Professor Shitadami made a coughing sound.
“Hanishibe, didn’t you hear?”
“Zwee, Zu, Zwee”
“He said, ‘What’s it called and what does it do?’”
“UrryUpAnAnser”
“Psst! The prof’s calling you!”
Spurred on by his classmates’ whispers, he looked up at the scowling face of Professor Shitadami, suspended in midair before the skinboard. The ridges that the blood sedges formed in his forehead were pulsating furiously, as was the swollen tumor in his left cheek.
The professor’s right antenna was indicating the outline of an unassuming ossiform folded several times over, buried in the backshell ossiform beneath the momonji’s skin. It wasn’t yet listed in this year’s textbook.
Hanishibe stood up from his seat.
“It’s a wingtype ossiform,” he said. “During their descent from heaven, they deploy from the backshell ossiform and push the skin outward, forcing it to spread out and tighten, and can exhibit movements similar to those of a bird flapping its wings. It can’t fly, of course. Its original purpose, like that of the variable exoshelletons and the other unnecessary interior bones, are unknown, since the researchers are—”
Since he was just parroting what he’d heard from his grandfather, he could keep explaining for as long as anyone would listen, but the professor, with a wave of a shriveled hand that resembled some sort of dried snack, cut him off.
“Precisely. Strange though it may be, they exhibit behavior like that of a flapping wing. All we have to rely on is the Book of the Heritage of the Hereafter, but it’s believed that the phylogenetic repetition that takes place up until a human fetus takes shape—changes in form such as the appearance of gills and tails—may contain the key to unraveling this mystery.”
With perfect timing, then, a melancholy tone sounded out in the hallway. Hanishibe caught a glimpse of the “bell monitor” as he passed by the open door leading out into the hallway. With a forward-backward motion, he expanded and contracted his rust-colored, box-shaped thorax like an accordion, emitting the tone that marked the end of class.
“Well, that’s all for today. To those of you on cleaning duty: don’t forget to put ointment on the skinboard, and pay special attention to the spots that are festering. Next week, we’ll be dissecting a real momonji, so wear something you won’t mind getting dirty.”
Someone smarted off at that, asking what those who don’t wear clothes should do.
“Come prepared to molt,” the professor replied.As his students wryly grinned, Professor Shitadami shook his head from side to side, retracting his antennae. He then slid his school rulebook into his backsac, pulled on a hanging line, and descended silently to the hardbone floor, facing downward. He crawled out of the classroom on all fours like a baby.
Hanishibe swept away the scales scattered across his desk, set his briefcase on his knees, and was just about to put away his stationery, when Yatsuo approached him. Hairline cracks ran across her glossy head in intricate geometric patterns, reflecting flashes of light. Her polyhedronal lips opened up like some cleverly designed mechanism, causing delicate distortions in the cracks of her face.
“There you were about to set him off with some snide remark, when the man himself pulled you out of the fire.”
Her high, clear voice was easy on the ears, but Hanishibe couldn’t figure out what she was talking about. He tried to return her gaze, to search her expression for the intent behind those words, but he couldn’t tell which skin-shards concealed her eyes. Yatsuo sat down beside him in a vacant desk. There was a creak from the seat’s pelvis.
“You were just about to wrap up that little speech of yours with something like, ‘And as for the original function, that’s still unclear due to researcher laziness.’ Am I wrong?”
“Well, no, not really. What about it?”
“Exshuse me,” said a hulking, dark green figure, interposing itself without the slightest hesitation between their two seats. It was Komorizu, who was on cleaning duty today. Large clusters of gourd-shaped appendages dangled from every inch of his fleshy upper body, covering him all the way down to the knees. For this reason he was exempt from having to wear clothing.
