Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Orphan from the Dragon Palace

I trust esteemed readers have not forgotten the name of Oritake Magoshichi, who played an active role in the previous work *Heavenly Mother Peak*. As a renowned animal collector for the American Museum of Natural History, he was a treasure so invaluable that even on his days off, he received a weekly salary of five hundred dollars. In his pursuits—tracking rare beasts and stunted qilin, seeking out musk oxen, treading the spongy wetland soil of great primeval forests where daylight turns to gloom, traversing plateaus of polar ice where mercury freezes solid—he had unwittingly traversed countless forbidden realms and demonic territories. And now, we shall finally venture into that treasure vault of grand bizarre tales belonging to none other than my Oritake.

“Hey, talk about the sea! You must’ve been through the Sargasso at least.”

And so, with every intention of putting him on the spot, I posed this question to Oritake. The reason was that I had yet to hear of any demon realms existing in the sea. When speaking of remote oceanic islands, soil was ultimately essential. Usually at the center of continents or in the depths of great precipices. Jungles, glaciers, demonic swamps drifting with toxic miasma—all existed on land, not within the oceans. If one were to speak of such things, there was only the Sargasso Sea—but even that had been merely a demon realm of the past... Now steamship propellers sliced through that eerie sargassum.

In the very center of the Atlantic Ocean where the Gulf Stream circulates—between approximately 20 and 30 degrees north latitude—there existed a terrible sea of seaweed. This began with its discovery by Hanno, a Carthaginian navigator from BC times. During the age of sailing ships, vessels became unable to escape that place due to calm winds and circular currents, while sargassum would slither and entangle itself around their rudders. Such tattered ships from who-knows-how-many centuries past, skeletal sailors leaning against masts—these were what the people of newly shipwrecked vessels had to witness until death. Despair, madness, starvation, the creeping advance of scurvy. The cries of seabirds pecking at the swollen eyeballs of rotting corpses. Truly, whether one calls it ghastly or a raw hell—these scenes of a deathly sea that would make one shudder merely to hear of them—have now become but a distant past of the Sargasso.

“So, can we absolutely declare there are no demon realms in the sea⁉” At this, Oritake made a face of utter exasperation,

“Hey now, I’m letting it slide since it’s me, but don’t go telling others.” “If you dredge up antiquated things like the Sargasso Sea these days, people will start questioning your credentials as a demon realm novelist, you know.” “But in truth, there are few places in the sea that could truly be called demon realms.” “One here, one there… Well, even so, I’d say there are about three.”

The oceanic demon realms once thought nonexistent were said by Oritake to number about three. Unreachable demon sea—where could that possibly refer to? And what reason could there be for this marine demon realm—like unexplored lands on earth—to utterly reject human entry? Moreover, that it existed within our vast territorial waters—the "Pacific Ocean"—was something one could not help but be astonished at in Oritake's words.

“That would be at 160 degrees east longitude and 2.5 degrees south latitude—less than a thousand kilometers east of the Bismarck Archipelago’s eastern edge.” “From our mandate territory’s Greenwich Island, it lies 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 exists an absolute inviolable sea area—said to be the only one left in the world—right there.” “Hoh, so there still exist unexplored seas in this world.” “And its name?”

“Well, the names differ across the islands—there are various ones, you see.” “There, we’ll use what the most perceptive New Guinean natives call it.” “Dabukkū——.” “In other words, it means ‘the hole where the sea’s water leaks’.” In the language of the natives, there were expressions that seemed quite childish yet proved fantastically imaginative. This “Dabukkū” was another such example. To think they had aptly named this vast whirlpool flow area spanning a hundred nautical miles in diameter as “the hole where the sea’s water leaks.”

There lay what was called the "Ring of Hot Fog"—known for bearing the most severe humid heat within the equatorial doldrums. This whirlpool flowed slowly at its periphery while accelerating toward the center, its scale being roughly a hundred times that of the Maelstrom's vortex. Moreover, unlike clusters of small whirlpools such as Naruto or the Maelstrom, this formed a single vast gyre spanning hundreds of nautical miles in diameter.

At its periphery, seawater rose like an earthen embankment. Particularly on the side facing the equator—where Earth’s rotational speed grew most intense—the seawater rose to a height several meters above sea level. It felt as if a great atoll lay before them—so said De Quiros, who first laid eyes on “Dabukkū.”

This careless Spaniard—who had failed to discover the Australian continent—first laid eyes on “Dabukkū” at the beginning of the seventeenth century. However, he turned his rudder away from this monstrously raised earthen embankment of water and fled in panic. And there, due to the dreadful humid heat shrouded in clouds and mist, he named it “Los Islas de Tempeturas”. That is to say, it means “Islands in the Breeding Ground of Hurricanes.”

“I see.”

With that, I was already leaning forward a foot or two in excitement. However, there was something in this explanation that defied comprehension.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘islands’ here? Are there islands inside ‘Dabukkū’?” “That’s right—apparently there are seven or eight in total, ranging from large to small. Don’t you want to peer most into those islands—isolated for who knows how many hundreds, hundreds of thousands of years?”

With that, Oritake Magoshichi grinned suggestively—his eyes were undoubtedly the prelude to a bizarre tale of such magnitude as to mortally shock me. Then, first he began speaking about the islands of “Dabukku.”

