Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World

by Haruki Murakami

  “So then how did the Semiotecs make contact with them? If they couldn’t communicate verbally?”

  “A translation device isn’t so hard to make. Grandfather could have, easy. But he decided not to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he didn’t want to talk to them. They’re disgusting creatures and they speak a disgusting language. Whatever they eat or drink has got to be almost putrified.”

  “They don’t consume anything fresh?”

  “No. If they catch you, they immerse you in water for days. When your body starts to rot, they eat it.”

  Lovely. I was ready to turn back, but we forged on. She knew every step of the way and scampered ahead. When I trained my light on her from behind, her gold earrings flashed.

  “Tell me, do you take off your earrings when you take a shower?” I spoke up.

  “I leave them on,” she slowed down to answer. “Only my earrings. Sexy?”

  “I guess.” Why did I have to go and bring up the subject?

  “What else do you think is sexy? I’m not very experienced, as I said. Nobody teaches you these things.”

  “Nobody will. It’s something you have to find out for yourself,” I said.

  I made a conscious effort to sweep all images of sex from my head.

  “Umm,” I changed the subject, “you say this device of yours emits ultrasonic waves that put off the INKlings?”

  “As long as the device is sending out signals, they won’t come within fifteen meters of us. So you should try to stay close to me. Otherwise, they’ll nab you and pickle you for a snack. In your condition, your stomach would be the first thing to rot. And their teeth and claws are razor sharp.”

  I scooted up right behind her.

  “Does your stomach wound still hurt?” she asked.

  “Only when I move,” I replied. “But thanks to the painkillers, it’s not so bad.”

  “If we find Grandfather, he’ll be able to remove the pain.”

  “Your grandfather? How’s he going to help?”

  “Simple. He’s done it for me lots of times. Like when I have a terrible headache, he uses an impulse to cancel out my awareness of pain. Really, though, pain is an important signal from the body, so you shouldn’t do it too much. In this case, it’s an emergency. I’m sure he’ll help.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Grandfather. If we find him,” she reminded.

  Panning her powerful light left and right, she continued upstream along the subterranean river. Moisture seeped out from between the rocks, running in rivulets past our feet. Slimy layers of moss coated wherever this groundwater trickled through. The moss appeared unnaturally green, inexplicable for these depths beyond the reach of photosynthesis.

  “Say, do you suppose the INKlings know we’re walking around down here now?”

  “Of course they do,” she said, without emotion. “This is their world. They’re all around, watching us. I’ve been hearing noises the whole time we’ve been down here.”

  I swung my flashlight beam to the side, but all I saw were rocks and moss.

  “They’re in the cracks and boreholes, where the light doesn’t reach,” she said. “Or else they’re creeping up on us from behind.”

  “How many minutes has it been since you switched on the device?” I asked.

  “Ten minutes,” she said, looking at her watch. “Ten minutes, twelve seconds. Another five minutes to the waterfall. We’re doing fine.”

  Exactly five minutes later we arrived at the waterfall. Again the roar of the waterfall had been selectively suppressed; apparently the sound-removal equipment was still functioning.

  “Odd,” she remarked, ducking under the noiseless cascade. “This sound removal means the laboratory wasn’t broken into. If the INKlings had attacked, they would have torn the whole place apart. They hate this laboratory.”

  Sure enough, the laboratory door was still locked. She inserted the electronic key; the door swung open. The laboratory interior was dark and cold and smelled of coffee. She anxiously shut the door behind us, tested the lock, and only then switched on the lights.

  It was true that the laboratory was basically a repeat of the upheaval in the office above: papers everywhere, furniture overturned, cups and plates smashed, the carpet an abstract expressionist composition of what must have been a bucket of coffee grounds. But there was a pattern to the destruction. The demolition crew had clearly distinguished between what was and was not to be destroyed. The former had been shown no mercy, but the computer, telecommunications console, sound-removal equipment, and electric generator were untouched.

