our South Seas Islands of Micronesia and the Melanesian Islands—once known as the islands of cannibals." "There, in that place said to be the only one left in the world, exists an absolutely impervious maritime zone."

“Well now—do uncharted seas still exist in this world?” “And its name?” “Well, you see, each island group has its own name for it.” “Here, I’ll use the most established term from the New Guinea natives.” “Dabukkū—” “Meaning ‘a hole where the ocean’s water leaks away.’”

In the language of the natives, there were expressions that, while quite childish, possessed an extraordinary inventiveness. This "Dabukkū" stood as one such example. To think they had aptly named this massive whirlpool spanning a hundred nautical miles in diameter "a hole where the ocean’s water leaks away."

There, within what was called the “Ring of Hot Fog”—said to possess the most severe humid heat in the Equatorial Doldrums—it lay. And this whirlpool—its outer edge sluggish, its center quickening as one progressed inward—measured a hundredfold the scale of the Maelstrom’s vortex. Moreover, this was no cluster of minor whirlpools like Naruto or the Maelstrom, but a single colossal gyre etching a circle spanning hundreds of nautical miles.

At the periphery, seawater was heaped up like an earthen embankment. Particularly on the side facing the equator—where the Earth's rotational speed grew most intense—it reached a height of several meters above the sea surface. It felt as if a great atoll lay before them—these were the words of De Quiros, who first beheld “Dabukkū.”

This clumsy Spaniard—who had failed to discover Australia—first laid eyes on “Dabukkū” at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Yet he, confronted by this monstrously heaped water embankment, wrenched the helm around and fled in panic. And there, due to the dreadful humid heat filled with clouds and mist, he named it “Los Islas de Tempeturas.” In other words, it meant “islands in the typhoon’s breeding ground.”

“I see.” I felt such exhilaration I might leap a foot or two into the air. However, there was something in this current explanation that defied comprehension.

“What do you mean by ‘the islands’? Are there islands inside ‘Dabukkū’?”

“Yes—there seem to be seven or eight islands altogether, large and small. Don’t you want to peer into those islands most of all—isolated for who knows how many hundreds, maybe hundreds of thousands of years?” With that, Orite—grinning suggestively with some unspoken implication—had eyes that unmistakably heralded the grand tale poised to shock me to death. And first, he began to speak about the islands of “Dabukku.” “The New Guinea natives mistook the islands—which appeared like black spots—for holes. The seawater gradually lowers from the periphery toward the center. They imagined it as a large funnel with a gentle slope. In other words, seawater pours out from that hole. That’s why, when such a massive whirlpool forms, the etymology of ‘Dabukkū’ comes from their characteristically astute observations.”

“Hmm…the Pacific Leakage Hole.” “Right—the whirlpool’s cause might actually lie in just such a mechanism. Now then—why can’t anyone set foot inside the ‘Pacific Leakage Hole’?”

In 1912, an expedition team from the then-German New Guinea Company attempted to enter the Pacific Leakage Hole. At that moment, the true horror of the demon sea became starkly clear for the first time. For beneath the Pacific Leakage Hole lay a field of submerged reefs—even something like a small steamboat would capsize instantly. In short, whether attempting to cut through vertically or go with the whirlpool’s current, anything resembling a steamboat—with its weight and resistance—proved useless. However, what raised concern was precisely this outrigger canoe.

It’s light in weight and offers little resistance. "While floating along the whirlpool, you might reach an island. Well, that line of thinking works up to a point..." "But when you consider it properly, that means a journey with no return." "Unless the whirlpool reverses its flow... it’s a one-way voyage to the Dragon Palace for eternity."

“………”

I couldn't stop obsessing over how frequently Orite kept using the term "Dragon Palace." This guy was definitely hiding something monumental, I thought—just as he cut me off mid-question.

“Then, another major obstacle to exploring the 『Pacific Leakage Hole』 is the extreme humidity I mentioned earlier. “After all, the shape of the Pacific Leakage Hole is precisely that of a funnel. “Moisture retention occurs due to evaporation from the sea surface. “Just as that expedition had named it ‘the sea’s blowhole,’ it was a great humid heat sea that blotted out the hazy equatorial sun.”

“By the way, during that New Guinea Company expedition, an experiment was conducted,” Orite continued. “They released a box containing giant water bugs into the Pacific Leakage Hole—the air temperature there measured approximately forty-five degrees Celsius.” He paused as if calculating thermal limits. “However, when they retrieved it ten minutes later, those insects’ body temperature matched the ambient heat exactly.” His eyes narrowed with clinical fascination. “You—how long do you think humans could endure such conditions?” I wiped sweat from my brow despite the room’s coolness. “I can’t even imagine. If Earth has a thermal extreme worthy of the name, it must be that Leakage Hole.”

“Hmm, now then. “Let’s suppose someone rode a dugout canoe into this place. “The whirlpool’s edge moves at thirty knots. “Even with the most generous estimate, circling around to reach the first island would take half a day. “By then, whether that person’s life could hold out becomes the first crucial question. “I’m no doctor, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Got it.”

