Pathway to Japanese Literature

This story likely took place at the end of the Gangyō era or the beginning of the Ninna era.
In any case, the era did not play a particularly important role in this story.
The reader need only know that the distant past of the Heian period served as the backdrop.—At that time, among the retainers serving Regent Fujiwara no Mototsune, there was a certain Fifth Rank.

I would prefer not to write "a certain someone" but to clearly state whose name it was; however, unfortunately, the old records do not preserve this information.
He was likely, in truth, a man too ordinary to merit being recorded.
It seems authors of old records had little interest in ordinary people or their stories.
In this regard, they differed considerably from Japanese naturalist writers.
Novelists of the court era were not, as one might expect, idle men.—In any case, among the retainers serving Regent Fujiwara no Mototsune, there was a certain Fifth Rank.
This man was the protagonist of our story.

The Fifth Rank was a man of unremarkable appearance. First, he was short. Second, he had a red nose with drooping eyes. His mustache was naturally sparse. With sunken cheeks, his chin appeared abnormally narrow. As for his lips—to enumerate each feature would prove endless. Thus was the Fifth Rank's visage so extraordinarily ill-favored.

None knew when or how this man had entered Lord Mototsune's service. Yet this much stood clear: for years uncounted he had worn the same faded hunting robe and wilted court hat, performing identical duties each day without complaint. Small wonder none could imagine him ever having been young. (The Fifth Rank was past forty.) Rather, one felt that red nose—chapped as if by perpetual frost—and that wisp of mustache had always fluttered in Suzaku Avenue's crosswinds since birth itself. From Regent Mototsune down to cowherd boys, all accepted this truth without conscious thought.

The treatment this man of such appearance received from those around him likely goes without saying.
The men in the samurai hall paid the Fifth Rank no more heed than they would a fly.
Even the nearly twenty lower officials—both ranked and unranked—treated his comings and goings with a strangely extreme coldness.
Even if the Fifth Rank said something, they never ceased their idle chatter among themselves.
To them, just as air’s presence remained unseen, the Fifth Rank’s existence must have failed to register in their vision.
If even his subordinates treated him thus, it was only natural that his superiors—the bettō and samurai-dokoro stewards—would dismiss him outright.
They concealed almost childlike, meaningless malice behind icy expressions, conveying whatever needed to be said through gestures alone when dealing with the Fifth Rank.

That humans possess language is no accident.
Therefore, there were times when even they could not conduct their affairs through gestures alone.
But they seemed convinced this was wholly due to some deficiency in the Fifth Rank's comprehension.
When gestures proved inadequate, they would survey him from the crumpled peak of his court hat down to the frayed heels of his straw sandals with comprehensive scorn, then snort through their noses before abruptly turning away.
Yet even then, the Fifth Rank never once took offense.
He was a man so devoid of spirit and so timorous that he could not perceive injustice as injustice at all.

However, when it came to his fellow samurai colleagues, they actively sought to torment him. For just as the elder colleagues tried to regale others with stale jests based on his unremarkable appearance, so too did the younger ones seize these opportunities to practice what might be called witty repartee. They never grew tired of critiquing—right before the Fifth Rank’s eyes—his nose and mustache, his court hat and hunting robe. Not only that. The wife with the protruding lower lip whom he had parted from five or six years prior, and the drinking monk rumored to have had relations with her, frequently became their topics of conversation. Moreover, on occasion, they would even play malicious pranks. To list each and every one of them now would be impossible. But if I were to write that they drank his Shinoe sake and then refilled it with urine afterward, the rest could likely be imagined without difficulty.

However, the Fifth Rank was entirely insensible to these taunts. At least in their sidelong glances, he seemed insensible. No matter what was said to him, he never so much as changed his expression. Silently stroking his usual thin mustache, he did only what needed to be done and left it at that. Yet when his colleagues' pranks grew too extreme—attaching paper scraps to his topknot or tying straw sandals to his sword scabbard—he would smile in a way that was neither laugh nor tears and say, “This won’t do, you all.” All who saw that face and heard that voice were momentarily struck by a pang of pity. (For it was not merely the red-nosed Fifth Rank alone whom they tormented—unknown someones they did not know, countless someones, borrowing his face and voice, were condemning their heartlessness.)—This sensation, dimly yet unmistakably, seeped into their hearts for an instant. Yet those who could sustain that momentary feeling were exceedingly few. Among those few was a certain unranked samurai. This was a man from Tanba Province—a youth whose soft mustache had just begun to sprout beneath his nose. Of course, this man too had initially despised the red-nosed Fifth Rank along with everyone else, for no particular reason. However, one day, upon hearing the voice say, “This won’t do, you all,” he could not get it out of his head. From that time on, in this man’s eyes alone, the Fifth Rank began to appear as an entirely different person. For even in the Fifth Rank’s malnourished, pallid, vacant face, there now peered a “human” driven to tears by the world’s persecution. To this unranked samurai, every time he thought of the Fifth Rank, everything in the world seemed to suddenly reveal its inherent baseness. And at the same time, the frostbitten red nose and mustache so sparse one could count the hairs seemed to convey a singular comfort to his own heart……

