The Song of Hokkaido

THE SONG OF HOKKAIDO 1

– New Year’s Eve –

Why didn’t I just stay home as I do every year, I asked myself the minute I walked into Pauline’s place. Half an hour later I was ready to go, but leaving a New Year's Party before midnight demands stealth in absence of a solid exit strategy. Avoiding eye contact I made it safely to the bedroom where I discovered with horror that my stuff was lodged somewhere inside a heap the size of a small igloo. As I dug impatiently for a renegade glove I heard a voice growing sharper as it neared the makeshift coat check: Just what I was afraid of, Pauline coming down the long hallway with a new guest. She appeared at the door locking arms with a guy about my age, a big furry hat on his head and wearing an ill fitting puffy ski jacket. He himself didn’t seem to fit in.

“Reid?” Shit. “Hey Pauline.” “You’re not leaving, are you?” I couldn't tell whether she was mortified, offended or

irritated. I babbled: “No, no. Of course no. I was just looking for my smokes. I saw people on

the fire escape – Is that cool, or.... should I go downstairs? How does it work?” I was busted. She knew what was going on but pretended she didn't, a gesture I appreciated.

“Yeah, sure, fire escape is fine. Actually, I might join you soon. But while I have you here, let me introduce you to my friend Ben.” Then, turning to the man in the puffy jacket: “Ben, this is my friend Reid, from Detroit, and he’s an amazing musician!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that...” I sheepishly added, glad to be off the hook, despite the bogus introduction – she knew nothing about my presumed talent or lack thereof. Then, turning to me: “Ben is from back home, in California, but we met here in New York. He's working at the Met – right Ben? Reid, you’re an artist, you should hear the stories he has. Amazing.” Poor guy, I thought while we shook hands, mercilessly handed over to the party downer: I was in fact going through a rough time – breakup, disappointments, no career, little money – and it showed. Pauline had invited me out of pity, I knew. Thankfully Ben was unaware of the subtext, and I felt I owed him at least an

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effort in congeniality. Either way, I had no choice: Pauline, noticeably relieved, was already sliding away to entertainment duty and I knew my escape attempt was, for all intents and purposes, aborted.

I broke the ice: “So, which Met is it? The opera or the museum?” Deadpan: “The insurance.” “Oh...” “I’m kidding!” He quickly added, laughing. “The museum, of course. You should

have seen your face.” “Phew!” I wiped mock sweat from my forehead. Ice broken, I tried to get the

conversation going: “The Metropolitan Museum – nice. As a matter of fact, I visit the Met quite often. I recently moved uptown, and I try to go there every chance I get. One day ancient Greece, one day photography, one day medieval painting... It's great.”

“Good for you.” “What do you do there? What department? I might have seen something you worked

on.” Almost apologetically, he replied: “I hate to disappoint you, but Pauline is not a

good listener. I don’t actually work at the Met, so I definitely cannot take credit for any of that good stuff. But it's true that I am temporarily employed by the Met.”

“Like a consultant?” “Kind of, but I really I hate that word. I prefer to think of myself as a freelancer.” “Nice gig, then.” “Oh yes, very nice gig. You think musicians have it tough? Try freelance

archeology.” “Is that what you do? You’re an archeologist?” I asked, surprised. “Yes.” “Really? What kind of stuff? Not that I would know anything about it.” “Oh, I don't believe that, I'm sure you know a lot. But if you want to know, my thing

is prehistoric art.” That really took me by surprise. “Like what? Chauvet? the Venus of Willendorf? That kind of thing?” “As a matter of fact yes, exactly that kind of thing.” “Man, I love that stuff!” I truly did. I always thought that the big mystery of life is

not God, or death, or the universe, but art, this unexplainable urge. Ben was visibly pleased with my reaction and almost reading my thoughts he added: “Yeah, the birth of

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art. The first manifestations.” Precisely! I could hardly believe the surprising turn of events – I had just met a kindred spirit.

“So, Pauline was right after all. My stories might be of interest.” “Oh yeah. Please, do tell.” I emphatically urged him on. We had drifted into the

living room, where drinks were passed around non stop; I was finally joining the general festive mood, and I could tell Ben did too. A joint was offered and gladly accepted by both of us. I had been so wrong: This was a fun party.

“So tell me, how does one become a freelance archeologist?” “I don't deal well with authority, that's all. You can relate, can't you?” “I sure do. I know for a fact I'm unemployable.” “Yeah, but fortunately for us the unemployables, there's a big shift happening in our

favor: You know, micro-finance, crowd-sourcing, crowd-funding... all that. Take the Met for example, my current patron and benefactor: They have embraced the current zeitgeist”– he air quoted – “and adopted these trends with great enthusiasm. The way I see it, it comes down to smaller bets all over the place, nothing new there. So now they're bankrolling all kinds of initiatives: Expeditions, studies, reports, digs, websites, apps, you name it. The weirder, the better.”

“Something tells me your enterprise ranks among the weirdest ones. Am I right?” “Well... It didn't start like that, but yes, along the way it has taken a turn for the

weird, God knows. But the bet paid off, big time.” “Really?” “Oh, Definitely.” Another pause for a long sip. “It’s a dig, you know, an

archeological excavation. We picked a location…” “Wait, who's we? I thought you were a lone cowboy.” “Two lone cowboys. There's me, and there's Geddes, my partner. We're a team.” He

then added, staring at the swirling ice in his glass, almost to himself: “A hell of a team. Oh yeah.”