“The New Guinean natives mistook those island specks—appearing like black dots—for a hole.” “The seawater gradually slopes downward from the periphery toward the center.” “They conceived it as an enormous funnel with gentle gradients.” “Meaning seawater pours down through that hole.” “Therefore, when such a massive whirlpool forms, it’s precisely their brand of observation that birthed ‘Dabukkū’s’ etymology.” “Hmm...the Pacific Leakage Hole...”

“Exactly. The whirlpool’s cause might unexpectedly lie in such a place.” “But why can no one 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*. It was then that the true horror of the demon sea became starkly clear. The underwater area of the *Pacific Leakage Hole* was a vast expanse of submerged reefs, so even small steam launches capsized instantly. In short, whether trying to plow straight through vertically or letting oneself be carried by the whirlpool’s currents—vessels with weight and resistance like steam launches were useless. However, what seemed questionable was the outrigger canoe.

This one was light in weight and offered little resistance. “Buoyed along by that swirling vortex, you might reach an island,” he said. “That reasoning holds up—to a point.” “But think—that’d make it a one-way trip.” “Unless the whirlpool reverses its flow… eternal passage to *Ryūgū*, eh?” “……” I couldn’t shake the term *Ryūgū* that Oritake kept invoking. *This bastard’s concealing something monumental*—I opened my mouth to press him, but he barreled onward—

“Then another major obstacle in exploring the *Pacific Leakage Hole* is the extreme high humidity I mentioned earlier.” “After all, the *Pacific Leakage Hole*’s shape is precisely that of a funnel.” Evaporation at the sea surface caused condensation. “Just as that expedition named it the ‘Sea’s Blowhole,’ it became a great humid heat sea blocking the hazy equatorial sun.” “By the way, during that New Guinea Company expedition, they conducted an experiment.” “They released a box containing giant water beetles into the *Pacific Leakage Hole*, where the air temperature measured approximately forty-five degrees Celsius.” “However, when they retrieved it after about ten minutes, the beetles’ body temperature matched the ambient air.” “You there—how long do you think humans could endure a body temperature of forty-five degrees?”

“I can’t even fathom it—if Earth has a thermal pole, it must be the *Pacific Leakage Hole*.”

“Hmm, now then.” “Let us assume there is a person who has entered aboard a dugout canoe there.” “The whirlpool’s periphery moves at thirty knots.” “And even while circling round and round, reaching the first island would take no less than half a day by any estimate.” “Then whether that person’s life can be sustained until then becomes the first and foremost problem.” “I’m no doctor, but I must say I can’t exactly vouch for that.”

“Got it.”

I set down the memo and looked at him dejectedly.

“I see—so unless human physiology undergoes a complete transformation, one cannot enter the *Pacific Leakage Hole*. I’ve come to understand that.” “But if humans can’t go under such conditions, there’s no point hearing tales devoid of marvels.”

Then, Oritake suddenly tightened his boyish face and barked out a rebuke: “Oi!” “Hey, hey—you’re supposed to listen to a story all the way to the end.” “I was about to tell of the great marvels of the *Pacific Leakage Hole*—which may have lain hidden for hundreds, hundreds of thousands of years—and you jump the gun…” “O-oh, I see.”

“There, see? Anyway, if you’ve got a writer’s nerves about you, you should’ve sensed there’s *something* inside the Pacific Leakage Hole by now. Not that I went there myself, mind you. Fact is—there’s someone who went in alone and came out alive by some miracle. And between me and that person… runs a thread of karmic fate.”

“What are you saying?!” “And which country are they from?”

“Japanese.” “And what’s more, he’s a defenseless boy of about five.”

I was, for a moment, utterly speechless. Dear readers, you too will doubt whether the numeral "five years old" might be a misprint. Yet five years old remains five years old. Therein lies the most bizarre aspect of this *Pacific Leakage Hole* drift narrative.

For now, I shall faithfully convey Oritake’s story to you all in my role as scribe.

“Negro Islands”

Urashima

That was autumn of the third year of Taisho—shortly after the outbreak of the First World War— A time when the Japanese Navy had completely swept through Germany’s island territories north of the equator, yet the German East Asia Squadron still lingered in the South Pacific. Already, one audacious company had spearheaded commercial ventures centered on the newly occupied regions. This was Kainan Company, managed by Oritake’s brother-in-law. It would become the precursor to later entities like Kōshin Company and South Seas Trade. What proved truly remarkable was how they maintained—using small sailboats no less—the vital link between these newly claimed islands and Australia, threading through South Pacific waters prowled by German warships. The vessel in question was Mizunagi Maru on her second voyage: a brig-type sailing ship of about 500 tons with an auxiliary engine. Now she rode the northeast trade winds in her bid to cross the equator, her holds loaded to near-bursting with sundries and phosphate ore.

The youth’s yearning, the romanticism of the sea—these lay in life aboard a sailing ship. With a fair wind, tilting about ten degrees as it raced under full sail.