I put down my memo and looked at him dejectedly.

“Indeed, I realized that unless human physiology undergoes a complete transformation, one cannot reach the ‘Pacific Leakage Hole’.” “But if humans can’t get there under those conditions, then there’s no bizarre tale to speak of—what’s the use in listening?”

Then, Orite Take Sonshichi suddenly tightened his boyish face and roared, "Hey!" as if barking a command.

“Hey now, you’re supposed to hear a story through to the end. “I was just about to tell you of the Pacific Leakage Hole’s great wonder—a marvel that might’ve stayed hidden for hundreds, tens of thousands of years—and here you go cutting me off...” “O-oh, right.” “See what I mean? “Anyway, if you’ve got a writer’s nerves, you should’ve sensed there’s something in that Pacific Leakage Hole. “Not that I went there myself. “Truth is, there’s someone who went in alone and came out alive by some miracle. “And between that person and me—there’s this strange karmic thread tying us together.”

“What do you mean?! And where are they from?”

“He’s Japanese.” “Moreover, he’s just a defenseless boy of about five.”

I—for a moment—could not utter a word.

Dear readers, you too would likely doubt whether the words “five years old” were a misprint. Yet five years old remained five years old. Therein lay the strangest aspect of this “Pacific Leakage Hole” drift account. Now then, for a time, I shall faithfully convey Orite Take Sonshichi’s tale to you all as his recorder.

“Black People Islands” Urashima

It was the autumn of Taishō Year 3 (1914), immediately following the outbreak of the First World War— The Japanese Navy had swept through all German-held islands north of the equator, yet it was a time when the German East Asia Squadron still lingered in the South Pacific. Already, one audacious trading company had lit the fuse of commercial warfare centered on the newly occupied territories. That was Kainan-sha, managed by Orite’s brother-in-law. It became a precursor to later entities such as Kōshin-sha and Nanyō Bōeki.

It was remarkable how they maintained communications between the newly acquired islands and Australia with a mere small sailboat, threading through the South Pacific where German warships prowled. That second voyage of the Mizunagi Maru—a barque-rigged sailing ship of roughly 500 tons equipped with an auxiliary engine. It was loaded to near bursting with sundries and phosphate ore, now riding the northeast trade winds as it attempted to cross the equator.

The longing of youth, the romanticism of the sea—these lay in life aboard a sailing ship. With a fair wind came the full-sailed ship’s dash—leaning ten degrees as it raced. A South Seas night held nothing but wave sounds and block creaks. Looking up between upper sails tracing left-right arcs flickered the south’s beautiful eye—the Southern Cross. Orite Take too had boarded less for coral reef specimens than this atmosphere’s enchantment. Eventually, northeast trade winds faded unannounced, and the ship slipped into the dreaded Equatorial Doldrums.

“I’m astonished, Captain.”

Even Orite Take Sonshichi finally cried out. “So this—this vibration from the auxiliary engine—is what they call hell, huh?” “Honestly, this stifling heat is enough to make you want to die.” “My eyes cloud over all at once, and I can’t think of anything anymore.” “But—that⁉ Ah! What’s that?!” From beneath the awning under the lower yard, Orite Take sprang up as if propelled.

Outside was a sea of hot fog, just as the name suggests. Neither waves nor swells remained; the deep blue color had faded, leaving only a crushingly oppressive shimmer that merged sky and earth into one. Then he saw it—something bizarre at forty or fifty cables off the port side. It resembled an atoll but differed in color; though it blocked the vast horizon, not a single coconut palm stood there. “You see that? That’s the famous vortex of the Pacific Leakage Hole.” “What looks like an atoll is actually its raised rim.” “In short—once you enter this terrifying demon realm of the equatorial Pacific, there’s no escape.”

At that moment, a shrill cry erupted near the bow. A sailor, halfway up the ratlines, was shouting in a voice like a temple bell.

“Hey, I can see somethin’ strange right here!” “Starboard eight points! Birds... pullin’ somethin’ like a basket... Y’see it?”

Soon, those two gannets were shot down. What had been hauled up was a grapevine basket, and the man who peered inside let out an "Ah!" and leapt back. Naked, an adorable boy of about five lay in a deep slumber, his breath faint. So, it wasn’t a dream after all? In this equatorial sea devoid of nearby islands, a defenseless boy drifted along, pulled by birds.

For a while, everyone stared at the child with drunkenly glazed eyes, forgetting even the sweltering heat. Soon after, they discovered a letter tied to the boy’s back. The captain took it but immediately handed it to Orite Take. "You—this appears to be German." "Yes, shall I read it?" "'First, having lived as this child’s temporary father for one month...'" "'From the German Kühne, now within the Pacific Leakage Hole—' it concludes."