That's when I started noticing a peculiar excitement in Ben’s manners. I had the distinct feeling that I was making his acquaintance under extraordinary circumstances. He acted like he had just won the lottery and was busting at the seams to tell somebody, anybody. So I pushed a little: “Can you talk about it? your dig, I mean. Or is it confidential?”

Of course it is. But, hey.” And with that, he downed the rest of his drink. I followed his lead, and immediately waved towards us a waiter who had just appeared out of the

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parting crowd balancing a tray loaded with fresh cocktails. We toasted, and he was ready to begin.

“You really wanna hear it?” “Dying to.” “All right. So... We picked our location almost by chance, with Google Earth.” “Huh.” “I was literally playing around with it, spinning the globe, zooming in and out of

remote islands, isolated peaks, hidden valleys, weird shaped peninsulas, stuff like that. Now… did you know Japan looks like a seahorse?”

“Japan?” “Yeah. Have you ever noticed?” I mumbled a vague answer, as I realized that I had no clue of what Japan looks like. “Here, let me show you.” He took out his phone and began tapping and swiping. He

motioned me to his side and pointed at the screen. “Here.” He traced with his finger the Japanese archipelago. “Do you see it?”

“I do.” “The seahorse's head is the island of Hokkaido. And right here, something caught

my eye. Look at this.” He zoomed in and pointed to a nearly perfect circle, a bright blue-green against the mottled green pattern of treetops. In the center of the dot there was a smaller dot, brown, that one too an almost perfect circle. “It's a natural bull's eye, plain and simple.”

“What is it, a lake?” “Yes. A volcanic lake, technically a caldera, that's what it's called. It's small, just

over one mile in diameter, in the middle of a thick forest. And in the center of it there is this tiny island, formed by the sediments of millennia of magma seeping through the lake's floor. Not a particularly rare formation, by the way. This however is a particularly perfect one." He was pointing to the brown dot. "I looked it up and in less than an hour I knew everything there was to know about the place: Exact location, geological origin, climate, historical documents, maps, photos, 3D flyovers. I felt like I had just been there – I'm telling you, we live in pure science fiction these days. Don’t you think?”

“For sure.” “And the more I looked at it, the more I became convinced that I had stumbled by

pure chance on something special, exceptional. And, doing what I do for a living, I immediately tried to picture the place through the eyes of early men, you know, sapiens,

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neanderthal. Imagine trudging through the woods and suddenly come upon this geological oddity. A perfect round pool of emerald water, with what looks like a submerged hill breaking out of the surface, smack in the center. It must have looked magical, mystical, as if it had been shaped by the hands of giants, gods, who knows. It would have been the natural choice for ceremonies, burials, solstice festivals, propitiatory rites, things like that.”

“Yes, makes sense. And how come nobody knows about it?” “Wait, I didn't say I discovered the place! Although it sure felt like I did, at first. The

area is uninhabited, difficult to reach, no major roads; it's known, but it has remained mostly untouched. There are no records of archeological excavations, so I talked to Geddes about it and he immediately agreed that we had our next site. We submitted a plan to the Met and, under the new regime, we got the expedition funded. Easy.”

“Nice.” I raised my glass. “That's just the beginning. We had something before we even picked up a shovel.

Listen to this: Some countries, Japan included, are mapping their territory using infrared thermography to monitor climate change. The data is public record, so we simply downloaded and examined scans of the area and we noticed something right away.”

“Like what?” “An anomaly, a sharp temperature variation in a small, concentrated spot.” “Which means?” “The heat signature of an underground hole... A cave! Right there, on the little

island. So we packed and went.” “And there was a cave?” “Yes.” “And you went in.” “Yup.” “And you found stuff inside.” “We did.” “Shit. What?” “Bizarre, really bizarre. Let me show you.” He went back to swiping and tapping his

phone. “You have pictures?” He looked at me puzzled: “Of course. And videos as well.”

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NINE – EIGHT – SEVEN – SIX…

The whole place suddenly roared – Midnight. I had completely forgotten. Ben mouthed “Hold on”.

TWO – ONE – HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

We were separated, gently but inexorably swept by the flow of the crowd suddenly in motion, exchanging kisses, hugs, happy new years. I was tracking Ben, afraid that he'd disappear, never to be seen again. Puff. Gone. Ben? Ben who? Wouldn't that be something. But, to my irrational relief, twenty minutes later we were both back in our spot.

“Happy new year, man.” “Likewise.” I immediately pleaded with him “Talk about leaving one hanging; I'm dying to hear

what you found in the cave.” “Right. Where was I?” Fishing in his pocket for his phone, he began: “We finally

made it there, in Hokkaido, Japan, and reached the site. When we saw the place, we knew we were on to something. We immediately located a shaft that lead to an underground chamber, sealed shut. We dropped in pinhole cameras first, then a laser probe, performed a full scan of the interior, and finally went in.”

“That’s incredible. So how old is it?” “We are expecting final geological reports, but...” “Geology?" I interrupted “Not radiocarbon dating?” “We are testing that of course, but C-14 can be faked. Sediments, not so much.” “I see. So it's not a hoax.” “Oh no, no way. We know for sure it's old. It's just a matter of how old. We’re

waiting for the official results, but the artifacts we found inside suggest Jomon period, prehistoric Japan. Two or three thousand years old most likely, but it could be as much as ten thousand.”