A South Seas night with nothing but the sound of waves and the creaking of blocks. Looking up, between the upper sails drawing arcs to the right and left, lay the beautiful Southern Eye—the twinkling Southern Cross. Oritake, too—rather than collecting coral reef organisms—had boarded the ship captivated by such an atmosphere. Before long, the northeast trade winds died away unnoticed, and the ship entered the equatorial doldrums—loathsome even to contemplate. “I was astonished, Captain.” Even Oritake finally cried uncle.

“So this period with the auxiliary engine’s vibrations is what you call hell, eh?” “Honestly, this stifling heat could just about kill me.” “My vision suddenly blurs, and I can’t think of anything.” “But—what’s that⁉ Ah! What the hell is that?!”

From beneath the lower yard’s awning, Oritake sprang upright as if propelled. Outside was literally a sea of hot fog. No waves or swells remained; the deep indigo hue had faded, leaving only the sky and earth merged into a single mass, emitting a crushing glare. To him, something bizarre became visible about forty or fifty cables off the port side. It resembled an atoll but differed in color, and despite blocking the vast horizon, not a single coconut palm stood there. “That, you see—that’s the famous whirlpool of the Pacific Leakage Hole.” “What appears to be an atoll is actually the raised rim.” “In any case, it’s a terrifying demon realm in the equatorial Pacific—once you enter, you can never leave.”

At that moment, a piercing shout arose near the bow. A sailor, halfway up the mast ladder, was bellowing in a voice like a cracked bell.

“Hey! There’s something weird over here! Eight points to starboard… Birds’re pullin’ somethin’ like a basket… Did you see it?” Before long, those two shearwaters were shot down. What they hauled up was a grapevine basket, and when a man peered inside, he let out a gasp and leapt back. A naked, adorable boy of about five lay sound asleep, his breathing faint. What… it wasn’t a dream? A defenseless boy, drifting while pulled by birds across this islandless expanse of equatorial sea.

For a while, all of them—eyes glazed as if intoxicated, oblivious to the heat—stared fixedly at the child. Before long, a letter tied to the child’s back was discovered. The captain took it in hand but immediately passed it to Oritake,

“You—this looks like German.” “Yes, shall I read it?” “First, I spent one month living as this child’s temporary father.” “It says: ‘From Kühne the German, now within the Pacific Leakage Hole—’”

Pacific Leakage Hole—though just a single word, it struck like a solid punch. Moreover, when they looked at him, this child appeared Japanese—how had he entered that demon sea, and how had he escaped it? For a while, everyone remained motionless like fools beneath the scorching blaze of the fierce sun.

Before long, the child was treated and put to sleep in a cabin. Oritake Magoshichi, with a lingering sensation akin to an unending nightmare, climbed unsteadily up the mast and gazed at the Pacific Leakage Hole now passing by the port side. A slanting sea, the sea’s incline. Something utterly inconceivable—never even dreamed of—existed before their eyes as reality. There, layers upon layers of seawater heaped up, streaked with azure veins. Amidst the swirling patterns encircling that great funnel, submerged reefs sent up pure white spray. However, that was merely what lay immediately before their eyes; already, four or five cables ahead, everything grew hazy and indistinct. And from beyond the smoke and haze came a roaring boom—could it be the howl of the Pacific Leakage Hole’s vortex core…?

Oritake, hearing it as Kühne’s scream, began to read the message from the demon sea.

*

The author of the letter, Friedrich Kühne, was a young executive of the German New Guinea Colonization Company. Formerly a stylish and renowned dragoon lieutenant. The year before last, he had joined the Berlin Anthropological Society’s New Guinea expedition, become utterly engrossed in the allure of the South Seas, retired from military service, and come to the New Guinea Company. A sportsman, with a well-proportioned physique akin to an antelope’s. With this, if he were to don a monocle and corset, he would appear by all means a typical noble-born officer.

It was this Kühne who, in May of that year, conceived an outlandish journey: a dugout canoe voyage from Finschhafen in German New Guinea—spanning four thousand kilometers—to Vailima Island, the final resting place of *Treasure Island* author Robert Louis Stevenson. Aboard a *Prau*—a vessel fitted with long outriggers on both sides—he embarked on his lone boat journey across the desolate sea. And then, having fully savored the thrill of maritime adventure, he finally returned to Finschhafen on the night of September 2. ——And so, it is there that the story begins.

Passing through the natives' "Maraibo" water houses and thrusting the mooring pole into the mangrove mudflat—this marked the end of the 8,000-kilometer round-trip journey.

However, when he reached the coast guard post on the shore, he noticed an entirely unexpected and drastic change. Not a single German soldier was there; only unfamiliar native militiamen lay sleeping. Hmm, their uniforms resembled those of assimilated native soldiers from the Polynesian Islands. “What in the world... “The country’s soldiers are gone, but there are these strange guys…” Then, absentmindedly glancing at the wall, he found a proclamation addressed to the natives posted there. He turned deathly pale in an instant. During his absence, the Great War had broken out, and he now realized that this German New Guinea was under the control of the Australian Fleet Commander. Especially when he read the final lines of that proclamation, he flew into a blind rage.

"The Australian Army hereby promises you good governance. Reflecting now, you who had long been oppressed under Germany’s harsh colonial policies did not forget to exact revenge even against German garrison commander Von Essen, cooperating with us. When they fled into the jungle with their families and defeated soldiers, did you not dispatch spies as we instructed and skillfully guide them to annihilation? However, the collection of heads from the commander and his wife, their one child, and all white war dead below them is prohibited."

