Pathway to Japanese Literature

No—you will surely dismiss it as a lie. In ages past, perhaps—but the events I will relate occurred in the enlightened era of Taishō. Moreover, they occurred here in Tokyo—a city you too know well. Step outside, and streetcars and automobiles course through the streets. Enter any building, and telephone bells chime without cease. Open a newspaper, and you find reports of union strikes and women's movements. That such an eerie incident—the sort one might encounter in a tale by Poe or Hoffmann—could transpire in some corner of this modern metropolis today is, no matter how vehemently I attest to its truth, something you would naturally find impossible to credit. Yet consider this: even if Tokyo's millions of electric lights were to incinerate every wisp of night that falls with sunset, they could never restore true daylight. By the same measure, though wireless telegraphy and aeroplanes may have subdued nature's surface, they have not charted the occult realms hidden within its depths. How then can we declare that here in Tokyo—bathed in civilization's glare—the secret forces of spirits who ordinarily haunt only our dreams do not occasionally manifest marvels worthy of Auerbach's Cellar? This is no mere matter of time and place. If you will permit me to say so, astonishing supernatural phenomena bloom about us ceaselessly like night-blooming flowers—if only you have eyes to see them.

For instance, should you take a stroll along Ginza Avenue on a late winter night, you would surely notice scraps of paper—about twenty in number—gathered in one spot upon the asphalt, swirling in eddies of wind. Were that all, there would be nothing worth mentioning—but try counting those swirling clusters. You would invariably find three spots on the left side and one on the right between Shinbashi and Kyōbashi—each near a crossroads—so this could hardly be dismissed as mere air currents. Yet observe more closely still: within every whirl lies one crimson fragment—a motion picture advertisement perhaps, or a scrap of *chiyogami* paper, or even a matchbox label—varying in form yet constant in its scarlet presence. As though commanding its pale companions, this red scrap would flutter upward first when the wind stirred. Then from faint sand-dust came a whispering voice—and the white scraps scattered about vanished into the asphalt sky. Not vanished entirely. They swept into sudden circles and streamed away like flowing water. When the wind stilled too—from what I observed—the red paper always settled first. At this point, even you could not remain free of doubt. Doubtful I certainly was. Indeed, there were two or three times I halted in the street to peer through nearby shop windows at scraps whirling endlessly within shafts of light. For in such moments, things invisible to human eyes seemed to shimmer faintly—dim yet discernible—like bats melting into twilight.

But what was strange about Tokyo’s streets was not limited to paper scraps littering Ginza Avenue. Even on late-night streetcars within the city, one occasionally encountered bizarre incidents unimaginable through ordinary reasoning. Among these oddities, what proved particularly strange was how red and blue streetcars traveling through deserted neighborhoods would come to a full stop at stations where no passengers waited. If you found this as suspicious as those earlier paper scraps, you might try verifying it yourself tonight. Among municipal lines, they said the Dōzaka and Sugamo routes saw most such occurrences—and indeed, just four or five nights prior, the red streetcar I rode had jerked to an abrupt halt at Dangozaka-shita Station on that very Dōzaka Line despite having no boarding passengers. What’s more, while gripping the bell cord, the conductor leaned halfway out toward the street and called in his routine manner: “Anyone boarding?” As I stood near his platform, I immediately peered through the window. Outside lingered only hazy moonlight filtered through thin clouds—beneath the station pillars lay emptiness, and along the broad midnight avenue flanked by shuttered townhouses stretched not a single human shadow. The moment this struck me as odd, he rang the bell and we lurched forward—yet gazing back as the station receded into darkness, I fancied glimpsing through moonbeams a dwindling figure growing smaller with distance. This might well have been my nerves deceiving me—but why would that red streetcar’s conductor hastening onward pause at an unmanned station? Nor was I alone in such experiences; three or four acquaintances reportedly shared similar encounters. One could scarcely claim every conductor suffered momentary drowsiness each time. In fact, one acquaintance had once confronted a conductor—“There’s no one here!”—to which he’d replied with bafflement: “I could’ve sworn there were many.”

If I were to enumerate others still—the smoke from the Artillery Arsenal’s chimneys flowing against the wind’s direction; the bell of Nikolai Church ringing out suddenly at midnight though no one struck it; two streetcars bearing the same number passing through Nihonbashi at dusk, one after another; thunderous cheers heard nightly within the utterly empty Kokugikan—these so-called “nocturnal aspects of nature” manifested ceaselessly throughout this bustling city of Tokyo, fluttering like beautiful moths. Therefore, the story I am about to relate was not, in truth, an incident so utterly detached from the real world—so thoroughly impossible—as you might imagine. No—now that you have come to know the secrets of Tokyo’s nights in full, you would not be so callous as to dismiss my story as nonsense. If even after listening through to the end, it still feels like the flicker of shōchū flames from Tsuruya Nanboku’s plays, then I must think the fault lay not in any falsehood within the incident itself, but rather in my own inadequate manner of telling it—so far from rubbing shoulders with the likes of Poe and Hoffmann. For this reason: a year or two prior, when the person involved in this incident sat facing me on a summer night and gave a detailed account of having encountered such wonders as these, I felt—to an unforgettable degree even now—an eerie aura of sorts gloomily enveloping us.

The man in question was the young master of a publishing house near Nihonbashi who frequented my residence, though he would usually hastily take his leave once concluding his business. However, that particular evening—as a sudden shower had fallen since dusk—he appeared to have unusually settled in, perhaps initially intending to wait out the rain. The fair-skinned young master, with thick eyebrows and a slender frame, sat formally in the faint glow of a Bon festival lantern lit on the veranda, engaging in casual conversation until well past the early hours of the night. It was during this casual conversation that he interjected, "I’ve been meaning to have you hear this at least once, Professor," and with an almost worried expression, slowly began to speak—needless to say, this marked the start of the sorceress story proper. I still vividly remember how that young master, wearing a summer haori whose shoulders resembled smudged ink stains on fine linen, sat before a plate of watermelon and began whispering in hushed tones as though fearing others might overhear. Come to think of it, another thing I cannot forget—how strangely poignant it felt—is the Bon festival lantern above his head, its ample body faintly illuminating an autumn grass pattern, beyond which the rain-cleared sky lay ominously churning with masses of black clouds.

Now, the crucial story concerns this young master named Shinzō (to avoid complications elsewhere, let us temporarily refer to him as such) and an incident that occurred in the summer of his twenty-third year, when he went to consult a deity-invoking sorceress living near Honjo Ichome at the time regarding a certain worrisome matter—this marked the very beginning of it all. One day in early June, Shinzō apparently dragged out a friend from his commercial school days—a man running a kimono shop in that neighborhood—and went together to Yohei Sushi. While having a drink there, he spilled out the worrisome matter in an unguarded monologue, whereupon this friend named Yasushi-san suddenly adopted a grave expression and earnestly urged, “Then have O-Shimabaasan take a look at it.” Upon inquiring into the details, they learned that this deity-invoking sorceress had moved from Asakusa to her current location two or three years prior and conducted both divinations and spiritual empowerments—her efficacy was such that one might think she employed fox spirits, so potent were her spiritual manifestations. “You know about it too.” “Just the other day, the retired widow from Uomasa drowned herself. —They couldn’t get the corpse to surface no matter what, but when they got a talisman from O-Shimabaasan and threw it into the river from Ichinohashi Bridge, didn’t it float up that very day?” “And they threw the talisman right at the bridge pier of Ichinohashi.” “It was just the evening high tide, but fortunately, a stone boat boatman who was working there found it.” “Well, there’s a ‘customer’—a drowned corpse—so they must’ve rushed to report it to the bridge-end police box.” “When I passed by, the police had already arrived—but peering through the crowd, there she was: the widow’s corpse they’d just pulled up, laid out under a coarse straw mat. And from beneath that mat, on the blistered soles of her feet—what do you think was there?” “That talisman was stuck perfectly diagonally.” “When he heard his friend say, ‘Even I got chills,’ Shinzō too felt a chill run down his spine—the color of the evening tide, the shape of the bridge piers, and beneath them, the figure of the widow floating there—all these things seemed to rise before his eyes at once.” But being thoroughly drunk, he said: “That sounds interesting.” “By all means, let me have you take a look,” he pressed on stubbornly. “Then I’ll take you there.” “Ever since I went to have her consult on that money matter, I’ve become quite familiar with that old woman by now.” “I’m counting on you.” — In this manner, they left Yohei Sushi with toothpicks still clenched between their teeth, then ambled off toward the deity-invoking sorceress’s abode—straw hats tilted to block the western sun breaking through the rainy season clouds, summer coats brushing shoulder to shoulder.

To explain Shinzō’s worrisome matter—among the maids employed in his household was a woman named O-Tami, who had shared a mutual affection with him for over a year. Yet after visiting her aunt’s illness last December, all communication had abruptly ceased. Shinzō wasn’t the only one alarmed—his mother, who had taken particular interest in O-Tami, grew concerned as well. She mobilized intermediaries and exhausted every connection in her search, yet O-Tami’s whereabouts remained unknown. Some claimed to have seen her working as a nurse; others spread rumors she had become a mistress. Though speculation abounded, when pressed for concrete details, none could say what had truly become of her. Shinzō first fretted, then grew angry, until finally sinking into listlessness—his dispirited state becoming fresh cause for worry in his mother, who had vaguely sensed their relationship. She sent him to the theater. She recommended hot spring cures. Or made him serve as his father’s proxy at business banquets—straining through such means to forcibly lift his despondent mood. Thus that day too, under pretext of inspecting Honjo’s shops, his mother practically ordered him out for diversion—even stuffing paper bills into his wallet as spending money. Seizing on having a childhood friend in Higashi-Ryōgoku, he dragged out this Yasushi-san and went to nearby Yohei Sushi for drinks—their first outing together in ages.