Pacific Leakage Hole—though a single word, it struck like a physical blow. Moreover, this child appeared Japanese—how had he entered that demonic sea, and how had he escaped? For a time, everyone stood motionless like stunned fools beneath the scorching blaze of midday sun. Soon after, the child received treatment and was laid to sleep in the ship’s cabin.

Orite Take Sonshichi, gripped by a feeling like the lingering aftermath of an endless nightmare, unsteadily clambered up the mast and gazed at the "Pacific Leakage Hole" now slipping past the portside.

A slanting sea, the sea’s tilt. Before his eyes lay a reality beyond even the wildest dreams. There, layer upon layer of seawater heaped up, streaked a pale bluish-white. Within the swirling patterns encircling the great funnel, submerged reefs sent up pure white spray. Yet this clarity extended only to what lay immediately before them; already, four or five cables ahead, everything blurred into haze. And from beyond the smoke haze came a thunderous roar—was this the howl of the Pacific Leakage Hole’s vortex core…

Orite Take Sonshichi, listening to it as if it were Kühne’s scream, began reading the communication from the demonic sea.

＊

The author of the letter, Friedrich Kühne, was a young executive at the German New Guinea Colonization Company. He had once been a dragoon lieutenant renowned for his dashing style. The previous year, he had joined the Berlin Anthropological Society’s New Guinea expedition—after which he became utterly engrossed in the South Seas—retired from military service, and come to the New Guinea Company. A sportsman with a well-proportioned, antelope-like physique. With this frame, were he to don a monocle and corset, he would look every bit the typical aristocratic officer.

It was this Kühne who, in May of that year, conceived an audacious journey and planned a dugout canoe voyage from Finschhafen in German New Guinea—4,000 kilometers away—to Vailima Island, the final resting place of Robert Louis Stevenson, author of *Treasure Island*. Aboard a *Prau*—a vessel with long outriggers on both sides—he embarked on a journey across trackless seas in a small boat. And after fully tasting the essence of maritime adventure, he finally returned to Finschhafen on the night of September 2. ―And so the story begins.

Passing through natives' water houses called *Maraibo*, then thrusting the mooring stake forcefully into the mangrove mudflats—this marked the end of his 8,000-kilometer round trip. However, upon reaching the coast guardhouse, he noticed a completely unexpected and tremendous change. There were no German soldiers to be found—only utterly unfamiliar native militiamen sleeping. Their uniforms somewhat resembled those of acculturated native militiamen from the Polynesian Islands.

“What’s this?” “There are no national troops here… just these strange men…”

When he absentmindedly glanced at the wall, he found a proclamation to the natives posted there. He turned deathly pale instantly. During his absence, a great war had broken out, and he realized this German New Guinea was now under the control of the Commander of the Australian Fleet. But upon reading the proclamation’s final lines, he forgot himself and flew into a rage.

—The Australian Army promises you all benevolent governance. When one reflects, you all—long oppressed under Germany’s harsh colonial policies—cooperated with us and did not forget your vengeance even against German garrison commander Von Essen. When they fled into the jungle with their families and defeated soldiers, did you not send out spies as I commanded and skillfully led them to annihilation? However, the collection of heads from the captain and his wife along with their one child, and all other white war dead, is prohibited.

Commander of the Garrison Land Forces Beresford of Finschhafen

Kühne's vision swam; he nearly collapsed. Above all, when he thought of Willie's death—the child of the captain who'd been his comrade—a blazing fury erupted within him. Brute—must you slaughter even an innocent five-year-old? It was likely natives nursing old grudges who did the deed, but hadn't Beresford himself been the ultimate instigator? And so in four short months, the world had transformed, leaving Kühne—this displaced Urashima Taro with neither home nor harbor—to begin walking... walking without considering destinations, without feeling fear, vacant-eyed and adrift in a daze.

(I’ll kill him. That devil-like Beresford bastard—I’ll kill him without fail.)

At this moment, there was nothing in Kühne’s heart but that singular purpose. Then, the moonless night proved a godsend, and as he wandered dazedly, he found himself near the commander’s quarters. In the shadow of an enormous cucumber, as thick as a man’s arm, a faint light glimmered. The window was left open, and the inside of the room was visible. On the wall was a clown hat that a child would wear. On the desk were a toy trumpet and a model pirate ship.

(All right,) He audibly gulped down his saliva.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Beresford has a son... This was heaven-sent fortune. Driven solely by vengeance without considering consequences, he lifted the child from the small bed, wrapped him in a blanket, and quietly carried him away. Soon after, the triangular sail of the dugout canoe—filled with night wind—slipped out of midnight Finschhafen like a loosed arrow.

Jungle Fugitive However, once Kühne reached the dark sea, even his fervor subsided. Despite having been snatched from his parents’ embrace, Beresford’s child was breathing with soft snores. What crime could this child—blank as unthinking stone—possibly have committed⁉ No matter how driven by revenge he was, once his reason returned, Kühne suddenly found himself pitying the boy for having done something so reckless. "There, there—I’ll get you back home soon, boy—" Given Kühne’s natural fondness for children, he spread the blanket and tried to peek gently at the child’s face.

