Knowledge of Nakarai’s eccentric behavior soon spread through the small village, and he was called before the school principal, a Mr. Kuwano, who cautioned him to bring a halt to his strange goings-on. Convinced that the results would justify him in the end, Nakarai resolved to ignore the order. But fearing that repeated offense might also result in his termination, he fabricated a story that the midwinter weed, when crushed, could be used as fuel in place of oil, a substance which was then said to be “as precious as blood.” His inspiration was contemporary research into coal tar, which at the time was also under heavy scrutiny as a possible substitute for oil.
Untroubled by any pangs of conscience, Nakarai wrote to Ishikawa that “the ends will justify the means.” Considering a real demonstration necessary to inspire belief in these “means,” Nakarai even consulted with Ishikawa over a plan to smear the midwinter weed with gunpowder taken from a firework so that it would burn.
“I carried out a test run to determine how much gunpowder to use. But even without being dried, the midwinter weed caught fire immediately and burned with a fierce blaze.”
To Nakarai’s considerable surprise, it seemed that his lie had in fact led to the truth. In a later experiment, however, he found that fluid filtered from the crushed plant did not burn so easily. Of course, for Nakarai, who feared that if the difficulty of cultivation were ignored and the plant were gathered freely it would soon grow extinct, this difficulty, too, was likely a welcome find.
Akiba’s account of the public experiment, held before a large audience in the school’s auditorium, was based on interviews gathered from the local villagers. I was also able to hear the story firsthand by speaking with a group of elderly villagers introduced to me at the town hall. One of these villagers remembered a hundred or so persons being in attendance. Another, over three hundred. Regardless, they both recalled a large crowd being packed into the fairly small auditorium. As they waited for the deputy mayor, who was running late, to take his seat in the front row, Nakarai explained the midwinter weed’s growth and features, proudly strutting his knowledge for the audience. But with the deputy mayor insisting that theory was all well and good but it was time to get on with the show, he was quickly hurried on by Kuwano. Arranged across a teacher’s desk covered in white cloth, the experiment soon began.
The midwinter weed was placed on a flat plate. When Nakarai’s lit match drew near, the flame spread immediately. In mere moments the plant had shrunk and smoldered, as if consumed from within. The flame then became a crimson ball, which slowly crawled down the plant’s stem. At the sight of this strange spectacle, the first shouts of wonder began to spread across the audience. When the flame at last reached the roots, branching off in multiple directions, a crackling noise resounded and fine sparks, like fireworks, sprang from the glow. The audience’s reaction, this time, was even greater than before. As the root faded to a glowing red ember, the excitement soon turned to shouts of praise for Nakarai. One elderly man whom I talked to recalled the root burning as like a hand-held sparkler. Possibly a small amount of fireworks had been mixed in with the plant after all. However, Kuwano, at least, was impressed, believing that a discovery had been made in their remote lands which might aid the war effort. During his presentation, Nakarai used one phrase repeatedly. “A new weapon to aid our great nation.” That, too, had likely had its intended effect.
Before those gathered, Kuwano promised to aid Nakarai, by whatever means possible, in developing fuel from the midwinter weed. In order to produce results, Nakarai was excused from all his miscellaneous duties and set up in a private house for teachers in what had once been an old temple. He was even assigned a research assistant, named Michihisa Harimoto.
“Probably because it feeds off human blood, which spoils easily, it is hard to press the midwinter weed, which begins to rot after three to four days, giving off a strong stench, before it could dry. Attempting to dry the plant faster by applying heat also proved disastrous, as the plant simply burst into flame. A specimen I attempted to pickle in liquid, meanwhile, has nearly lost its shape, almost as if it had melted.”
