When you get a rapid input of strange information, it seems like the last things you hear are the most memorable.
Which is why I hadn’t forgotten.
I hadn’t forgotten that Haruhi, having snatched Nagato and flown out of the student council room, was in there.
I was just kind of spaced out, thinking about everything—about the outlaw student council president and about Kimidori.
“You’re late, Kyon! You too, Koizumi! What were you doing? We’re running on a deadline here! If we don’t hurry, we’re gonna be in trouble!”
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen her so happy. This is how Haruhi always looks when she’s gotten her eyes fixed on a goal.
“We’ve been going crazy searching for the old newsletters the literature club put out. I asked Yuki where they were, but she said she didn’t know.”
Nagato was plopped down at her usual corner of the table, staring at the screen of the laptop the computer club had left us.
“Um…” Asahina stood there, fidgeting uncomfortably in her maid outfit. “Are we making a book? Do we have to? What are we going to write, I wonder…?”
I hadn’t forgotten about this either. Haruhi had swallowed the president’s story about the literature club’s job of printing a whole newsletter. It was for Nagato’s sake. Nagato was the sole member of the literature club, and in reality she had another face as a member of an unauthorized student organization that occupied the literature club’s room. Said unauthorized organization’s chief had agreed to create a publication, which by the principle of commutative responsibility now fell upon my head, and for a publication to exist in the first place, someone would have to write something, and that “someone” would have to be me and the other club members.
“All right, pick one.”
Four folded scraps of paper lay in the open palm of Haruhi’s hand—the same kind of lots used to determine classroom seating assignments. Doubting what these scraps could possibly decide, I picked one up. Haruhi immediately grinned.
Koizumi amusedly did likewise, as did Asahina, who blinked rapidly. Haruhi gave the last scrap to Nagato.
“You will write what is written on the paper. That will go into our club newsletter. Now that it’s decided, hurry and sit down! You’ve got to get to writing!”
An unpleasant premonition ran though my body as I opened the piece of folded notebook paper. Haruhi’s writing leaped up at me like a freshly landed fish.
“A love story.” I read the contents aloud and immediately bemoaned my fate. A love story? Me? That was what I had to write? I asked.
“Yup.” Haruhi grinned like a cunning tactician who took advantage of every weakness. “The lottery decided it fair and square. I shall brook no complaints. So, what’re you doing, Kyon? Get your butt in front of the computer!”
I looked and saw several laptops set up on the table. It was nice that she hadn’t had trouble getting everything set up, but how the hell was I supposed to write a story just because she told me to?
The paper in my hand felt like a grenade whose pin had been pulled out.
“What’d you get, Koizumi?” I asked, hoping that he’d be willing to switch with me, thereby securing my salvation, but—
“It says… ‘Mystery,’ ” said Koizumi with a pleasant smile, not looking particularly troubled at all. Asahina, however, was upset, as usual.
“I got ‘Fairy Tale.’ A fairy tale is for children, right? A story that’s good for, um, putting children to bed? Is that right?”
I didn’t have an answer for her. But anyway—a mystery and a fairy tale, eh? Between those and a love story, which one was the best?
I looked to Nagato. She’d quietly opened her scrap of paper, and upon noticing my gaze, showed me Haruhi’s handwriting with a flick of her wrist. The writing read: “Fantasy Horror.”
I didn’t really understand the difference between fantasy horror and mystery.
“I’m just relieved I didn’t get ‘love story.’ I feel as though such a thing would’ve been impossible for me to write,” said Koizumi, as though he were trying to deliberately get on my nerves. He was obviously calm. I wanted to know the secret behind his relaxed attitude, I said.
“It’s quite simple. In my case, I can simply treat the mystery games from last summer and this last winter as real events and create a novelization of them. They are originally scenarios I created, after all.”
Koizumi coolly headed for the table and began setting up his computer, looking totally unconcerned. Nagato returned her gaze to the liquid crystal display in front of her, unmoving. She might have been considering what “fantasy horror” meant, or thinking about Kimidori.
There was no further explanation. Asahina’s eyes practically projected question marks around the room as she flailed around, at a loss. I was no different. Wait—let’s think about this. There were four scraps of paper. The SOS Brigade has five members.
“Haruhi,” I said to the brigade chief, who was grinning like a temple guardian on laughing gas. “What are you going to write?”
“Oh, I’ll write something,” she said as she sat at her desk and picked up the armband that had been left there. “But I have a more important job. Listen—there’s a lot of work that goes into making a book. You need a person to direct it all. And that’s what I’m gonna do for you.”
She quickly slipped on the armband, puffing out her chest and speaking grandly.
“Starting today and for the rest of the week, I will no longer be the brigade chief. Since this is the literature club, there’s a different title that’s much more appropriate.”
The brilliantly shining armband said all that was necessary.
Thus it was that Haruhi appointed herself as editor in chief, boldly declaring her intentions as she utterly ignored Asahina’s and my bewilderment.
“Come now, everybody! Get moving! There’s no use complaining about details—just write! Something good, of course.”