Night was beginning to break, and the starlight was gradually fading away. The faint white light of dawn began to drift over this dugout canoe as it flowed onward without direction. Suddenly, Kühne’s expression changed as if he had jerked back—

“No—this isn’t Beresford’s child!”

He shouted.

He was not white.

He was a boy of about five, with black hair and amber skin. A plump, round, and adorable double chin. Kühne, startled by this unexpected East Asian child, rattled the dugout canoe and ended up waking the boy.

“Huh?”

With eyes perfectly round like that, the boy—who had been momentarily stunned by his unfamiliar surroundings—soon began to sob in hiccupping bursts, “Uncle, this isn’t Jackie’s house, is it?”

“That’s right. But I’ll send you back soon, okay? By the way, where are you from, boy?” “Dad is Japanese and a jorijori-man.” “Jorijori⁉ Ah, you mean a barber. So, where were you born?” “Sydney. Mom died there last year. Dad then became a military barber and came here with the unit this time too. He died of malaria last Saturday too. I’m Usami Hachirō.”

At five years old, having come to this savage land and been left alone, he was both quite precocious and intelligent. It turned out that after his father’s death, he had come to Beresford’s house and become a playmate for Jackie there. Putting this together meant Kühne had failed to notice Jackie sleeping by the wall the previous night. However, in any case, he had to return this child. “Uncle, I need to pee.”

Suddenly, Hachirō began squirming his bottom.

“But they say if Jackie pees in the ocean, a hammerhead shark will bite off his pee-pee.”

And then, at that moment—suddenly—Kühne's hand, which was holding Hachirō's waist to let him urinate, began to tremble. In the distant sky, the British flag rose smoothly, threading through the Central Mountain Range that had begun to take on color. Damn it—now he couldn't return the child even if he tried—listening to the reveille bugle as if in a dream, he found himself at a complete loss. Utterly alone in the world with nowhere left to place himself, he now bore the added burden of dealing with Hachirō. When morning came, they would probably notice Hachirō's disappearance. And then, both the interior and exterior of this island would be rigorously searched. After all, he could not linger in this area trying to return Hachirō. Where should he go now?

The surrounding islands were all British and French territories. Neither Dutch nor American territories were safe for Germans after all. Now, not even an inch of land remained on this earth. Kühne could only writhe in torment. At that moment, Hachirō suddenly began to say such a thing.

“Uncle, where is this boat going?” “Are we going to Japan—the boy’s homeland?” “We can go.” As he spoke, he felt as though his vision had abruptly cleared—

“But boy, aren’t you supposed to go to Jackie’s home?”

“Yeah, but…” “Jackie’s super bossy.” “He always makes me be this greedy bad lord, then Jackie’s pirates come beat me up.” “But in Japan—my real home—they won’t pick on me, right?”

The pathos of such an innocent child experiencing homesickness. The same held true for Kühne. Without voicing how desperately he himself must want to return to Germany, he suddenly embraced Hachirō, rubbing cheeks with him as torrential tears streamed down his face.

“Let’s go, boy. Let’s go to Japan—your homeland.”

And so the two of them began their drifting journey toward a land of peace—but to do so, they first needed an uncharted region, a place impossible to reach. However, at the northernmost tip of German New Guinea, there existed a desolate cape called “Nord-Malekula.” There, jagged reefs stood so densely that no boats could approach, while the land route was blocked by the great “Niningo” wetlands—it was said that even the pygmy black people dwelling in the mountains had never ventured there. He first made his way upstream along the Empress Augusta River.

Both sides were what is called a rainforest—the great swamp forests of Papua. Every day brought seven or eight torrential downpours, with thunder roaring. With that rain, the jungle instantly transformed into a murky sea—the dugout canoe came to advance through the giant ferns. Above all, the Empress Augusta River was a terrifying river, home to crocodiles and small "Ragh" sharks that burrowed into the mud.

This New Guinea, where mammals were nearly absent, was a world of nothing but poisonous insects and reptiles. Eventually, after tying the dugout canoes together with yam vines, he finally set out toward the "Niningo" wetlands with Hachirō on his back.

Meanwhile, the jungle trek continued. The soil—shrouded by rampant growth and untouched by sunlight—sank with viscous squelches like marshland. Ferns had transformed into trees; giant orchids bore thorns; vines, luridly lush leaves, and tendrils thick as juvenile snakes tangled together into an impenetrable thicket. Amidst this sprawl bloomed morning glories large as human heads, while parrots and titanic butterflies flaunted colors vivid as awakening giants. Somewhere drifted the muted calls of birds-of-paradise. Pursuing centipedes and evading venomous serpents, they at last emerged into the vast "Niningo" wetlands.

It was a terrifying death swamp, approximately half a mile wide. The water’s surface was covered in a revolting yellow crust of mineral residue like scabs—in truth, not a single plant grew there, let alone water lilies—and paddles would likely prove useless in this mud. And here lay the farthest reach of Papua’s interior. “Boy, do you need to poop?” “Uncle, are you going to catch mud turtles again?” “But I can’t just go on command.”