“Wow. Cheers to that!” I raised my glass. “Cheers.” After another long sip, Ben continued: “The cave was sealed shut

intentionally, which is consistent with burial rites; a funerary chamber. But inside there was no departed to be found. What we found instead was this. Ready?” And he turned his

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phone so I could see. Glowing in the palm of his hand was a picture of the interior of the cave. If Ben was not bullshitting, somebody in Biblical times had carved a single, solitary figure on one of the walls. Sharp and precise, minimal, traced with the economy of gesture typical of modern art. Humanoid, except for two sets of arms, six limbs total. It had big almond shaped eyes with a slit across; the body was covered with a dense ornamental pattern, and on its head stood something like a small crown. It reminded me of Inuit art, and I told Ben.

“Good eye!” Coming from him, this was a particularly flattering compliment – I was a bona fide art connoisseur after all. This incredible instance of prehistoric art was astonishing in its beauty, but also menacing, I thought. There was something disturbing about it, although I chose not to mention it. Instead I asked: “And what do you think it is? Some sort of idol, half man half spider?”

“Because of the six limbs?” “Well, yes.” “Think of Egyptian iconography, like Anubis the Jackal God: Human body, canine

head. Zoomorphic idols are the norm in ancient cultures and folklore. Could also be a ceremonial costume, or an armor.” It did resemble vaguely a Samurai warrior in full gear.

“How about the bug eyes?” “Could be anything. Think of african masks and sculptures: Odd proportions, odd

postures, exaggerated features. In this case it might simply be snow googles as used by the Inuit, as a matter of fact. I'm sure you've seen them.”

“True. And the patterns on the body?” “Tattoos, body painting, ornamental scars, et cetera.” “Right, right... So you think your theory was correct, a place of worship.” “We think so. If there's any doubt, look at this.” At the foot of the carved effigy was

a large block of stone, shaped into a fairly precise cube, looking like a step stone for this enigmatic idol to peel off the wall and comfortably climb down.

“What is it?” “Doesn't it look like an altar?” Admittedly, it did. Especially because of the presence of an object resting on it, like

a vase, a blunt but precise skinny cylinder, made of a dark reddish clay-like material, terracotta maybe. Looked like a vessel for some sort of offerings.

“And that?” I pointed to it.

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Ben stood silent for a moment, as if he was seeing it for the first time, and then shook his head and smiled. “That? Well...” He swiped his thumb on the screen and played a short video. It took me a couple of seconds to make it out, but when I finally did, I realized that the video had been taken from the exact same spot as the previous photo, same viewpoint, same angle, but with the lights off. The clay pot, which was not a pot at all, glowed red: It was made of a translucent material, like a weathered piece of sea glass from a bottle of Red Stripe, and through the transparency of its wall I could see the flickering light of a candle. In the resulting shadow play the idol appeared to be in agitated motion: The effect was startling, unsettling, hypnotic.

“It's a lantern. It's made of amber.” “Amber? Like Jurassic Park?” “Like Jurassic Park. They probably dropped some grease inside it and ignited it. We

used a fake candle light of course. It must have been a powerful psychedelic experience, a shamanic rite most likely. Can you imagine the effect on the primitive mind?”

“Primitive mind? This is doing a number on my mind. This is just incredible... Ben, please tell me you’re fucking with me! I cannot believe it.”

Ben smiled, and kept swiping, looking for other shots. He showed me a closeup of the lantern. The surface was decorated with a single, continuous line, spiraling up the full length. Maybe a millimeter thick. It was surprisingly precise, the work of a lathe, if I had to guess. I wondered when was the wheel invented but I didn't ask. Seeing that I noticed, Ben elaborated: “The carving acts as a light diffuser, like a lampshade. Can you believe it?”

“Honestly, I don't know if I do... Sorry for asking, but you're definitely sure this is not a fake, a hoax?”

“Positive. Geddes is coming to New York tomorrow with the complete site data, all the latest numbers. He said I'll be very pleased. He’s flying over the Pacific as we speak.”

“Tonight? Now?” I briefly wondered what happens when you cross the date line on New Year's Day. Do you lose a day or gain a day? Fortunately Ben derailed the train of my boozy thoughts by adding, “Yes. Carrying precious cargo.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?” “Our magic lantern!” “Wow. Are you turning it in?” “Unfortunately yes. The Met is the rightful owner, and there's not a lot we can do.

But we get to keep it a few more days in our lab.” Ben drained the rest of his drink and

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pocketed his phone. I suddenly noticed It was very late, the crowd was thinning and the catering staff was already cleaning up. The night was over.

“This is an amazing story, man. I wish you the biggest success, fame, money... Everything.” We were drunk and, consequently, fast friends.

“Thanks man. Hey, you know what? Before we deliver it...” He hesitated for a second, and then added “Would you like to see it?”

“What?” “Our little artifact.” “You kidding? Shit yeah! I’d love to.” “OK then. Here's my card.”

Sunrise caught me staggering home: As I watched the sky behind the Upper East Side buildings turning from black to blue to orange I caught a glimpse of the Lipstick Building with its pattern of silver rings wrapping the elliptical perimeter. I stood in the middle of Third Avenue, staring. A blurred thought darted through my head leaving behind a faint sense of urgency, something relevant, but it quickly faded before I could grab a hold of it. I was probably nodding like a junkie at that point, since I remember nothing after that. Black out. I don't know how I got home, but somehow I must have.