Haruhi reclined arrogantly in her brigade chief’s chair and regarded us pitiful brigade members.
“And of course, if I don’t think it’s good, then it’s out.”
And so—
In the week that followed, we were stationed in the literature club’s room, toiling away at this suddenly literature-club-like activity.
It was Asahina who ran bravely at the fore. It was fortunate that fairy tales seemed to suit her, but if writing one was a simple matter of sitting down and cranking it out on command, then anybody could be a fairy-tale author.
Nevertheless, Asahina was persistent. She checked out a pile of books from the school library and read through them with utmost seriousness, occasionally flagging sections with Post-it notes, scribbling furiously with her pencil.
Meanwhile there was Haruhi, whose main job seemed to be either grinning maniacally as she gazed at the many fanzines she’d borrowed from the manga club for the purpose of study material, or aimlessly browsing the Net on her desk’s computer.
Asahina steadily submitted manuscripts, and Haruhi steadily rejected them.
“Hmm.” Haruhi managed a plausible sound of ambivalence as she finished reading the exhausted Asahina’s latest effort. “It’s getting better, but it still needs more impact. Oh, I’ve got it, Mikuru! You need to add some illustrations. Make it like a picture book. It’ll draw people in more quickly, and give it more flavor than just plain old words.”
“P-pictures?”
Asahina looked ready to cry at this latest and totally unreasonable demand. But rejecting the orders of the editor in chief was no easy task, so Asahina resigned herself to adding illustrations.
The always serious girl attended a lecture on sketching given by the art club, learned four-panel comic creation from the manga club, and worked so hard that it made me want to tell her there was no need to go to such lengths—and with no time left over for her to brew good tea, I was left to idly, silently sip mediocre tea brewed by either myself or Koizumi.
And I had
to write a love story, of all things? No way. If it’d been a feline observation diary, I would’ve had material aplenty, but…
The only one of us making easy progress on his composition was Koizumi; even Nagato only occasionally hit a key. When it had come to a video-game contest, her fingers had flown over the keyboard with unbelievable speed, but evidently she didn’t have the knack for putting the information in her head into words. I was starting to wonder if that was part of why she tended to be so silent, but I couldn’t help but be interested in the “fantasy horror” story she was writing, so I snuck a glance at the display of her laptop.
“…”
Nagato quickly rotated the laptop sideways, hiding the display from me. She looked up at me.
“C’mon,” I said. “Let me have a bit of a look.”
“No,” replied Nagato flatly. No matter how I tried to sneak a look, her timing in moving the display away from me was perfect. I was starting to get more and more interested, and eventually tried sneaking up and looking over her shoulder, but besting Nagato’s reflexes was impossible.
“…”
Finally she repelled me with a sharp sidelong glare. I returned to my own seat to confront the blank white screen of my empty word-processor document.
Thus had the past few days in the clubroom unfolded.
Things had begun to reach a bit of a stalemate, so while it might be technically a false start, let’s go for a change of pace and have a look at Asahina’s fairy tale.
Asahina’s manuscript had been rejected over and over by the editor in chief, who’d eventually ordered her to add illustrations, and Asahina had continued to agonize over the piece, killing herself over every word selection. I’d finally come to her aid, and the work had eventually been completed once the editor in chief added her own revisions.
Anyway, feel free to have a look.
1
It was not so very long ago, though this story did happen in the past.
Deep in the forest of a certain country, there was a small cottage.
In that cottage lived Snow White and seven dwarves.
This Snow White had not been chased out of her home, but rather had run away from the castle of her own free will. Apparently life in the castle was not very much fun. Though it was a small country, she was a princess, and would thus eventually be forced into a political marriage of convenience. Quite distasteful, don’t you think? Snow White thought so too.
But soon she began to get bored with life in the forest.
Thanks to the seven dwarves, Snow White didn’t have to worry about the basic necessities, and she got along very well with all the animals of the forest, but she had begun to wonder if life in the castle might not have been quite so bad.
Though she’d selfishly run away, everyone in the castle was a nice person. The political marriage simply could not be helped. In an age of rival warlords, the only way for a small nation to survive was to give a hostage to a stronger nation in order to cement an alliance.
2
At the same time, a mermaid swimming in an ocean near that very same forest saved a prince who’d been thrown from his ship in a shipwreck.
The mermaid carried the prince to shore, and the prince remained unconscious the entire time. No matter what she did, he stayed asleep. The troubled mermaid decided to take the prince to Snow White’s cottage.
Snow White and the mermaid had been friends ever since Snow White’s arrival in the forest. The mermaid remembered Snow White’s instructions: “If you ever find anything interesting, you should bring it to me.”
After asking a kind witch to change her tail fins into legs, the mermaid carried the unconscious prince to the dwarves’ cottage.
Even upon seeing the prince the mermaid had brought her, Snow White was not especially pleased. He wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she said “anything interesting.”
Nevertheless, caring for the unconscious prince was amusing enough at first, although as time went on it became more and more tiresome. He simply wouldn’t wake up. She had gotten sick of looking at his sleeping face.