However, this was a phenomenon limited to this man alone.
Barring such exceptions, the Fifth Rank had to persist in his dog-like existence amidst enduring contempt.
Foremost, he owned not a single decent robe.
His dull blue hunting robe and matching trousers had now faded to a hue beyond classification as indigo or navy.
While the hunting robe merely sagged at the shoulders with tarnished cord fastenings, the trousers suffered extraordinary fraying at their hems.
Those spindly legs protruding from threadbare cloth—without even under-robes for decency—evoked in any observer, however kind-hearted, the same wretchedness as seeing a skeletal ox drag some gaunt noble's carriage.
The sword at his waist fared no better—its hilt fittings corroded, black lacquer peeling from the scabbard.
This red-nosed figure shuffled through winter streets in broken sandals, hunched further against the cold, covetous eyes darting side to side with halting steps—a spectacle so pitiable even passing peddlers found mockery unavoidable.
Indeed, such incidents occurred……

One day, when the Fifth Rank was heading from Sanjōbōmon toward Shinsen’en, he once saw six or seven children gathered by the roadside doing something.
Thinking they might be playing with a whirring spinning top, he peeked from behind only to find them tying a rope around the neck of a stray dog that had wandered from somewhere and beating and kicking it.
The timid Fifth Rank had, up until now, even when feeling sympathy for something, never once allowed it to manifest in action for fear of drawing attention.
But this time, perhaps because his tormentors were mere children, he found a modicum of courage.
So, forcing as much of a smile as he could manage, he tapped the shoulder of a child who seemed to be the eldest and said, “Please show mercy now.
“Even dogs feel pain when beaten, you know,” he called out.
Then, the child turned around and, with upturned eyes, looked him up and down scornfully.
It was as if he were being looked at with the same expression the bettō of the samurai-dokoro wore when his orders went unheeded—the child gazed at him in such a manner.
“Mind your own business.”
The child stepped back a pace, curling his haughty lips, and said:
“What’s with you, this red-nosed wretch?”
The Fifth Rank felt as though these words had struck his face.
But this was not in the least because he had grown angry at being insulted.
For he had been shamed and felt wretched at himself for having said something that need not have been said.
He hid his embarrassment behind a strained smile and, without a word, began walking once more toward Shinsen’en.
Behind him, six or seven children huddled together, doing such things as making faces and sticking out their tongues.
Of course, he was unaware of such things.
Even if he had known, what would that have meant to this spineless Fifth Rank?……

Now, one might think the protagonist of this tale was a man born solely to be despised, holding no particular hopes—but that is not the case. For five or six years now, the Fifth Rank had harbored an intense obsession with something called taro porridge.
Taro porridge refers to a gruel made by cutting mountain yams into pieces and boiling them in sweet vinegar broth.
At that time, this was considered the supreme delicacy, served even to the emperor’s table.
Consequently, into the mouth of a man such as our Fifth Rank, it passed only once a year, on occasions when there were temporary guests.
Even then, what he could drink was but a meager amount—enough only to wet his throat.
Thus, the desire to drink taro porridge until he grew sick of it had long since become his sole ambition.
Of course, he had never spoken of it to anyone.
In fact, even he himself had likely never clearly recognized this as the desire that had consumed his entire life. Yet in truth, one might say he lived for that very purpose—for humans will at times devote their lives to a desire whose fulfillment remains uncertain.
Those who mock this folly are, in the end, merely passersby on life’s road.

Yet the act of “satiating himself with taro porridge” that the Fifth Rank had dreamed of became reality with unexpected ease.
The purpose of this tale of taro porridge is to recount its entire course.