Given these circumstances, even as he set out for O-Shimabaasan’s abode, there must have been a kernel of genuine resolve in the depths of Shinzō’s slightly drunken belly. Turning left at the first bridge’s base and walking about a block along the sparsely populated Tatekawa riverbank toward the second bridge, they found a soot-blackened latticed house with bamboo-grilled windows wedged between a plasterer’s shop and a hardware store—when told this was the abode of that deity-invoking sorceress, an eerie conviction that his and O-Tami’s fates might hinge entirely on this mysterious O-Shimabaasan’s pronouncements rose within him first, completely dispelling what remained of his earlier drunkenness. Moreover, O-Shimabaasan’s house itself was a single-story structure with perilously low eaves—depressing even at first glance—and so unnervingly damp that the moss clinging to its rain gutter stones, now vividly green from the recent weather, seemed fertile enough to sprout fungi. Moreover, at the boundary with the neighboring hardware store stood a willow tree with a trunk thicker than a man could embrace, its branches draped so heavily they shrouded even the windows, casting dark shadows across the roof tiles—so that beyond the single layer of shoji screens, there lingered a sinisterly gloomy atmosphere thick with what seemed like unspeakable secrets, or so it is said.

However, Yasushi remained utterly unfazed. Stopping before the bamboo-lattice window, he turned back to Shinzō and said, “Well then, shall we go meet the old hag?” “But don’t you go getting startled now,” he added with what seemed a belated warning. Shinzō naturally scoffed, answering dismissively, “I’m no child. Who’d fear some old woman?” Yet Yasushi returned his retort with a sly-eyed look and countered, “What? The crone herself won’t startle you—but there’s a beauty here you’d never expect.” “That’s why I gave you that warning.” Even as he spoke these words, he was already reaching for the lattice door. “Coming through!” he called out in a hearty voice. Immediately came a muffled “Yes,” and quietly sliding open the shoji before kneeling at the entrance threshold was a pitiful girl of seventeen or eighteen. Indeed, given this, it’s no wonder Yasushi-san had warned, “Don’t be startled.” Her fair-skinned face was slender with a straight nose and beautifully defined hairline, eyes especially dewy-clear.—Yet somewhere in those features showed a painful thinness, and even the figured satin obi scattered with carnations seemed to strain against the bold indigo kasuri summer kimono at her chest, or so it was said. When Yasushi saw the girl’s face, he took off his straw hat and asked, “Where’s Mother?” The girl made a helpless face and answered with flushed cheeks, as though she herself had done something wrong: “I’m afraid she has gone out and is not here.” But when she suddenly cast her cool eyes toward the lattice door outside, her complexion changed abruptly. “Oh!” she faintly cried out and tried to spring up—! Given the nature of the place, Yasushi reportedly thought perhaps a street thug had struck, but when he frantically turned to look behind him, Shinzō—who had been standing there in the sunset until moments before—was nowhere to be seen. Before he could even process this second shock, the deity-invoking sorceress’s daughter clung to Yasushi’s sleeve. Panting, her voice strained with desperation, she pleaded: “You—please tell the person you brought. He must never come near this area again.” “Otherwise... something that will endanger his very life will happen.” she uttered in fragmented gasps. Yasushi-san stood there as if engulfed in smoke, utterly dumbfounded for a while, but since he had been entrusted with delivering the message, he managed to say, “All right.” “I’ll make sure to tell him,” he said, then seemed utterly flustered. Still dangling his straw hat, he suddenly bolted outside and chased after Shinzō, dashing about half a block away.

About half a block away—precisely before a desolate stone riverbank where nothing existed but a telephone pole whose upper half alone was dyed in western sunlight—there stood Shinzō, dejectedly clasping the sleeves of his summer coat as he gazed at his feet. But when Yasushi finally caught up, still panting, he exclaimed, “This is no joke! The one who told you not to be startled—you can’t imagine how you startled me! Just what were you—” he began, when Shinzō—walking with restless steps toward Hitotsume Bridge—answered excitedly: “I know. That was O-Tami.” Yasushi must have been shocked a third time—how could he not? After all, the very woman whose whereabouts they sought had turned out to be O-Shimabaasan’s daughter. Yet burdened with delivering O-Tami’s grave warning, he couldn’t afford mere astonishment. No sooner had he donned his straw hat than he gushed out her words verbatim: “Never come near here again.” Shinzō listened quietly before furrowing his brows. “I understand her telling me not to come,” he said dismissively, “but claiming my life’s at risk? That’s not mysterious—it’s absurd.” Yet since Yasushi had fled without questioning the reason, he could offer only hollow reassurances. At this, Shinzō fell utterly silent—transformed—and quickened his pace. But upon reaching Yohei Sushi’s banner again, he suddenly turned: “Still,” he murmured regretfully, “I’m glad I saw her.” Yasushi’s offhand reply—“Then let’s visit again”—though teasing, would later fuel the flames of Shinzō’s longing. Soon parting ways, Shinzō doubled back to Bōzu Shamo near Ekōin, killing time with two sake bottles until nightfall. Then—just as darkness swallowed the day—he surged forth once more, breath reeking of alcohol, summer coat sleeves flung back, charging toward O-Tami’s dwelling: that house of the deity-invoking sorceress.

It was a starless, pitch-black night—the ground exuded a stifling dampness yet was occasionally pierced by a chill wind—the sort of weather common during the rainy season. Shinzō burned with suppressed fury. Resolved not to leave without hearing O-Tami’s true feelings, he ignored the ominous house—its silhouette dominated by a willow towering against an ink-spilled sky, bamboo-lattice windows glowing beneath—and violently flung open the lattice door with a clatter. Planting himself in the narrow earthen entryway, he barked a single “Good evening!” The voice alone must have told her who stood there. Her gentle reply quivered momentarily before the shoji slid open quietly, revealing O-Tami’s gaunt figure kneeling at the threshold—bathed in electric light from the adjoining room—appearing so desolate one might think she still wept. But Shinzō, thoroughly drunk from the outset, kept his straw hat tilted back like Amida’s halo as he glared down at her. “Well,” he demanded brusquely, “is Mother home?” “There’s something I want examined—that’s why I’ve come. Will you look at it? What say you?” “Announce me,” he snapped with feigned curtness.—How this must have agonized her! O-Tami remained kneeling, shoulders slumped as if ready to vanish, managing only a faint “Yes” before seeming to choke back tears. But as Shinzō—exhaling alcohol-tinged breath like prismatic mist—opened his mouth to repeat “Announce me,” a toad-like croak sounded from beyond the sliding screen: “Who’s there at my threshold? “Come through to the parlor,” came O-Shimabaasan’s nasal, enfeebled voice. That one’s fierce indeed.

The instigator who had concealed O-Tami. First came dealing with this one—such was his bluster—so Shinzō briskly shed his summer coat upon entering and, leaving his straw hat in O-Tami’s instinctively grasping hands, strode defiantly into the next room. But pitiful remained O-Tami—pressed flush against the sliding door’s frame, making no move to tend to the abandoned coat or hat, her tear-bright eyes fixed upward at the ceiling as slender hands clasped tight to her chest, appearing to pour frantic concentration into some silent prayer.

Now having entered the adjoining room, Shinzō unceremoniously spread a cushion beneath his knees and surveyed his surroundings with arrogant disregard. The eight-tatami space proved as shabby as imagined—ceilings and pillars all stained soot-black—yet directly ahead lay a shallow six-shaku alcove. Before a hanging scroll inscribed "Basara Daijin" stood arrayed one sacred mirror, a pair of ceremonial sake flasks, and three or four small paper streamers cut from red, blue, and yellow paper, all arranged with reverence. Beyond the veranda to the left flowed none other than the Tatekawa River. Perhaps it was his imagination, but through the tightly closed shoji screens came the faint sound of water. When he sought the crucial figure, there beneath a cabinet—to the right of the alcove—where gift boxes, soda bottles, sugar sacks, and egg crates stood lined in rows, sat O-Shimabaasan: a large-framed woman with bobbed hair, a low nose, and wide mouth, her face bloated to bluish pallor. She had slipped the collar of her black unlined kimono off her shoulders, eyes with sparse lashes tightly shut, fingers swollen like waterlogged roots clasped together as she sprawled across the tatami like some goblin-being. It had been noted earlier that this crone’s voice croaked like a toad’s, but seeing her seated there now—a monstrous toad beyond ordinary toads, masquerading in human form as if poised to spew venom—even Shinzō reportedly felt an ominous sensation so intense that the electric light above his head seemed to dim.

Of course, Shinzō had steeled himself thoroughly for precisely such provocations. “Then allow me to request your divination,” he declared flatly. “Concerning a marriage proposal.” —Whether she failed to hear his words or not, O-Shimabaasan finally cracked open her bleary eyes, cupping one hand to her ear. “A marriage proposal of what?” she repeated in the same blurred voice before snorting derisively from the outset: “You crave a woman.” Shinzō restrained his simmering frustration and retorted, “That’s precisely why I’m asking you to perform the divination.” “Otherwise, who’d ever—” he retorted with uncharacteristic bravado, then snorted derisively in return. Yet the old woman remained unperturbed. Moving the hand cupped to her ear like a bat’s wing, she cut off Shinzō’s words with a derisive snort: “No need for such anger. A sharp tongue is this old one’s habit.” But even so, she finally shifted her tone and inquired with feigned gravity, “Her age?” “The man is twenty-three—Year of the Rooster.” “And the woman?” “Seventeen.” “Year of the Rabbit it is.” “Birth month—” “Enough.” “The age alone suffices.” O-Shimabaasan said this while bending the fingers on her knee two or three times as though counting stars, then raised her sagging eyelids and fixed Shinzō with a bulging-eyed glare. “It shan’t be. It shan’t be. “Great Misfortune compounded!” she first declared with theatrical menace, then muttered as if to herself: “Should this bond be forged—whether it be you or the woman—one of you shall surely perish.” Thus did she pronounce her verdict. It was Shinzō who flared up, for he had discerned that the one behind the life-threatening warning must be this old woman’s machinations, and he could no longer contain himself. He readjusted his knees with a scrape against the tatami, scratching at his still liquor-fumed stubble as he declared with escalating bravado: “Great Misfortune—splendid! When a man’s fallen once, dying’s a trifle before breakfast. Let there be fire’s trial, steel’s trial, water’s trial—only then does love’s glory bloom, you should reckon!” Then the old woman narrowed her bleary eyes once more, mumbling with thick lips: “But then—what of the woman whose life was ruined by a man?” “Come now—the man whose life was ruined by a woman would weep.” “He’d roar indeed,” she said in a mocking voice. “Just try laying a single finger on O-Tami—” With combative energy, Shinzō glared at the old woman as he declared head-on, “A woman has a man behind her.” Unclasping her hands all the while, the other party smirked slyly with cheeks bearing an oily sheen before retorting mockingly, “Then what of the man?” Shinzō later recounted that he’d felt an involuntary shiver at that moment—and no wonder, for it was as though the old woman had served him what amounted to a formal challenge. The eeriness of it was undeniable.