Nakarai was determined to create a pressed specimen. But though the process of drying should have been simple, each of his attempts ended, without exception, in failure. Gathering the sketches he had made so far, Nakarai traveled to Tsukiyama, turning to Ishikawa for help. After some good advice on drying methods, the conversation turned to the idea of submitting a paper on the flower. According to Ishikawa, the only respectable Japanese journal in which to publish the discovery of a new species was Natural History of the Empire. Accordingly, Nakarai began writing, a painstaking process which required twelve direct visits to Ishikawa and thirty-two letters before completion.
His paper, however, which had been entitled “New Species of Plant Life Feeds off Human Blood,” was sent back a short three weeks after being submitted. Nakarai’s letter, requesting the reason for refusal, received no answer. For the academic world of the time, where sectarian concerns based on the author’s alma mater were paramount, the chance of a suspicious report written by an amateur being accepted was slim to none. In the end, Ishikawa persuaded Nakarai that to let the discovery of a new species slip into obscurity would be unacceptable. With the content left intact, but the author’s name changed to Ishikawa and the title changed to “Unique Specimen Found in Hokkaido’s Coldest Regions,” the paper was readily accepted for publication. Since he had already been rejected once, the journal refused to include Nakarai’s name as a second author. Listed only as “with special thanks,” Nakarai later wrote that, “This is a country which knows nothing of the advanced discipline called science.” With the first submission, under Nakarai’s name, dismissed, followed by the refusal to list him as a second author, the incident became a source of acrimony, and Nakarai and Ishikawa soon lost touch. For the rest of Nakarai’s life, until his death, the bond between the two lay broken. At a time when the first author listed on the papers written by students was usually that of their professors, Ishikawa had likely convinced himself that, after so many rewritings, the words in the paper were practically his own. As time marched on, this single article in Japanese, which focused chiefly on the plant’s morphological features, was ultimately the only piece on the midwinter weed ever to appear. The article, which Nakarai expected to bring publishing recognition, instead earned the anger of Kuwano, who had been under the assumption that the efforts to extract flammable matter from the midwinter weed would be “classified research.” Harshly reprimanding young Nakarai, Kuwano ordered that he henceforth limit knowledge of his experiments on the plant, including their cultivation, to within his house.
What happened thereafter remained unclear, but Nakarai died suddenly shortly after the war.
“Late in his visit to Nakarai’s grave, Ishikawa returned to Tsukiyama carrying a white flower which had sprung from the ground above Nakarai’s plot. He would later press this flower.”
According to the final sentence of The Legend of Midwinter Weed, this was the only specimen of the midwinter weed to ever be successfully pressed. The book speculated that the specimen had been lost amidst the volumes donated to libraries after Ishikawa’s death. But, as Ishikawa had never seen the plant except in sketches, it remains unclear whether he had in fact realized that it was the midwinter weed he had pressed. Judging from his actions afterwards, it seems likely that he had not. Akiba, who roamed the mountains until his final days in search of the midwinter weed, passed away after his stomach cancer metastasized.
Nakarai’s grave was on a hill overlooking the lake. Beneath the faded letters of his wooden marker, bamboo grass grew in thick profusion. Nearby stood a bench and a stone monument, erected by the town, which marked the remains of the common cemetery. The waves rippling on the surface of the lake below reflected the mountain’s pale shadow. If the pressed flower had been taken from Nakarai’s grave the area near his marker should have been high in radioactivity, but a careful canvassing of the area showed no re
sponse. The only sounds were the rustling of the wind through the bamboo grass and the beeping of the Geiger counter. I lit a stick of incense at Nakarai’s grave and rinsed the marker clean with water from a disposable plastic bottle. With the marker washed clean, his Buddhist name “Shaku Tomomichi Kokichi Nakarai” grew faintly apparent.
In order to learn more about the experiment held in the auditorium I attempted to look up Michihisa Harimoto, Nakarai’s assistant, in the basic residents’ registry at the town hall, but was unable to find it. The name was also missing from the pre-war census, which was being kept in storage. I also tried asking the elderly folk whom I had talked with before, but none of them could recall having heard the name Michihisa Harimoto.
