Chapter 57: Bwang-so Frog and Twenty-Six Animals |
The morning commute. London is a city bustling with noise from dawn.
Diligent housekeepers swept and scrubbed their homes inside and out before their masters even stirred, emptying buckets of dirty mop water out of windows.
Invariably, it was the most industrious laborers who caught these impromptu showers. The unfortunate worker whose clothes were soaked for no fault of his own would look up and hurl curses skyward, but to no avail. Eventually, he would resign himself to the day’s misfortune and trudge onward.
A laborer’s morning is sparse. He queued at a stall selling green apples, and when his turn came, placed a coin down and received one small, misshapen fruit. Beside the queue lay a discarded skeletal apple core, with a line of ants marching across it.
A coachman, seeing his horse attempt to snatch up the apple core, mistook the movement for his drowsy steed nodding off and yanked the reins with a sharp “Whoa!” Nearby, a lamplighter with his long pole slung over his shoulder ambled slowly, unleashing a cavernous yawn.
London’s heart beat like an overwound clockwork mechanism, with everything moving ceaselessly along its predetermined path. Nothing stood still.
Only I disrupted the flow, leaning against a wall at a street corner like a jutting stone.
A newspaper was tucked into my side, purchased barely ten minutes ago. I hadn’t yet unfolded it to discover its contents. The fresh scent of ink, newly pressed from the printing machine, teased my intellectual curiosity.
Yet instead of reading the paper, I scrutinized the all-too-familiar street with an almost manic attention.
He seemed to have a habit of gnawing his nails, as each finger bore them at different lengths. Among the sickly yellow nails, only the one on his ring finger remained pristine—a peculiar anomaly that struck me as oddly amusing.
They were hands one might see anywhere, but what concerned me was the age.
The newspaper seller’s hands had weathered considerably with time, which struck me as profoundly strange. Yet I couldn’t pinpoint what exactly felt wrong, so I remained rooted in place for several minutes, contemplating.
It began the moment I received the newspaper.
I had been walking my usual London commute when suddenly I felt disoriented, as if transported to an entirely different city. It was no less vast and chaotic than London, yet unmistakably alien.
Then I understood. What I perceived was absence.
It was only natural I couldn’t identify what I was searching for. One cannot find what isn’t there. Such is the cruelty of loss. If presence is expected, then absence becomes equally natural.
There wasn’t a single child on the street.
Oldcourt University.
I had been teaching students at this small university in northern London since the end of last year. This fact remained unchanged, even now as I felt threats closing in around me.
It would sound rather noble to call it a sacred duty as an educator, but in truth, my reasons were entirely mundane. I cannot emphasize enough the precariousness of my financial situation. Not that I lacked savings entirely, but I was by no stretch of imagination a frugal man—even in jest—and was certain that once I dipped into those reserves, they would quickly vanish.
Furthermore, if I abandoned my position now, I would have nowhere else to turn. Even this current post I owed to the late Baron Eunrang’s connections, and I had grown addicted to the steady income I was experiencing for the first time in nearly a decade.
However, living without proper rest while maintaining a teaching schedule had taken its inevitable toll on my health.
I dismissed all students who approached with scholarly questions and walked down the corridor, thinking only of returning home to rest. Amid this retreat, it was no mere coincidence that a poster caught my eye.
It was clearly placed by someone who anticipated my passage, pristine white paper without a speck of dust.
It resembled an abstruse poem rather than a notice, and its complete text read:
────────────────
We are in the belly of the Bwang-so frog.
It always coils its elongated body, a creature so long that walking from head to head takes considerable time.
With a brisk pace, one must take 392 steps; with a weary gait, 281 steps.
It’s a beast with four heads and eight snouts. Disliking the thought of having entered through the tail, I decided to call my point of entry the head, and the opposite end the tail.
I rarely venture to the tail, but surely it must look identical to the head. After all, someone must have entered through that end.
In the belly of the Bwang-so frog dwell various animals. I shall name them in sequence from the head: -American alligator -Bear -Cow -Bwang-so frog -Elephant -Fox -Gorilla -Horse -Iguana -Jellyfish -Kitten -Lamb -Monkey -Nutria -Octopus -Peacock -Quail -Rabbit -Snake -Turkey -Umbrella bird -Vulture -Whale -Xerus -Yak -Zebra *
But I would rather meet the Bwang-so frog dwelling in the cow’s belly.
For its belly is entirely empty.