―――――――――――――――――

It was an event that occurred on the second day of the New Year at Mototsune’s residence, when there were so-called temporary guests.
(The temporary guest banquet—hosted by the regent-chancellor’s household on the same day as Nininomiya’s Grand Banquet, to which ministers and high-ranking nobles were invited—differed little from the latter.) The Fifth Rank too mingled with the other samurai and shared in the remnants of the feast.
At that time, the custom of taking food home did not yet exist, so the leftovers were eaten by the samurai of that household gathered together in one hall.
Though said to rival a grand banquet—being an affair of olden times—the spread proved abundant in variety but wanting in quality: mochi, dried hare, steamed abalone, dried plovers, icefish from Uji, crucian carp from Ōmi, dried strips of sea bream, salmon roe, grilled octopus, giant prawns, large mandarins, small mandarins, tachibana oranges, skewered persimmons, and suchlike.
Yet among them was the usual taro porridge.
The Fifth Rank had looked forward to this taro porridge every year.
But there were always so many people that he could drink only a meager amount.
This year proved especially meager.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but the taste seemed far better than usual.
Thereupon he gazed fixedly at the emptied bowl before him, wiped droplets clinging to his sparse mustache with his palm, and muttered to no one in particular: “When will I ever get my fill of this?”

“Lord Fifth Rank seems never to have had his fill of taro porridge.”

Before the Fifth Rank could finish speaking, someone laughed derisively – a hoarse, unhurried voice befitting a warrior. The Fifth Rank raised his hunched neck and timidly turned toward the speaker. The voice belonged to Fujiwara no Toshihito, son of Tokinaga the Minister of Popular Affairs, who then served alongside him under Mototsune. This broad-shouldered colossus of a man stood head and shoulders above the rest, chewing roasted chestnuts while repeatedly refilling his cup with black sake. He appeared thoroughly drunk by now.

“What a pitiable state.”
When Toshihito saw the Fifth Rank raise his face, he continued in a voice that mingled scorn and pity.
“If you wish, Toshihito will let you eat your fill.”

A dog that is constantly abused does not readily approach even when offered meat on occasion.
The Fifth Rank wore that ambiguous smile—neither clearly laughter nor tears—alternating his gaze equally between Toshihito’s face and the empty bowl.

“You seem reluctant.”

“……”

“Well?”

“……”

The Fifth Rank became aware that amidst this, the gazes of the crowd were gathering upon him. Depending on how he answered, he would once more be subjected to the mockery of all present. No matter how he answered, he even felt that he would be made a fool in the end. He hesitated. If, at that moment, the other man had not spoken up in a slightly annoyed tone—“If you’re unwilling, I shan’t press you further”—the Fifth Rank would have continued to look back and forth between the bowl and Toshihito indefinitely.

Upon hearing that, he hastily answered.

“No— I am most grateful.”

All those who had been listening to this exchange burst into derisive laughter at once.
“No— I am most grateful.”—and there were even those who mimicked the Fifth Rank’s reply.
Upon the so-called sunken trays and high-legged trays laden with oranges, yellows, tangerines, and reds, many crumpled and upright eboshi hats swayed like waves amid the laughter.
And among them all, it was Toshihito himself who laughed most loudly and heartily.

“Then I shall invite you to that end.”
As he said this, he grimaced slightly.
For the laughter rising within him and the wine he had just drunk had merged in his throat.
“……You’re certain of this?”

“I am most grateful.”

The Fifth Rank turned red and, stammering, repeated his previous response.
That the entire company laughed once more goes without saying.
As for Toshihito himself—the very man who had pressed him so deliberately to elicit those words—he now shook his broad shoulders even more comically than before and roared with laughter.
This rustic warrior from the northern wilds knew only two methods of living.
One was drinking sake, and the other was laughing.

However, fortunately, the focus of conversation soon shifted away from these two.
This might have been because the others found it unpleasant to have everyone’s attention fixed on this red-nosed Fifth Rank—even if that attention was mockery.
In any case, as topics shifted from one to another and only scant remnants of sake and dishes remained, a tale about a certain samurai student who tried mounting his horse by thrusting both legs into one side of his leggings had captured the gathering’s interest.
But the Fifth Rank alone seemed utterly deaf to these other tales.
Likely the words “taro porridge” dominated all his thoughts.
Even when roasted pheasant lay before him, he did not lift his chopsticks.
Even when a cup of black sake stood near, he did not touch it to his lips.
He sat with both hands on his knees—blushing like a maiden at her first formal meeting, frost-touched temples flushed with novice-like fervor—staring endlessly at the empty black-lacquered bowl as he smiled without affection……