* * * * *

A strange, eerie dream woke me up. I looked out of the window; a pale winter sun hovered high in the colorless sky. Although decisively hung over, I was instantly wide awake. In my dream, the mysterious idol of Hokkaido danced, swaying on the cave wall like a crazy projection on a Chinese shadow theater scrim, its six appendices flailing in the jittery red glow of the cave. And it sang!

Again that elusive thought of earlier that morning broke for an instant the surface of my conscious, leaving a wake of lingering urgency; but this time an image out of nowhere drew into sharp focus in my mind's eye. I sat up, barely overcoming a wave of nausea, grabbed my phone and searched. I immediately came across what I was looking for.

“Holy shit!”

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I felt I was on fire, the sense of urgency ever mounting instead of dissipating. I rubbed my eyes, not sure if I was still dreaming. I wasn't. I frantically type an email to Ben.

Subject: URGENT I simply pasted a picture, tapped Send, and stood still, staring at the screen, waiting,

hoping for a prompt reply. No message came back. My mind was doing a mile a minute, and I jumped as I felt

a giant bug coming alive in my hand – my phone buzzing. I answered. “Ben?” I heard: “Holy shit.” Short silence. Again: “Holy. Shit! ” “Wait – You think it's possible? I was secretly hoping you'd laugh it off.” “I... I... I have no clue. It's insane. Way out there, but....” “But what?” I was shocked that my crazy idea was taken under serious

consideration. “It's plausible, it is.There is a whole branch of archeology that deals with this kind

of things. They haven't come up with anything significant so far, but – I am actually embarrassed that I didn't see it.” He then firmly commanded: “All right. Make yourself a strong coffee and get dressed. Geddes is landing at JFK in a couple of hours and you're coming with me. We’ll take my car.”

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2 – A Trip to JFK –

Geddes appeared behind the large sliding doors at JFK's arrivals, immediately spotted Ben and walked rapidly towards us wheeling a carry-on with one hand, and with the other hugging a silver photographer flight case tightly strapped around his shoulder. His boyish looks reminded me of Dr. Stantz in Ghostbusters. Ben had texted him that he was with somebody, but didn't say who or why. Geddes was surprised, and not in a good way. After a quick welcome hug and a happy new year, Ben preempted awkwardness, or at least tried to: “Geddes, let me introduce you to Reid, a friend of Pauline – Did I mention Pauline, right? From San Francisco?” Ben was stalling and Geddes, visibly suspicious, remained polite and shook my hand.

As we started moving, Ben asked a little too casually: “How was the flight?” “How was the flight?” Ben tried to buy a little time “Ok, ok. I know you're wondering what's going on. But

we're gonna get our car towed if we don't move, so let's get going now. Please have just a little patience, until we get to the car, that’s all I’m asking. Then I'll tell you, ok?”

Geddes stopped and stood still with no apparent intention of moving, unless. “Tell me what?”

Ben rolled his eyes and turned around. “There have been some developments, all right? But not now. Please.”

“Developments? With what?” Ben had no choice but to concede, at least a little bit. “It's about the site.” “What site? Our site?” Geddes repeated incredulous. He then began in an icy tone:

“Ben, do I need to remind you that our findings are not to be disclosed? That we're legally bound to confidentiality?” He turned just by few degrees towards Ben, but it was like an invisible wall went up, cutting me out. “Why are we even mentioning it in front of a third party? At the airport? What in the fuck are you doing, man?”

“You're right, Geddes, but please, trust me. Come on, you know me. I wouldn't be joking about this. Just until we get to the car. Please?”

Geddes gave in, and we proceeded in uncomfortable silence. I offered to drive, to Ben's great relief. As we entered the flow on the Belt Parkway – I never take the Van Wyck – Ben, in the front seat, turned and wrapped his arm round the headrest, facing

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Geddes who sat in the center of the backseat, like children do. He was still hugging the silver photographer case.

“Thanks Geddes. Your patience will be rewarded.. right... now.” Ben gave few swipes to his phone, and then pointed the screen to Geddes, who took it from Ben's hand, brought it close to his face an stared at it, furrowing his brow. I think he made a brief attempt to stay pouty, but his curiosity took over. “What is it?” The image showed an ink-black cylinder standing upright, it's scale unclear. A fine spiral texture fully covered its surface. It could have been the evil twin of the Hokkaido artifact. He read the caption aloud. “An Edison cylinder? I don't unders...” The word died in his mouth “...tand.” He did understand, right away: Silence followed, as he processed. He finally sputtered a single, startled “Holy shit.” Looking at me through the rear view mirror he asked:

“Your idea?” Ben chimed in “Yes, it is.” More silence followed, an eternity, and then his surprising reply: “Why didn't we see

it, Ben?” I felt flattered, but made sure not to show it. Ben knew he had Geddes' attention now. “We didn't 'cause it's insane! It's absurd on every level. But look at our artifact now.” And swiped the screen. I noticed how he wasn't calling it a lantern anymore. “Look at that groove, how precise it is. I'm not sure it is just Japanese fastidious obsession for accuracy and minimalism.” Geddes cut in: “But wait, what are we saying exactly? That some isolated tribe in stone age Japan came up with the gramophone? How is it even technically possible?”

“I know, I know. But look at it. Everything about the site, about this object, about the cave, is unprecedented. It's just weird, it looks like it doesn't belong. Don't you remember how puzzled we were when we first saw it? It's all coming back to me, that first feeling, the first instinct. So you know what? Yes, it might as well be a... A recording!”