Finschhafen Garrison Land Forces Commander Beresford Kühne's vision swam; he staggered as if about to collapse. Above all, the thought of Willy—the captain's son he'd befriended—dying made his fury blaze white-hot. You brutes—must you slaughter even a guileless five-year-old child? It was likely natives nursing old grudges who did it, but hadn't Beresford been the one pulling their strings? Thus Kühne—now a modern Urashima Taro with nowhere left to anchor—began staggering forward through this world transformed in four short months... considering neither future nor fear, moving like one whose soul had fled.

(I’ll kill him. I’ll kill that demon-like Beresford bastard without fail.)

Now, within Kühne’s chest, there existed nothing but that single purpose. Then, the moonless night proved a godsend, and as he staggered about aimlessly, he found himself near the commander’s quarters. Under the shadow of a cucumber plant with stems thick as arms, a faint light flickered. The window stood wide open, making the room’s interior visible. On the wall hung a clown hat meant for a child. On the desk lay a toy trumpet and a model pirate ship.

(Alright.) He gulped down a mouthful of saliva. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Beresford has a son... This is what they call divine fortune. Driven solely by vengeance without considering the consequences, he picked up the child from the small bed, wrapped them in a blanket, and quietly carried them out. Before long, the triangular sail of the dugout canoe, filled with the night wind, glided out of Finschhafen in the dead of night like a loosed arrow.

Jungle Fugitive However, once Kühne emerged onto the dark sea, even his fervor subsided. Despite having been torn from his parents' embrace mere moments earlier, Beresford's child lay breathing softly in sleep. What crime had this child—this vacant, mindless being—committed⁉ However much this was about revenge, how could he kill them? The instant his reason returned—the instant he realized the madness of what he'd done—Kühne was suddenly overwhelmed with pity for the boy.

"There there—I’ll take you back home soon—" Since Kühne had always been fond of children anyway, he spread a blanket over him and tried to peer at his face.

Night was beginning to dawn, and the starlight was gradually fading away. A faint white dawnlight began to drift over this aimlessly adrift dugout canoe as well. Then, Kühne suddenly recoiled with a startled expression, "No—this isn't Beresford's child!" he shouted. He was not white. A child of about five, with black hair and amber-colored skin. A round, plump, and adorable double chin. Startled by this unexpected Oriental child, Kühne violently shook the dugout canoe and ended up waking the boy.

“Huh?”

With eyes as round as saucers, the boy stared blankly at his unfamiliar surroundings for a while before eventually beginning to sob with hiccups, “Uncle, this isn’t Jackie’s house, is it?”

“That’s right. But I’ll send you back soon enough. By the way, where are you from, boy?” “My dad’s Japanese and does the ‘snip-snip’.” “‘Snip-snip’? Ah—a barber, then. And where were you born, boy?”

“It’s Sydney.” “Mom died there last year.” “Dad then became a barber attached to the military and came here with his unit this time too.” “And he died of malaria last Saturday.” “My name’s Usami Hachirou.”

Having come to this savage land at five and been left alone, he was both precocious and clever. From what he later learned, after his father’s death, the boy had come to Beresford’s house and become a playmate for the child there—little Jackie. Upon reflection, it became clear that Kühne had failed to notice Jackie sleeping by the wall that night. However, he had to return this child no matter what. “Uncle, I need to pee.”

Suddenly, Hachirou began fidgeting his butt. "But they say if Jackie-chan pees in the sea, a hammerhead shark will snatch his wiener."

And then, at that moment—for some reason—Kühne’s hand, which was holding Hachirou’s waist to let him urinate, suddenly began to tremble.

In the distant sky, threading through the Central Mountains beginning to take on color, a British flag smoothly rose. "Damn it—he could no longer return the boy even if he tried—" Listening to the reveille bugle’s sound as if in a dream, he was utterly at a loss.

Now that he had lost all place for himself between heaven and earth, the burden of handling Hachirou had been added. By dawn, they would probably notice Hachirou’s disappearance. And this island would be thoroughly searched inside and out. In the end, I couldn’t linger around here trying to return Hachirou. Then where should I go now? The surroundings were entirely British and French territorial islands. Dutch territories and American territories alike were ultimately no safe lands for Germans. Now not an inch of land remained on this earth. Kühne could only writhe in agony. At that moment, Hachirou suddenly blurted out such a thing.

“Uncle, where’s this boat of yours going?” “Is your home country Japan where we’re going?” “We can go.”

And then, he suddenly felt as if his vision cleared, “But aren’t you going to Jackie’s house?”

“Yeah, but…” “Jackie-chan’s really bossy.” “He always turns me into a greedy bad lord, and then Jackie-chan’s pirates come to defeat me.” “But in Japan, my home country, I probably won’t get bullied, right?” The pathos of such an innocent child feeling homesickness. The same was true for Kühne. Without voicing how much Uncle must yearn to return to Germany, he suddenly embraced Hachirou, rubbing cheeks while shedding copious tears.