―――――――――――――――――

Then, on the morning of the fourth or fifth day thereafter, there were two men quietly guiding their horses along the Kamo River bank, down the road leading to Awataguchi.
One was a man in a deep indigo hunting robe and hakama of the same color, wearing a struck-uchi style tachi sword, "with a black beard and well-groomed sideburns."
The other was a samurai of about forty wearing a worn-out blue-gray hunting robe over two layers of thin cotton garments—his sloppily tied obi, red nose glistening with mucus around the nostrils, and every aspect of his appearance spoke volumes of destitution.
To be sure, both horses—the one in front a dappled gray and the one behind a reed-gray three-year-old steed—were such fine specimens that even passing peddlers and samurai turned to look.
Following behind them were two more men striving to keep pace with the horses’ gait—undoubtedly a steward and an attendant. That this was Toshihito and the Fifth Rank’s party scarcely needed stating here.

Though it was winter, a calm, clear day had settled over the bleached stones of the riverbed. Along the murmuring water’s edge—not a breath of wind stirred the withered mugwort leaves.
The low willow facing the river received on its leafless branches sunlight as smooth as candy, so vividly that even the wagtail moving its tail on the treetop cast a distinct shadow upon the road.
Protruding plumply over Higashiyama’s dark green like a frost-scorched velvet shoulder—this must be Mount Hiei.
The two men proceeded leisurely toward Awataguchi, their saddles’ mother-of-pearl inlay glittering dazzlingly in the sunlight, whip-free.

“Where might it be, that place you deign to take this one to fulfill your promise?”
The Fifth Rank said, fumbling clumsily with the reins in his unaccustomed hands.

“It’s just up ahead.”
“You needn’t worry—it’s not so very far.”

“Then, might it be near Awataguchi?”

“You may think so for now.”

Toshihito had invited the Fifth Rank that morning by saying there was a place near Higashiyama where hot springs bubbled forth, and so they had set out to go there.
The Fifth Rank with the Red Nose took this at face value.
Because he had not bathed in a long time, his whole body had been unbearably itchy of late.
To be treated to taro porridge and, on top of that, if he could bathe in the hot springs—it would be happiness beyond his wildest wishes.
Thinking this, he mounted the reed-gray horse that Toshihito had prepared beforehand.
However, when they rode side by side and arrived here, it became clear that Toshihito had no intention of stopping in this vicinity.
Indeed, even as they went on like this, they passed through Awataguchi.

“It isn’t Awataguchi, then?”

“Indeed—still a ways ahead.”

Toshihito guided his horse forward with a faint smile, deliberately avoiding the Fifth Rank’s gaze. The houses lining both sides grew sparse until only crows scavenging across winter-barren fields remained visible; mountains lingered in the distance where snow’s pale blue blurred into haze. Though cloudless, even the jagged haze-tree branches stabbing skyward lent an unplaceable chill to the clear air.

“Then, might it be near Yamashina?”

“Yamashina is here. It’s a bit further ahead.”

Indeed, even as they spoke thus, they had passed through Yamashina.
That was not the place.
In the midst of their journey, leaving Sekiyama behind, they finally arrived before Mii-dera a little past noon.
At Mii-dera, there was a monk with whom Toshihito was closely acquainted.
The two of them visited the monk and were treated to lunch.
Once their meal was finished, they mounted their horses once more and pressed onward.
The road ahead was far more desolate than the path they had traveled thus far.
Especially at that time, bandits roamed rampant everywhere—it was a turbulent era.
――The Fifth Rank hunched his back even lower while looking up at Toshihito’s face to inquire.

“Still further ahead, I presume?”

Toshihito smiled—the sort of smile a child might wear when caught mid-prank by an elder. The wrinkles at his nose’s tip and sagging muscles at his eyes’ corners quivered as if debating whether to surrender to laughter or restrain themselves. At last he spoke.

“To tell truth, I meant to take you all the way to Tsuruga.”
Laughing still, Toshihito lifted his whip toward the distant sky. Beneath its tip glimmered Lake Ōmi, polished bright by the afternoon sun.

The Fifth Rank panicked.

