Why are you apologizing? What are you apologizing for? To whom are you apologizing?!
I couldn't get these questions out of my head. I couldn't even sleep in peace. My eyes burned like fire; my eyelids kept having little cramps as if I were undergoing severe torture. The lower half of my body felt unnaturally heavy. The skin on my arms and legs felt oddly stretched. It hurt as if it were sunburned. But I guess that wasn't really so surprising; after all, I'd been slogging away at the beach huts and the guesthouse to earn money for my baseball team. And how was I to avoid getting sunburned in that skimpy work outfit?
And then suddenly I remembered what had happened. I'd been sent to fetch back the lemon yellow bikini top that had been stuck in the grotto.
I felt the wet sand on my back; the wind smelled like the coast. The sea.
Slowly the rest of my memories returned.
As usual, I'd been washed away into the foreign world. As usual, I'd been rescued by my schoolmaster and my guardian. And I'd also gotten to see my most beloved daughter. She really does get cuter and cuter all the time.
I felt a cold wave hit my outstretched left arm. It came at me with a roar, touched me, and then pulled away.
"Gunter?" I called aloud. But no one was there to answer me.
"Conrad?"
I shook my head a few times; the back of my head rubbed against the sand. No, they weren't dead. They were both definitely still alive.
I had seen Conrad's severed arm. But then came the avalanche, and I couldn't follow what had happened to him after that.
He was most definitely still alive! Of course he was!
But why was I lying on this beach now? Hadn't I fallen off that cliff? Did I seriously have the monster luck to land, whole, on Earth again? If so, then surely any minute Murata would be bending over me and saying, "Oh, Shibuya, I thought you'd been washed away."
And then he would fling his arms around my neck so emotionally it would be quite likely for people to misinterpret our relationship.
But I didn't see Murata, or anyone else, anywhere. At least this time I didn't have to worry that someone was going to catch me in my string bikini underwear.
I tensed my stomach muscles and pulled my head up with a jerk. The ash-colored mud that had stuck to my skin had dried out and was cracking and flaking off. So that was the reason for the pull on my skin. And suddenly I knew why my lower half felt so terribly heavy. My crotch had undergone a colossal transformation.
"W... Why the hell am I now blond down there?!"
A daunting clump of blond hair bulged out of the pants I'd gotten from the wino in the bar. And the clump was giant!
"Uuuh..."
"It talks! My pubic hair talks! Damn it, Murata, is that you?!"
Under the blond clump of hair hung a neck and a pair of shoulders. Farther down, a naked back came into view.
Murata propped his hands in the sand and swung his head up.
"Hurray, I'm alive!"
"Naturally you're alive! But what the devil was your head doing between my legs?!"
My friend pressed a hand to his forehead. Worry wrinkles appeared between his eyebrows.
"Hmm, I can't remember us drifting out to sea at all..."
"Drifting out to sea?"
"Shibuya, do you know where we are?"
"What a stupid question. On the beach, of course. We work here, or have you already forgotten?"
I did a full 360, looking around. I couldn't see one single beach umbrella, not to mention there wasn't the tiniest trace of any guests. Only sand as far as the eye could see. Sea and sand. There were neither vending machines nor shower huts. It didn't even smell like burnt yakisoba sauce.
"That's strange... I really should be back on Earth again..."
"Aha, so you’re also all scatterbrained right now, Shibuya. Our little odyssey is not very likely to have landed us on another planet, after all. Hey, what was wrong with you back there? You kept sinking down, over and over, after you grabbed the bikini top. It looked like you had a leg cramp or something. I came in after you, to save you. Up to that point everything was okay, but then I went under myself and I got carried away."
Murata straightened his blue sunglasses. After he regained his full vision, he peered around at our surroundings.
"Hmm. Looks like a deserted island," he said, as if this observation cleared everything up and it was all right as rain for him now.
Groaning like an old man, Murata heaved himself to an upright position. He rubbed his arms as if the wind had given him a chill.
"Too bad we had to wash up on such a chilly island."
"It's no wonder you're cold. You still haven't got anything on but that apron."
"Not everyone can have such a classy leather jacket as you. Where the heck did you get that? It looks totally filthy. Well, whatever, we seem to be stuck here, in any case. That means from now on we're going to have to share everything with each other, got it?! That's the way it has to be on deserted islands. I'm Robinson, you're Crusoe! Understood?"
Murata's optimism was really astounding. While he plodded along the sand dunes, he was already busy planning the construction of a shelter, how to make us some clothing, agricultural concerns, even what shifts we would take if we got hold of some livestock.