Komorizu was the son of Moitori, the highest-ranking official at the Department of Aquatic Resources. He had died at the age of sixty in his last Heretofore, and although six years had already passed since his revivification and metamorphosis from momonji, his attempts at recollection had gone nowhere, until at last he had been made to transfer into a second-year taxonomy program suited for sixteen-year-olds. Although no other case was as extreme as his, nearly all of the students treated him according to his provisional age.
The two desks were being gradually pushed apart into an arrowhead shape. While Hanishibe was staring at Komorizu’s clusters of ponderously swaying, fleshy nodules, something finally occurred to him.
“Come to think of it,” he said, “Professor Shitadami specializes in ‘Determination of Function in Extraneous Organs.’”
“And don’t you forget it,” Komorizu said with a knowing look, passing between the two of them. At some point, the clusters of growths around his waist had sprouted innumerable pseudophalanges. A long, slender sort of rod was stuck among them and was gradually being carried up, up, and away. Hanishibe took a closer look and realized it was the marrowpen that was supposed to be resting on his desktop. Though Komorizu seemed unaware of it himself, his clustered gourdlets had sticky fingers.
Hanishibe leaned forward and quickly grabbed hold of the marrowpen, but the strength in those pseudophalanges was totally unexpected. Marrowink from inside came bleeding out and got all over his fingers, so he finally gave up and let it go. The marrowpen disappeared gradually into the shadows of his many appendages.
Yatsuo opened up Hanishibe’s pencil box and handed him a piece of eraser-fat. As he was wiping off the marrowink, Hanishibe, speaking quickly, said, “You wouldn’t have time to go out for hemomochi or something, would you?”
It was the first time he had ever asked Yatsuo out somewhere.
Yatsuo fingered the magatama hanging down from her neck. It most likely belonged to a family member awaiting revivification. “Don’t make suggestions you don’t have time for yourself. Tomorrow is fine; I can meet you at the hour of the monkey.”
A bit thrown off by her own swift reply, Yatsuo changed the subject. “During class, you seemed absorbed in something outside the window. What were you looking at?”
“Oh … yeah. The peritoneum’s vibrating. I was thinking it’ll be pretty soon, you know.”
“Oh yeah, Descent from Heaven. But was that really all that was on your mind?”
“Hanishibe?” a muffled voice called at that moment.
He turned around and saw Narikabura from the astronomy department standing in the doorway. He stood only as high as Hanishibe’s waist. Positioned atop the three spindly, supple, knobby-kneed legs that accounted for eighty percent of that height was a formless blob that could only barely be identified from its outline as a human head. It was like a liposculpt abandoned midway by a craftsman.
“Today’s your day for watchtower duty, isn’t it?” said Yatsuo.
Hanishibe turned around at the sound of her voice. In the glossy flecks that covered her face, he saw several reflections of himself, his loose, scaly skin like a mask that hadn’t quite been put on right—a relic of his having been born boneless.
Hanishibe could almost swear sometimes that his every thought was an open book to Yatsuo. At times, she even frightened him. Though his eyes would seek her out every time he came into the classroom, he felt a stifling presentiment that should their relationship advance, he would find himself trapped in a world where everything had been prearranged for him long ago. For that reason, he had always brushed off her invitations.
“Sorry about this, really. Tomorrow,
then.” So saying, Hanishibe pushed his writing instruments into his briefcase and got up to leave.
When he had walked as far as the front of the classroom, he found Komorizu resting several clusters of his gourdlets against the skinboard, rubbing in the ointment. Komorizu greeted him, waving the couple dozen pseudophalanges growing from the clusters on his back. Hanishibe waved back with his hand and walked past him on his way out the door.
When he emerged into the hallway, Narikabura stepped back on his three legs, drawing himself up against the bruise-colored cliff face that served as the wall. His movements were not unlike those of the terrified giraffe he had seen for the first time in anatomy lab half a year ago. Hanishibe could still remember the sweet taste of its meat, which everyone had shared after the dissection.
“You’ll get landsoup on yourself,” said Hanishibe.