And after delivering this retort, when O-Shimabaasan observed Shinzō’s flinching expression, she yanked down the collar of her black unlined kimono and declared, “However much you may struggle, human strength has its natural bounds—mark my words.” “Cease your futile struggle,” she cooed in a cat-like voice, then suddenly widened her large eye to ghastly white once more. “There—the proof lies before your eyes.” “Can’t you hear that sigh?” she whispered with grave urgency, pressing both hands to her ears this time. Shinzō involuntarily stiffened and strained his ears, but beyond the faint presence of O-Tami concealed behind a single sliding screen, there was nothing else to be heard. Then the old woman’s eyes bulged even wider. “Can’t you hear it? “The sighs of a young fool like you clinging to those riverbank stones?” O-Shimabaasan croaked, her shadow swelling against the rear chest of drawers as she inched forward on her knees. The stench of decay peculiar to old women struck Shinzō’s nostrils—and in that instant, every object warped. The shoji screens, sliding doors, ceremonial sake flasks, sacred mirror, chest, and zabuton cushions all twisted into grotesque forms within the thickening miasma. “That youth—like you—blinded by lustful hearts dares defy Basara Daijin whom this old one serves! Thus shall divine wrath strike swift—thus shall they perish ere a blink’s span—” “A fine example you’ll make.” “Hearken well!” The voice assaulted Shinzō’s ears from all directions like the buzzing of countless flies. In that instant, a clamorous splash—of someone plunging into the Tatekawa River beyond the shoji screens—shattered the evening gloom. Shinzō, his boldness shattered by this, could no longer endure staying there even five minutes. Leaving his parting words half-finished as if forgetting even weeping O-Tami, he staggered out of O-Shimabaasan’s house.

Having returned to his Nihonbashi home, when Shinzō opened the newspaper first thing the next morning, there it was—sure enough, a drowning suicide had occurred in the Tatekawa River the previous night. Moreover, it was the son of a cooper from Kamezawa-chō—the cause being a broken heart, and the place where he had jumped in was reported as the stone embankment between the first and second bridges. That must have taken a toll on his nerves. Shinzō suddenly developed a fever and remained bedridden for about three days. Even while bedridden, what weighed on his mind was O-Tami. Of course, looking back now, it wasn’t that she had changed her heart—her sudden request for leave, her telling him never to return to this neighborhood—all were undoubtedly O-Shimabaasan’s schemes. He felt ashamed for having doubted O-Tami as if it were only now—and yet he found it utterly perplexing why O-Shimabaasan, who bore him no grudge, would orchestrate such machinations. Moreover, given how that demonic old woman could make a person drown themselves and watch impassively, if O-Tami remained with her, she would likely soon be stripped naked, bound coil upon coil to that ancient pillar in the room where Basara Daijin was enshrined, and subjected to pine-needle smoke torture at the very least. Once this thought took hold, Shinzō found himself unable to remain quietly in bed. On the fourth day, no sooner had he left his sickbed than he resolved to seek Yasushi-san’s counsel—but just then, a telephone call arrived from Yasushi-san himself. Moreover, the call concerned none other than O-Tami—for he learned that late last night, she had come to Yasushi-san’s place. She absolutely wished to meet with the Young Master once to discuss everything in full; however, since she could hardly call the shop where she had previously worked, she wanted to ask him to relay a message—such was her request. “I want to see her just as much,” said Shinzō, nearly clinging to the receiver. “Where does she want to meet?” he pressed desperately. The eloquent Yasushi-san began deliberately: “Well—for such a timid woman to visit my place after meeting me only twice or thrice, she must be truly at her wit’s end.” “Once that struck me, I felt thoroughly cornered,” he continued. “I considered reserving a meeting room at once—but upon hearing the old woman planned to visit the bathhouse—the riverside seemed too far. With no other suitable place available, I offered to vacate my second floor.” He paused. “But she kept insisting it was too imposing or some such excuse.” “Considering her hesitation natural,” Yasushi added, “I asked if you had any place in mind—but she suddenly blushed.” “In a small voice,” he explained, “she asked if the Young Master could come to the nearby stone embankment tomorrow evening.” “‘An open-air rendezvous leaves no evidence of sin,’” he concluded, stifling a laugh. But Shinzō was in no mood for humor. “So the stone embankment it is,” he pressed impatiently for confirmation. With no alternative, Yasushi had settled on that arrangement—the time between six and seven o’clock—requesting Shinzō visit him afterward. Shinzō agreed gratefully and hung up—but from that moment until sunset proved interminable. He calculated on the abacus. He assisted with accounts. He handled midyear gift arrangements. Between tasks, he glared impatiently at the clock above the counter lattice.

After enduring such torment, Shinzō finally slipped out of the shop just before five o'clock, while the western sun still blazed fiercely. But then occurred a peculiar incident: as he stepped lightly onto the asphalt thoroughfare—wearing the hiyori geta an apprentice had dutifully laid out, past the newly erected signboard for publications still wafting the scent of half-dry paint—two butterflies grazed the brim of his straw hat and flew past. They must be what are called black swallowtails. Butterflies with black wings bearing an eerie bluish sheen. Of course at that moment he paid no particular heed. Briefly gazing upward at the two butterflies being churned into the high sunset sky until they disappeared from view, he boarded a conveniently passing Ueno-bound streetcar. But when he transferred at Sudachō and alighted before Kokugikan Hall, fluttering about his straw hat were again two black swallowtails. Yet he never imagined butterflies could have trailed him from Nihonbashi to this place. Paying no mind even now, reasoning there was still time before the appointed hour, he turned at the first corner ahead where he found a tidy soba shop bearing a sign marked "Yabu," settling in as they prepared his order. Today he acted with utmost caution—not touching a single drop of sake—and after forcing down one bowl of cold soba to quell the odd tightness in his chest, he slipped out through the shop curtain as daylight faded from the streets like a fugitive evading prying eyes. Then upon stepping outside came what fluttered up straight before his nose—as if pursuing him—once more a pair of black swallowtails, their velvet wings dusted with blue powder. At that moment—whether trick of perception or not—the form of the butterfly that had brushed his forehead seemed to carve a crow-sized void in the coldly clear evening air. Startled into stillness, he watched them abruptly shrink back to size before intertwining and dissolving into the sky’s hue. Overwhelmed by these repeated eerie visitations, even Shinzō found his courage wavering; it was said he hesitated, fearing that standing at that accursed Ishikagashi embankment might tempt him toward self-destruction. Yet precisely because this heightened his anxiety for O-Tami—she who would come tonight—Shinzō swiftly regained resolve. Without glancing sideways he hurried straight through Ekoin-mae where dusk-cloaked figures now flickered bat-like toward their rendezvous. But when he rushed there once more, from above the embankment lined with Mikage stone guardian lion-dogs floated two butterflies—their bluish wings tangling momentarily—only to scatter in the wind and vanish at a utility pole’s base where faint twilight lingered.

Therefore, even as he lingered before the Ishikagashi stone embankment waiting for O-Tami to arrive, Shinzō could not remain calm. Adjusting his straw hat, checking the watch hidden in his sleeve—the hour or so he spent waiting tormented him even more excruciatingly than when he had been behind the counter lattice earlier. But when O-Tami still failed to appear no matter how long he waited, Shinzō found himself leaving the Ishikagashi embankment and walking about half a block toward O-Shimabaasan's house. There on his right stood a bathhouse, its signboard painted with a large peach fruit above the Chinese-style characters proclaiming “Cure-All Peach Leaf Bath.” He suspected this bathhouse—the one O-Tami had claimed as her pretext for leaving home—might be the very place. And just as he did so, the split curtain of the women’s bath was lifted, and emerging into the twilight street was none other than O-Tami herself. Her attire remained unchanged from before—a carnation-patterned merino obi over an indigo-dyed kasuri summer kimono—but tonight, fresh from the bath, her complexion glowed beautifully, and the ginkgo-leaf-shaped sidelocks at her temples shone so lustrously with comb marks that they seemed still damp. Holding a damp washcloth and soapbox gently to her chest as though cradling them, she cast anxious glances to either side of the street—perhaps fearful of something—but must have soon spotted Shinzō’s figure. She smiled with eyes that feigned ignorance of having noticed him and briskly approached the man. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said with apparent unease. “Oh, I haven’t been waiting long at all.” “More importantly, you managed to get out.” Shinzō started walking slowly back toward the stone embankment from which they had come with O-Tami as he said this, but she remained unsettled, anxiously glancing back again and again. “What’s wrong?” “You look as if you’re being pursued or something,” he teased deliberately. At this, O-Tami flushed crimson and replied with lingering unease: “Oh my—here I am not even properly thanking you for going out of your way to come. Truly… it was so kind of you to come.” Thereupon Shinzō, now concerned as well, asked various detailed questions during their walk to that stone embankment, but O-Tami merely let slip a pained smile: “Just imagine if we’re discovered here.” “Not only myself—even you would face unspeakable horrors if we’re found.” That was all the response she gave. By then, they had nearly reached the appointed stone embankment when O-Tami cast her eyes toward the Mikage stone guardian lion-dogs crouching in the dimness. Letting out a sigh that seemed to signal relief, she descended the slope beneath them toward the riverbank—where several Nezugawa stones lay stacked just as they had been unloaded from boats—and finally stopped there. Timidly following her into the stone embankment, Shinzō took shelter behind the guardian lion-dogs and, grateful to escape notice from passersby, casually settled onto the evening-dampened Nezugawa stones. “What exactly is this about my life being at risk? These horrors I’ll face—explain it properly,” he pressed again, demanding the answer she’d earlier withheld. Then O-Tami gazed for a while across the Tatekawa River’s waters—dark blue-black as they soaked the stone embankment—appearing to murmur a silent prayer. At last, she turned her eyes back to Shinzō and smiled brightly for the first time. “Now that we’ve come this far,” she whispered, “we’re safe.” Shinzō made a look of utter bewilderment and, without a word, stared back at O-Tami’s face. Then, as O-Tami sat down beside Shinzō and began whispering intermittently, it became clear that depending on time and circumstance, the two were facing a fearsome enemy who could very well take their lives.