I loaned him Conrad's jacket so he would stop freezing. I bound Murata's apron around my back, so at least the front and back of my body were covered. There was still the question of where the heck we were. Why hadn't I returned to my original point of departure? Did I mess it up somehow, without realizing?
We crossed a hillside, our feet sinking into the sand. On the other side we could see houses that presumably belonged to some kind of settlement. It looked kind of like a seaside fishing village. Fishing nets and seaweed hung from the gutters to dry.
"So much for your deserted island."
"Oh heck! Well, I guess that's it for my cool Robinson Crusoe plan."
A young lady with a straw hat and laundry under her arm came walking towards us.
"Is that a foreigner? I can only tell she's got blond hair and brown eyes."
"Yeah, seems to be."
"Well, imagine that! Did we get washed all the way to Europe or something?"
It could also be America, so I tried English first. Following the rules of courtesy, I took off my baseball cap and tried to knock the worst of the dried mud off my trousers. Awkwardly, I raised my right hand.
"Hello?"
The woman's eyes widened, and she let her bundle of laundry fall. She pointed her finger at me and whispered with trembling lips: "Bla... black..." She stumbled over her own feet in her haste to turn around and run back in the direction from which she’d come.
Oh no! I knew this reaction. The woman had recognized me as a demon because of my hair and eye color and legged it as fast as she could. That could only mean one thing: I was still in the world that contained the Demon Empire. And if that weren't enough, it seemed to be a human territory, which meant that even just traveling through was fraught with great difficulties for demons, since they are so deeply abhorred by humans.
"What just happened there, Shibuya? Is your fly undone? Why did she run away in a panic?"
"Now is not the time to stand around yammering, Murata. That woman is going to sound the alarm, and in the blink of an eye everyone will know we're here. And all that just because I have black hair and black eyes. Damn it!"
"See, Shibuya?! Didn't I tell you that you should bleach your hair, too?"
"Murata, you have to listen to me now, do you understand? We are neither in Europe nor in America. We're not even on Earth anymore!"
Murata's eyebrows climbed upwards and he looked at me bemusedly. He hadn't comprehended a word of that. But I didn't have time to explain it all to him. We had to get out of there as fast as possible.
"Step on it, Muraken!"
I stuffed my hair up under my cap and pulled it down low on my face. We ran along the coast in the opposite direction. A beach marathon might be ideal for strengthening the lower muscle groups, but I had completely different concerns on this flight. I had to box my way through this situation to get us out of here somehow. There were no friends in this region I could count on for help.
We tramped along for the better half of a day. As the sun stood in zenith, Murata and I finally reached the next city.
It was a lively harbor city built out of stone. The crowds appeared as suddenly as if they'd been summoned. Our highest commandment was: don't stand out! The first thing we had to do was find new clothes.
"Bare legs and a leather jacket don't exactly look decent."
"Well, the aprons you’re wearing front and back make you look kind of questionable. But who knows? When we get back to Japan, maybe we'll find we started a new trend here."
Murata still thought we were just overseas somewhere. I dearly wanted to describe our situation clearly and put it all in perspective for him, but that was easier said than done. Who in all the world would swallow a story like this?
At least we’d gotten off relatively lightly with the trip here this time. We'd been spared the western toilets. Murata would not develop a phobia of public toilets or the habit of staring down every toilet bowl he came across.
"Murata, do you have any money with you? No, of course not."
"No, and you probably don't, either? Well then, nothing for it, you'll have to sell that thing around your neck and buy me some pants."
He tapped the fingernail of his pointer finger against my demon stone.
"No way, that's completely out of the question! This stone is incalculably precious! A treasure, so to speak!"
"Tightwad!"
Nothing else was going to work -- we had to find a job. And one that bumbling high school students would be able to master. Since freight ships were constantly arriving at the harbor, people to carry the goods were surely needed. Maybe there was even a work uniform for that; that would solve one of our problems all by itself... Hey, look at that! There actually was a standard uniform worn by all the workers in the harbor. And what a uniform it was! Just about every single brawny worker wore the same red uniform.
"Those are loincloths," Murata dazedly established.
Yep, loincloths. They gave an open view of the mighty and well-honed muscles of the workers. In terms of manliness, one could make a very strong case with those, but in light of our weedy bodies, we decided we preferred to stay clothed as we were.
In order to be allowed to work, we had to sign contracts. I signed for both of us out of necessity. It's true that the writing here was essentially the same as the demonic language, but since I'd only been learning that a short time, I was pretty sure my chicken scratches looked more like cuneiform.
"Murata, you were Robinson, right?"
"Yes, and you were Crusoe. But why do we need fake names?"
"Because it's better this way, just trust me. Now lend me your sunglasses."
"Why should I do that?"