“Oh, yeah,” said Narikabura, moving away from the wall. Sticky, glue-colored landsoup was oozing from numerous cracks in the exposed cliff face. When it congealed, it would form a new layer of rock, though in time, pressure from within would cause that to crack as well, and the oozing would start once again. The moon’s expansion was ongoing.
Threading their way between students absorbed in chatter, the two made their way down the hall.
“Where do you want to meet up?” Narikabura asked, inflating the lower half of his head, then releasing the air through many tiny holes as he spoke.
“How about in front of the watchtower?” Hanishibe said. “And don’t forget to bring your own dinner.”
“I know, I know. Watch duty or no, I’ve still gotta cook tonight—and make foods for weaning Dad too.”
“How is he these days? Does he seem to be taking to you?”
“Not one bit. He’s scared of me.” Narikabura extended a vinelike glossophalanx out from between where his legs were attached. He held it up in front of his smooth, expressionless face and looked at it, sadly it seemed. “I tried to pet him, but Dad’s head is, well …”
“Yeah, but he’s only been revivified for six months.”
“That’s true. He’s cuter than my last dad, so that’s a plus, I guess. He’s probably going to recollect the details of his Heretofore right away though and pass me by in terms of provisional age.”
Last month, when he had visited Narikabura’s house, his father’s adorable, mutation-free baseform had been curled up in a rocking cradle. The father that had died two years ago had been the same age as Narikabura, however, and their relationship had been strained.
What was it like for people who raised themselves all by themselves? It was said that when people shared the same individual registration, their magatama would become attuned to one another, regardless of whether there were two of somebody or ten. Hanishibe was remembering being held by his grandfather once when he was sobbing as a child. He had become frightened imagining their home overflowing with himselves.
“There, there, you’re not always necessarily you,” his grandfather had said consolingly.
They passed by the classrooms of the theology department.Through the windows and the doors they could see students standing in rows, looking downward as if in meditation. Unlike the other departments, theology held classes until late at night.
Some of the students were twitching with nervous tics in their faces or arms. Perhaps their theological debates were intensifying. Their consciousnesses, it was said, traveled from the magatama in their brains, passed through the Divine Gate, and assembled in the Deilith—the place of advent for the eight million gods.
The Shrine Chieftain, who was also Minister of the three Imperial Treasures—the Mirror, Sword, and Magatama—was at the podium, teaching the class in person as he led his students in a ritual Shinto prayer. They were using words from the age of the gods, which Hanishibe and Narikabura could not even begin to comprehend.
Come to think of it, Komorizu—looking all smug—had been telling people lately that the Shrine Chieftain had invited him personally to transfer to the theology department. It made sense; after all, he had a good head for numbers.
“The Shrine Chieftain’s wife is really pretty,” murmured Narikabura. “Even a malformed freak like me she treats perfectly naturally. To me, she’s everything a human should be.”
Hanishibe didn’t answer. This was because he held a secret admiration for her as well.
2
The sun was already starting to set when they passed through the school’s fifth-level gate and emerged onto the cobbleshell road that traced out a loop above the neighborhoods of the lower levels. The whole funnel shape of Cavumville was dim with the coming of evening, but when Hanishibe looked upward, the slice of sky circumscribed by the city wall was still bright blue. An area a little toward the right where the watchtower stood was the only place still illuminated by golden sunlight.
“Well, I’ll see you later,” Narikabura said and started off down the steps outside the school’s front gate on his three legs.Hanishibe, waving casually, slid his gaze beyond the fragile-looking form of his departing schoolmate as he gazed farther and farther downward.