Now, that O-Shimabaasan was generally regarded as her mother, but in truth, she was apparently a distant aunt, and during O-Tami’s parents’ lifetime, they had not even associated with her. According to O-Tami’s father—a hereditary shrine carpenter—“That old hag isn’t human. If you don’t believe me, look at your flank. Ain’t there fish scales growin’ there?” he’d say, so that even if he encountered O-Shimabaasan on the street, he’d immediately perform rituals like striking sparks or scattering salt as if warding off impurity. However, not long after her father’s death, a certain sickly orphan girl—who was O-Tami’s childhood friend and her mother’s niece—became O-Shimabaasan’s foster daughter, so naturally, interactions resembling those between relatives began between O-Tami’s household and that old woman’s home. However, even this lasted only a mere year or two, for when O-Tami lost her mother and had no siblings to care for her, she had to enter service at Shinzō’s house in Nihonbashi before completing the hundred-day mourning period—and from that point on, her dealings with O-Shimabaasan ceased entirely. As for why O-Tami came to frequent that old woman’s place again—we shall save that story for later.

Now, as for O-Shimabaasan’s origins—though one might as well ask her deceased father about such matters—O-Tami knew nothing save that she had heard from her mother or someone else how the old woman had long served as a spirit-summoning shrine maiden. However, since O-Tami had come to know of it, it was said that O-Shimabaasan had been conducting spiritual empowerments and divinations by harnessing the power of that suspicious entity called Basara no Ōkami. This so-called Great Deity of Basara was, much like O-Shimabaasan herself, a god of utterly unknown origins—there were all manner of rumors, some claiming it was a tengu, others a fox—but to O-Tami, the priest of her tutelary Tenmangu Shrine was undoubtedly something from the water realm. Perhaps because of this, every night when the clock struck two, O-Shimabaasan would climb down the ladder from the rear veranda and immerse herself in the Tatekawa River, submerging completely up to her head for over thirty minutes—though in this season’s mild weather it might not trouble her much, but even in midwinter she would enter the water wearing only a loincloth, wading through sleet that fell thick as rice flour like some human-faced otter with a splash. Once, when O-Tami—worried—opened the storm shutters with a lamp in hand and peered into the river, all that remained on the opposite bank was snow lingering whitely on Namizo’s roof—against which the black water appeared all the darker—and there floated just the old woman’s bobbed head, adrift like a floating nest. On the other hand, while effective for both blessings and curses—the old woman’s rituals might have seemed solely benevolent at first glance—there were also many who paid her to curse parents, husbands, brothers and such to death. In fact, it was said that even the man who recently threw himself from this stone embankment had been made to abandon his life effortlessly by that old woman at the request of a certain rice merchant owner infatuated with a Yanagibashi geisha. But whatever secret reason there might be, in places like this Ishikagashi stone embankment—where even one person had been cursed to death—not even O-Shimabaasan’s incantations could harm those nearby. Moreover, whatever transpired here seemed to evade even the sorceress’s clairvoyant gaze. That was precisely why O-Tami had deliberately summoned Shinzō to this Ishikagashi stone embankment.

Now, as for why O-Shimabaasan interfered so vehemently with O-Tami and Shinzō's romance—it stemmed from a certain stockbroker who had been visiting since around this spring to consult on market fluctuations. This man, having taken notice of O-Tami's beauty, lured the old woman with the bait of a large sum, ultimately making her promise to deliver the girl as his mistress. If that were all, it might have been settled with money, but here there was another mysterious hitch—were she to let go of O-Tami, the sorceress would become unable to perform her invocations or divinations. The reason being that whenever O-Shimabaasan set about her work, she would first invoke the Great Deity of Basara into O-Tami’s body and receive each instruction through the mouth of O-Tami, now possessed by the deity. One might think it unnecessary—that the old woman herself could simply become divinely possessed instead. However, those who enter such ambiguous states of ecstasy, straddling dream and reality, though granted access to hidden realms during their trance, forget everything completely upon awakening. Thus, it was said she had no choice but to invoke the deity into O-Tami and receive its words through her. Given these circumstances, one must first acknowledge that the old woman’s refusal to release O-Tami was only natural. However, this very dependency became the stockbroker's leverage—for in taking O-Tami as his mistress, O-Shimabaasan would inevitably follow. Thus he schemed to have her divine market trends, aiming through this arrangement to seize financial dominance—a gambit fueled by equal parts lust and greed.

But if one were in O-Tami’s position—even if what was said occurred in a dreamlike trance—O-Shimabaasan’s commission of misdeeds was carried out entirely according to her own commands; so unless one lacked a conscience, being used as such a tool must have been utterly terrifying. Now that I mention it, the foster daughter of O-Shimabaasan previously discussed had been taken in precisely to be used for this role, her already frail constitution growing increasingly sickly, until finally—tormented by guilt—she hanged herself while the old woman slept. The time when O-Tami took leave from Shinzō’s household coincided with this foster daughter’s death. Pitifully, there had been a single farewell letter addressed by the newly deceased—O-Tami’s childhood friend—to O-Tami herself. Seizing upon this, the old woman likely already intended to install O-Tami as her replacement. Having successfully used that as a pretext to make her take leave and lured her to her current residence, the old woman delivered her threat with a fierce look: "Even if I kill you, I won’t send you back to your master." Of course, O-Tami—who had made a firm promise with Shinzō—had apparently intended to flee back home that very night, but the old woman must have been on guard. Although she repeatedly peeked through the lattice door at the entrance, there was invariably a snake coiled in a large spiral outside, so she could not muster the courage to take a single step out—or so it was recounted. After that, time and again she would seize opportunities to attempt escape, but similar uncanny phenomena would always occur, making it utterly impossible to achieve her true intent. So nowadays, having no choice but to resign herself to it all as fate, she had tearfully come to obey O-Shimabaasan’s every command.

However, ever since Shinzō had come here recently and their relationship had been discovered, that usually cruel old woman spared no effort in tormenting O-Tami. Not only did she strike and pinch her, but when late night came, she would employ sinister methods—suspending both her arms midair, coiling snakes around her neck—subjecting her to horrors that made one’s hair stand on end just to hear of them. But even more excruciating than that were the moments during lulls in this torture when the old woman would leer with a sinister grin and venomously threaten that unless she relinquished her resolve, she would never hand her over to another—even if it meant shortening Shinzō’s life. With matters having reached this point, O-Tami found herself in dire straits. She who had until now resolved to accept everything as fate now feared that should something irreversible befall Shinzō—and so she finally resolved to confess the entire situation to the man. But even this—after Shinzō had heard all the details—only made him seem to both loathe and despise her as a woman capable of such horrors. Thus by the time she finally rushed to Yasushi-san’s place, O-Tami had wavered so profoundly it defied measure.

When O-Tami finished speaking thus, she lifted her pallid face as usual and, staring fixedly into Shinzō’s eyes, began: “Given this karmic fate of mine, no matter how painful or sorrowful it becomes, I must resign myself to the past when nothing had happened and stay like this—” But seeming unable to endure further, she clung to the man’s knees and bit her sleeve as she burst into tears. It was Shinzō who found himself at a loss. For a time, he merely stroked O-Tami’s back, alternating between scolding and encouraging her—but when it came to confronting O-Shimabaasan and determining how they might safely fulfill their love, one regrettably had to admit there was no prospect of success. But of course, this was no time to show weakness—especially for O-Tami’s sake—so forcing a cheerful voice, he said, “There’s no need to worry so much.” “Given time, we’ll surely find some solution,” he offered as temporary solace. At this, O-Tami finally managed to stop her tears and pulled away from Shinzō’s knee, yet her voice still quivered as she said, “If it were a long time, perhaps something could be done… but the day after tomorrow night, Grandmother says she will invoke the deity again.” “If I were to say even the slightest thing at that moment—” she said helplessly. At this, Shinzō struck his chest twice, and even his hard-won feigned vigor was utterly crushed. Speaking of the day after tomorrow—if we don’t devise some plan within today and tomorrow, starting with myself and even O-Tami will sink into the depths of irreparable misfortune. But how could he possibly apprehend and subdue that sinister crone in just two days? Even if one were to report it to the police, the power of the law holds no sway over crimes committed in the netherworld. That said, society’s judgment would of course dismiss O-Shimabaasan’s wicked deeds as nothing but laughable superstition, leaving them uninvestigated. When he thought this, Shinzō could do nothing but cross his arms and stare blankly, as if realizing it anew. After this agonizing silence had persisted for some time, O-Tami raised her tear-filled eyes and gazed at the twilight sky where faint stars were beginning to shine. “I’d rather die,” she murmured in a voice barely audible. Then, as if frightened by some unseen presence, she timidly glanced around before adding like someone completely drained of spirit: “If it grows too late, Grandmother will scold me again. I should return now.” Now that you mention it, it must indeed have been thirty minutes since we came here. The dusk, together with the tide’s edge, enveloped the two of them. Across the riverbank, the piles of firewood and the boat moored beneath vanished into a hazy monochrome, while only the waters of the Tatekawa River glowed pale white, undulating like the belly of a great fish. Shinzō held O-Tami’s shoulders and gently pressed his lips to hers before saying, “In any case, come back here tomorrow evening.” “I’ll do my utmost to devise a plan by then,” he said with forced vigor. O-Tami silently nodded with sorrow as she gently wiped the tear stains from her cheeks with a damp cloth. But when she rose from the Sobugawa stone and started to walk with the utterly dejected Shinzō toward the lonely street beneath the shadowy komainu statues, fresh tears must have suddenly welled up once more. Showing the nape of her neck that looked beautiful even in the dark, she hung her head plaintively and said faintly once more: “Ah, I’d rather die.”