“Tsuruga you speak of—would that be the Tsuruga of Echizen Province? The Tsuruga of Echizen—”
“The Echizen—”

Since Toshihito had become the son-in-law of Fujiwara no Arimoto of Tsuruga, he had not been unaware that he now resided primarily there. But that [Toshihito] intended to take him all the way to Tsuruga—this he had not imagined until this very moment.

First of all, how could they possibly travel safely all the way to Echizen Province beyond countless mountains and rivers with only two attendants in tow like this? Moreover, these days, there were even rumors everywhere that travelers on the roads had been killed by bandits.
――The Fifth Rank looked up at Toshihito’s face as though pleading.

“That’s absurd! If I thought it was Higashiyama, it turned out Yamashina. If I thought Yamashina, then Mii-dera. And now you say the final destination is Tsuruga of Echizen—what in heaven’s name is this about? Had you told me from the start, I would have brought attendants at least! —Tsuruga? Preposterous!”
“If I thought Yamashina, then Mii-dera.”
“And now you say the final destination is Tsuruga of Echizen—what in heaven’s name is this about?”
“If you had told me from the start, I would have brought even some attendants—”
“―Tsuruga? Preposterous!”

The Fifth Rank, nearly on the brink of tears, muttered.
If “eating his fill of taro porridge” had not spurred his courage, he would likely have parted ways there and returned alone to Kyoto.

“You may regard my solitary presence as that of a thousand men.”
“You need not concern yourself with the journey.”

When he saw the Fifth Rank’s panic, Toshihito furrowed his brows slightly and sneered.
Then summoning an attendant, he shouldered the quiver they had brought, took the black-lacquered bow from their hand, laid it across his saddle, and led the way forward on horseback.
Now that matters had reached this point, the spineless Fifth Rank had no choice but to blindly obey Toshihito’s will.
And so, with trepidation, he gazed at the desolate wilderness around him, muttering fragments of the Kannon Sutra under his breath, his red nose pressed against the saddle’s front rim as he urged his faltering horse onward, its plodding steps continuing as sluggishly as ever.

The field echoed with hoofbeats, blanketed by endless yellow reeds. Here and there, puddles lay coldly mirroring the blue sky—one might wonder whether this winter afternoon would freeze them solid just as they were. At the horizon, a stretch of mountains—perhaps because they faced away from the sun—lacked even the glimmer of lingering snow, instead forming a long, dark band tinged with purple. Yet even this was often blocked from the two attendants’ eyes by desolate clumps of withered reeds.—Then, suddenly, Toshihito turned toward the Fifth Rank and called out.

“There, a fine messenger has come.”
“I shall send word to Tsuruga.”

The Fifth Rank, not fully grasping Toshihito’s meaning, timidly gazed in the direction indicated by the bow.
It was not the sort of place where one would expect to see human figures.
Amidst wild grapevines tangled in a thicket of shrubs, a fox plodded along, its warm-hued fur basking in the slanting sunlight—but no sooner had this thought formed than the creature abruptly leapt up and bolted into the distance.
This was because Toshihito suddenly cracked his whip and spurred his horse toward it.
The Fifth Rank, forgetting himself, gave chase.
The attendants too raced after them.
For a time, the clatter of hooves against stones shattered the wilderness’s stillness until Toshihito halted his horse—already clutching the fox by its hind legs, dangling it upside down beside his saddle.
He must have chased the creature until exhaustion before pinning it beneath his mount.
The Fifth Rank, hurriedly wiping sweat from his wispy beard, finally drew his horse alongside.

“Hey, fox! Listen well.”
Toshihito hoisted the fox up before his eyes and deliberately boomed in an imposing voice:
“You! Go to Toshihito’s mansion in Tsuruga tonight and deliver this message:
‘Toshihito will now abruptly depart with a guest.
Tomorrow around the Hour of the Snake, send men to meet us near Takashima and have them bring two saddled horses.’ Don’t forget this!”

No sooner had he spoken than Toshihito swung once and hurled the fox into a distant thicket.

“Oh, it’s running! It’s running!”
“It’s running!”

The two attendants who finally caught up watched the fleeing fox's path while clapping their hands and cheering.
The beast's back, colored like fallen leaves, raced headlong through the sunset, heedless of roots and stones, onward and onward into the distance.
From where the party stood, it was visible as clearly as if they could reach out and grasp it.
In their pursuit of the fox, they unwittingly emerged onto the very spot where the wilderness formed a gentle slope that merged with the bed of a dried-up river.