By catching mud turtles that fed on human waste, the two of them had sustained themselves these past few days. Yet he had no way to cross this swamp. If this was how things would be, he should have rather gone to the "Matanavat" village of the pygmy black people living primitive lives in the Central Mountain Range. Yet, in less than an hour since arriving here, Kühne’s face was already shrouded in despair.

Then, from the distant opposite shore came intermittent pattering sounds. That sound—which, depending on how one listened, resembled a human tongue click—came drifting across the utterly lifeless swamp surface. At the same time, intermingled with that, came the shrill shriek of a bird. Before long, Kühne slapped his hands once and—

“I get it. There was talk of extremely large specimens of the carnivorous plant Utsubokazura deep in New Guinea’s interior…”

“Right—I’ll use that first to get us across this swamp.” Before long, as they sent a small bird tied to the end of a thin vine flying, a shrill cry rang out—and there came a firm resistance. Certainly, the large pitcher flower of the Utsubokazura must have grabbed the small bird. When Kühne yanked it with all his might, the “giant Utsubokazura”—a single vine spanning one are (100 square meters)—came slithering out with a slurping sound. Before long, the two of them were crossing precariously over the natural bridge of vegetation they had created. At last, they reached their long-sought destination: “Nord-Malekula”.

“Boy, this will be our home for the time being.” “Is this Japan, Uncle?” “No, this will be the path to Japan.” “Boy, if you keep sleeping here night after night, the ship to pick you up will come before you know it.”

And so, both Kühne’s and Hachirō’s spirits calmed. Looking around, there was abundant fruit and plentiful fish and shellfish. From here on, they could live comfortably until the time came—this realization brought Kühne too a sense of relief.

However, this state of undisturbed peace lasted just a single day— The next morning, as he entered the thicket in search of fruit, suddenly, a pale red shape materialized before his eyes.

“Ah! What’s that?” “Come on, boy, get on my back.”

Ahead came the crunching sound of trampled grass. Kühne yanked out the creature that had crouched in the begonia thicket. He cried "Ah!" and instinctively tightened both hands to keep his grip. The thing was unmistakably human—a young maiden.

“Papalangi, ah, Papalangi”

The girl gasped as if on the verge of collapse.

Papalangi meant "white person" in Samoan. Her skin bore the reddish tint of a ripening peach; her physique displayed sculptural symmetry reminiscent of Tahitian natives. Without thinking, Kühne let out a low groan—here stood flesh-made coral upon land, a Samoan girl.

“You don’t need to be so scared—I won’t do anything.” “But why are you alone here in Malekula?” “You’re from Samoa?! What’s a Samoan girl doing here?” The girl took considerable time to grow reassured by Kühne. Had the endearing Hachirō not been beside this white man, the girl would likely have tried desperately to flee. Soon after, she began recounting the sorrowful tale of how she came to be there. The girl’s name was Nae-a.

“I am the granddaughter of Tamase, who has long reigned as King of Samoa.” “Yet somehow—I don’t know why—the German consul seeks to wipe out Tamase’s royal line.” “My grandfather Tamase was sent to Berlin some thirty years ago.” “After that, they kept moving him from place to place—he was even sent to those dreadful lands in German New Guinea.”

"But why was Tamase’s royal lineage such an obstacle?" "My father is now a wreck—addicted to Samoan liquor." "My brother too has been drinking heavily, following Father’s example." "And all of this—it was all encouraged by the German consul." "Even with my child’s heart, I could no longer stand idly by." "Though I was only eleven last year at the time, I tried to admonish my father and brother." "I wonder—did that make me seem dangerous to the German consul?" "They secretly seized me, tossed me into a trade ship, then dumped me on these reefs."

This unforgivable brutality of the white people—unpardonable by both gods and men—struck even Kühne as if to condemn him. Truly, as Nae-a sobbed and said, if she returned to Samoa she would likely be killed, and yet staying here for a lifetime would be worse than death. Moreover, this "Nord-Malekula" was by no means a safe land.

“I’ve only been here a year, but sometimes terrifying storm surges come rushing in.” “When that happens, we have to climb trees and shiver uncontrollably.” “And those tides carry away every single fruit from this place.” “Hey there, boy—why don’t we three—you, Uncle, and Big Sister—go find some peaceful island instead?”

And so, before long, the three left this “Nord-Malekula.” They prepared heaps of fruit and dried mud turtle meat, boarded the dugout canoe, and ventured out into the open ocean. However, this time, there was no destination either. They would simply navigate the open sea and seek out deserted islands. And if that place were an evergreen island abundant with food...