Just as she was beginning to wonder if a good hard slap would awaken him, a messenger from the castle arrived for Snow White.
The messenger told her that the neighboring empire had suddenly mobilized its armies and had crossed the border, surrounding the castle, and its fall was not far in the future—indeed, it may have already fallen.
Things were bad.
3
Having heard this, Snow White left the prince—who wouldn’t wake up no matter how long she waited—in the care of the mermaid, and she left the forest, along with the seven dwarves. The first place they went was a steep and craggy mountain. There lived a cunning military tactician who had given up worldly ways and become a hermit. Normally he refused to associate with anyone unless he or she visited him three times, but Snow White ordered the dwarves to capture him, and she appointed him her chief of staff. The tactician gave a pained smile; said, “Sure, why not”; and swore loyalty to Snow White.
Once Snow White’s procession, now nine people strong, had descended the mountain, they began to gather volunteer soldiers at the towns and villages the imperial army had not yet reached. It was far from the number needed to defeat the empire’s military forces, but Snow White still raised an anti-imperial flag and set her eye upon the castle. Her followers defeated imperial ambush forces one by one, winning a series of victories in various locations, whereupon she recaptured the castle, pursued and eliminated the retreating imperial forces, then continued her reversal of the invasion and toppled the empire, making it a part of her own domain. What a surprise.
But that was not the end. Snow White, the seven dwarves, and the tactician all assembled a great army and swept across the land, and through a variety of strategies and intrigues, they united the continent. The age of warring states came to an end, and peace reigned.
4
Snow White, who now had nothing to do, decided to leave the details to the tactician and return to the forest. Though her worries about an arranged political marriage were no more, life at the castle was boring. She preferred being able to play on her own in the forest.
Snow White, along with the seven dwarves, returned to the cottage, and they were all surprised to find that the prince was still sleeping. She had forgotten all about him.
Oh, the mermaid had taken care of him in the meantime.
Grabbing an apple that a visiting bear had brought with him, Snow White used it to whack the prince on the head.
“How much longer are you going to sleep? Wake up!”
It is said that three days later, the prince opened his eyes.
As to what happened after that, no one knows.
But I’m sure that everyone lived happily ever after. I think that would be nice.
… How shall I put it—it was very Asahina-like, an allegorical tale that was a jumble of fairy tales and war stories. More than anything else, the sense of desperation in it was very clear. It was surely adequate. As to which parts were the results of Haruhi’s meddling, I’ll leave that to your imagination.
Now, then, enough about Asahina’s worries—my real problem was that I still hadn’t touched my own assignment. Just asking me to write a story of any kind was unreasonable enough; making it a love story went right past “unreasonable” into the universe of totally foreign experiences. What could I possibly do?
On the other hand, Haruhi was engaging in surprisingly editor-like activities.
Haruhi asserted that the number of pages the four of us had produced was insufficient, and moreover lacked variety, and she resorted to recruiting outside writers.
Her first victims were Taniguchi and Kunikida, then Tsuruya and the computer club president, all of whom were given deadlines that Haruhi had determined.
By Haruhi logic they were auxiliary brigade members, despite their being totally unrelated to the literature club.
But I had no time to be sympathetic t
o their plight—quite the contrary, I would’ve been much happier if my own writing responsibility had just disappeared. Although I doubted Haruhi would tolerate such literary laziness.
The deadline set for us by the evil student council president drew nearer. One morning while waiting for the morning homeroom period to start, my ears were assaulted by the sound of Taniguchi’s bitter grumbling (“Why the hell do I have to write ‘a fascinating slice-of-life essay’ in the first place?”) and Kunikida’s easygoing reply (“C’mon, that’s not as bad as the ‘twelve-subject study-guide column’ I’ve got to write”).
Haruhi had gotten to school later than me that day. She thrust a sheet of copier paper at me without so much as a “good morning.”
“What’s this?”
“The manuscript Yuki turned in before she went home yesterday.” Haruhi made a face as though she’d swallowed a filling while brushing her teeth. “I gave it a good read after I got home. It’s kind of a weird story. It’s got a fantasy feel to it, and I guess you could call it horror. I’m not sure what to make of it. Length-wise, it’s barely a short story. Here, read it.”
I was interested in reading anything Nagato wrote, whether or not Haruhi ordered me to.
I took the paper from Haruhi, and my eyes began following the text printed upon it.
“Untitled 1”
Yuki Nagato
It was XXXX ago that I met a girl who said she was a ghost.
I asked her name. “I have no name,” she answered. “Because I have no name, I am a ghost. You are the same as me, aren’t you?” she said, smiling.
It was true. I was also a ghost. A being who was able to speak with ghosts was also a ghost. As I am now. But I knew that I was once named Yuki, a name that sounded like snow.
“Now then, shall we go?” she said, and I went with her. Her stride was fast, and she seemed like she was alive. “We can go anywhere. Where is it that you would like to go?”
The Indignation of Haruhi Suzumiya Page 5