“It must be a messenger from the Generous Lord.”

The Fifth Rank gazed up at the face of this rustic warrior who even commanded foxes, exuding naive reverence and admiration as though realizing it anew. As for how vast a gulf lay between himself and Toshihito—such matters he had no leisure to ponder. It was simply that the broader the scope of his existence being governed by Toshihito’s will, the more freely his own will could move within it—this alone heartened him.

――Flattery likely arises most naturally in such moments.
Even if the reader should henceforth discern something akin to a jester in the demeanor of the Fifth Rank with the red nose, they must not rashly doubt this man’s character on that account alone.

The thrown fox tumbled down the enigmatic slope, then nimbly leaped between stones in the dry riverbed with light, skittering bounds before charging headlong up the opposite slope with great vigor.
As it charged upward, the fox glanced back to see the band of samurai who had captured it still standing with their horses lined up on a distant slope.
They all appeared as small as a cluster of fingertips pressed together.
Bathed especially in the setting sun, the buckskin and roan horses stood out in the frost-laden air more distinctly than if painted.

The fox turned its head and again dashed off like the wind through the withered reeds.

―――――――――――――――――

The party arrived near Takashima around the Hour of the Snake the next day, precisely as planned. This was a modest settlement overlooking Lake Biwa, where beneath a gloomily overcast sky—unlike yesterday’s clarity—only a scattering of thatched houses lay dispersed. Between pines rooted along the shore, the lake’s gray-rippled surface stretched desolate as a mirror long neglected by polishing.—Having reached this place, Toshihito turned to address the Fifth Rank.

“Look there.”
“The retainers have come to meet us.”

Sure enough, twenty or thirty men pulling two saddled horses—some mounted, others on foot—came hurrying toward the party along the lake shore through the pines, their hunting robe sleeves fluttering in the cold wind.
When they drew near at last, those on horseback hurriedly dismounted while those on foot crouched by the roadside—all waiting respectfully for Toshihito’s arrival.

“It seems that fox indeed served as the messenger.”

“For a beast born with shape-shifting powers, performing such a task is no great matter.”

While the Fifth Rank and Toshihito were having such a conversation, the party arrived at the place where the retainers were waiting.
“Well done,” Toshihito called out.
The crouching retainers hurriedly stood up and took hold of their horses’ bridles.
Suddenly, everything became lively.

“Last night, a most extraordinary occurrence came to pass, you see.”

As the two men were dismounting and about to settle onto the spread-out hide—though not yet fully seated—a white-haired retainer clad in a cypress-bark-colored hunting robe approached Toshihito and spoke thus.
“What is it?”
Toshihito, while also offering the bamboo branches and broken baskets that the retainers had brought to the Fifth Rank, inquired magnanimously.

"Indeed it is so."
“Last night, around the Hour of the Dog (7–9 PM), the lady suddenly lost her senses.”
“I am the fox of Sakamoto.”
“Come closer and listen well, so that I may convey what the lord commanded today.” Thus she spoke.
“So when we all came before her,” my lady declared: “My lord is now about to abruptly depart with a guest.”
“‘Tomorrow around the Hour of the Snake, dispatch men to meet us near Takashima and have them bring two saddled horses.’ Thus she declared.”

“That is indeed a most extraordinary occurrence.”
The Fifth Rank scrutinized Toshihito’s face and the retainer’s face in turn, nodding in a manner calculated to satisfy them both.

“Nor was it merely a matter of her declaring it,” continued the retainer. “Her ladyship trembled violently—as if terrified—and cried out: ‘We must not be late! Should we be delayed, I shall incur my lord’s displeasure.’ She wept without ceasing as she spoke these words.”

“And then what happened?”

“After that, she retired without incident.”
“At the time of our departure as well, Her Ladyship still appeared not to have awakened.”

“How extraordinary indeed.”
When Toshihito had finished listening to the retainer’s account, he turned to the Fifth Rank and declared with evident pride.
“Even beasts serve at my command.”

“I can do naught but marvel in astonishment.”
The Fifth Rank scratched his red nose, gave a slight bow of his head, then theatrically gaped his mouth in feigned wonder.
Droplets of the wine he had just drunk clung to his mustache like dewdrops.

―――――――――――――――――

It was that night.