Geddes remained silent, just staring ahead, still processing. Then he added: “Oh, by the way...”.

“What?” “The geological analysis.” “Oh God, I forgot! So?” “Twelve.” “No!” Ben was stunned. “At least.”

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“Twelve thousand years old!” “Very little margin of error. Five hundred years more, five hundred less.” Ben was grinning from ear to ear. “We have an amazing discovery on our hands, either way.” Geddes continued, “But

if what you're saying is true, you understand that it's like... we just uncovered the Pyramid of Giza, and inside we found a lightbulb!”

“Jesus Christ!” “And. We got it all wrong, I bet. The object of worship, the main attraction, was not

the idol on the wall, but maybe its voice. That’s what people come to worship, the voice of a god!”

“Or…” I finally spoke my first word since JFK. They both turned to me perplexed, making me feel like a chauffeur offering unsolicited opinions.

“Or?” Ben asked, over-polite. I hesitated, but then I blurted it out: “The voice of a devil.” They looked at me in silence. I told them what I had been trying to get out of my head all day, finally: “Well…

Isn’t this how The Exorcist begins? The old priest, who happens to be an archeologist, unearths a statuette that brings to life a nasty demon, back in DC?” Silence. So I pressed on: “I don't know, but: You have a cave deliberately sealed for millennia, a creepy if not plain diabolic effigy, an altar, a magic lantern that casts delirious shadows... And now it turns out that the thing speaks! What if in those grooves there is a forbidden invocation? A litany conjuring some weird energy, some malevolent manifestation – call it whatever you want if you don't want to use the word devil.” And with that word hanging in the claustrophobic silence that followed, we passed under the Verrazano Bridge, its massive presence towering ominously above us. As we rounded the small park by the water treatment plant we caught the first glimpse of Manhattan and its surrealist chiaroscuro of shimmering buildings in the purple dusk. I had managed to creep myself out; It felt like a grotesque hallucination. What is happening here?

After a few minutes Ben spoke up, coolly. “Well, sure, it could be. Why not. But…” Was he mocking me? I don’t know if it was anxious paranoia, but I felt that it was

crucial to get my point across: “Ok, I understand that I sound like a fool to you, but there might be a good reason why ten thousand years ago somebody decided to lock the place down and throw away the key. And now you might be opening a forbidden door, or

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worse, you already did.” I noticed with my peripheral vision that they both glanced at the case still locked in Geddes' arms. “It doesn't worry you guys in the least?”

Ben's answer was lucid pragmatism, predictably ignoring my metaphysical concerns: “Even if it did, what? Are we going to put it back? Seal up the cave and forget about it?”

Geddes chimed in: “Besides, virtually all archeological sites in the world were at some point believed to be protected by a curse.”

“Ok, I get the point. But don't you think this is slightly different?” I tried to inject as much sarcasm as possible.

“It is, of course it is. But honestly Reid, I don’t see any other way around it. As a matter of fact...”

“Yes, Ben?” I don't know if it was fatigue or euphoria or what, but Geddes was giddy, seemingly intrigued with the morbid implications of my suggestion.

Ben on the other hand was stone-faced: “We should go straight to the lab and play it.”

“Play it?” I could hardly believe it. “Just like that? Aren't there procedures in place? It's an ancient, invaluable artifact, isn't it? What if you break it, how about that?”

“Listen Reid. We have to hand it over. After we do that, who knows if we will ever have another chance to be alone with the damn thing. And if your intuition is true, if there is something in there, if there is sound, a message, wouldn't you want to be the first one to hear it? Instead of some paper pusher at the Met? Come on, don’t you agree?” Of course I did. I surrendered: “So how are we going to do that, exactly?”

Geddes, still comically perched on the bump in the middle of the seat, hugging the case and looking as if sandwiched tightly between two invisible passengers, giggled: “Hey man, i never transitioned to compact discs.”

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3 – Uptown Freak Out –

What they kept referring to as the lab was in fact Geddes's converted loft apartment in Spanish Harlem – a most unusual setting, although there was nothing amateurish about it. We were standing around a big white work table, our eyes fixed on the silver flight case sitting in the center. Geddes snapped the locks open and lifted the lid. A cylindrical object wrapped in a black suede-like material rested firmly in the cavity for the tele lens, a perfect fit. That’s it? That's how you transport precious antiquities? I was stunned. But these two guys were pros: Another compartment of the foam lining housed a device that looked like an over-featured thermostat and, I gathered from the labels and graphics, monitored or possibly controlled the microclimate inside the case.

When the artifact was unwrapped, we had no doubts: The resemblance to an Edison cylinder was overwhelming, down to its proportions and dimensions, and the spiral etching was definitely the work of a lathe-like device. Nobody said a word, but I knew exactly what they were thinking. This crazy idea – my crazy idea! – looked like a real possibility.

Geddes went to work immediately. “What can I do, guys?” I asked. “How about ordering some food. I'm starving. It will take me a couple of hours to

rig it. Ben? You start setting up.” While I picked through Geddes' menus, I watched Ben place three iPads on heavy

chrome tripod stands, and set up flat light panels, one on each corner of the room. When he was done, he armed the iPads for recording: “Whenever you're ready.”

Geddes motioned to start rolling and proceeded to take apart a Technics turntable’s arm, talking through every move, much like a coroner performing and documenting an autopsy. I realized, as an actual shiver ran down my spine, that this home movie could be one day as iconic as Armstrong stepping on the moon.

