Biogenesis (17 page)

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 response. 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?”

Pointing beneath the bed, the man had me pull out a bundle wrapped in cloth. Opening the bundle with trembling hands, he drew out several mortuary tablets, which were inscribed simply with his name, and a clutch of yellowing papers.

“You must be his student. Here, take a look …”

Letting the misunderstanding pass, I took the aged manuscript, about fifty pages in total, from the old man’s hands, and observed, “It’s about the midwinter weed, isn’t it?”

A quick glance showed that while there were some explanatory passages, other sections simply contained Harimoto’s comments transcribed in colloquial style. The purpose of the document seemed unclear.

“Did Mr. Ishikawa write this?”

“No, the two of us made them bloom.”

“You’re thinking of your research at the temple with Nakarai. But when did Mr. Ishikawa write this?”

“When? … Sometime during the war, of course.”

“But it was later that Mr. Ishikawa wrote this, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. He came to the coal mine.”

“The coal mine?”

“Yes, I was at the coal mine.”

Piecing together the disjointed pieces of our conversation, I was able to learn that after the war, through some course of events, Harimoto found himself working at the Akasuna Mines, a little distance from Tomarinai, which is where Ishikawa visited and interviewed him, and apparently wrote the manuscript I held now. After Ishikawa had gone through the trouble of finding Harimoto and writing the manuscript, I couldn’t understand why it would be left in Harimoto’s possession.

I asked Harimoto why, repeatedly, but he only repeated the same words: “He was keeping it here.” Since Akiba had included nothing about the research at the old temple in his
Legend of the Midwinter Weed
, it’s possible that he had never known about this manuscript. Taking a seat in the bedside chair and asking Harimoto questions as I went, I tried to rearrange the jumbled manuscript pages back into some semblance of order.

“So you’re saying your experiments involved cultivating the midwinter weed by dripping blood onto it?”

“Blood? You mean this?” He raised his left hand, where an I.V. needle was inserted.

“It’s okay. If you don’t mind I’m going to read this manuscript now.”

Unable to calm himself, Harimoto vacillated between closing his eyes and casting them out past the double-paned window, muttering
hmm, hmm
over and over again. I was beginning to suspect he wasn’t really listening to me, but finally he spoke. By connecting Harimoto’s responses with the manuscript written by Ishikawa, I was able to more or less piece together the details of Nakarai’s experiments.

At first, Harimoto had only been responsible for household chores, but one morning Nakarai ordered him to bring one of the potted midwinter weeds, after which Harimoto witnessed firsthand the “strange behavior” which the villagers had been gossiping about for so long. Harimoto’s instructions were simply to determine how much blood was necessary in order for the plants to flower. Using a needle, Nakarai pricked the tip of his own index finger, squeezing out his blood directly over the midwinter weed. Harimoto was ordered to do the same. The minimum amount necessary to sustain the potted plant was three drops of blood twice per day, in the morning and the night. Harimoto had trouble at first, either pricking his finger too lightly so that he was unable to squeeze out enough blood, or instead pricking it too deeply so that the blood came out quickly and splashed down like heavy drops of rain. Before long, however, he developed a callus on the tip of his finger and the needle ceased to hurt.