Hanishibe, ashamed of himself for staring, blurted out a hasty apology, then hurried into his house.
In the middle of the dim, narrow living room stood a stone statue, weathered by long years of wind and rain.
“What’re you doing, Grandpa?”
The statue’s hemispherical head turned left and right like a millstone grinding flour, and the facelid that covered the front of it began to slowly drag itself upward. It exposed an aged countenance that brought to mind a relief carved into a wall.
The left eyelid opened like a splitting fissure, revealing a socket tightly packed with tiny ocules resembling red grains, twitching this way and that. It was said that by using different eyes for different purposes, his grandfather could view the world from many perspectives.
“Hanishibe, is it?” said his grandfather, grimacing as he tried to force his other eye open. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks,” he said, then craned his neck in the direction of a recessed screen toward his right. “I’m home, Grandma.”
“I was lost in thought just now,” his grandfather said.
Of that Hanishibe was already aware. His grandfather shut his facelid anytime he had something on his mind. Lost in reflective contemplation, he would stand erect for hours on end, sometimes greeting the dawn without ever having budged.
“What were you thinking about? The structure of the universe again?”
“Well, that too.”
“You should’ve been an astronomer, Grandpa.”
“If I’d been an astronomer, you’d be saying I should’ve been a taxonomist.”
Hanishibe’s grandfather turned away and started walking toward the kitchen. A large knot was sticking out from his back. It had been growing steadily there for the past year, but according to a doctor with transparensight, it contained a thin, tubular substance that was coiled up in a ball. It wasn’t a tenant of any kind, but one of his own organs apparently. He was undergoing some form of acquired mutation, though the cause was still unclear.
Squatting on a pedestal in one corner of the kitchen was a whirligig; it somewhat resembled a plantain lily but had a long, pipelike proboscis that was stuck in the side of a barrel beside the kitchen wall. Hanishibe’s grandfather took an iron skewer in one hand and jabbed it into the insect’s shrunken belly, which was wrinkled up like a dried-out fig. KuKu! Kuuu! the whirligig cried through its abdominal cavity. Afterward, the tip of its proboscis began spitting clean, clear water into the barrel at irregular intervals.
“The water isn’t flowing very well,” said Hanishibe. “Look at how shriveled it’s gotten. I’ll take it to the Department of Aquatic Resources tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until after the Descent?” Using the dipper, his grandfather drew some water from the barrel and drank it.
“It’s always so crowded right afterward, Grandpa. You can hardly even walk up and down the street.”
Hanishibe smiled as he said this and treated himself to a good look at the curio shelf on the wall in the foyer. Lined up on the shelf were a host of craftworks—vague replicas of implements used in that fuzzily defined otherworld known as the Hereafter.
Hanishibe’s favorite was a headshell taken from some kind of petaurista, which had a stuffed cat foreleg resting on top. A roundbone, pierced with many holes, was attached to the forward face of the headshell. Hanishibe stuck the tip of one finger into a hole, then gave the roundbone a spin, picked up the cat’s leg, and put its paw against his ear. When he did so, the insects inside it rubbed their bellyplates against one another, making a sound that was like someone whispering.
“You sure do like that one, don’t you?” said his grandfather, facing the sink.
But Hanishibe’s interest had shifted to another craftwork: a trilobite about the size of a cutting board. Its backplate had been inlaid with eighty-eight molars engraved with divine letters. “Whenever you press a combination of two molars,” the craft shop owner had explained, “the common letters will blink in the back of the trilobite’s mind.”
There was no way of confirming whether or not this was true though. Even so, just by tapping the rows of molars with his fingers, he got the feeling that his thoughts at this moment were turning into words, and that those words were being transformed into reality.
His grandmother was also crazy about crafts of the Hereafter. Peeking behind the screen, he found his grandmother sitting cross-legged in front of a rectangular board. Her many legs were covered in innumerable thornlike projections, and her six eyes were pursed up like those of needles. All he could think was that she looked just like a petaurista. Shifting rainbow patterns were moving across multiple reflective membranes set in the face of a rectangular screen; his grandmother had been staring at them all day long like this without ever getting bored.
“Her memories of her Heretofore are too clear,” his grandfather had once said, “and what’s worse, she believes the mutation she suffered during revivification is punishment for a crime she committed in her Heretofore. She tries to tell herself that she’s just being superstitious, but …”
“Here,” his grandfather said.
Hanishibe turned around and saw him holding up a crustacean.
“You’re on duty today, aren’t you?”
“Oh, thanks.” The shell of the lunchbox was warm when he took it, almost as if alive. “I saw some ebisus earlier, but tonight’s still a little early for the Descent, isn’t it?”
“You don’t look very sure about that. But judging by the sky, it should still be all right. If anything does happen, just follow the procedures and ring the alarm bell. Still, we may yet have a good three months to go.” With that, he gave a sigh. “But to think that I’ve still got to meet with that unclean san’e again …”
“You mean the Shrine Chieftain?” Hanishibe remembered the figure behind the podium in the theology department. He didn’t understand why his grandfather hated him so. Hanishibe had often caught sight of the Shrine Chieftain making the rounds of the houseboats that dotted the filthbed, giving alms to the ebisus. The ebisus would take the smoked meat he gave them between their forearms and bow repeatedly as they fed. The clothes they were wearing had all been donated as well. The Shrine Chieftain had ascended to the high position of Minister of the Imperial Treasures, but he lived on the lowest level, amid the danger and grime of the filthbed, and was beloved of many for the good works he did.