Two hours later on the dot, while i was in the kitchen cleaning up, I heard Geddes say to the camera “We’re ready.”

* * * * *

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It was a recording indeed, and we had just played it back. We had retrieved a message in a bottle, cast into the ocean of time sometime in the stone age, way before the dawn of Mesopotamian civilizations.

As the needle ran through the full length of the groove, a mystifying sound filled the air: A steady sound, what in music is known as a drone. One tone throughout, rich in harmonic fluctuations. The quality of the sound by itself was astonishing, very much like that of an Edison phonograph, which added a uniquely unsettling quality to our shock.

There’s no point in trying to describe the emotional response triggered by the arcane sound as it emerged from those speakers: I didn’t even know I was capable of such a feeling – intense, swift, unstoppable, and completely new: It took us some time to get ourselves together. When we finally did, Geddes, his eyes as big as golf balls, broke the silence. His first words did not have the gravitas of Neil Armstrong’s: “What the fuck was that?”

Ben cautiously volunteered an answer: “Is it an animal? like a weird nocturne bird call?”

Geddes, still shaken, replied: “I think it’s an instrument. Reid? Do you know?” He address me as a peer this time: I realized that, as a musician, I was all of a

sudden an authority. They were hanging on my words – at last, my fruitless career serving a purpose. And in fact I did know. I recognize it right away, one of the most puzzling sounds in nature.

“Reid?” “It's human.” “...” “It’s a voice, a human voice.” “Somebody singing? No way!” “I also don’t see how, Reid. It sounds polyphonic.” “It is.” “And isn't polyphony impossible for the human voice? Multiple notes at the same

time?” Ben asked, while Geddes was already reaching for his phone to look it up. “Oh no, it's definitely possible. Well, kind of. They're not technically notes, more

like harmonics. It's called overtone singing. Throat singing? Never heard it?” Silence. “Never even heard of it?”

!16

They looked at each other embarrassed, especially Geddes, with his impressive record collection and gear. I expected him to know.

“It's a vocal technique where you produce harmonics, overtones, multiples of a note's frequency, controlling the vocal strings with your throat muscles. Or something like that. Very much like a reed, you know, saxophones, clarinets… but inside your throat.”

“Wow.” “It's a singing tradition found in many ancient cultures, in the most varied places.

Mongolia, Sardinia, Tibet... And now that I think of it, I believe among the Inuit as well.” “Oh man!” Geddes yelled out, as he stared at his phone, mouth hanging open.

“Reid's right. Listen to this: There's an Ainu tradition of throat singing – The Ainu, Ben, The Ainu! Hokkaido!”

Ben looked stunned. “Wait, who are the Ainu?” I got no answer. Ben turned to the window and stood

there, silent, staring into the night outside. Geddes, sitting on the bed, was staring at Ben. Then he asked him: “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“What?” I tried to include myself in the conversation. I had the feeling that the climax for the evening had not been reached yet, although I couldn’t imagine how would that be possible.

Ben: “The Children of the Sun?” Geddes: “Right.” “Hey guys. What Ainu? What Children of the Sun? What the fuck?” I forcefully

interrupted. “Can anybody explain?” Geddes finally snapped out of it: “Yes, sorry man.” He gathered his thoughts and

then explained: “The Ainu are the indigenous people of Hokkaido. But actually they are thought to be the original inhabitants of Japan. Their ancestry is uncertain, although they're neither asian nor caucasian; more like south asians, I think. The Japanese invaded and enslaved them. One of their legend says… here, let me read it to you.” He swiped his phone a few times, and then read aloud: “The Ainu lived here a hundred thousand years before the Children of the Sun came.”

“Oh...” “The accepted interpretation is that the Children of the Sun of Ainu lore are the

Japanese invaders.” “The sun, meaning the Japanese flag?”

!17

“I presume.” Geddes answered, while Ben kept looking into the night. “But nobody knows for sure?” “It’s a legend, Reid. Who the fuck knows what it means.” Geddes sounded

exhausted, lost. “Could this be a… a gift? A gift of advanced knowledge?” “From who? The Children of the Sun? An alien race? Time travelers? Please Ben

say something – I feel like I’m losing my mind here. Ben?” Ben remained catatonic. I had to sit down. “Jesus Christ, guys.”

!18

4 – Some Time After –

The New York Metropolitan Museum finally revealed to the world the existence of Hokkaido's oddity, which was described as a mysterious artifact of unknown origin bearing acoustic properties very much like the cylinders used in gramophones at the turn of the last century. The artifact however had been dated to the Upper Paleolithic with unquestioned accuracy, making it the greatest mystery of all time. A sound, engraved in a spiral groove, had been successfully reproduced. Nothing was revealed about the sound itself except that it was in fact a deliberate recording, which was being officially referred to as The Song of Hokkaido. A website was soon to be launched, where the whole world would see and hear.

As predicted, the site became upon launch the most viewed site ever, and it was estimated that in less then a day, more than half the planet had heard the Song. We celebrated imminent fame and fortune with a big party at the lab.

* * * * *

I slept all day, straight into the following night. Around ten I woke up to the sound of agitated voices down in the street. I assumed a drug dispute, not uncommon in the neighborhood, so I buried my head under the pillow and went back to sleep. About an hour later the phone rang. Ben's name was flashing on the screen; the commotion outside was still on, louder in fact, so I grabbed the phone, rolled out of bed and went to the window.