"It's true that your colored contact lenses are pretty embarrassing, but they are actually exactly what we need. In this wor-- in this country, black is a bad omen."
"You sure are well informed. Have you been here before?"
"N... no, I haven't. I'm just really sensitive when it comes to things like this."
Since the blue sunglasses were fitted with strong lenses, I felt a little dizzy when I first put them on, and my field of vision was reduced.
"Man! I can't see anything with these!" I whined.
"Do you think it's going any better for me without them? Whoopsy-daisy!" Murata had banged into a suntanned muscleman.
"No problem, kid," the man responded magnanimously, and trudged on his way with his load.
His voice sounded older than anticipated. I carefully lowered the lenses of the glasses to risk a stolen glance above them. I saw a shriveled face, full of wrinkles and age spots, enthroned on top of a mountain of muscles. The guy had to be over seventy, at least.
A closer look showed me that the place was crawling with older workers. Although the top-class muscles executed their work freshly and sprightly, their skin and faces were unmistakably painted with age. A muscle-packed workers union of old men in red loincloths.
As we stood frozen to the spot, a voice called out to us, "You're shocked, right?!"
That woman completely knocked my socks off: a perky old woman hauling heavy cartons. She wore a slip of a bathing suit that let an unbelievable amount of skin show. If that wasn't enough on its own, the color of the thing was a fruity orange that singed the eyeballs.
A head of white hair bound tightly together in a bun. A face filled with wrinkles that beamed with friendliness. Up to that point, she looked just like your usual grandmother next door, who cares for her garden every day. But from the neck down curved enormous, consummate muscles that shone with oil and sweat. And she had the voice of Kyoko Kishida! Totally dreamy!
"Ey, ey, two lanky little boys! You aren't from around here, are you? Even for wandering harbor workers, you two look much too scrawny."
"No, my lady, we’re not from around here. Could you perhaps tell us what this city is called?"
"This is the commercial harbor of Gilbit. You now find yourselves on the southern tip of the autonomous region Carolia, feudal territory of Small Simaron."
Simaron!
I'd heard that name before. My memory might not be perfectly reliable, but the recollections I had of this country were really not very pleasant.
"Err, my lady, would you happen to know where we might find the Japanese consulate?" asked Murata.
"Murata?! Where the heck did you learn this language?!"
"Well, I'd really like to ask that myself." He turned towards me. "And Shibuya, since when do you speak fluent German?"
"I speak German? What, are you saying that you speak German?"
"Of course. I had German as my second foreign language elective."
Unbelievable. To my ears, his words had sounded unambiguously like Japanese.
"Ey, although you two come across awfully slender, you seem to be healthy enough young men. Lately, we never get to see young people around here anymore. You've made the eyes of this old woman very happy."
Then the friendly grandma's smile became grim, making room for resignation and hopelessness. "Actually this kind of work is more intended for young people than us old people."
Among the workers walking past us like a conveyor belt, there were almost no young men. Every once in a while there was a boy about 15 years old, but the distinct majority were elderly men.
"Yeah, that's really a shame. To expect the elderly to handle such physically demanding work. So, where are the adult men?" I asked.
"Ey, they're all serving with the army. There's going to be war soon."
"War?! Is there trouble with America?!" exclaimed Murata.
"They will join in the battle against the demons."
The shock I suffered in that moment was unimaginable. War with the demons?! But I had fought so long and hard for unconditional pacifism. You step away for just the tiniest moment, and already something like this happens. Had the Demon Empire taken leave of their senses?
"Simaron's goal is to conquer the entire world. Just like back then, when they subdued Carolia. They want to put together a massive army. And they're said to have gotten their hands on a formidable weapon."
The old woman narrowed her eyes.
"Ey, they're going to do exactly the same thing they did before, when I was just a young thing. I don't understand it at all. What is so attractive about controlling more and more territory? Dear me, dear me."
"Don't worry yourself about it, there isn't going to be a war. It's true that I can't speak for Simaron, but the demons are not going to participate in any war. I would never allow something as atrocious as that!"
"Hey, Shibu-- I mean, Crusoe. You can't go around making such frivolous statements in the name of foreign countries. That could lead quickly to an international crisis!"
The old lady observed us as if she were watching her own grandkids.
"Ey, how wonderful that would be, if our children came back home soon. Actually, we’re against war here. But when we're ordered to send soldiers, there's no way for us to protect ourselves against it. Oh dear, oh dear... It might still come to that, just like back sixty years ago."
The old lady gave a small smile.
"A thousand years ago, it was better. My oh my, if only the strong and gracious folk who once held sovereignty over this land would return! Then we wouldn't be what we are today: Simaron's storeroom."