  The next room was like that as well. A hopeless mess, but the destruction was carefully calculated. The shelves of skulls had been left perfectly intact, instruments necessary for experimental calibrations set aside with care. Less critical, inexpensive equipment and replaceable research materials had been dashed to pieces.

  The girl went to the safe to check its contents. The safe door wasn’t locked. She scooped out two handfuls of white ash.

  “The emergency auto-incinerator did its stuff,” she said. “They didn’t get any papers.”

  “Who do you think did it?” I asked.

  “Humans, first of all. The Semiotecs or whoever may have had INKling help to get in here, but only they came inside. They even locked the door to keep the INKlings from finishing the job.”

  “Doesn’t look like they took anything valuable.”

  “No.”

  “But they did get your grandfather, the most valuable property of all,” I said. “That leaves me stuck with whatever he planted inside me. Now I’m really screwed.”

  “Not so fast,” said the chubby girl. “Grandfather wasn’t abducted at all. There’s a secret escape route from here. I’m sure he got away, using the other INKling-repel device.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Grandfather’s not the type to let himself get caught. If he heard someone breaking in, he’d get himself out of here.”

  “So he’s safe above ground?”

  “Above ground, no,” she corrected. “The escape route is like a maze. At the very fastest, it’d take five hours to get through, and the INKling-repel device only lasts thirty minutes. He’s still in the maze.”

  “Or else he’s been caught by the INKlings.”

  “I don’t think so. Grandfather prepared an extra-safe shelter for himself, exactly for times like these. It’s the one place underground no INKling will go near. I bet he’s there, waiting for us to show up.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Grandfather explained the way once, but there should be a shorthand map in the notebook. It shows all the danger points to look out for.”

  “What kind of danger points?”

  “The kind that you’re probably better off not knowing. You seem to get nervous when you hear too much.”

  “Sure, kid.” I didn’t want to argue. “How long does it take to reach that shelter?”

  “About a half hour to the approach. And from there, another hour or hour and a half to Grandfather. Once we make the approach we’ll be okay; it’s the first half hour that’s the problem. Unless we really hurry, the INKling-repel device’s battery will run out.”

  “What happens if our porta-pack dies midway?”

  “Wish us luck. We’d have to keep swinging our flashlights like crazy.”

  “Then we’d better get moving,” I said. “The INKlings wouldn’t waste any time telling the Semiotecs we’re here. They’ll be back any minute.”

  She peeled off her rain gear and got into the GI jacket and jogging shoes I’d packed. Meanwhile I stripped off my slicker and pulled on my nylon windbreaker. Then I traded my sneakers for rain boots and shouldered the knapsack again. My watch read almost twelve-thirty.

  The girl went to the closet in the far room and threw the hangers onto the floor. As she rotated the clothes rod, there was the sound of gears turning, and a square
panel in the lower right closet wall creaked open. In blew cold, moldy air.

  “Your grandfather must be some kind of cabinet fetishist,” I remarked.

  “No way,” she defended. “A fetishist’s someone who’s got a fixation on one thing only. Of course, Grandfather’s good at cabinetry. He’s good at everything. Genius doesn’t specialize; genius is reason in itself.”

  “Forget genius. It doesn’t do much for innocent bystanders. Especially if everyone’s going to want a piece of the action. That’s why this whole mess happened in the first place. Genius or fool, you don’t live in the world alone. You can hide underground or you can build a wall around yourself, but somebody’s going to come along and screw up the works. Your grandfather is no exception. Thanks to him, I got my gut slashed, and now the world’s going to end.”

  “Once we find Grandfather, it’ll be all right,” she said, drawing near to plant a little peck by my ear. “You can’t go back now.”

  The girl kept her eye on the INKling-repel device while it recharged. Then, when it was done, she took the lead and I followed, same as before. Once through the hole, she cranked a handle to seal the opening. With each crank, the patch of light grew smaller and smaller, becoming a slit, then disappearing.