“Ben?” “Hey.” There was a small crowd outside, but no signs of confrontation; rather a vibe of

collective concern. “What's up? What's going on?” Ben's voice was hollow, devoid of any emotion: “I assume you haven't heard.” “Oh shit, what now?” “Check the news.”

!19

“Hold on.” I looked up nyt.com. I didn't understand at first, but judging by the size of the headline, something had happened. I had to read it over a few times before I grasped its meaning:

Unexplained phenomenon observed worldwide. Thousands blame The Song of Hokkaido for inducing nightmarish vision.

What? “What the hell is this? What's happening, Ben?” He sounded distant, exhausted. “Keep on reading. It gets better.” The build up to the site’s launch had dominated the news, and the launch itself had

been a worldwide event. It reminded me a bit of the anticipation we all felt on the eve of January 1, 2000. But as huge and mind blowing as the story was, only twenty-four hours later another story had managed to upstage the whole thing, just like that, spreading like wildfire through social media. I tried to focus my sleepy eyes on the tiny words floating in the harsh blue pool of the screen: I gathered that a very large and ever growing number of people reported the occurrence of… an hallucination?

“Whaaaaat?” Ben replied with a faint: “Exactly.” I remember reading the words trance, lucid dream, fugue state, out-of-body

experience, vision, apparition.The article explained that it manifested itself first among individuals prone to epileptic seizures, but soon it became clear that there was no need for predisposition to fall under the spell of this absurd Sirens Song: Anybody, employing basic hypnosis and self-hypnosis techniques could induce the phenomenon – in most cases, a light state of sleep would suffice.

Deja vu: I was sitting in my bed, staring at my phone, freaking. It was becoming hard to believe, this whole adventure of mine. It had just escalated to an insane episode of worldwide mass-hypnosis soon to become mass-hysteria, I thought. And me, right in the center of it all. Then, a sudden and unexpected realization: This was exactly what Ben and Geddes had imagined: Thousands of years ago Hokkaido's magic cave had been the site of serious psychedelia. But, not having an epileptic on our team, we had missed it completely: We had failed to recreate the experience as intended, let the mind's guard down, let Id overpower Ego, abandon ourselves to the spell. I knew at that point there was only one thing left to do.

“Ben, are you still there?”

!20

“Yes.” “Have you tried it?” “Oh yes.” “And?” Ben remained silent. “Is it safe? Is it… Scary? Ben?” Still no answer. Only a soft, absent laugh followed by the sound of Ben hanging up.

I reached for my earbuds and pressed them in place. Plugged in, set the recording to loop. I laid down, pressing my eyelids with my fingers, like I used to do as a child whenever I wanted to escape into my own private show of shifting kaleidoscopic afterimages. I began to defocus, and remembering something Ben had said, I tried to picture myself a stone age cave dweller tripping on some powerful psychotropic fungus. I hit Play and surrendered to the Song. It must have been the sixth or seventh pass when it happened.

I opened my eyes and I found myself in a place I immediately recognized. I was there, as if I had fallen through a wormhole connecting my bedroom in New York with the Cave of Hokkaido, on the other side of the planet. A shadow was dancing on the wall in front of me. Unlike my first dream, this was a projection: Its source stood right behind me. Tentacle-like appendices moved lazily in the air, describing slow spiral patterns. I was in the grips of the kind of paralyzing fear one experiences in childhood nightmares, but I found the determination to turn slowly my head and look over my shoulder: Like a multi limbed black Kali or Shiva the Destroyer, the Idol, the Totem, the Demon of Hokkaido stood just a few feet away from me, in the flesh, present. Instead of the arachnid I had imagined, it was closer to a cephalopod; not the ever-morphing gelatinous mass of an octopus, but the firm glossy flash of a squid, an impossible vertebrate mollusk standing on two hind legs, as tall as me. Two bulging, disproportionate, black viscous globes glistened. The lack of sclera made it impossible to determine the object of their gaze, but I knew the creature’s eyes were looking straight into my own.

!21

5 – Epilogue –

A face I did not recognize stood few inches away from mine, staring. A black woman in bright white clothes, adjusting a pillow behind my head. She turned away and whispered to somebody behind her “He's back. Tell Doctor Matsumoto.”

It didn't take me long to figure out I was in a hospital, although I had absolutely no idea why and how I ended up there. I felt a dull pain all over my body, my head was wrapped in bandages, my ribs ached with every breath. I tried to lift my head and I heard my voice speaking but the words made no sense, and I remember the nurse telling me to take it easy.

Eventually, few hours later, I was lucid enough to talk. A young doctor was standing by the bed, busy flipping through paperwork – mine I

assumed. “Mr… Let’s see… Hilborn?” “Yes.” “I'm Doctor Bruce Matsumoto. How do you feel?” “Banged up. What happened to me? Where am I?” “We're at Mt. Sinai Hospital. Do you know were that is?” “Yes.” Doctor Matsumoto remained silent, waiting for a reply, a proof of my mental

faculties. “Upper East Side. Fifth Avenue and ninetysomething. Fancy neighborhood.” Satisfied with the response, he proceeded, unengaged, just making the rounds. He

added rather bluntly: “You were in an accident, run over by a car.” “What?” “You were the victim of a crime, actually. Drunk driving. Drunk on drunk crime, we

call it.” “Excuse me?” I did not get the awkward joke. “You were heavily intoxicated yourself, in case you don't remember." He was still

looking at the chart. “Alcohol and marijuana.” “…Ah.”