After returning to my laboratory in Tokyo, I recommenced my previous experiments now armed with knowledge that the plant had been cultivated using human blood. The reason that human DNA had been amplified in my previous attempts was likely due to blood which had been soaked up through the root. Rather than attempt to find a corresponding genetic plant match as before, I decided to collect the plant’s DNA at random from the root’s cells. While the process was simple and not especially interesting, I canceled all my other work in order to focus on unraveling the extraordinary mystery posed by the midwinter weed. Sleeping on the laboratory’s sofa bed most nights as I ran the automatic DNA analyzer, I at last managed to obtain several strands which differed from that of human DNA.
I ran a computer search on the genetic information, a sequence of base pairs, only to discover that the genetic variation had progressed to a point beyond reasonable comparison to other plant life. I suspected that the difference might also be due to slight genetic damage caused by radiation. With this in mind, it was only natural that the primers I had created from other plant sequences had been unable to bond successfully with DNA from the midwinter weed, and that PCR reaction had failed to occur. The sudden de-proliferation of the plant was likely also due to these genetic changes. In fact, the genetic elements essential for survival were barely in evidence. If this damage had progressed much further it would have been nearly impossible for the plant to maintain life.
Those engaged in the natural sciences, including myself, attempt to attach some meaning to their findings, and to discover order through their experiments. The belief is that while a coincidental series of variations may occur, looking back from the end results as if through the lens of God’s own eye, a pre-established equilibrium ought to exist. But from whichever angle I considered the circumstances, I couldn’t understand what necessity an organism would have to assimilate radiation and to proactively seek death. Perhaps, after all, there was no reason.
You can’t get blood from a stone. Or so one of my fellow researchers insisted, convincing me to take a break and join him for drinks. Later, as I made my way home, I found myself crossing a busy intersection amidst a crowd of Tokyo pedestrians. Stopping before a street musician who had placed his hat on the ground for tips, I listened absentmindedly to the strum of the guitar. My thoughts turned to Nakarai’s wooden grave marker in Tomarinai, which even now must have stood wrapped amidst the rustle of bamboo grasses brushing one against another. Somewhere amidst that darkness, I felt that the midwinter weed, with its drifting and disaffected energy, was still growing quietly. Someone with an existence as harsh and glaring as Nakarai’s must surely have been attracted to that energy.
My familiarity with biochemistry, outside of genetics, is slim. For my next experiments I had to rely on guidance from a younger specialist, from the next lab over, in organic chemistry. Handling the unfamiliar glass instruments, I was attempting to extract combustible material from the midwinter weed.
“Since nitrogen, which is found in animal protein, is also a component in gunpowder,” wrote Nakarai, regarding the plant’s flammability, “should some sort of chemical change occur within the plant, it’s not surprising that this phenomenon, of combustibility, could occur.”
Nakarai’s logic, however, was unsatisfying at best. Considered as a chemical compound, the compositions of animal protein and gunpowder are entirely different. As Nakarai could only speculate that “some sort of change” had occurred, it’s likely that, even if he had picked up some passing knowledge of the periodic elements, the concept of chemical compounds was something foreign to him.
But as analysis of the root continued, I did detect nitric compounds in the residue at the base of the beaker I was using. Though Nakarai’s supposition had been rooted in baseless speculation, it had, by coincidence, proved to be partially correct. However, I also found trace amounts of DME (cis-Dehydromatricaria Ester), an element unrelated to the plant’s flammability. DME is a substance found in the ground stalks or other parts of highly fertile exotic plants. While a low concentration of around 10 ppm works as a poison to prevent the growth of surrounding plants, an increase from 10 to 12 ppm will prove poisonous to the plant’s own seedlings as well, essentially resulting in autointoxication. This phenomenon conforms to the general rule of the plant kingdom, whereby a plant that proliferates over-aggressively will be forced to die out. Since the midwinter weed appeared to contain DME, it’s possible that the plant’s near-disappearance, after having once proliferated, might be explained by autointoxication rather than radioactivity. Regardless, if the plant’s goal was to eliminate other plant life in order to increase its own propagation, it seems to have had the opposite result, instead leading the midwinter weed down a path to its own extinction. If so, Nakarai’s insistence, repeated in several of his letters, that “the midwinter weed is a foolish organism,” seems to have hit the proverbial nail on the head.