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

And so the two began their drift toward a place of refuge… but for that, they first needed an unreachable uncharted region said to defy passage. However, at German New Guinea’s northernmost tip lay a desolate cape called “Nord-Malekula.” There stood reefs too dense for boats to approach, while the land route held the “Niningo” great marsh—indeed, even the pygmy tribes dwelling in mountain depths were said to have never trodden there. He first proceeded upstream along the Empress Augusta River.

Both sides were what is known as rainforest—the Papuan great swamp forest. Every day there were seven or eight sudden rain showers, and thunder roared. Under that rain, the jungle instantly transformed into a turbid sea—and the dugout canoe began advancing through giant ferns. Above all, the Empress Augusta River was a terrifying river—home to crocodiles and small sharks called “Ragh” that lurked in the mud.

This New Guinea, with its scarcity of mammals, was a world of nothing but poisonous insects and reptiles. Before long, having connected the dugout canoes with yam vines, he finally set off toward the "Niningo" wetland with Hachirou on his back.

The jungle trek during that interval. The sun-starved soil, shrouded by rampant growth, sank squelchingly like a marshland. Ferns became trees; giant orchids sprouted thorns; vines, luridly lush leaves, and tendrils as thick as small snakes entwined to form a dense thicket. In their midst, morning glories as large as human heads bloomed alongside parrots and the awakening vivid hues of giant butterflies. And somewhere, the faint call of a bird of paradise could be heard. Before long, chasing centipedes and avoiding venomous snakes, they emerged into the great “Niningo” wetland.

It was a terrifying death swamp about half a mile wide. The water’s surface was revoltingly yellow, covered with mineral residue like a scab; in truth, there was not a single plant—let alone water lilies—and it seemed clear that no paddle would be effective in this mud. And there marked the furthest reaches of inner Papua. “Boy, do you need to poop?” “Uncle, you’re going to catch mud turtles again, aren’t you?” “But I can’t just go whenever you want!”

By catching mud turtles that eagerly fed on human feces, the two of them had been filling their bellies these past several days. But he had no way to cross this swamp. "If I had known it would come to this, I should have gone to the village of the pygmy black tribe called 'Matanavat' living a primitive life in the Central Mountain Range instead." And yet, though barely an hour had passed since their arrival here, Kühne’s face was already shrouded in despair.

Then, occasionally from the distant opposite shore came a pattering sound. That sound—which could somehow be heard as resembling a human tongue click—came drifting across the swamp’s surface, where all life had perished. At the same time, intermingled with that, came the shrill screech of a bird. Soon, Kühne clapped his hands once and, “I’ve got it. There was talk of extremely large carnivorous plants—‘pitcher plants’—in the interior of New Guinea... Right! Let’s use the biggest one of those to cross this swamp.”

Before long, while flying a slender vine with a small bird attached to its tip, a shrill shriek sounded, and there was a firm tug. Undoubtedly, the large pitcher flower of the utsubokazura had caught the small bird. When Kühne yanked it with all his might, a single vine of the “large utsubokazura”—said to sprawl over an *are* (one hundred square meters)—came slurping out. Before long, the two of them were precariously crossing the bridge of natural vegetation that had thus been formed. At last, their destination—“Nord-Malekula”.

“Boy, this will be our lodging for the time being.”

“Is this Japan, Uncle?” “No—this will become the path to Japan.” “If you keep taking nap after nap here, a ship will come to pick you up before long.”

And so both Kühne's and Hachirou's nerves settled. Looking about, fruits were abundant and seafood plentiful. From here, Kühne could live at ease until the time came, and he too felt relief.

But this uneventful state lasted only a single day… The next morning, when they entered the thicket to look for fruit, a pale reddish thing suddenly appeared before their eyes.

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

Ahead came the crunching sound of grass being trampled. Before long, Kühne yanked out the creature that had crouched within the begonia thicket. The moment he did so, he gasped "Ah!" and instinctively tightened his grip with both hands to keep from letting go. But it was—of all things—a human being: a young maiden.

“Papalangi… ah, Papalangi…”

And the girl let out a gasp as if about to faint.

Papalangi means “white people” in Samoan. Her skin bore the rosy blush of a ripening peach; her entire form possessed sculptural symmetry rivaling that of Tahitian islanders. Unintentionally, Kühne let out a dazed groan—she was indeed a living flesh-coral, a Samoan girl. “You don’t need to be so afraid—I’m not going to do anything.” “But why are you alone here in Malekula?” “You’re Samoan?! What’s a Samoan girl doing here?”

It took the girl a long time to feel reassured by Kühne. If the adorable Hachirou had not been by this white man’s side, this girl would likely have desperately attempted to flee. Soon, she began to tell the sad story of how she came to be here. The girl’s name was Nae-a. “I am the granddaughter of Tamase, who has long served as the king of Samoa.” “However, for some reason, the German consul is trying to eradicate Tamase’s royal lineage.” “Grandfather Tamase was sent to Berlin about thirty years ago.” “Moreover, after that, he was moved from place to place and even sent to the terrifying lands of German New Guinea.”