And then, at that very moment. Earlier, two black butterflies had vanished—and there at the base of that familiar utility pole, hadn't a single large human eye materialized faintly? It was an eyelashless eye—as if veiled by a pale blue membrane—with clouded pupils that seemed to gaze nowhere in particular, its size easily exceeding three shaku. At first, it emerged suddenly like a water bubble, then came to rest hazily, floating slightly above the ground—but instantly, its thick, soot-black pupil shifted diagonally toward the corner of its eye. What made it all the more uncanny was how this large eye, though hazy and indistinct as it blended into the darkness flowing through the street, appeared to contain an indescribable glint of malice. Shinzō instinctively clenched his fist and, shielding O-Tami’s body, stared desperately at this apparition—or so it was recounted. In that moment, it must have felt as though wind rushed into every pore of his body—a chill ran down his spine so intensely he could scarcely breathe. No matter how he tried to make a sound, his tongue wouldn’t move—or so it was recounted. However, even that eye—though for a time it gathered intense malice in its pupil and seemed to stare back—soon began to fade. In the blink of an eye, its form grew faint until finally, an eyelid like a seashell fell away, leaving only the utility pole behind with no trace of anything suspicious remaining. Yet something resembling those black swallowtail butterflies had fluttered up—though perhaps it might have been a bat skimming the ground after all. Afterward, Shinzō and O-Tami—their faces drained of color as though roused from some foul dream—exchanged dazed looks. Yet no sooner had they glimpsed the terrible resolve shining in each other's eyes than their hands clasped tight of their own accord, their bodies trembling violently—or so it was recounted.

About thirty minutes later, Shinzō—his eyes still wild—sat in the well-ventilated back room facing Yasushi-san, whispering in hushed tones about the various strange occurrences they had encountered that night. The matters of the two black swallowtail butterflies, O-Shimabaasan’s secret, and the illusion of the large eye—all things that would strike modern youths as sheer absurdity—were met by Yasushi-san, who had long understood that old woman’s sinister curse power, without the slightest hint of doubt. He listened with bated breath while offering ice cream. “When that large eye disappeared, O-Tami turned deathly pale and said, ‘What shall we do? Grandmother already knows we met there.’” “But I puffed up my chest and declared, ‘Now that it’s come to this, it’s as if war has broken out between us and that hag. Whether she knows or not, who cares?’” “The trouble is, as I just mentioned, I’ve made a promise to meet O-Tami again tomorrow at that Ishigawagishi Riverbank.” “But if tonight’s meeting has been discovered by that hag, she probably won’t let O-Tami go and won’t allow her to come out tomorrow.” “So even if there were a brilliant plan to rescue O-Tami from under that hag’s claws—and what’s more, even if that plan were devised by tomorrow—” “If I can’t meet O-Tami tomorrow night, all our plans will come to nothing.” “When I thought that, I felt as though even the gods and buddhas had abandoned me.” “Even after parting from O-Tami and coming here—no, there—I felt as though my feet weren’t touching the ground.” Having finished recounting all these details, Shinzō—as if suddenly remembering—fanned himself with an uchiwa while anxiously peering at Yasushi-san’s face. However, Yasushi-san, surprisingly unshaken, spent some time simply watching the windwheel plant spinning in the breeze beneath the eaves. When at last he shifted his gaze to Shinzō, he nonetheless furrowed his brow slightly and said, “In short, to achieve your objective, there are three obstacles to overcome.” “First, you must safely—yes, safely—wrest O-Tami-san away from O-Shimabaasan’s grasp.” “Second, you must carry this out without fail by the day after tomorrow.” “Then, wanting to meet O-Tami-san by tomorrow to discuss the execution details—that would be the third obstacle.” “So this third obstacle—” “If we can just overcome the first and second obstacles, I think everything else will fall into place,” he said in a tone that seemed confident. Shinzō, still wearing a gloomy expression, asked suspiciously, “Why?” Then Yasushi-san, with an infuriatingly composed expression, said, “There’s no trick to it. “If you can’t meet—” he began, then abruptly looked around before continuing, “Hmm—better keep this under wraps until the crucial moment.” “From what you’ve told me, it seems that hag has cast an elaborate net around you. It would be wise not to say anything careless.”

“Actually, I don’t think the first and second obstacles are impossible to overcome, but—” “Well, well—just leave everything to me.” “Anyway, tonight you should drink some beer and go build up your courage,” he concluded, masking his words with a carefree laugh. Shinzō naturally found this both frustrating and infuriating, but once the beer drinking began, something occurred that made him realize Yasushi-san’s caution had indeed been warranted. The reason was this: After awkward small talk had begun between them, Yasushi-san suddenly noticed that the cup on Shinzō’s tray—alongside the dish of smoked salmon—still sat untouched, filled to the brim with flat black beer whose foam had completely dissipated. It was at this moment that Yasushi-san grabbed the base of the beer cask—still dripping with condensation—and urged his companion, “Come now, let’s liven things up a bit and drink.” As Shinzō absentmindedly lifted the cup and was about to gulp it down in one go, the smoothly gleaming surface of the black beer—forming a circle roughly two sun in diameter—reflected the ceiling lamp and reed door behind him. Then, for an instant, an unfamiliar human face appeared within it. No—to put it more precisely, it was merely an unfamiliar face—one couldn’t even be certain whether it was human. Depending on how one perceived it, it could be thought of as a bird, a beast, or even a snake or frog. Rather than a full face, it was more like a fragment—particularly the area from eyes to nose—that cast a distinct shadow by blocking the lamplight, as if peering into the cup from over Shinzō’s shoulder. Though this makes it sound like a prolonged event, as mentioned before, it lasted but an instant—the eye of something indistinct peered briefly at Shinzō from within the two-sun-diameter circle of black beer, then vanished without a trace. Shinzō put down the cup he was about to drink from and glanced around restlessly. Yet the electric light remained just as bright, the windwheel plant beneath the eaves continued spinning in the breeze as always, and within this cool back room, there was still no sign of anything carrying a sinister odor. “What’s wrong?” “Did a bug get in or something?”——Thus questioned by Yasushi-san, Shinzō reluctantly wiped the sweat from his brow and answered shamefacedly, “No—a strange face was reflected in this beer.” Upon hearing this, Yasushi repeated, “A strange face was reflected?” like an echo as he peered into Shinzō’s cup—but now there was nothing resembling a face reflected besides his own. “Couldn’t it just be your nerves?” “Surely that hag wouldn’t dare reach as far as my place.” “But you yourself just said so!” “Because that old woman’s cast a net around me without missing a beat.”

“Ah, right.” “But surely—surely that hag couldn’t have stuck her tongue into your beer cup and taken a sip.” “In that case, never mind—go ahead and drink up.” In this manner, Yasushi tried various ways to lift his companion’s somber mood, but Shinzō only grew more withdrawn, until finally—without even finishing his beer—he began preparing to leave. In the end, Yasushi-san had no choice but to repeatedly urge him not to lose heart, adding kind words of encouragement each time, and then—deeming the streetcar too unreliable—arranged for a rickshaw to take him all the way home.

That night, even in sleep, he saw nothing but strange dreams and was tormented by nightmares countless times, but when morning finally came, Shinzō immediately called Yasushi-san’s place—partly to express his gratitude for the previous night and partly to discuss other matters. When he called, it was the clerk from Yasushi-san’s shop who answered, greeting him with, “The master left early this morning on an errand.” Shinzō wondered if he had gone to O-Shimabaasan’s place, but couldn’t bring himself to ask outright. Even if he had inquired, there was no way the clerk would know such details. After earnestly requesting to be notified upon Yasushi’s return, he hung up the phone. However, when noon approached, Yasushi called to say he had indeed visited O-Shimabaasan that morning to have his house’s fortune read. “Fortunately, I met O-Tami-san,” he said. “I wrote down my plan in a letter and slipped it into her hand.” “We won’t know her answer until tomorrow, but given these urgent circumstances, O-Tami-san will likely agree despite everything.” Listening to Yasushi-san’s confident tone—which made success seem assured—Shinzō grew desperate to know more. “What exactly are you planning?” he pressed. Yasushi chuckled through the receiver just as he had the night before. “You’ll need to wait two or three days. With that hag involved, we can’t drop our guard—not even on a telephone call.” “Then I’ll contact you again when the time comes.” “Goodbye.” With that, the conversation ended. After hanging up, Shinzō sat behind the account counter as usual, but the thought that his and O-Tami’s fates would be decided within two days left him neither anxious nor hopeful—only gripped by a restless agitation that kept him from touching the ledger or abacus. Using his lingering fever as an excuse, he spent the afternoon resting in the second-floor parlor. Yet throughout this time, he couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched—a persistent awareness of unseen eyes tracking his every move, whether awake or asleep. Indeed, around three o’clock, he became certain someone crouched at the top of the staircase, peering through the reed door. He sprang up to investigate, but found only the faint reflection of sky on the polished corridor floor—no trace of any human presence.

Under these circumstances, when the next day arrived, Shinzō grew increasingly restless, waiting on tenterhooks for Yasushi-san’s call. At last, when the same hour as the day before came around, he was summoned to the telephone receiver as promised. However, when he answered, Yasushi-san’s voice sounded even more vigorous than the previous day: “At last—we’ve received O-Tami-san’s reply. Everything will proceed according to my plan.” “What? How did you get her response?” “I fabricated another pretext and went to that hag’s place myself.” “Since I’d sent a letter yesterday requesting it, O-Tami-san—who came out to receive me—slipped her reply into my hand.” “A charming response, I tell you.” “‘Written in hiragana—‘I have understood.’’” he declared triumphantly. Yet today, strangely enough, midway through these words, not only Yasushi-san’s voice but another’s began intruding. To be precise, though unintelligible in content, this voice stood diametrically opposed to Yasushi’s robust tones—a nasal, feeble, gasping drawl that wove through his chatter like shadow through sunlight, seeping into the telephone receiver’s depths. Initially dismissing it as line interference, Shinzō paid no mind. “And then? And then?” he pressed feverishly, devouring every scrap of news about beloved O-Tami. But soon Yasushi-san must have noticed the anomaly too. “It’s rather noisy.” “Is it your end?” he asked. “No—not mine.” “Must be crossed lines,” Shinzō replied. Yasushi clicked his tongue irritably. “Then I’ll hang up and redial,” he said, complaining to the operator once—no, twice—three times, stubbornly forcing reconnections. Still that toad-like voice persisted—a guttural muttering through the receiver. Finally relenting, Yasushi growled, “Can’t be helped.” “There’s likely a fault somewhere.—But more crucially, now that O-Tami-san has consented, I’m certain everything will succeed as planned. Wait calmly for good news.” He resumed his explanation, but Shinzō—still fixated on the plan’s specifics—pressed again as before: “What exactly do you intend to do?” With characteristic composure came the reply: “Endure one more day.” “By this time tomorrow, you’ll surely be informed.” “Now don’t rush—wait with the assurance of one aboard a great ship.” “They say fortune comes to those who wait asleep,” he jested. Then—before the words faded—another blurred voice suddenly hissed near his ear: “Cease your futile struggles at once,” clear as mocking laughter.