The Fifth Rank sat in a room of Toshihito’s mansion, absentmindedly gazing at the flame of a cut-base lamp as he passed the interminable night wide awake until dawn.
Then, one by one, memories rose in his heart—the pine-covered hills, streams, and withered fields they had crossed while laughing and conversing with Toshihito and his retainers on their way here that evening; the grasses, tree leaves, stones, and the scent of wildfire smoke—all such things.
Above all, the relieved feeling when he finally reached this mansion through the twilight mist and saw the red flames of charcoal burning in a long brazier—even that now, as he lay here, seemed like something from the distant past.
The Fifth Rank stretched his legs comfortably beneath a yellowish hunting robe padded with four or five inches of cotton and gazed blankly at his own sleeping form.

Beneath his hunting robe, he wore two layers of the thickly padded, glossy silk garments Toshihito had lent him.
This alone brought such warmth he might break into sweat at any moment.
To this was added the lingering effects of wine drunk during dinner.
Beyond the single lattice shutter at his pillow lay a vast garden glittering with frost, yet in such euphoric haze, it troubled him not at all.
Everything differed as heaven from earth compared to his modest quarters in Kyoto.
Yet despite all this, within the Fifth Rank’s heart lingered an oddly unbalanced anxiety.
First came the interminable drag of time’s passage.
Yet simultaneously arose the sense that dawn’s breaking—that moment of taro porridge—must not arrive too soon.
And when these warring feelings clashed, a restlessness born of abrupt circumstance hung chill in the air like the day’s own weather.
All conspired against him, rendering even this warmth powerless to invite sleep’s embrace.

Then, from the outer garden, someone’s loud voice reached his ears. Judging by the timbre, it seemed to be the white-haired retainer—the one who had come partway to meet them earlier that day—making some proclamation. The parched voice—perhaps amplified by the frost—pierced like a winter gale, each word striking the Fifth Rank’s very bones.

“You servants of this area, take heed.”
“By the lord’s command: By tomorrow morning’s Hour of the Hare, each person—old and young alike—is to bring one mountain yam measuring three sun in diameter and five shaku in length.”
“Do not forget—by the Hour of the Hare now.”

After what seemed like two or three repetitions of this command, the human commotion ceased at last, and the surroundings instantly reverted to their former state—a quiet winter night. In that stillness, oil sputtered in the cut-base lamp. A flame resembling crimson silk floss swayed gently. The Fifth Rank stifled a yawn and resumed his aimless musings—since they spoke of mountain yams, there could be no doubt they meant to prepare taro porridge and have it served. This thought brought back the earlier anxiety—forgotten while he focused outward—which now crept insidiously into his heart. What intensified beyond measure was his reluctance to partake of the porridge too soon—a spiteful sentiment that clung stubbornly to his contemplation’s core. Should “eating his fill of taro porridge” materialize so effortlessly, all those years of patient waiting would appear nothing but wasted effort. If possible, he wished events might unfold thus—some mishap would first render the porridge unattainable, then resolve itself so he might finally savor it after tribulation. These thoughts whirled like a spinning top within him until at last, exhausted from travel, the Fifth Rank fell into deep slumber.

The next morning, upon waking, the matter of last night's mountain yams was immediately on his mind, so the Fifth Rank first raised the lattice shutters of his room to look out. Then, without realizing it, he had overslept—it must have already been past the Hour of the Hare. Spread across four or five long straw mats in the wide courtyard, log-like objects—some two to three thousand in number—were piled mountainously high, reaching up to the diagonally jutting eaves of the cypress-bark roof. When he looked, he saw they were all mountain yams of unimaginable size—each three sun in diameter and five shaku in length.

The Fifth Rank rubbed his sleepy eyes as near-panicked astonishment struck him, leaving him dazedly surveying his surroundings. Across various spots in the wide courtyard, five or six five-koku cauldrons hung in rows from what appeared to be newly driven stakes, surrounded by dozens of young servant women in white aprons bustling about their tasks. Some stoked fires, others raked ashes, while more drew "sweet vinegar" into fresh wooden buckets to pour into the cauldrons—all part of taro porridge preparations so frantic they made his head spin. Smoke from beneath the cauldrons and steam from within merged with lingering dawn mist, shrouding the entire courtyard in a gray haze so dense one could barely discern shapes. Amid this gloom, only the crimson flames blazing beneath the cauldrons stood vivid—every sight and sound creating a clamor like a battlefield or raging inferno.