“But why was Tamase’s royal lineage such a hindrance? My father is now addicted to Samoan liquor—he might as well be a ruined man. My older brother, following my father’s example, is also drinking Samoan liquor in excess. And all of that too—it was all things recommended by the German consul. Even in my innocent heart, I could no longer overlook it. Just last year—though I was only eleven then—I tried to admonish my father and older brother. So did that appear as something dangerous to the German consul? They secretly captured me, threw me into a trade ship, and then dumped me here on the reef.”

This white brutality—unpardonable before both gods and men—now assailed even Kühne like an accusation. Indeed, as Nae-a wept while explaining—how returning to Samoa meant certain death, yet remaining here lifelong would be worse than dying—her words hung heavy. Moreover, this “Nord-Malekula” could never be considered safe ground. “I’ve only been here a year, but terrifying tidal surges sometimes attack.” “When they come, we must climb trees and shiver uncontrollably.” “And those tides carry off every last fruit from this place.” “Listen boy—why don’t the three of us—you, Uncle, and Big Sister—seek out some peaceful island now?”

And so, before long, the three of them left this “Nord-Malekula.” They prepared heaps of fruits and dried mud turtle meat, then boarded the dugout canoe and ventured out into the open ocean. However, this time they had no destination. They would simply wander the open sea and seek out an uninhabited island. And if that place were an ever-spring island abundant in food...

The Call of the Pacific Leakage Hole

“Uncle, does this mean we’re going to Japan now?” Hachirou had been overjoyed when they reached the open sea, but hearing those words sent a stinging sensation seeping through Kühne’s nasal passages—he to Germany, Nae-a to Samoa… Though each spoke of homesickness sharp as loosed arrows, none could return. Thus did fate entwine these three souls sharing one destiny—bound tighter still by circumstance’s cruel weave.

The dugout canoe was now within the southeast trade wind zone. This rain-gutter-equipped dugout canoe possessed remarkable seaworthiness; it is said that in ancient times, this small boat had regularly traversed the six thousand kilometers between Hawaii and Tahiti.

“Somehow, it seems we’re near the equator.”

On the afternoon of the third day after departing the northern tip of the Bismarck Archipelago, Nae-a, having spent some time shielding her eyes while gazing at the horizon, spoke.

“How do you know that?” “Look—there’s a bluish-black streak along the horizon,” she said. “That means the calm draws near. Soon we may see northern stars.” Until then, Kühne had navigated solely by compass bearing. Their course ran due east toward the Ellis Islands—yet how could they be nearing the equator? Had something during their mooring in Empress Augusta River’s jungles warped the compass? That night he unpacked his portable sextant to measure stars. Centaurus’ twin luminaries indeed stood displaced.

He put down the portable celestial navigation instrument and took Nae-a’s hand. He realized for the first time the accuracy of the native girl’s intuition. “If we were to spend our entire lives on this dugout canoe…”

One night, Nae-a began saying such things to Kühne. Water inky black and studded with starlight, the triangular sail overhead straining to bursting with wind. "Yeah..." "We'll likely remain at sea like this for some time."

In fact, these three were cruelly pursued by the people of every island they saw or visited. To Kühne’s unmistakable German accent and the suspicious man who kept asking whether the war had ended, not a single islander could help but cast doubtful eyes. The wretchedness of fleeing when guns were aimed their way. Truly, these three continued their tragic odyssey.

However, given that the man and woman in this dugout canoe were not made of wood and stone, something had to occur between them. Nae-a, though twelve, was already an adult in the precocious South and of marriageable age. The two were gradually becoming unable to withstand their natural urges.

“I’ll work as hard as I can anywhere, as long as we find an island.” “I can make your trousers with hackberry fibers too.” “And squid spearing on coral reefs is a point of pride for Samoan women, you know.”

“I think as long as I don’t become your misfortune, but…”

Kühne inhaled deeply of the sea air and tried not to look at Nae-a. But those eyes—soon to overwhelm him—burned with the intoxication of desire. There, letting out a light yawn, Hachirou opened his eyes. “Uncle, have we come to Japan already?” “Not yet, boy—you’ve gotta take a hundred naps first.” “So if Uncle and Big Sis become Mom and Dad… then I get to go to Japan right now?”

Such things drew the two of them ever closer.

Then, the next morning, they arrived at an island where sago palms grew thick and lush. It was an uninhabited island devoid of people, but its vegetation—beginning with wild vara—was remarkably abundant. The three of them felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from their shoulders with a sigh of relief.

“Oh, what a wonderful place this is!”

Nae-a moved with dance-like steps, skimming along the water’s edge. Coral polyps unfurled hundreds of blossom-like tentacles in the deep blue seawater. Through that space writhed sea cucumbers as long as three shaku, while halfmoon fish—their sickle-shaped fins trailing—fluttered like ribbons… And the forest wove archways of flowers.

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

Then the two of them entered the forest with Hachirou between them. There in the wild vanilla thicket lay a single cross crumbling to pieces. Ah—a white person’s grave! Kühne realized in shock and dashed over. On that cross, blackened by wind and rain, one could barely make out the following epitaph.

—A woman named R.K. She died on this island in 1882. Bereaved of her husband and with her means of livelihood exhausted, her name was not recorded because she became the wife of a native.