  “What made your grandfather choose this for an escape route?”

  “Because it links directly to the center of the INKling lair,” she said, without hesitation. “They themselves can’t go near it. It’s their sanctuary.”

  “Sanctuary?”

  “I’ve never actually seen it myself, but that’s what Grandfather called it. They worship a fish. A huge fish with no eyes,” she told me, then flashed her light ahead. “Let’s get going. We haven’t got much time.”

  The cave ceiling was low; we had to crouch as we walked, banging our heads on stalactites. I thought I was in good shape, but now, bent low like this, each pitch of my hips stabbed an ice pick into my gut. Still, the pain had to be a hell of a lot better than wandering around here alone if I ever let her out of my sight.

  The further we traveled in the darkness, the more I began to feel estranged from my body. I couldn’t see it, and after a while, you start to think the body is nothing but a hypothetical construct. Sure, I could feel my wound and the ground beneath the soles of my feet. But these were just kinesthesis and touch, primitive notions stemming from the premise of a body. These sensations could continue even after the body is gone. Like an amputee getting itchy toes.

  Thoughts on the run, literally, as I chased after the chubby girl. Her pink skirt poked out from under the olive drab GI jacket. Her earrings sparkled, a pair of fireflies flitting about her. She never checked to see if I was following; she simply forged ahead, with Girl Scout intensity. She stopped only when she came to a fork in the path, where she pulled out the map and held it under the light. That was when I managed to catch up with her.

  “Okay up there? We’re on the right path?” I asked.

  “For the time being at least,” she replied.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I can tell we’re on course because we are,” she said authoritatively, shining her light at our feet. “See? Take a look.”

  I looked at the illuminated circle of ground. The pitted rock surface was gleaming with tiny bits of silver. I picked one up—a paperclip.

  “See?” she said, snidely. “Grandfather passed this way. He knew we’d be following, so he left those as trail markers.”

  “Got it,” I said, put in my place.

  “Fifteen minutes gone. Let’s hurry,” she pressed.

  There were more forks in the path ahead. But each time, scattered paperclips showed us the way. There were also boreholes in the passage floor. These had been marked on the map, spots where we had to walk with care, with flashlights trained on the ground.

  The path wormed left and right but kept going further and further down. There were no steep inclines, only a steady, even descent. Five minutes later, we came to a large chamber. We knew this from the change in the air and the sound of our footsteps.

  She took out the map to check our location. I shone my light all around. The room was circular in shape; the ceiling formed a dome. The curved walls were smooth and slick, clearly the work of … human hands? In the very center of the floor was a shallow cavity one meter in diameter, filled with an unidentifiable slime. A tincture of something was in the air, not overpowering, but it left a disagreeable acid gumminess in your mouth.

  “This seems to be the approach to the sanctuary,” she said. “That means we’re safe from INKlings. For the time being.”

  “Great, but how do we get out of here?”

  “Leave that up to Grandfather. He’ll have a way.”

  On either side of the sanctuary entrance was an intricate relief. Two fishes in a circle, each with the other’s tail in its mouth. Their heads swelled into aeroplane cowlings, and where their eyes should have been, two long tendril-like feelers sprouted out. Their mouths were much too large for the rest of their bodies, slit back almost to the gills, beneath which were fleshy organs resembling severed animal limbs. On each of these appendages were three claws. Claws? The dorsal fins were shaped like tongues of flames, the scales rasped out like thorns.

  “Mythical creatures? Do you suppose they actually exist?” I asked her.

  “Who knows?” she said, picking up some paperclips. “Quick, let’s go in.”

  I ran my light over the carving one more time before following her through the entrance. It was nothing short of amazing that the INKlings could render such detail in absolute darkness. Okay, they could see in the dark, but this vision of theirs was otherworldly. And now they were probably watching our every move.