Suddenly a thunderous noise sounded from the bell tower. Shocked to death, I spun around and saw how thick smoke was rising out of the crenellations. The anchored ships fired their canons; the harbor was filled with explosions.
"What?! Is it already happening? Damn it!"
"Don't panic, Shibuya! The first thing we have to do is turn off the main gas line!"
The workers laid down their wares and walked one after the other across the docks towards safety. They all went at the same quiet tempo; not a single one of them lost their composure.
A thin old man winked at us happily. "Hey, you two boys, lunch is served!"
"I see. So that was just the signal for break time."
We received our lunch tickets and joined the lunch line with the other workers.
The building before us, into which masses of people were flowing, reminded me more of a restaurant than a staff cafeteria. Numerous tables were arranged along whitewashed bright green walls. The chairs gradually being occupied by all the people were painted in the same cinnamon red as the window frames.
The system functioned like this: you stuck out your tray and the hostesses filled it up high with your meal. At the end you also got a sizable slice of bread and a light colored drink that looked like milk.
"Oh, but you young boys are really very thin! Come, let me give you another proper serving of goat milk."
"Goat milk?"
"Yes, indeed. If you drink generously of it, you'll see: by this time next year, you'll have grown a great deal!" the hostess winked encouragingly at us.
In one hand she held a cup, in the other a serving ladle. Her lips were adorned with a goat milk mustache, and her orange hair hung low on her back. She too possessed a robust and well-built body. Her larynx rose and fell along with her smoky voice, which would have served her well in any jazz cellar. If you listened carefully, she spoke no dialect; her speech patterns sounded more like the big city. She was younger than all the others around, and since she didn't look half bad, she was guaranteed every man's sweetheart. Personally I would much rather have seen her without the make-up, which was rather too thick, and I would've supplied her with a baseball bat rather than a serving ladle. She would definitely have hit tons of home runs.
Hey wait a minute, where was Murata all of a sudden?
"Your companion is sitting over there," the hostess said.
Well, that's just super. I stopped watching him for just a moment, and already Murata was sunk deep in conversation with a courtly suitor: silver-haired with a walrus mustache. In spite of having the soft facial features of a gentleman, from the neck down he wore the red loincloth that left a very open view of his gray chest hair.
"Mura -- Robinson! You shouldn't just walk away like that."
"Crusoe, you're just in time! I've just asked this gentleman about the consulate."
Mr. Graybreast looked up at me. "Hey, look here, you two! Even if you go there, it won't accomplish anything. Sir Norman doesn't receive any visitors, not a single soul."
"Well, it's not like we have to speak with the boss straight away. It'll be fine if anyone in the office can help us with our request."
Mr. Graybreast kept talking even while drinking his milk, with white droplets hanging in his beard. "You should know that Sir Norman suffered a bad fever as a child. To hide his terrible scars, he wears a silver mask."
Sort of like The Man in the Iron Mask. I'd already seen that film.
"After Sir Norman's carriage accident three years ago, he doesn't even leave the house any more. But if you listen to the rumors, he can still walk just as well as before, and he's said to lead a normal life in his castle. We're all praying for a quick recovery, so he can show himself to the people again. Such a good leader doesn't come around often. We hope Sir Norman can prevent our children and grandchildren from having to go to war."
If this Norman really was against the war, then getting help from him might be in the realm of possibility. Perhaps he could at least issue us passports. As long as our true hair and eye color and my identity weren't on them, of course.
A middle-aged man came tearing inside. "Everybody listen up! There's terrible news!" His head was wrapped in a cloth pirate-style, but from the neck down he wore the outfit of a traditional seaman: a sailor suit. Finally, a man who didn't wander around half-naked.
"Horrible news! A buddy of mine just got wind of it! Simaron is said to have sent an envoy to us!"
The harbor workers as well as the hostesses fell into a panic. Jumbled voices exposed the resentment they felt towards their colonial power.
"What are we supposed to do now? Dear me!"
"Will there really be war now?"
"Why do our young people have to bite the dust for these guys, eh?"
"Is it still even possible for Sir Norman to prevent this thing?"
Murata shoveled down the rest of his lunch, squinted cross-eyed in his nearsightedness, and adopted a serious expression.
"We should get out of here as fast as possible. Things could go bad for us if we get sucked into this."
"Mhm..."
But unfortunately, it wasn't as simple as he thought it was. We were already sunk knee-deep in this. After all, the potential opponent of these people was my own country.
The hostess from before walked up to us silently and topped off our glasses. Looking at me sideways, she tugged her blue eyes into a smile.
"Here you go, boys. At times like this, goat milk is just the thing. It doesn't just help you grow, it even helps heal your anger and fears."
At that point, a health drink of that nature sounded really, really good to me.
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