(* A sequence of creatures, each beginning with consecutive letters from A to Z.) ────────────────
It was a thoroughly bewildering and nonsensical text.
Despite the clear letters formed by ink marks on the paper, I could somehow hear the cacophony of countless animals crying out from within them.
I deliberated whether to cover my eyes or block my ears, ultimately choosing the latter.
It wasn’t difficult to guess who had authored this poster.
After all, there was only one person I knew who, despite being a university student, would think to measure distance in footsteps or meticulously compile a list of animals in alphabetical order from A to Z.
Alice Pleasure Riddle.
She was undoubtedly watching me right now, observing my reaction. She had probably stayed up all night thumbing through dictionaries to compose this poem, leaving faint shadows beneath her eyes.
As I often reflected, she was truly a girl whose considerable talents were invariably misdirected.
There were additional clues to the poem’s authorship.
After months of exchanges, I had discovered that Alice’s cipher poems faithfully adhered to certain principles. For instance:
When she wished to meet me, to announce a one-sided appointment, she always embedded the word “meet” somewhere in her text. Just as in the final paragraph of the poem before me.
Furthermore, distances or lengths indicated locations, while frequencies or durations denoted times. Since this poem contained no clues about time, it clearly meant she wanted me to come immediately upon reading it.
So I merely needed to decipher this riddle, determine the location, and make my way there. However, I knew a simpler method of finding her.
I tore down the poster, crumpled the paper, and discarded it on the floor.
“Oh no! Don’t throw it away!”
From around the corner, a familiar blonde girl came rushing out in a fluster.
“How could you! Do you know how much effort I put into that!”
“I’m far too exhausted to indulge in these childish games. What possible reason could you have for summoning me elsewhere when you’re standing right here watching me?”
“It’s not a game.”
Alice unfolded the crumpled paper with a crestfallen expression.
“Besides, isn’t your poem incomplete to begin with?”
She flinched visibly while seated on the floor.
“You couldn’t think of animal names for every letter from A to Z, could you? Am I wrong? Even if we accept the Bwang-so frog as a fictional creature in your poem, what on earth comes next? ‘Kitty’ is stretching it at best. And that—that other one cannot possibly be considered an English word by any stretch…”
Alice silently held up the unfolded paper for me to see. She hid her face behind it—a wordless protest demanding I read it properly.
“Yes, that ‘kamaki’ and ‘iyaang’… Wait. I see it now.”
When I merely read them silently, their meaning entirely escaped me, but even pronouncing them aloud brought no illumination. She had ingeniously recreated phonetic approximations using letter combinations that bore no visual resemblance to the actual words.
It was wordplay requiring a truly unexpected degree of dedication.
Bolstered by my brief moment of appreciation, Alice sprang to her feet like Napoleon on a victory march.
“And ‘nutria’ isn’t something I invented. It’s an animal that lives in South America.”
She proceeded to proudly display her knowledge.
“They say it resembles a curious hybrid—half beaver, half muskrat. Its fur is supposedly quite soft, and its flavor resembles turkey. Not that I’ve tried it myself. Only the French would consume such peculiar creatures, wouldn’t they?”
Alice stuck out her tongue and feigned retching with an exaggerated “Ugh.”
She clearly intended to flaunt her knowledge, but I knew the shallow source of her information. It was featured in this week’s newspaper—the very one tucked under my arm.
“French Nutria Gnawing Away at British Fur Industry!”
Beside the headline was an illustration of a hideous rodent with abnormally large front teeth gnawing at the British mainland—undoubtedly drawn by an artist who had never laid eyes on an actual nutria and had merely conjured it from imagination.
The curious aspect of the article was its use of “nutria” rather than the more common term “coypu.” This alone revealed where Alice had acquired her knowledge of such a creature.
Had she been familiar with it beforehand and wished to display her erudition, she would have placed “coypu” under C rather than “nutria” under N. The vacant N position could have been filled with “nightingale” or “nuthatch” or any number of alternatives.
As a professor, I could not tolerate seeing my student parading her ignorance, so I delivered a pointed rebuke.
“You evidently gleaned this information from a newspaper. Yet you’ve made no effort to truly assimilate this knowledge. Had you done so, you would have recognized that ‘coypu’ is the more conventional term, not ‘nutria.’ Knowledge isn’t merely about accumulating exotic curiosities. True knowledge grows only after establishing a solid foundation. How long do you imagine such hastily memorized facts will remain with you?”
Alice blinked in surprise.