The Fifth Rank now truly grasped how these colossal mountain yams would become taro porridge within these massive cauldrons. He then contemplated how he had journeyed all the way from Kyoto to Tsuruga in Echizen solely to eat that porridge. The more he thought, the more everything turned cold and heartless. Indeed, by this moment, his once-pitiable appetite had already dwindled by half.

Then, an hour later, the Fifth Rank sat down to breakfast with Toshihito and his father-in-law Arimoto.
Before him lay a dreadful taro porridge—contained within a silver vessel of about one-tō capacity, filled to the brim like the sea.
The Fifth Rank had witnessed dozens of young men vigorously slicing through those mountain yams piled up to the eaves, deftly wielding thin blades as they pared them down from one end.
Then he had seen those servant women scurrying about in disarray, scooping them up without exception—scooping and pouring, scooping and pouring—into the five-koku cauldrons.
Finally, when not a single one of those mountain yams remained visible atop the long mats, he had seen several pillars of steam—infused with the aroma of yams and sweet vinegar—billowing up vigorously from the cauldrons into the clear morning sky.
Having witnessed this firsthand when he now faced the taro porridge in the vessel, it was perhaps only natural that he already felt full before even taking a bite.—The Fifth Rank, before the vessel, wiped the sweat from his forehead with an awkward air.

“It seems you have not yet had your fill of taro porridge, Lord Fifth Rank.”
“Please eat without restraint.”

Arimoto, his father-in-law, ordered the servant children to arrange several more silver vessels on the dining tray.
Inside each one, taro porridge was filled nearly to overflowing.
The Fifth Rank closed his eyes, his already crimson nose growing even redder, scooped about half of the taro porridge from the vessel into a large earthenware bowl, and reluctantly drank it down.

“Father says the same.”
“Truly, there’s no need for reserve.”

Toshihito pushed forward a new vessel from his side and made these remarks with a malicious grin.
The one in distress was the Fifth Rank.
To speak without reservation—he had not wanted to eat a single bowl of taro porridge from the very beginning.
Enduring it now, he had finally managed to consume only half of the vessel.
If he drank more, he would vomit before it could pass his throat; yet if he refused, it would amount to spurning the kindness of Toshihito and Arimoto all the same.
Closing his eyes once more, he drank down about a third of what remained.
He could not take another sip.

“I am most humbly grateful.”
“I have had quite sufficient.—Oh dear me, I am most humbly grateful.”

The Fifth Rank, flustered and confused, spoke these words. He appeared quite weakened, with sweat beading into droplets on his mustache and the tip of his nose—so much so that one would not think it winter—and dripping down.

“This is quite a meager appetite.”
“Our guest appears to be restraining himself!”
“You there! What are you doing?”

As Arimoto spoke, the servant children moved to ladle taro porridge from the new vessel into earthenware bowls.
The Fifth Rank waved both hands like shooing flies and plainly signaled his refusal.

“No—I have truly had my fill.
“...Pardon my impudence, but I have truly had my fill.”

Had Toshihito not abruptly pointed at the opposite eaves and cried “Look yonder” at that moment, Arimoto might have persisted in pressing more porridge upon the Fifth Rank without cease.
Fortunately, Toshihito’s voice drew all eyes toward those eaves.
Morning sunlight fell upon the cypress-bark roof’s edge.
There in that dazzling radiance sat a beast, its glossy pelt gleaming, quiet and composed.
When examined, it proved to be that very wild fox from Sakamoto—the one Toshihito had captured bare-handed on the withered-field path two days prior.

“It seems the fox has come craving taro porridge.”
“Men! Feed that creature as well!”

Toshihito’s command was carried out immediately.
The fox that had leapt down from the eaves immediately partook of the taro porridge feast in the wide courtyard.

The Fifth Rank gazed at the fox drinking taro porridge while fondly recalling his former self—the self that had not yet come to this place. That was him—the one mocked by countless samurai. Even the capital's street urchins would sneer, "What's this? This Red-Nose!" He who wandered Suzaku Avenue in faded hunting robe and hakama trousers like a masterless mastiff—pitiable, solitary he was. Yet simultaneously, he was that contented man who had guarded within himself alone the cherished desire to eat his fill of taro porridge. With relief at being spared further consumption, he felt the sweat covering his face gradually dry from the tip of his nose.

Though clear-skied, Tsuruga's morning wind pierced cold to the marrow.
The Fifth Rank frantically pressed his nose while simultaneously unleashing a thunderous sneeze toward the silver vessel.

(Taishō 5, August)