Houses of irregular height were constructed along circular loops of gently rolling petraderm. The diameter of each level narrowed as one descended toward the filthbed that made up the floor of the funnel. The filthbed, at first glance, looked like nothing more than a dumping ground covered in remnants of bones and shells, but there in a bowl-shaped hollow formed by piled pleats of the moon’s digestive membrane lay—the very depths of the world. In its center, the all-consuming Abyss sank downward like a navel. Near the edge of the filthbed, the object of worship known as the Deilith lay half sunk in its languidly undulating surface, so large that a thousand men would have been needed to move it. It was held in place by multiple cables affixed to the petroderm walls of the first and second levels. Legend had it that this huge stone lay on the very border between the Hereandnow and the Hereafter.
The Deilith was an oblong boulder that recalled a persimmon seed in both shape and texture. Constructed atop its smooth surface was the shinmei-zukuri–style main shrine, the shrine office, which was built to resemble a rocky mountain, and the Divine Gate, which rose up from its leading edge. The main approach was a train of floating barges that stretched from this gate to a pier on the bottommost city level.
Houseboats had been gathering around the Deilith. Ebisus appeared from huts on the boats and climbed one after another onto the Deilith, where they began wrapping their bizarrely long arms around the cables and hanging their weight on them. As they were doing this, the Deilith began to move just slightly, as if riding the undulations of the filthbed.
As Hanishibe walked along the road, the Deilith was gradually concealed by the row of houses on the first level. Absorbed in sight, Hanishibe walked right into a standing sideboard. “Watch where you’re going!” shouted Old Man Tsunokiriroten. Seated in a chair next to the old-timer was a man whose skull grew straight upward like a tall eboshi hat; he was having the side of his face illuminated with a superb scene of Izanagi’s descent to the underworld.
Chastened, Hanishibe passed by in front of them, and then the window of a tailor’s shop appeared. Inside, seamstresses were deftly hand-sewing momonji skins, pinsnakes wrapped around their forearms.
Turning at the corner of the tailor’s shop, Hanishibe began to climb up a wide, steep flight of stairs that extended both upward and downward along the slope of the funnel. Before he reached the next level, however, he came to a halt, rested his hands on his knees, and heaved his shoulders as he took a deep breath. He looked around and saw others here and there who were likewise exhausted and had sat down on the steps and the landing.
The moon’s gravity had been increasing for several days now.
Even so, the stronger gravity didn’t fully account for all the exhaustion. Everyone in Cavumville, for their own varying reasons, felt a sense of incongruity with their
environment and were always complaining of some physical ailment or other. Accordingly, life expectancies were short. Even when children were born, they almost never made it to adulthood.
Taking twice as long as he normally did, Hanishibe arrived on the seventh level, where his own home was located. The silk-white houses that stood in a row along the curved street were made of densely laid bonebrick painted with a mixture of ossipowder and landsoup. The outline of each was warped and distorted.
He walked along on cobbleshells worn down naturally by people’s comings and goings. From up ahead, a man with a fibrous face and another with tentacles growing densely around his mouth approached, both swearing to one another about the “obliviates.” Society looked coldly on the ebisus, who had abandoned their Heretofores.
A little farther on, there stood a single ebisu in the space between the incense-bun bakery and the hemomochi shop. His forearms, nearly as long as his legs’ inseam, were raised up to the sky. Something about him reminded Hanishibe of a grasshopper—his light-green work clothes probably had something to do with it—though with no mutations aside from his long forearms, he was the very image of baseform humanity. Suddenly, the ebisu raised his elbows, crossed his forearms, and flipped the palms of his hands over and back again several times. Using this kind of arm language, they could relay messages back and forth with their fellows, no matter where in Cavumville they might be.
When at last he arrived back home, a female ebisu with short black hair was standing in the gap between his house and his next-door neighbor’s.
Hanishibe tried a polite greeting, but the woman remained motionless, and empty silence was her only reply. He gazed at her admiringly, as though she were some beautiful piece of sculpture, but then her forearms closed together like a pair of chopsticks, hiding her face. In the epidermis of those arms, he could see deeply gouged claw marks, scarring from bedfluid, and irregular bumps where bones had been broken and rejoined.
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