“And though I’m not your academic advisor, allow me one further observation. Your vocabulary for the letter K appears decidedly weak. From C’s ‘cow’ onward, whether it’s K’s ‘kitten’ or Q’s ‘quail,’ aren’t these merely C-beginning words reappropriated to match pronunciation? Do study your English vocabulary more thoroughly. That’s the extent of advice I can offer.”
“I didn’t write it to receive such criticism,” she mumbled with a crestfallen expression.
“Then let’s return to the matter at hand. Given that you summoned me specially today, I presume you’ve discovered something noteworthy?”
“Why would you think that? I meet with you regularly, Professor.”
“True enough, but this method of encrypted communication is uncharacteristic of you. Typically, you would have meticulously refined such an incomplete poem before sending it as correspondence. Today, however, it appears you hastily completed it and posted it just before my arrival.”
Something in my assessment must have pleased her, for Alice’s demeanor brightened considerably, and she nodded vigorously.
“You’re right! I’ve uncovered extraordinarily important information.”
With a radiant smile, she added, “I’ll reveal it if you solve my poem. Where was I attempting to summon you today, Professor?”
“If you persist in such childishness, I shall take my leave.”
“Oh no, I’ll tell you! Please don’t go!”
Mistaking my threat for genuine intent, Alice hurriedly handed me a photograph.
“I took this inside the college.”
“You even possess a camera?”
I asked, immediately regretting the obvious stupidity of my question as I examined the photograph.
The black and white image clearly showed white graffiti depicting a flower.
“What do you think?” Alice asked, her expression triumphant.
“Indeed… this qualifies as a significant discovery. When did you capture this photograph?”
“Three days ago.”
I exclaimed in astonishment, “What? You could have informed me much sooner!”
“The development process was delayed. I only received it yesterday.”
Alice gazed at the photograph in my hand with childlike excitement. Observing her eager expression, I suddenly realized the futility of interrogating her further.
It reminded me of when we had thwarted Dean Calas’s conspiracy together.
Her reason for assisting me was purely for entertainment’s sake. She possessed neither a profound sense of duty nor even the slightest concern about the gravity of the situation.
Such a girl would hardly object to a delay of mere days if it meant creating a more dramatic revelation. In some respects, she was even more troublesome than Arthur.
Alice persuaded me without uttering a single word. Her pure delight left no opening for reason to intervene.
“Actually, this is merely the beginning. When you hear what else I’ve discovered, you’ll be absolutely astonished.”
“I am already astonished.”
Alice, who had been carefully observing my reaction, continued once she determined I wouldn’t scold her further.
“When I first heard that the graffiti was progressing from east to west, I wondered if it might eventually reach some destination.”
“Destination? You speak as though the graffiti were a living entity.”
“Isn’t it, though? If not for such a reason, why would the graffiti consistently move only from east to west? Perhaps it’s more plausible that dozens of invisible giants with flower-shaped feet stroll westward through London each night?”
I imagined giants with their backs to the moon striding through central London. Though reminiscent of a fairy tale, it was far from romantic—it was terrifying.
“And then I thought: if giants dwelling in the East End rubbish heaps were heading westward, where might they be drawn to? If they wished to leave London altogether, they would simply journey eastward. Mightn’t they have a specific destination within London itself?”
She explained this with perfect composure, as if stating the blatantly obvious.
“Ever since that initial thought, I’ve inspected the location every morning. And today, I finally discovered graffiti there and captured it photographically. Though I haven’t had time to develop this latest image.”
“Forget the photograph! Just tell me where!”
Alice, delighted by my evident distress, grinned mischievously as she deliberately prolonged the suspense.
Then, with the theatrical grandeur of a leading lady announcing a comedy’s climax, she proclaimed:
“The indisputable heart of London, Her Majesty’s residence—Buckingham Palace!”
As if responding to Alice’s declaration, a low, heavy moan erupted from the heavens.
“Moan” was the only fitting description for the sound. It was too mournful to be called thunder, yet too weary to be the percussive warning that precedes a typhoon.
The bright sky outside our window suddenly sank into a grayish darkness, as though someone had merely reduced its saturation.
It resembled precisely the evening sky before a day of rainfall.
Alice and I stared vacantly at the sky beyond the window. The scene was that extraordinary.
“Kite,” I muttered absently.
“Pardon?”
“Kite begins with K. That would have been a hundred times more appropriate than ‘kitty.'”
Alice’s expression transformed into one of genuine annoyance.