Still, there were those like his grandfather who called him “san’e” behind his back. It was a slur meaning, “one born from a woman’s body.”
“You should take this too,” his grandfather said, holding out a small package. Hanishibe opened it and found several cigar-shaped items lined up in a row. “They’re smoked bitterbugs. Bite into one if you get sleepy. It’ll wake you up.”
Hanishibe thanked him, and once he had put the package of bitterbugs in his pocket, he put the lunchbox on his back, catching its two long legs on either shoulder. It hurt just a little as the claws on their tips bit into his skin.
3
The sun set early in Cavumville. When Hanishibe stepped outside, twilight was already falling. A good many stars were twinkling in the sky, and like a mirror image of the scene above, lights were glowing in windows throughout Cavumville as well.
The warm, humid air felt sticky on his skin. He struck a will-of-the-wisp and lit his lantern.
Hanishibe casually glanced down the narrow space between his house and his neighbor’s (trying to look like he was doing nothing of the sort) but struck his lantern against the wall and dropped it. It made a terrible racket, bouncing on the ground three times, but then a white hand appeared in the dimness, grabbed hold of it, and picked it up. The indistinct form of that ebisu woman floated up from the dark recesses of the gap.
“Thank you. Um …” As he took the lantern from her, he noticed holes in the palms of her hands, as o
ne might see in some pagan sculpture.
“I’m Hanishibe,” he said.
“I am We. Please go quickly.”
Her voice was just barely understandable. Hanishibe bowed once and started off again, walking along the smoothly winding cobbleshell street. He came to the large flight of stairs and hesitantly stepped onto it. His body was still heavy after all. Even so, he made his way doggedly upward, stopping to rest numerous times along the way.
After ascending three levels’ worth of stairs, he immediately threw himself down on the roadside of the uppermost level, both arms spread wide. Sweat was pouring off of every inch of his body. A scattering of cottony clouds floated amid the starry sky.
Then an indistinct white thing blocked his field of vision, and Hanishibe gave a cry.
“It’s me, Hanishibe. What’re you doing here?”
Narikabura’s non-face was staring down at him. Hanishibe got up with a laugh he didn’t feel. Narikabura was carrying a lunchbox made of carapace on his head. Hanishibe started to ask him where his lantern was but then remembered: Narikabura could see in the dark.
The pair arrived at the base of the watchtower, which was touching the circular ringwall. The tower resembled a razor clam’s shell jutting up overhead. As they came near, a door lined with tortoiseshell opened up as though it had been waiting for them, and two sleepy-looking men emerged.
Hanishibe took from them a bundle of keys—for the doors, for the alarm bell, and so on—and held the door open so Narikabura could go in first. Hanishibe followed him in, locked the door, and held up his lantern. Trailing behind Narikabura, he ascended a narrow spiral staircase that rose up along the wall, approaching as he did the giant, cylindrical alarm bell that hung down from the center of the ceiling. The myth of the Descent of the Sun Goddess’s Grandson played itself out on its surface as he headed for the top: here was inscribed the figure of Ninigi-no-Mikoto, ancestor of emperors, receiving orders from his grandmother, Amaterasu Ōmikami. As the staircase turned, more images came into view, depicting his descent from the heavenly realm to the earthly one.
When Hanishibe emerged onto the mushroom-shaped lookout, a strong, warm wind came blowing up against him. The umbrella-shaped canopy was supported only by the central pillar where the control devices were clustered. In the open space that looked out in all directions, there were neither bars nor peritonea.
Holding on to a parapet that encircled the lookout, the two boys looked down on the lunar surface, which fell away like a cliff to form the outer edge of Cavumville. The many large and small craters covering the landscape beyond engendered a sense of extreme perspective as they receded into the distance, arcing around toward the far side’s curved surface. Though it was impossible for the naked eye to take in the entire face of the moon, its shape could be likened to that of an olive whose seed had been removed. Hanishibe’s knees trembled just slightly as his line of sight was pulled inexorably down toward the distant depths below. Through the thin atmosphere, he could see clearly a darkling plain covered in coaguland, extending outward until it blurred in the distance near the curved horizon. The sight brought with it a renewed realization that they were floating high up in the sky of the earth.
“I’ve heard our altitude is way too low for us to be recognized as a satellite.”
“Did your dad tell you that? Me, I don’t really know …”
Hanishibe sat down in a chair with an attached backrest, straddled the central pillar with both knees, and pressed his face up against a tubular viewport that stuck out from the pillar. Pulling a lever, he brought the device into focus, and a series of five lenses made of clear, compressed momonji eyeballs showed him a starfield in extreme magnification.
“They get bigger, don’t they, the stars? My dad used to do research to try to find out why.”