The Beckoning of the Pacific Leakage Hole

“Uncle, does this mean we’re going to Japan now?” When Hachirō reached the open sea, he was overjoyed—but hearing those words made Kühne feel a stinging seepage deep in his nostrils: himself bound for Germany, Nae-a for Samoa... Though each spoke of homesickness sharp as loosed arrows, none could return. Thus did fate entwine these three castaways ever tighter through shared impossibility.

The dugout canoe was now within the southeast trade wind zone. This rain-gutter-equipped dugout canoe possessed remarkable seaworthiness—it was said that in ancient times, this very skiff had regularly traversed the six thousand kilometers between Hawaii and Tahiti. “It somehow seems we’re getting closer to the equator.” On the afternoon of their third day since departing the northern tip of the Bismarck Archipelago, Nae-a shielded her eyes and gazed at the horizon before remarking. “How do you know that?” “Look—there’s a bluish-black streak on the horizon, right? That’s proof the calm is near. We might see the northern stars soon.”

Until then, Kühne had been navigating the boat using only the compass. The current course was heading due east, making its way toward the vicinity of the Ellice Islands. Yet how could they be near the equator? Perhaps while he had been moored in the thicket along the Empress Augusta River, some cause had arisen that threw off the compass. So, just to be safe, he took out the portable celestial navigation instrument and measured the stars that night. Indeed, the positions of the two bright stars in Centaurus were different.

He put down the portable celestial navigation instrument and grasped Nae-a’s hand. For the first time, he realized the accuracy of the native girl’s intuition.

“If we were to spend our entire lives on this boat…”

One night, Nae-a began saying such things to Kühne. The water lay inky black and studded with starlight; the triangular sail overhead bulged with wind, straining to bursting point.

“Hmm, yeah... “In this state, we’ll likely be at sea for some time.”

In truth, these three were cruelly pursued by the people of every island they saw or approached. To Kühne's unmistakable German accent and his suspicious habit of asking whether the war had ended yet, not a single islander could help casting doubtful glances. The wretchedness of fleeing when guns were leveled at them. Truly, these three continued their sorrowful wandering. Yet for the man and woman in this skiff—being neither wood nor stone to each other—something had to transpire. Nae-a, though twelve, was already considered marriageable in the precocious South Seas. Gradually, they found themselves unable to resist their natural urges.

“If we just find an island anywhere, I’ll work hard, you know.” “I can make your trousers from mulberry bark fiber, you know.” “Moreover, squid spearing on coral reefs is the pride of us Samoan women, you know.”

“I do hope I don’t become your misfortune.”

Kühne inhaled the sea air deeply and tried not to look at Nae-a. But those eyes—soon to come—were bloodshot with intoxicated fervor. Thereupon, with a light yawn, Hachirō opened his eyes.

“Uncle, have we come to Japan already?” “Not yet, boy—you’ll need to nap a hundred more times first.”

“Then Uncle and Big sister will become Dad and Mom… and the boy will go to Japan right now, right?”

Such things served to draw the two of them ever closer together. Then, the next morning, they arrived at an island densely covered with sago palms. It was an uninhabited island devoid of people, but its plant life was remarkably abundant, beginning with wild vanilla. The three of them felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from their shoulders.

“My, what a wonderful place this is!” Nae-a skipped along the water’s edge with dance-like steps. Coral polyps spread their myriad flower-like tentacles in the sapphire seawater. Through this space writhed sea cucumbers as long as three feet, and butterflyfish—those beautiful creatures with long sickle-shaped fins—fluttered gracefully… And once again, the forest formed archways of flowers.

“I’ve decided to call this island New Japan Island.” “For Hachirō’s sake, I’ll call it that.”

Then the two of them entered the forest with Hachirō between them. There in the wild vanilla thicket lay a single cross, now crumbling and worn. "A white person's grave—!" Kühne exclaimed in surprise as he rushed toward it. On the cross—weathered pitch-black by wind and rain—the following epitaph could barely be deciphered: —A woman named R.K. She died on this island in 1882. Her husband had perished, her means of livelihood exhausted; having become a native's wife, her name went unrecorded.

On the tombstone, it was simply written as such. Yet Kühne's face visibly darkened. A white woman, having lost all means of livelihood, became a native’s wife…… Ashamed of this, they did not record her name even after her death. Yet despite that, what are Nae-a and I becoming now⁉

Suddenly, a feeling of disgust surged up. Even in Kühne—in that lingering white superiority still coiled somewhere within him—it now made even the sight of Nae-a’s face unbearable after just this once. He stammered through his lies to her. “Nae-a… this island won’t do either.” “There’s an epidemic.” “That’s why they say no one lives here.” “Ohh… But we found it at last—is it truly unsuitable after all?”

Nae-a, unaware of Kühne’s feelings, said disappointedly. And so once again, the drifting of the dugout canoe began.

Since then, Kühne became a completely different person. He showed Hachirō the same affection as before but hardly spoke a word to Nae-a. And so their journey across the desolate sea—water and more water—continued. In the morning, the seawater was a refreshingly pale blue; by noon, it turned into a garish indigo like poured varnish. And by evening came a great blast of flames scorching the horizon. In those days—day after day of the same monotonous scenery repeating—a terrifying void gradually welled up within Kühne. Then, right around that night, the southeast trade winds that had been blowing until then began to weaken.

