“Then since we’re both here, Izuta-kun, want to go see it together?”
Iwama happily displayed that “did you see that smile” smile of hers.
“Ahh…”
“Oh, were you planning to go home already?”
“No, it’s not particularly that…”
“Then let’s go! We want our high school life to start off well, right!”
High school life, starting off well… huh.
It was hard to refuse. Or rather, there was no reason to refuse. There was no way I could bring up the romantic success story here and say something like “it would be awkward for the two of us”—I couldn’t possibly say that.
Everything was going according to Mizusaki’s plan. That guy was probably somewhere getting excited, imagining what would happen if he shone this much dazzling sunlight on someone like me who lives in the shadows.
I thought about it.
In that case—wasn’t this actually a chance to prove that nothing would happen?
I should show that guy that my way of life won’t be shaken by something like this.
“Well, you’re right. Since we’re here, let’s go see it.”
“Yeah! Let’s go find it, the happiness cherry tree!”
Saying that, Iwama entered the mountain path as if she couldn’t wait any longer. There were no signs, but there didn’t seem to be any other path up the mountain. This road must be it.
Feeling awkward, I walked a little behind Iwama. It was a bright forest. At our feet, acorns from last year were scattered about. The back mountain forest was a deciduous broadleaf forest centered around these acorn producers—namely, sawtooth and konara oak trees.
Deciduous because they drop their leaves in autumn. Broadleaf because their leaves are wide and flat. It’s a forest with many such trees.
Originally, this warm region is in a climate zone that would naturally be an evergreen broadleaf forest with leaves flourishing even in winter, but because people have entered the mountains and cut down trees, fast-growing deciduous broadleaf trees have become predominant.
And deciduous forests are bright.
In winter when the leaves have completely fallen, sunlight reaches the ground. In this new sprout season, pale green leaves sparsely decorate the branches, and looking up at the sky feels like looking at stained glass.
Cherry trees are also deciduous. Popular residents of the sun thriving in bright forests.
“Hey, Izuta-kun!”
Iwama stopped and turned around.
“There are lots of katakuri flowers blooming. They’re rare, right? I wonder if there are many on this mountain.”
The ground still mostly brown. Here and there, clusters of flowers in purplish light pink. The way the elongated petals curl back in bloom resembles small pinwheels and is beautiful.
“Yeah. Katakuri grow abundantly in deciduous forests like this one.”
Since she mentioned a plant name, my mouth moved naturally.
This was a bad sign. I quickly shut my mouth. I’m fully aware of this, but once I start talking, I go on for a long time. I especially try to restrain myself in front of people I haven’t known long.
“Eh, why?”
Iwama looked at me with interest.
“Sorry… it’s a long explanation. Please don’t worry about it.”
“Eh, I want to hear! Talk while we walk.”
Instead, she requested it.
Well, maybe it’s better than silence. I decided to talk just a little.
“You know katakuri starch, right? It’s used for thickening in cooking.”
“Yeah. I haven’t used it much in cooking, but I used about three kilograms for a dilatancy experiment!”
………..?
I felt like she’d just said something unusual. Is there an experiment that requires three kilograms of katakuri starch? At least, it didn’t seem to be within the scope of chemistry experiments.
“Dilatancy?”
“Ah, sorry, I said something weird! Don’t worry about it.”
Iwama said apologetically and prompted me to continue. I didn’t really understand what dilatancy was either, so I continued.
“…Katakuri starch is mostly made from potatoes nowadays, but originally it was made from these katakuri flowers. You might know this, Iwama-san.”
“The starch from katakuri roots was the raw material, right? That’s why it’s called katakuri starch.”
“Right. Katakuri are plants that store nutrients—starch—in their underground stem. They gradually increase their stored nutrition over many years, and about eight years after the seed germinates, they finally bloom their first flower.”
“Eight years… such a long life for such a small flower.”
“That’s katakuri’s survival strategy.”
On the south-facing slope. Under the dazzling new-growth trees, the katakuri bask in the sun, proudly displaying their ephemeral glory.
My mouth had already become unstoppable.
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“Sunlight reaches the ground directly during this season when the trees don’t have leaves yet. Katakuri spread their leaves for photosynthesis only during those brief two or three months from when it gets warmer until the ground becomes shaded as the greenery thickens.”
“Only two or three months? It’s true you don’t see them in summer…”
“Right. They store the nutrition they make during that time in their underground stems. When the tree leaves flourish and sunlight no longer reaches the ground, the katakuri wither away, leaving only their underground stems. Because they live this way, gradually growing over a long time, it takes many years for them to bloom. It’s like they’re in a long hibernation from summer through winter.”
“I see, that’s why they’re in deciduous forests.”
Iwama seemed to understand and clapped her hands together.
“They can only photosynthesize when the ground is sunny, when the leaves have fallen. In forests where leaves stay lush even in winter, they’d be in shade and couldn’t store nutrients.”
I was grateful for her quick understanding.
Katakuri’s survival strategy only works in forests where leaves fall in winter.
“Right. Because they only appear above ground for a brief moment in spring, plants that live like katakuri are called by this name—”
“Spring ephemerals!”
Iwama said the answer before I could, which surprised me.
“Oh, so you knew.”
“Ah, well, I didn’t know the details, but… you know, while flipping through my biology textbook, I saw that term. I thought it was kind of cute.”
“That’s an amazing memory.”
The textbook sale was just recently. I haven’t even opened any of mine yet.
Spring ephemerals—fleeting beings of spring. An explanation of the translation would be unnecessary for Iwama.
The mountain path had stairs made of narrow logs laid across it. Noticing that my breathing had become faster from walking, I realized I’d talked too much. By letting myself be carried away by the gushing words, I’d probably neglected even the oxygen intake necessary for exercise. And I’d neglected consideration for others too.
I’d shown off my knowledge, flaunted it. And to a girl I’d barely just met, no less. She’s a former Science Club member who knows terms like closest packing structure and spring ephemerals—she claimed to be a casual fun-loving crowd, but she probably has considerable scientific knowledge too.
And to someone like that, I—
Iwama stopped walking.
“…What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, I… I was being a know-it-all… even though I don’t know much about this field.”
She looks genuinely apologetic. What a strange thing to worry about.
“Being a know-it-all means pretending to know things you don’t know. There’s nothing wrong with stating that you know a term you actually know.”
“I suppose… but I only skimmed over spring ephemerals in a textbook, and I’ve never actually seen a katakuri root in person…”
There happened to be a broken branch nearby, so I picked it up.
“In that case, we’ve already solved the first part, and we can solve the second part like this.”
I examined the ground nearby and thrust the branch deep into the soft soil near a katakuri plant. After repeating this several times, I dug up the katakuri along with the soil. As I carefully brushed away the dirt, a small white bulb appeared that looked like nothing more than a slightly thickened stem.
Iwama watched my katakuri excavation with wide eyes. Well, digging up flowers might be a bit uncouth, but since this is school grounds, I hope they’ll overlook it as a learning activity.
“This is the katakuri bulb—that is, the underground stem. It’s actually not a root; like potatoes, nutrients are stored in the stem portion.”
When I handed it to her, Iwama said “Thank you” while receiving it as carefully as if handling glasswork. She gazed intently at the bulb, absorbed in examining it. She touched it with her fingers, pinching it gently.
“It’s so small…”
“It must have been quite a struggle to make katakuri flour in the old days.”
I took out a convenience store plastic bag from my backpack and opened it. After Iwama returned the katakuri to me, I placed it inside, filled the bag with air, and tied it closed. Iwama watched this series of actions with interest.
“What are you going to do with that?”
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