!22

“Don't feel bad. That's expected.” “What do you mean?” “New Year's Eve. That's what happens.” “New Year's Eve? What New Year's Eve are you talking about?” “You don’t remember? Pauline Koh – Do you recognize this name?” “Yes, I do.” “She's the one who found you and called the ambulance. You were a guest at her

party, not far from here. She told the police that she was taking the dog for a quick walk after everybody left, and she saw you laying in the middle of the street.”

“Wait… What did you say? Pauline’s party? But that's not possible!” “Why do you say that?” Something in my charts seemed to have caught Dr.

Matsumoto’s eye. He looked up from the clipboard and stared at me curiously. “That was... a long time ago.” “What do you mean a long time ago?” “There must be some sort of mistake. Something... I don't know.” “I'm afraid not. Let me ask you Mr. Hilborn, what's the last thing you remember? Do

you remember leaving the party at all?” “Yes, I do, I clearly do. That's what I'm saying. I remember getting home, going to

bed. I remember waking up the day after...” I stopped mid sentence. How could I ever forget that New Year's Day? But the memory of it was now collapsing, imploding, the way a dream loses instantly its contours the moment you awake.

“Yes, Mr. Hilborn?” “No, nothing. I don't know. I am very confused right now.” “I'm not surprised. You suffered major trauma, lost a lot of blood, hypothermia. You

were there for a while, maybe an hour, before your friend found you. You owe her your life, by the way.”

“I understand.” “Mr, Hilborn, I don't know if you appreciate how close of a call this was.” He was

again flipping through papers in an open yellow folder. “Something else happened that morning, according to the ER admission paperwork. Looks like there’s something you should know.”

“What?” “According to this, right here, well… you were DOA. Do you know what that

means?”

!23

“Not Dead On Arrival I hope?” I tried to laugh it off, but Dr. Matsumoto did not laugh back: “I’m afraid so.”

“I don't get it.” “When the paramedics picked you up you were not alive. I don’t think I ever said

these words to any patient before, but Mr. Hilborn, that morning you died.” “I what?” “Clinically dead. No cardiac activity, no respiratory activity, no brain activity.” “Jesus Fucking Christ.” The nurse flinched. “Please, Mr. Hilborn.” “Sorry.” “Here it says that you were resuscitated with a defibrillator and chest pumping, like

in the movies. We perform a pro forma resuscitation attempt just because it's mandatory procedure, but I've never seen it working in real life. It’s not at all like the movies, and I wish I had been there to witness it, to be honest. The hypothermia is probably what saved you. It preserved you, so to speak. I’ve read of such cases.” He put away the chart at last and looked at me with growing interest: “You are a lucky man, Mr. Hilborn.”

I could barely think, but Dr. Matsumoto didn’t seem to get it and kept going: “Forgive me, but I have to ask again: What’s the last thing you remember? You understand now why it’s so important.”

I closed my eyes. I remembered leaving the party pleasantly drunk, carelessly staggering across the silent avenues. Dawn in the streets of Manhattan is a strange thing, like the void found in the deserted surrealist town squares of DeChirico. I tried to recall the last coherent memory of that night, and all I could come up with was one image, frozen, a mental postcard: The Lipstick Building, like the prow of a giant ship sailing down a canyon of glass and steel. Was that it? Is that what happens at the moment of your death? Retinas convulsively processing their last photo-impressions? Cones and rods in disarray, neurons misfiring? And my poor under-oxygenated brain doing its best to interpret the last rogue stimuli, scrambling to construct a plausible narrative? The Edison cylinder, the drive to JFK, Geddes, the lab, the artifact, the sound, the trance, the demon... Was it all a pre-death hallucinations? Ante-mortem delirium?

“Mr. Hilborn? Is everything ok?” “Fuck no, it's not.”

!24

The nurse flinched again but this time Doctor Matsumoto was too taken with my case to bother.

“What's today? How long have I been here?” “Two days.” It occurred to me that, for all I knew, I might still be dead. Nothing made sense at

that point. Cautiously, I asked: “Do you know about the Song of Hokkaido?” “Doesn’t ring a bell. What is it?” Dr. Matsumoto answered, perplexed. “Never heard?” Looking past the doctor, I tried to make eye contact with the nurse.

“The song of Hokkaido? No? Nothing?” I received a blank stare in return. “A song?” The doctor asked. “Never mind. It doesn't matter.” “Quite the opposite, Mr. Hilborn. It matters a lot. Only few people have come back

from the dead. That’s a very small club you belong to now. Whatever you remember, whatever you’ve seen or heard, might be the single most important thing in the world. You’ve seen what lies beyond!” I sensed a fervor that I did not like.

“I am sorry doctor, but I feel exhausted right now.” “You're right, I'm sorry. Why don't we continue this tomorrow? You need to rest,

starting now. But should you remember anything of significance, or even insignificant, anything at all, please make a note of it. It’s important. Meanwhile I’ll have the nurse check on you every hour, and tomorrow I'll have our psychologist pay a short visit, ok?” After giving some instructions to the nurse, he gathered his papers and walked out. As he was closing the door behind, he stopped and turned around. “Just one last thing, Mr. Hilborn.” Apologetically, he added something that confirmed unequivocally that I was back in the world of the living: “When you feel better, we will need to review your insurance. It appears that there's some confusion as to your current coverage. We'll have somebody from Administration stop by. But now rest, please.”

– The End –

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The Song of Hokkaido

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Transcript of The Song of Hokkaido