“What’s wrong? You haven’t been looking at the stars lately.” Nae-a said in an anxious voice.

“Whether I look or not, it makes no difference. In any case—no matter where we drift to—I know how it’ll end.”

Then came several overcast days with nights of utter darkness persisting. The wind had died away completely now—the triangular sail hung slack. Sea and air alike turned viscous: a steam-like mist coiling in sluggish undulation. Through these four or five days Kühne checked no bearings anymore—resigned now to whatever end might come.

One night, even though there was no wind, waves suddenly began to rise.

“What’s happening? Even though there’s no wind, it’s gotten so rough.”

Nae-a lowered the sail and spread it over Hachirō.

The waves hollowed low, spread into foam, and pressed inward. Yet the sky held no sudden gusts. Something—perhaps passing high above the water’s surface without touching it—created a roaring sound like a hurricane. But as dawn paled the sky near daybreak, Kühne screamed shrilly.

“Ah, what a place we’ve come to.” “Nae-a, this is a terrible whirlpool!” “Ah, the Pacific Leakage Hole!”

“That’s why, that’s why I told you so!”

Nae-a merely said in a panicked voice while holding Hachirō.

In this way, the three were finally pulled into the "Pacific Leakage Hole." The sea creased into wrinkles, swirling dreadfully as it drew a long, spiraling path before plunging into the bottom of a giant funnel. The water, colored like dissolved rosewood, tilted at about twenty degrees, and now the horizon hung far overhead. That deep indigo water wall they were seeing for the first time was more terrifying than the roaring bellow of the vortex’s core.

Kühne resigned himself—this was the end.

Now, bathed in the dawn’s glow and dyed blood-red, the spectacle of this demon-ridden sea resembled a sea of flames even if one merely thought of its heat. Their heads grew hazy, their pulses raced—most likely, the three would perish from the heat before the boat plunged into the whirlpool’s core. Yet Kühne, acutely aware of his ragged breaths, kept his gaze fixed on the vortex.

In humans, there exists a consciousness that strives to survive until the end, no matter what. That very instinct now jolted Kühne into motion. What if...this sea isn't as it appears? The whirlpool is inherently centripetal...but surely, as a result, the air movement above will take on a centrifugal nature. In other words, contrary to the direction of the whirlpool that spins rapidly inward toward the center, the humid heat air above swirls outward. Therefore, this humid heat zone is probably swirling only near the periphery in a ring-like shape. Surely, if we break through there and approach the center, this boat might unexpectedly reach a mitigation zone. That's right—it's said there's an island in this "Pacific Leakage Hole"...

The dugout canoe gradually increased its speed during that time. It tilted, was battered by spray, and its speed was estimated to be around fifty knots.

And here—could Kühne have gone mad? He suddenly lunged at Nae-a with the sail rope. After binding Nae-a and Hachirō around their midsections, he began stuffing a powdery substance into their nostrils. Then he tied himself to the mast and crammed the same powder into his own nostrils. Soon, within the dugout canoe drifting through the vortex’s deathly currents, the three ceased even the slightest movement.

Submerged Island

Had Kühne gone mad from the heat⁉ Had the calamity of the Ring of Hot Fog already reached his mind? No—it wasn’t Kühne alone. Nae-a and Hachirō too were shouting something uncanny.

“The whirlpool—it’s begun spinning backward!” “Ah—does this mean we can escape now?”

Following Nae-a’s voice, Hachirō continued, “Uncle, it’s getting cooler. “We’ll be able to go to Japan soon, right?”

However, the whirlpool continued to swirl in the same direction. The air was humid and scorching, like steam. Yet it was not that the two had lost their senses due to this scorching heat.

Kühne had devised a desperate measure to endure this Ring of Hot Fog. If successful, it would achieve a miraculous revival.

"Go well." "If only for Hachirō’s sake, I pray this works."

Kühne was shouting in his increasingly hazy mind.

"I thought about how to endure this Ring of Hot Fog. But there was no choice but to fight poison with poison. If you stay in this forty-five-degree Celsius inferno long enough – before anything else – your mind starts coming apart."

"But before that—what if I proactively created artificial madness? If we distorted our minds to avoid feeling this heat... passed through the Ring of Hot Fog... then snapped awake when reaching the mitigation zone..."

That was the “Cohoba” powder the three were now sniffing. This was originally a prohibited substance from Haiti Island—the seed of a tree called *Piptadenia peregrina* of the Mimosa family. The natives stuff the crushed powder into their nostrils and inhale it. Then, suddenly, they become thoroughly intoxicated and begin to dance wildly, their madness manifesting in countless forms. Now, within that eerie dream of “Cohoba,” the dugout canoe raced onward, battered by spray as it staked everything on success or failure.