On the tombstone, it was simply written thus. However, Kühne’s face visibly darkened. The white woman, having no means of livelihood, became the wife of a native…… Ashamed of this, her name went unrecorded even after death. And yet, what path are Nae-a and I heading down now⁉ Suddenly, a feeling of disgust seethed up. Even in Kühne, there still existed somewhere a white man’s sense of superiority… Because of this single incident, he had come to find even looking at Nae-a’s face repulsive. He lied to Nae-a, stammering repeatedly as he did so.

“Nae-a, this island’s no good after all. There’s a plague here. That’s why they say no one lives on this island.”

“Oh… After all our effort finding it, must it truly be uninhabitable?” Nae-a said disappointedly, unaware of Kühne’s true feelings. And so began anew the dugout canoe’s drifting. From that point onward, Kühne became a man transformed beyond recognition. To Hachirou he showed unchanged affection, but to Nae-a he scarcely spoke a word. Thus continued their journey across the desolate seascape—water upon endless water.

In the morning, the seawater was a pale blue refreshment; by noon, it transformed into a garish indigo like spilled varnish. And by evening, a massive jet of flames scorched the horizon. Day after day, amid the same scenery repeating itself, what gradually accumulated within Kühne was a dreadful void. Then, right around that night, the southeast trade winds that had been blowing until then began to weaken.

“What’s the matter? You haven’t been looking at the stars lately, have you?”

Nae-a said in a voice tinged with anxiety.

“Whether I look or not makes no difference.” “No matter where we drift… The end is already known.” Then came days of overcast skies and nights steeped in utter darkness. The wind died; the lateen sail hung limp. Sea and air grew thick and viscous—steam-like vapors coiling in sluggish undulation. Kühne, resigned to whatever fate might bring, had ceased checking their bearings these past four or five days. One windless night, waves began rising without warning.

“What’s happening? There’s no wind, and yet the sea has become so rough!”

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

The waves dipped low into spreading foaming hollows and came surging in. Yet there were no sudden gusts in the sky. Perhaps moving high above without touching the water's surface, there came a roaring sound like a typhoon. However, as the sky grew pallid near dawn's approach, Kühne let out a shrill scream.

“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’ve been telling you!”

Nae-a merely clung to Hachirou, muttering in a flustered voice.

Thus, the three were finally drawn into the "Pacific Leakage Hole." The sea wrinkled and swirled in terrifying circles as it traced a long spiraling vortex round and round before plunging into the depths of the great funnel. The water, colored like melted rosewood, tilted at about twenty degrees until the horizon hung far above their heads. That deep indigo water wall—seen for the first time—was more terrifying than the howl of the roaring vortex at its core.

"This is the end," Kühne quietly resigned himself. The spectacle of this demon sea, now dyed blood-red by the dawn’s glow, resembled a sea of flames even when merely contemplating its heat. Their heads grew foggy, their heartbeats quickened; likely, the three of them would die from the heat before this boat plunged into the vortex’s heart. Yet Kühne, though feeling his breath quicken, kept his gaze fixed on the whirlpool.

Humans possess an instinct to cling to life until the very end, no matter what becomes of them. It was this that now stirred Kühne.

What if... what if this sea wasn’t something else entirely? The whirlpool was inherently centripetal... but surely, accompanying that phenomenon, the movement of air above must have taken on a centrifugal nature. In other words—contrary to the whirlpool’s inward-spiraling direction—the humid heat air above swirled outward. Therefore, this humid heat zone likely formed a ring-like shape swirling only around its immediate periphery. If they could break through there and approach the center... perhaps this boat would unexpectedly reach the mitigation zone. That’s right—they said there were islands in this “Pacific Leakage Hole”...

During this time, the dugout canoe gradually increased its speed. It tilted, was battered by spray, and its speed was estimated at approximately fifty knots.

And then—could it be that Kühne had gone mad there?

Suddenly wielding the sail rope, he lunged at Nae-a. Then, after binding Nae-a and Hachirou around their midriffs, he stuffed a powder-like substance into their nostrils. Next, he bound himself to the mast and crammed the same powder into his nostrils. Soon, within the dugout canoe coursing through the whirlpool’s deathly rapids, the three ceased even the slightest movement.

The Submerged Island

So then, had Kühne gone mad from the heat?! Had the calamity of the humid heat ring already reached his mind? No—it wasn’t Kühne alone. Nae-a and Hachirou both began crying out strange things.

“The whirlpool has started spinning in reverse!” “Ah, we can get out of here, can’t we?” Following Nae-a’s voice, Hachirou 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 sweltering, like steam. But the two did not become deranged because of this heat.

Kühne implemented a desperate measure to endure this humid heat ring. If it succeeded, they would achieve a miraculous reversal. "Please go well. Just for Hachirou’s sake, I prayed like that." Kühne cried out within his gradually dimming mind. "I thought about how to endure this humid heat ring. But for that, there was no other way than to fight poison with poison. If one remains in this intense heat of forty-five degrees Celsius, first and foremost, their mind will begin to grow deranged.

But before that—what if I proactively create an artificial madness? "If I temporarily render our minds deranged to numb us to this scorching heat… then once we pass through the humid heat ring into the mitigation zone… if we could jolt back to lucidity…" That was the “Cohoba” powder the three of them were now sniffing. This was originally contraband from Haiti—seeds from a Mimosa family tree called *Piptadenia peregrina*. The natives stuff the crushed powder into their nostrils and inhale it. Then, they would suddenly become thickly intoxicated, dance wildly, and display a hundred forms of madness. Now, within that eerie dream of “Cohoba,” the dugout canoe raced onward, battered by spray as it staked everything on success or failure.