  The approach to the sanctuary sloped gradually upward, the ceiling at the same time rising progressively higher until finally it soared out of the flashlight’s illumination.

  “From here on, we climb the mountain,” she said. “Not a real mountain, anyway. More like a hill. But to them, it’s a mountain. That’s what Grandfather said. It’s the only documented subterranean mountain, a sacred mountain.”

  “Then we’re defiling it.”

  “Not at all. The reverse. The mountain was filthy from the beginning. This place is a Pandora’s box sealed over by the earth’s crust. Filth was concentrated here. And we’re going to pass right through the center of it.”

  “You make it sound like hell.”

  “You said it.”

  “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

  “Oh come on, you’ve got to believe,” said my pink cheerleader. “Think of nice things, people you loved, your childhood, your dreams, music, stuff like that. Don’t worry, be happy.”

  “Is Ben Johnson happy enough?” I asked.

  “Ben Johnson?”

  “He played in those great old John Ford movies, riding the most beautiful horses.”

  “You really are one of a kind,” she laughed. “I really like you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I can’t play any musical instruments.”

  * * *

  As she had forecast, the path began to get steeper, until finally we were scaling a rock face. But my thoughts were on my happy-time hero. Ben Johnson on horseback. Ben Johnson in Fort Defiance and She Wore a Yellow Ribbon and Wagonmaster and Rio Grande. Ben Johnson on the prairie, sun burning down, blue sky streaked with clouds. Ben Johnson and a herd of buffalo in a canyon, womenfolk wiping hands on gingham aprons as they lean out the door. Ben Johnson by the river, light shimmering in the dry heat, cowboys singing. The camera dollies, and there’s Ben Johnson, riding across the landscape, swift as an arrow, our hero forever in frame.

  As I gripped the rocks and tested for foothold, it was Ben Johnson on his horse that sustained me. The pain in my gut all but subsided. Maybe he was the signal to put physical pain out of mind.

  We continued scaling the mountain in the dark. You couldn’t hold your flashlight and still use your hands to climb, so I stuffed my flashlight i
n my jeans, she strapped hers up across her back. Which meant we saw nothing. Her flashlight beam bounced on her hip, veering off uselessly into space. And all I saw by mine were mute rock surfaces going up, up, up.

  From time to time she called out to make sure I kept pace. “You okay?” she’d say. “Just a little more.”

  Then, a while later, it was “Why don’t we sing something?”

  “Sing what?” I wanted to know.

  “Anything, anything at all.”

  “I don’t sing in dark places.”

  “Aw, c’mon.”

  Okay, then, what the hell. So I sang the Russian folksong I learned in elementary school:

  Snow is falling all night long—

  Hey-ey! Pechka, ho!

  Fire is burning very strong—

  Hey-ey! I Pechka, ho!

  Old dreams bursting into song—

  Hey-ey! Pechka, ho!

  I didn’t know any more of the lyrics, so I made some up: Everyone’s gathered around the fire—the pechka—when a knock comes at the door and Father goes to inquire, and there’s a reindeer standing on wounded feet, saying, “I’m hungry, give me something to eat”; so they feed it canned peaches. In the end everyone’s sitting around the stove, singing along.

  “Wonderful. You sing just fine,” she said. “Sorry I can’t applaud, but I’ve got my hands full.”

  We cleared the bluff and reached a flat area. Catching our breath, we panned our flashlights around. The plateau was vast; the tabletop-slick surface spread in all directions. She crouched and picked up another half dozen paperclips.

  “How far can your grandfather have gone?” I asked.

  “Not much farther. He’s mentioned this plateau many times.”

  “You mean to say your grandfather’s come here out of choice?”

  “Of course. Grandfather had to cover this terrain in order to draw up his subterranean map. He knows everything about this place.”

  “He surveyed it all by himself?”

  “Certainly,” she said. “Grandfather likes to operate alone. It’s not that he doesn’t like people or can’t trust them; it’s just that nobody can keep up with him.”