Then, after moving through the vortex for several hours... Suddenly, as the outside world began to appear hazy through their delirium, the scorching heat against their cheeks shifted in quality. "Oh!" Kühne jerked his head sideways—the canoe had lodged itself between a massive reef, its bow wedged deep in the coral teeth.

"It's an island—" he cried out in joy. The dugout canoe had finally broken through the Ring of Hot Fog and reached an island in the mitigation zone.

＊

Orite suddenly paused his story there. And then he brought something like a letter from the adjacent room, “From here on out, we should probably look at Kühne’s letters.” “They’re brief, but they’ll strike your heart more deeply than my stories ever could.”

he said.

＊

The island—could its circumference have been as much as eight miles? Due to its long isolation from the outer sea, there existed creatures of extraordinary rarity. One of them was *Sphargs*. It was a turtle that cried. That turtles emitted sounds might exist only in legends, but here within this island of the Pacific Leakage Hole, such a creature unmistakably dwelled. It grew as large as the giant tortoises of the Galápagos Islands, its four or five hundred pound frame swaying as it emitted an adorable cry. I ate the meat as well—it proved remarkably delicious.

Other than that, there were only extraordinarily large crimson bats and turtles; no other creatures existed there. And at the island’s center lay a lagoon. But while lagoons typically have connecting channels to the outer sea beneath the surface, here it seemed that passage had recently become blocked. As a result, stagnant water had decayed from the heat while slimy seaweed and coelenterate corpses blanketed the surface in indescribable hues.

Truly, this was the sight of the Sea of Death. There, infant-hand-like ferns from a primordial age and cycads resembling cacti thrived in clusters, while blood-red bats flew and crying turtles crawled between them—a spectacle less like a scene from Earth’s prehistory than a world of monsters.

Thus, we were left isolated within an island that had been abandoned on Earth for millions of years. Now, we no longer think things like wanting to leave this place or missing human settlements.

The temperature here was also high. Not as extreme as the outer Ring of Hot Fog, but likely around forty degrees Celsius. Because of this, we seemed to be gradually becoming imbecilic.

In reality, it was only that we were not dying at present. The fact that our mental faculties were declining due to the heat could be seen most clearly by observing clever Hachirō. Now, we no longer spoke of Japan or anything else—and was I not the first proof of this? Nae-a, who had never once attempted to turn a self-critical eye upon herself, and I had now become like male and female beasts.

Everything has already drifted beyond the reach of memory.

Now that I am here, I have become a strange human. Perhaps I may be a new creature on this earth. This is because I am always walking tilted with my body leaning to the side. At exactly a 45-degree angle to what should be horizontal, I walk while leaning sideways. Moreover, this has become the ordinary way of walking on this island of the Pacific Leakage Hole. But why? This is because what passes for horizontal in this Pacific Leakage Hole exists only along the slopes of the great funnel. Moreover, an unrelenting wind always blows from the same direction. As a result, all trees across the island grow half-tilted... their swept-back angles forming perfect right angles with the funnel's slope. Thus standing upright amidst them, I can only perceive myself as walking while half-leaning. Truly, though it may be illusion, nature's fundamental laws here are utterly overturned.

Is this also because I became completely imbecilic? No—that couldn’t possibly be the case. The sea surface loomed black and high overhead, offering not a moment’s respite from the wind, spray, and din. Amidst this, we would gradually degenerate and soon become like the crying turtles.

However, a great typhoon came upon us by night. When the hazy air was swept away and a coolness came over me, everything I had forgotten until then, everything I hadn’t felt, and everything I absolutely had to do burst forth like a dammed torrent. I must rejoice in the recovery of my mental faculties, even if only for a moment. That was the first proof of my having become an imbecile—I had completely forgotten about Hachirō. It is acceptable for Nae-a and me to rot away on this submerged island. However, making Hachirō into a being like the crying turtles here is utterly unbearable.

I intended to send Hachirō out to the outer sea that night. To do this，I would use gannets—migratory birds. Furthermore，I would use “Cohoba” to thoroughly intoxicate Hachirō and leave him in that state. And then have the gannets pull the basket containing Hachirō. Probably，the five gannets would pull that basket，its bottom lightly skimming the water’s surface，and charge straight through.

Love will surely protect Hachirō. And God will surely bestow fortune upon my angel Hachirō.

At the Submerged Island

Kühne

＊

Even after finishing reading, my excitement had not subsided, and somehow I felt as though this place too was like that island in the Pacific Leakage Hole, where one walks while tilting sideways. Orite Take Sonshichi, grinning slyly, supported my body,

“Oi, pull yourself together!” Orite shouted.

I felt as if the fog in my head had finally cleared,

“So that boy Hachirō survived after all. And now?”

“That guy, huh.” “That guy sometimes flies off to Chongqing nowadays.” “And he goes around leaving dreadful excrement filled with explosives.” “Honestly, whether it’s New Guinea or the ‘Pacific Leakage Hole’, he’s sure one to leave his excrement all over the place.”