Yasushi-san and Shinzō instinctively asked each other from both ends simultaneously, “What was that voice?”—but thereafter, the receiver fell utterly silent, and even that murmuring nasal voice had completely vanished.

“This is bad.” “That was her—the old hag!” “If things go wrong, our carefully laid plans—well, everything comes down to tomorrow.” “I’ll take my leave now.”—Even as he spoke these words and hung up, Yasushi-san’s voice carried an unmistakably flustered edge. Moreover, if O-Shimabaasan had indeed begun monitoring even their telephone communications, she was undoubtedly watching Yasushi-san and O-Tami’s exchange of secret letters too—making his panic only natural. Putting himself in Shinzō’s position—even without knowing Yasushi-san’s exact plan—if that hag outmaneuvered his foolproof scheme, all would truly be lost beyond recovery. After leaving the telephone receiver, Shinzō wandered like a man bereft of soul to the second-floor living room, where he spent the hours until sunset blankly gazing at the blue sky outside the window. In that sky—whether real or imagined—swarms of those detestable black swallowtail butterflies were said to weave ominous calico patterns by the dozens. But Shinzō, now utterly spent in body and spirit, could no longer perceive this strangeness as strange at all.

That night too, Shinzō was tormented by nightmares and could scarcely sleep at all. Yet when dawn broke, he found some resolve within himself. After forcing down a breakfast more tasteless than chewing sand, he promptly called Yasushi-san.

“Don’t be ridiculous—it’s too early! Calling someone who sleeps in like me at this hour is cruel, you know.” Yasushi-san lodged this complaint in a voice still thick with sleep, but Shinzō, without responding, said: “Ever since yesterday’s phone call, I can’t just sit idly at home anymore. I’m coming to your place right now. No, just hearing your plan over the phone isn’t nearly enough to put my mind at ease. Listen. I’m coming right away,” he insisted like a spoiled child. Hearing this utterly agitated tone, even Yasushi-san must have had no other choice. “Come then. I’ll be waiting,” came the straightforward reply. Shinzō hung up the phone and—without even bothering to tell his anxious mother where he was going—merely showed her a stern expression before suddenly dashing out of the store. When he stepped outside, the sky was leaden with clouds—a strangely sultry day with a reddish-copper light drifting among the eastern clouds—but having no time to mind such things, he immediately boarded a streetcar and, taking advantage of the sparse occupancy, settled into a center seat. Then, whether the fatigue that had seemed temporarily recovered still lingered maliciously, Shinzō now felt his spirits sink—so much so that an intense headache came on, as though a stiff straw hat were gradually tightening around his head. Desperate to distract himself, he lifted his gaze—which until now had been fixed on the tips of his geta—to look around his surroundings, only to discover another strangeness aboard this streetcar: all the hanging straps neatly lining both sides of the ceiling swayed like pendulums with the streetcar’s rocking—all except the one before Shinzō, which remained perfectly still in one spot. At first, he found it almost comically strange and didn’t pay it much mind, but gradually that unsettling sensation of being watched grew stronger of its own accord. Thinking it must be wrong to remain seated beneath such a strap, he deliberately moved to an empty seat in the opposite corner. When he moved and happened to look up, the strap that had been swaying until now suddenly stopped moving as if fixed in place—and in its stead, the previous strap began swinging vigorously, as though rejoicing in its newfound freedom. As always, Shinzō felt such inexplicable terror that even his headache was forgotten. He instinctively looked around at the other passengers’ faces as if seeking salvation. Then, diagonally across from him, a retired-looking old woman—who had been sitting facing him—removed the collar of her black gauze haori and glared back through gold-rimmed glasses. Of course, this person had no connection whatsoever to that sorceress O-Shimabaasan. But the moment he met her gaze, Shinzō immediately recalled O-Shimabaasan’s bloated, bluish face—and he could no longer bear it. Suddenly handing his ticket to the conductor, he leaped off the streetcar faster than a pickpocket who had botched their job. For the streetcar had been moving at tremendous speed—the moment his feet touched the ground, his straw hat went flying.

The geta's thong snapped. On top of that, he fell forward face-down and ended up scraping his knees—a whole commotion. Indeed, had he been even a moment slower in getting up, he would surely have been run over by that freight truck barreling down the road, kicking up a cloud of dust. Covered in mud, Shinzō—his face stinging with gasoline fumes—stared at the black butterfly-shaped emblem on the yellow-painted truck that had just barreled past him sideways. In that moment, his narrow escape felt like nothing short of a divine miracle.

It was a short distance before the Kurakake Bridge tram stop when, by chance, a passing rickshaw happened to be there. At any rate, he scrambled into the vehicle and, still pale-faced, urged the driver to hurry toward Higashi-Ryogoku. However, even during that journey, his heart pounded, his knee wounds throbbed painfully, and on top of that—coming after the recent commotion—there was an ominous anxiety that this carriage might overturn at any moment. It was said he hardly felt alive. When the carriage approached Ryogoku Bridge, Shinzō looked up to see black clouds edged in hazy silver piling above Kokugikan's roof, while across the broad Ōkawa River's surface clustered sail shadows resembling gossamer-winged butterfly wings. Overcome by a tragic conviction that the moment determining life or death for himself and O-Tami had drawn near, he felt tears well up unbidden. Thus, when the carriage crossed the bridge and finally lowered its shafts at Yasushi-san’s gate, Shinzō—whether he felt joy or sorrow, he himself couldn’t discern—found only an overwhelming tightness gripping his chest. As if begrudging even the moment to hand an exorbitant fare to the bewildered-looking rickshaw puller, he hurriedly ducked through the shop’s entrance curtain.

When Yasushi-san saw Shinzō’s face, he stopped just short of taking his hand and led him to the usual back room. But upon noticing the wounds on his limbs and the torn summer haori, he asked, “What happened?” “And your state?” he demanded, sounding utterly exasperated. “I fell from the streetcar and nearly jumped off at Kurakake Bridge.” “You’re no country bumpkin—there’s a limit to being this dense.” “But why on earth did you jump off there?”—Thereupon, Shinzō recounted every strange occurrence from the streetcar to Yasushi-san. After listening intently to the entire account, Yasushi-san furrowed his brows more deeply than usual. “The situation grows dire.” “I fear O-Tami-san may have failed...” he muttered as if to himself. When Shinzō heard O-Tami’s name, his pulse quickened again. “You think she failed?” “What exactly were you making O-Tami do?” he demanded, his tone sharpening. Yet Yasushi-san avoided answering directly. “Though this outcome may well be my fault,” he said with a genuinely troubled sigh, “had I not mentioned passing that letter to O-Tami-san over the phone, that hag would never have detected my plan.”

Shinzō could bear it no longer. “Isn’t it just too cruel,” he said, his voice trembling with resentment, “to still not tell me your plan even now? Because of this, I’m forced to endure double the suffering!” Yasushi made a restraining gesture with his hand. “Now now—that’s entirely reasonable. I’m well aware it’s reasonable. But when dealing with that hag, you must understand this was unavoidable.” “As I’ve said before,” he continued, “had I kept silent about delivering that letter to O-Tami-san without telling you, everything might have proceeded more smoothly. After all, that sorceress sees through your every word and action.” “Truth be told,” Yasushi added with a bitter smile, “I haven’t entirely escaped her notice myself since that phone incident. But as no strange occurrences have plagued me like they have you, I intend to keep everything contained within my own heart until we know whether my plan has failed—even if you resent me for it.” He spoke these words both admonishing and consoling. Though understanding Yasushi’s reasoning, Shinzō’s concern for O-Tami remained undiminished. With stern intensity lingering between his brows, he pressed further: “Even so—you’re certain nothing’s happened to O-Tami’s health?” Yasushi wore an equally worried expression. “Well...” He fell silent for a moment before glancing at the pillar clock in the adjoining room. “It’s been weighing on me too.” “Then let’s at least scout near that hag’s house without entering,” he proposed decisively. Having been unable to bear sitting idle himself, Shinzō naturally agreed without hesitation. Their discussion concluded swiftly, and within five minutes they walked out of Yasushi’s house side by side in summer haori.