The uranium in the midwinter weed must have been absorbed from its surrounding soil, and a more detailed survey of Tomarinai would be sure to reveal an area with a high local concentration of the element. Continued analysis of the plant seemed unlikely to reveal any hint as to where that area might be. If I was to produce any further results my only option was to return to survey the area once more.
I asked Dr. Iwai to arrange lodgings for me in Asahikawa. I only needed a place to sleep. Carrying a knapsack with a boxed lunch and my Geiger counter inside, I boarded the first train to Tomarinai in order to pace the meadows where Nakarai had once wandered. Beating my pick against the rocks as I went to scare off any bears, I slowly made my way into the red-soil depths of the mountain. The rugged, boulder-strewn slopes made for rough hiking. I scouted the area until the light filtering through the heady trees began to change, and then I made my way back to the village along a mountain stream. I found no trace of radioactivity.
When night fell, I made my rounds of nearby houses to meet as many elderly people as I could, hoping they might give me a clue. I explained that I had come all the way from Tokyo in my search, but though they scoured their fading memories for me, the name Harimoto rang no bells. Having come up empty, I began posting fliers at shops and other locations throughout town. Along the way, someone suggested I post them at a clinic frequented by several of the elderly in the area. A young doctor, who came from Asahikawa to work part-time three days a week, was on duty when I visited. After I explained the circumstances, the young doctor let it slip that there was an inpatient suffering from pancreatic cancer at a hospital for the elderly where he usually worked, with the very same first and last name. I could hardly believe my luck.
The beautiful three-story hospital stood next to an apple orchard at the foot of a mountain. Entering a six-person room on the second-floor ward, I found the patient in question sleeping, a bedpan resting beneath his mattress. According to the nurse the man had no relatives. A previous stroke had left him with severe emotional incontinence which could make his responses unpredictable, but his mind was sound and he was otherwise capable of conversing normally.
Almost as if he had been waiting for me, the old man, dressed in a sky-blue hospital gown, took my hand, squeezed it, and began to cry. The next patient over was groaning uncontrollably, and occasionally I heard a loud cry emanate
from somewhere else within the hospital. Each time a cry was heard, one of the nurses would go racing down the hall. A patient, apparently, had removed his own I.V. needle and was now being scolded by the nurse. When I told the old man that I was hoping to ask about Nakarai, the trembling in his right hand suddenly grew severe.
“There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.” He grumbled distractedly, crumpled up his wrinkled and spotted face, and then smiled brightly. Dry broken sentences, mixed with drool, spilled from the old man’s mouth as he recalled his relationship with Nakarai: “All he ever thought about was that midwinter weed … Very strict, and he was always scolding me … One time he told me I knew a lot and was smart. It really was fun working together … … …”
Scooping up porridge with a tiny spoon, as if the food were precious stuff, the old man muttered obscurely to himself, “I hope they can all forgive me.” Then he burst into heavy crocodile tears which dripped onto his porridge. “Lately whenever I eat, I can’t stop crying,” he shared.
The nurse who came stroked his back gently. Little by little, the man seemed to calm down. “It’s been a while since you’ve visited, hasn’t it?” asked the old man.
“Actually, this is my first time,” I said.
He considered what I said. He cocked his head at me. “You’re Ishikawa, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not … Do you mean Yozo Ishikawa?”
“That’s right. Ishikawa-sensei.”
“Did you know him?”
“Is he here today?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Ishikawa passed away.”
The old man stared into my face. He appeared to be in shock. “That explains why he stopped coming.”
“So Mr. Ishikawa was visiting you here?”
Biogenesis Page 13