And then—how many hours had passed since they began traveling through the whirlpool? Suddenly, as the outside world began appearing hazy through the mist, the scorching heat against his cheek felt different. With a startled "Huh?," Kühne suddenly turned sideways to find the canoe lodged bow-first against a massive reef. It was an island!—he cried out in joy. The dugout canoe had finally broken through the humid heat ring and reached an island within the mitigation zone.

＊

Oritake fell silent after speaking up to that point. Then he brought something like a letter from the adjacent room.

“From now on, we should look at Kühne’s letter.” “It’s simple, but it strikes the heart more keenly than my story.” Oritake said.

＊

Could the island’s circumference have been about eight miles? Because it had long been isolated from the open sea, there were remarkably rare creatures there. One of them was “Sphargs”. It was a singing turtle. The notion that turtles could vocalize might exist only in legend—but here on this island within the Pacific Leakage Hole, they undeniably dwelled. It was as enormous as the giant tortoises of the Galápagos Islands—its four-to-five-hundred-pound frame shaking as it emitted an adorable cry. I ate its meat as well; it was remarkably delicious.

Apart from extraordinarily large crimson bats, the living creatures here consisted of nothing more than those bats and turtles. And the center of the island was a lagoon. However, while lagoons typically have a connecting channel to the open sea beneath the surface, here it had recently become blocked. As a result, the stagnant water rotted from the high temperature, and slime-covered seaweed and coelenterate corpses covered the surface in an indescribable hue.

This was truly the sight of the Sea of Death. There, prehistoric ferns resembling a baby's hands and cycads that looked exactly like cacti clustered in thickets. Amidst them, bats the color of blood fluttered while singing turtles crawled—to describe it as a scene from Earth's prehistory would be insufficient. This was a world of monsters. And so, we were left abandoned on an island that had been forsaken by the Earth for millions of years. By then, we no longer thought of things like wanting to leave here or longing for human company.

The temperature here remained high—not as intense as the outer humid heat ring perhaps forty degrees Celsius by our estimate. This slow boil seemed to be reducing us to imbeciles. Survival meant nothing more than not yet dying; that our minds were crumbling under the heat showed clearest through Hachirou’s silence—the boy who’d once chattered of Japan now wordless as driftwood. And wasn’t I myself proof? As for Nae-a… where she’d once met my gaze with defiance unblinking, we’d become mere beasts now—male and female circling some primordial need.

Everything had already slipped beyond oblivion’s grasp. Now that I had come here, I had become a peculiar sort of human. Perhaps I was a new creature upon this earth. This was because I perpetually walked with my body tilted at an angle. Precisely forty-five degrees from horizontal—this was how I moved through the world, leaning diagonally as I walked. Moreover, this constituted the normal manner of walking on this island within the Pacific Leakage Hole. But why on earth was this so?

That was because in this Pacific Leakage Hole, what passed for horizontal existed solely along the slope of the great funnel. Moreover, a ferocious wind perpetually blew from the same direction. As a result, every tree on the island leaned halfway over... their swept-back angles forming perfect right angles with the funnel's incline. Therefore, I—standing upright amidst them—could only conclude I walked perpetually tilted. Truly, though illusory, nature's fundamental laws here found themselves magnificently inverted.

Is this too because I’ve become a complete imbecile? No—it can’t possibly be that.

The sea surface loomed black and high overhead, offering not a moment’s respite from the wind, spray, and clamor. Amidst this, we will gradually degenerate and soon become no different from the singing turtles.

However, by tonight, a great typhoon arrived. When the hazy air was blown away and I perceived a cooling clarity, everything I had forgotten, everything I had not felt, and all that I absolutely must do came rushing forth like a dam-bursting torrent. I must rejoice in having recovered my mental faculties, even if only for a moment.

That was the first proof I had become an imbecile—I had completely forgotten about Hachirou. It’s acceptable if Nae-a and I rot away on this submerged island. However, reducing Hachirou to the same state as the singing turtles there is something I find utterly unbearable.

I resolved to send Hachirou out to the open sea that night. To accomplish this, I would employ migratory gannets. Furthermore, I would administer "Cohoba" to leave Hachirou thoroughly intoxicated. Then I would have the gannets tow the basket containing Hachirou. Most likely, the five gannets would pull the basket—its base barely skimming the water’s surface—and charge straight through.

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

At the Submerged Island

Kühne

*

Even after finishing reading, my agitation refused to subside—somehow this place too felt like that island in the Pacific Leakage Hole where I had walked while tilted diagonally. Oritake supported my body with a sly grin, “Hey! Snap out of it!” he barked.

he shouted.

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

“So that Hachirou boy was saved after all.” “And now?”

“That guy, huh.” “That guy sometimes flies off to Chongqing now.” “And then leaves behind terrifying turds packed with explosives.” “Truly—whether it’s New Guinea or the Pacific Leakage Hole—that bastard leaves his turds all over the place.”