However, no sooner had they left Yasushi-san’s house than they heard clattering footsteps rushing up behind them before they had gone even half a block. When both turned around simultaneously, they found nothing suspicious—merely a single apprentice from Yasushi-san’s shop shouldering a snake-eye umbrella and hurrying after his master. “An umbrella?” “The clerk said it looks like rain, so you should take this.” “Then you should’ve brought one for the guest too,” Yasushi-san said with a wry smile as he accepted the snake-eye umbrella. The apprentice impudently scratched his head, gave a forced bow, then energetically dashed back toward the shop. Now that he mentioned it, truly above their heads, black evening storm clouds had spread ominously across the entire sky, and even the patches of light filtering through here and there carried an eerie chill, like polished steel. As Shinzō walked alongside Yasushi-san and gazed up at the sky, he found himself assailed by an ominous premonition once more. Their conversation naturally faltered, and he began mindlessly quickening his pace. Thus Yasushi-san kept falling behind, each time breaking into a trot to catch up while flusteredly wiping his sweat, but before long he must have finally given up. Leaving Shinzō to walk ahead, he followed behind with the snake-eye umbrella hanging from his shoulder, occasionally casting pitying glances at his friend’s retreating figure as he ambled along. As they turned left at Ichibashi Bridge’s approach and arrived before that stone embankment where O-Tami and Shinzō had seen the vision of giant eyes at dusk, a rickshaw came from behind and rushed past Yasushi-san. But when he saw the passenger aboard it, Yasushi-san suddenly furrowed his brows and shrilly called out, “Hey! Hey!” to stop Shinzō. Shinzō had no choice but to stop. Turning back reluctantly, he answered irritably, “What is it?” Yasushi-san hurried to catch up and asked an odd question: “Did you see the face of the person who just passed by in that rickshaw?” “I saw him. “A thin man wearing black sunglasses.” — Shinzō spoke skeptically and briskly resumed walking, but Yasushi-san, undeterred, declared even more gravely than before: “That’s Kenzō—a speculator who’s a valued customer at my house.” “I can’t help but think that man might be the one who wants to take O-Tami-san as his mistress. What do you think?” “Well, there’s no particular reason why—I just suddenly had that thought,” he said, voicing an unexpected notion. However, Shinzō—still in a subdued tone—dismissed this with “Just your imagination,” and continued walking without even glancing at the familiar Momo-no-yu signboard. “It’s not just your imagination,” said Yasushi-san, pointing ahead with the snake-eye umbrella. “Look.” “That rickshaw is properly stopped in front of O-Shimabaasan’s house, isn’t it?” Yasushi-san retorted triumphantly, looking back at Shinzō’s face. When they looked, there indeed was the earlier rickshaw—beneath willow branches whose fronds drooped darkly in anticipation of rain—its rear adorned with a golden crest now facing them, while the puller appeared seated before the footboard, leisurely lowering the shafts. When Shinzō saw this, a faint passion stirred beneath his sullen expression for the first time—yet without losing his initial languid tone—as he answered irritably, “But listen, you. There must be other speculators besides this Kenzō fellow who come to have that old woman tell their fortunes.” By then, they had likely already reached the plasterer’s shop adjoining O-Shimabaasan’s house. Without pressing his own argument further, Yasushi-san remained vigilantly aware of their surroundings while brushing the shoulders of their summer haori together as if shielding Shinzō’s person, slowly passing in front of O-Shimabaasan’s house.

As they passed by, glancing back furtively to observe the situation, the only thing differing from normal was the rickshaw that Kenzō had arrived in—stopped much closer than when viewed from afar, right before the plasterer’s shop’s water inlet with its thick rubber wheel tracks imposingly planted. The puller, a Bat cigarette butt tucked behind his ear, was reading his newspaper with an air of nonchalance. As for the rest—the bamboo lattice windows, the soot-blackened entrance grille, even the unchanged reed door along with the weathered hue of the shoji screens behind the lattice—not only did everything remain as usual, but the interior too seemed shrouded in its customary sinister stillness, just like any other day. Moreover, not even a glimpse of what might have been O-Tami’s figure—arrived through some slim chance—entered their sight, let alone the flutter of those demure indigo kasuri sleeves. Therefore, as the two passed in front of O-Shimabaasan’s house toward the neighboring hardware store, not only did the tension in their hearts ease, but they could not help but bear the disappointment of their earnest expectations being dashed.

Yet when they arrived before that hardware store—its front displaying Asakusa paper, turtle-shaped scrubbing brushes, hair-washing powder, and above them a large red lantern inscribed “Mosquito-Repellent Incense” hanging prominently—there, standing at the shopfront conversing with the mistress of the hardware store, was unmistakably O-Tami. The two instinctively exchanged glances and, without a second’s hesitation, flipped up the hems of their summer haori as they briskly entered the hardware store. Noticing their presence, O-Tami turned toward them. In an instant, a faint flush rose beneath her pale cheeks—though no doubt she had to maintain appearances before the mistress of the hardware store. With willow fronds from the eaves still draped over her shoulder, as if forcibly suppressing the pounding in her chest, she let slip a faint exclamation of surprise—“Oh”—or so it was said. Yasushi-san remained composed, casually adjusting the brim of his straw hat as he addressed her. “Is your grandmother at home?” he inquired nonchalantly. “Yes, she is.” “And you?” “I came to buy writing paper for a guest’s needs—” Before O-Tami could finish these words, the shopfront—already dimmed by willow branches—grew darker still. Then, in an instant, a single streak of rain glistened coldly and diagonally across the belly of the red mosquito-repellent incense lantern. At the same moment, thunder rumbled deeply—so violently it seemed the willow leaves might tremble. Using this as his cue, Yasushi-san stepped back outside the shop and said, “Then please quickly tell Grandmother...” “I came up wanting to consult her again about something—even now I called out ‘Pardon me’ repeatedly at the gate, but there was absolutely no response. When I wondered what was wrong, turns out the crucial intermediary was idling there.” With equal glances at O-Tami and the sundry shop owner, he flashed a brisk, cheerful smile. Of course, O-Kami-san of the sundry shop, knowing nothing, naturally failed to notice Yasushi-san’s skillful act. “Now then, O-Tami-san, you’d best hurry along,” she urged with flustered haste, then herself hurriedly began taking down the red mosquito-repellent incense lantern as the rain began to fall—or so it is told. There, O-Tami too bid farewell with “Well then, Auntie—I’ll return later,” and exited the sundry shop with Yasushi-san on one side and Shinzō on the other. Of course, none of the three paused before O-Shimabaasan’s house, instead quickening their pace toward Ichibashi beneath the snake-eye umbrella already catching scattered large raindrops. In truth, during those few minutes—needless to say for the parties involved—even the normally spirited Yasushi-san must have felt that the time had come to cast the die of fate, to determine whether it would land odd or even. Until they reached that stone riverbank, the three kept their eyes lowered as if by agreement, continuing to walk in silence—seemingly unaware of the rain that had intensified into a downpour before their very eyes.

When they reached the spot where the stone guardian dogs faced each other, Yasushi finally lifted his head. “They say this is the safest place,” he said, turning back to the other two. “Let’s rest here under cover while we wait out the rain.” There, everyone sheltered from the rain under a single umbrella as they picked their way through gaps between piled stones—likely a place where stonecutters normally worked. They entered beneath the mat roof stretched over the corner of the stone riverbank. By then, the rain had intensified into a furious white torrent that obscured even the opposite bank of the Tatekawa River—a single mat roof could never hope to keep such deluge at bay. Not only that, but mist-like sprays of rain came thickly blowing in from outside along with damp clods of earth. There, the three of them huddled beneath the mat roof while still relying on their snake-eye umbrella, crowding together to sit upon what appeared to be a partially carved gatepost stone. No sooner had they settled than Shinzō broke the silence. “O-Tami, I thought I’d never see you again.” As he spoke these words, pale lightning slashed diagonally through the rain once more, and thunder tore through the clouds. O-Tami instinctively pressed her ginkgo hairstyle against her knees and remained utterly still for a time. Then, lifting a face drained of all color, she fixed a dreamlike gaze upon the rain-streaked world outside and said with eerie calm, “I too had prepared myself.” The characters for “lovers’ suicide”—those unsettling words—seared themselves into Shinzō’s mind as if written in phosphorus the instant he heard them. Yet Yasushi, who had planted himself between them and still held the snake-eye umbrella aloft, cast perplexed glances around even as his voice rang out with forced vigor: “Hey—pull yourselves together. You too, O-Tami—show some courage.” “Death clings tightest at moments like these.—But speaking of which, that visitor who came earlier was Kensō the speculator, wasn’t he?” “Yes, I’m aware of him.” “Isn’t he the one who wants to make you his mistress?” he pressed, shifting to practical matters. Then O-Tami too, as if suddenly roused from a dream, fixed her clear gaze on Yasushi’s face and answered bitterly: “Yes—it’s that man.” “There—you see? “Just as I predicted!” Yasushi declared triumphantly, glancing back at Shinzō before immediately regaining his seriousness and turning urgently toward O-Tami. “With this downpour, even Kensō will likely linger at your house another twenty or thirty minutes.” “In that time—tell me what became of my plan.” “If all’s truly lost—then a man must charge headlong and break.” “I’ll go confront Kensō directly myself,” he declared resolutely, his voice carrying such steady assurance that even Shinzō felt its weight. All the while, thunder grew ever more violent—great bolts of midday lightning splitting sky after sky as rain lashed down in unceasing torrents—yet O-Tami must have been exerting herself so desperately that she forgot even her sorrow.

Her face bore not beauty but a fearsome intensity—alone unchanged in this turmoil—as she answered in a thin, piercing voice, trembling vivid lips while speaking: “Everything was thwarted—nothing remains possible now.” Then, as O-Tami—beneath this mat roof in the thunderstorm—panted regretfully while recounting her story in fragmented bursts, Shinzō learned that Yasushi-san’s plan, of which he had been unaware, had within a single night last evening taken such sharp turns only to end in utter failure.