“I’ll bet that’s why you decided to major in astronomy,” Hanashibe said in a distant, dreamy voice. “To carry on his work.” Hanishibe turned one of the wheels on the pillar. The stars slid out of view and disappeared.
“It’s not to take over his research. I want to make my baby father recollect his Heretofore quickly, so I can help with his research.”
Manipulating both of the wheels, turning them forward and then back again, Hanishibe aligned the telescope with a set of coordinates at which a great number of portents had been detected.
The two boys continued staring into a starry sky that showed no greater change than the occasional thin cloud scuttling across it. Now it was Narikabura who was sitting in the seat before the pillar; Hanishibe reclined on a low benchlike projection that jutted out of the parapet, the back of his head resting in a concave dip in the wall’s edge as he watched the heavens with his eyes alone.
“Hanishibe—” Narikabura ventured, sounding like someone about to make a confession. “Why do you think it is that every single person looks so different from each other?”
“’Cause diversity’s important. Having all kinds of looks makes the world more interesting. Don’t you think?”
“That’s fine for you, Hanishibe. You’re close to baseform.”
“Even I started out boneless. Took two years for the boneseeds to grow.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever find, you know, someone right for me.”
“What are you talking about? You’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that,” muttered Narikabura, as if to someone far away.
“There are married people with all kinds of variations, aren’t there?” Hanishibe said, raising his head.
“You’re not getting it. From the standpoint of pure physics—how can I put this?—strategies for carrying out sexual intercourse can vary from person to person.” Face still pressed against the viewport, Narikabura continued: “I cannot love or be loved by anyone. The other person would—”
“I’m telling you, I’m sure you’ll find somebody with the same mutations as you.”
“The same kind won’t work for me!”
An awkward feeling floated in the air between them.
Suddenly, Narikabura’s upper body jerked upward.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can see it. Something’s falling this way.”
Narikabura pulled on the lever that his glossophalanx was wrapped around, opening up the eight panels that enclosed the upper part of the watchtower. Then he shifted it over to a lever connected to the alarm bell’s clapper.
Hanishibe placed his hands on a speaking pipe that jutted out of the floor over by the wall.
“It’s odd how slowly they’re falling—what’re the … oh.” Narikabura let go of the lever and leaned back in his seat, giving a dry laugh. “They’re lees.”
In which case, there was nothing out of the ordinary; those fragile, fist-sized lumps were falling all the time. Hanishibe let out a sigh. He could hear the wall panels creaking as they closed.
“I’m glad I died young last time. I think it would be even harder on me if I knew who I was married to.” Narikabura had returned to his earlier topic, but now he sounded cheerful. “It’s all right. After all, I’ve got my dad. I’ll go on raising Dad. He’s talented, my dad.”
After that, the two of them continued to observe the night sky, switching back and forth between telescopic and naked eye observations. Trading items from their lunchboxes, shaking one another awake when they dozed off, biting into bitterbugs to dispel their sleepiness, they talked about nothing in particular until the changing of the watch early next morning. Simple lees in the sky could in no way diminish the gleam of the heavenly bodies.
Hanishibe left the watchtower at dawn and handed the keys over to the next pair on duty. His shoulders felt terribly stiff. Bathed in the strong morning light of the uppermost level, he raised up both arms to stretch his muscles. Narikabura as well bent his three legs like bows and then stood up straight with a pleasant look on his face. He cast a deep
, sharp shadow across the ground, just like that of a sundial.
Chapter 2:
Descent from Heaven
1
Hanishibe slept past noon, then loaded the shriveled whirligig onto a cart, which he pushed toward the Department of Aquatic Resources. The windows of the houses that he passed on the way were being fitted with armored shutters by their residents, who were also using landsoup to caulk up gaps in bonebrick walls and daubing resinlike beastfat onto the bonetiles of their roofs, all in preparation for the Descent from Heaven.
The Department of Aquatic Resources was constructed in stairstep fashion, straddling the third and fourth city levels. The gentle line of its rounded rooftop suggested a loaf of bread. Hanishibe went inside through a doorway accessible from the fourth level loop-lane. There was only a thin smattering of other visitors. He pushed his cart to the department serving the zone in which his house was located and, without even having to wait in line, placed the whirligig on the reception counter.
The department employee was dangling down from beams overhead, with which four of his molluscean legs were intertwined. He handed a claim ticket to Hanishibe and in exchange picked up the wrinkly whirligig with a wriggling arm. Transferring his weight from beam to beam, he then disappeared into the back.
Hanishibe found a seat in the waiting area, and after about one torch had elapsed, the rafter-traversing employee returned, dragging along a delivery cart on which rested his whirligig, now so swollen it looked ready to burst. It had been attached to a live momonji, from which it had been allowed to replenish its blood supply to its heart’s content. Its eyeholes were squeezed shut as if in satisfaction, creating radial patterns of wrinkles around them.
Hanishibe stopped his hand, which had been about to pet it on the head. From the tip of its proboscis, rolled up like a royal fern, he could hear the su-su-su-su of its peaceful breath in sleep. Hanishibe smiled, thinking, I’ll need to keep quiet on the way back.
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