When Yasushi-san heard from Shinzō that O-Shimabaasan was invoking a deity upon O-Tami to conduct divination, the idea that had instantly come to mind was this: having O-Tami feign divine possession to deceive the old woman would be the swiftest path forward. So, as mentioned before, under the pretext of having her read the house’s auspices, when he went to O-Shimabaasan’s place, he secretly handed O-Tami a letter written with that intent. O-Tami too thought that carrying out this plan was akin to crossing a perilous bridge, but as she could conceive of no other clever scheme to escape the immediate calamity at hand, she resolutely handed Yasushi-san a reply the following morning: “I have agreed.” However, at twelve o’clock that night—after that old woman had immersed herself in Tatekawa River’s waters as usual and finally begun invoking Basara-no-Kami—she realized there existed an obstacle utterly beyond human means. Yet to explain those details, one must first recount that old woman’s strange ritual practices—practices that seem unthinkable in the present age. When the time came for O-Shimabaasan to invoke the deity, she would—unthinkably—strip O-Tami down to a single underrobe, bind both hands behind her back, loosen her hair from the roots, extinguish the electric lights, and make her sit facing north in the center of that room. Then she herself, also naked, would stand blocking O-Tami’s path—holding a bare candle aloft in her left hand and gripping a mirror in her right—while muttering secret incantations under her breath and thrusting the mirror repeatedly toward her target, pouring forth fervent prayers. Even this alone would surely cause any ordinary woman to lose consciousness. But as the old woman’s chanting gradually grew louder, she advanced bit by bit using the mirror as a shield until finally—whether overwhelmed by its oppressive force or not—O-Tami’s body, with her hands rendered useless, toppled backward onto the tatami mats. Yet still the crone did not relent in her assault. And after thus knocking her down, that old woman crawled like a reptile feeding on corpse flesh, pressed down upon O-Tami’s chest, and forced her to peer unceasingly upward into the eerie mirror illuminated by the bare candle’s light—or so it was said. Then before long, that Basara-no-Kami stole soundlessly through the darkness like miasma rising from the depths of an ancient swamp, gently taking possession of the woman’s body. O-Tami’s eyes gradually fixed in a vacant stare as her limbs twitched spasmodically; then, responding to the old woman’s rapid-fire questions, she began breathlessly babbling secret answers without pause—or so it was said. Therefore, that night too, O-Shimabaasan attempted to invoke the deity without deviating from these steps, but O-Tami—keeping her promise to Yasushi-san—maintained a facade of lost sanity while remaining ever vigilant within, resolved to seize any opportunity to deliver a false oracle forbidding interference in their love. Of course, she had resolved not to answer any of the old woman’s probing questions, feigning that they did not align with divine will. However, as she stared at the small yet dazzlingly luminous surface of the mirror illuminated by that bare candle’s light, no matter how she tried to maintain her composure, her mind grew entranced, and she began feeling threatened by the peril of losing herself before she knew it. Even so, that old woman never missed a beat in chanting her incantations while intently scrutinizing her expression, leaving no chance to steal a moment’s glance away from the mirror. Gradually, as if drawing in O-Tami’s gaze, the mirror emitted an increasingly eerie light and crept closer—inch by inch, moment by moment—more ominously than fate itself. Moreover, the ceaselessly muttered incantations of that bloated, blue-tinged crone ensnared O-Tami’s mind like invisible spiderwebs from all directions, seeking to drag her into a realm indistinguishable from dream or reality. As for how long it took—even when O-Tami herself later tried to recall—not even a vague memory remained. But after what felt to her like an entire night—an excruciatingly long time—O-Tami’s efforts proved futile, and she was ultimately ensnared in that crone’s secret ritual. In the flickering light of a dim bare candle, countless black butterflies of various sizes drew endless circles and suddenly fluttered up to the ceiling—then, before she knew it, the mirror before her eyes vanished, and she sank into a deathlike slumber as usual.

In the midst of thunder and the sound of rain, O-Tami—her eyes and lips brimming with desperate intensity—finished recounting this entire tale. Yasushi and Shinzō, who had been listening intently, sighed in unison at that moment and exchanged fleeting glances. Though they had braced themselves for the plan’s failure, hearing each excruciating detail now made them acutely feel the devastating force of this belated despair—the realization that everything had indeed come to naught. For a time, the two remained silent like mutes, blankly listening to the torrential rain pouring from the heavens. Yet soon Yasushi seemed to muster his courage and, whether as a reaction to his earlier agitation or not, turned toward O-Tami—who was growing visibly sullen—and asked in an encouraging tone, “Do you remember nothing at all from that time?” At this, O-Tami lowered her eyes and answered, “Yes, nothing—” but immediately raised a pleading gaze timidly toward Yasushi’s face and resentfully added, “By the time I finally regained my senses, dawn had already broken.” Then she suddenly pressed her sleeve to her face and stifled a sob. Even as this was happening, outside showed no sign of clearing; not only that, but the thunder rumbled so ominously overhead it seemed ready to strike at any moment, and with each peal, lightning that seared the eyes flashed incessantly even beneath the mat roof. Then Shinzō, who until now hadn’t moved a muscle, suddenly stood up—what could he have been thinking?—his face horribly contorted as he made as if to stride out into the raging rain and lightning. Moreover, in his hand—before anyone knew it—he now clutched a chisel that some stonecutter must have left behind. When Yasushi saw this, no sooner had he thrown down the snake-eye umbrella than he immediately chased after Shinzō from behind and restrained his shoulder as if embracing him. “Hey—have you lost your mind?” Yasushi shouted involuntarily as he tried to forcibly pull him back. But Shinzō, in an unnaturally strained voice unlike his own, demanded: “Release me. Now that it’s come to this, there’s no choice but for me to die or kill that hag!” he shouted frantically. “Don’t be a fool. First of all, don’t you realize Kensō is here today?” “So I’ll go there and—” “What does Kensō matter? The bastard trying to make O-Tami his mistress—you think he’d listen to your request? Enough of that—just let me go! Hey—as your friend, I’m begging you—let me go!”

“Have you forgotten about O-Tami-san? If you do something so reckless, what will become of her?”—As the two struggled against each other, Shinzō felt two gentle arms—trembling yet powerful—encircle his neck. Then he gazed at tear-filled cool eyes fixed on his face, brimming with infinitely sorrowful light. Finally, piercing through the torrential rain’s roar, he heard an almost imperceptible whisper: “Please let us die together.” At that very instant, lightning must have struck nearby. With a thunderclap as though heaven itself had split open, purple sparks scattered before his eyes—and Shinzō, still held fast by lover and friend, sank into profound unconsciousness.

Several days had passed since then.

When Shinzō finally awoke from a long, nightmare-like coma, he found himself lying quietly on the second floor of his Nihonbashi home with an ice bag on his head. At his bedside sat a small pot of morning glories alongside a medicine jar and thermometer—their unassuming lapis lazuli blossoms suggesting it was still morning. While vaguely tracing memories of rain, thunder, O-Shimabaasan, and O-Tami, Shinzō suddenly turned his eyes aside to find O-Tami sitting by the reed door—her ginkgo hairstyle disheveled, cheeks still pale with concern. No—not merely sitting there—for when she saw Shinzō regain consciousness, she flushed faintly and addressed him modestly: “Young Master, have you come to your senses?” “O-Tami.” Shinzō murmured his lover’s name as if dreaming—only for Yasushi-san’s unexpected voice to sound from his pillow: “Ah! You’ve finally awakened! Wait—stay still—you must remain quiet.” “You were here too?” “Of course I’m here. Your mother is present too. The doctor just left moments ago.” As this exchange unfolded, Shinzō turned his gaze from O-Tami to stare entranced at the opposite side—where indeed Yasushi-san and his mother sat near the pillow exchanging relieved looks. Yet Shinzō—now fully conscious—could neither comprehend how he’d returned home after that terrible storm nor grasp these circumstances at all—so he simply stared blankly at the three faces. Then his mother gently peered into his face and urged solicitously: “All matters have been safely resolved now—you must rest well and regain your strength quickly.” Yasushi-san added from behind her: “Be at ease. Your mutual devotion reached the gods. O-Shimabaasan died struck by divine thunder while conversing with Kensō,” he concluded more cheerfully than usual. Hearing this unexpected news overwhelmed Shinzō with indescribable emotion—neither pure joy nor sorrow—tears spilling down his cheeks before he closed his eyes again. To his three caretakers this likely resembled another faint. Sensing sudden agitation around him, Shinzō reopened his eyes to find Yasushi-san—half-risen—clicking his tongue theatrically: “What? You startled us! Rest assured— The crow that wept moments ago now laughs,” he declared while turning to the women. Contemplating this world now free of that crone’s shadow brought a natural smile to Shinzō’s lips. After savoring this blissful expression awhile longer, Shinzō turned his gaze to Yasushi and inquired: “What of Kensō?”

Yasushi laughed and said, “Kensō? Kensō just passed out,” he said, seeming to hesitate for some reason, but then as if changing his mind, added, “I went to visit him yesterday and heard it from the man himself. When O-Tami was possessed by the deity, she kept repeating that if anyone interfered with your love, it would mean that old woman’s life. But since that old woman thought it was a ruse, when Kensō went the next day, she was apparently determined to do whatever it took—even resorting to murderous deeds—to tear you two apart. When you think about it, my plan must have ended in failure—and yet the very thing we planned actually came to pass, didn’t it? However, the fact that O-Shimabaasan ended up bringing about her own demise after dismissing it all as a ruse—no matter how you look at it, that was utterly unforeseen. With this, even the so-called Basara deity—I can’t tell anymore whether it’s good or evil,” he explained in a perplexed tone. As he listened to this account, Shinzō found himself increasingly astonished by the uncanny power of those shadowy forces that had manipulated him like a puppet these past days. But suddenly recalling how he had been since that stormy day, he asked, “Then what about me?” This time O-Tami answered instead of Yasushi, adding in a heartfelt tone: “We took you by rickshaw straight from that stone riverbank to the nearby doctor. Whether from being drenched in the rain or not, your fever rose terribly high. Even when we brought you back here at dusk, you remained completely out of your senses.”

Hearing this, Yasushi leaned forward with satisfaction and said, “The fact that your fever finally subsided is entirely thanks to your mother and O-Tami-san. For three full days now, while nursing you as you raved in delirium, not only O-Tami-san but even your mother hasn’t slept a wink. As for O-Shimabaasan, out of memorial intent, I’ve taken care of all the funeral arrangements. And every single thing was handled through your mother’s care,” he declared in an encouraging tone. “Mother. Thank you.” “What’s this? You—you should be thanking Yasushi-san more than me.” As he said this, both parent and child—or rather, O-Tami and Yasushi too—all had tears in their eyes. But Yasushi-san, being a man, promptly raised his voice cheerfully. “It must be around three o’clock already. Well then, I’ll take my leave.” As Yasushi began half-rising, Shinzō furrowed his brows suspiciously. “Three o’clock? Isn’t it still morning now?” he asked in bewilderment. Dumbfounded, Yasushi said “You mustn’t joke,” while pulling out the watch from his obi and appearing about to open its case—but upon noticing Shinzō’s eyes had fallen upon the morning glory flower at the bedside, he suddenly wore a radiant smile and told this story. “This morning glory—it’s a potted plant that O-Tami-san painstakingly cultivated ever since she was at that old woman’s house. But oddly enough, the lapis lazuli blossoms that bloomed on that rainy day still haven’t wilted even today. O-Tami-san kept telling us that as long as these flowers were blooming, you would surely recover—and she truly believed it herself. Because that effort bore fruit and you’ve regained your senses, even among similar mysterious phenomena, this one feels truly gentle, don’t you think?”

(September 22, 1919)