Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part I

A young teacher came down from the capital to teach languages to Saeki's children for nearly a year, arriving in mid-autumn and departing in mid-summer. In early summer, he grew weary of living in the castle town and moved to the shore of a harbor called Katsura, two kilometers away, commuting to the schoolhouse from there. Thus he remained by the seaside for a month, and in that time, those he came to know well enough to exchange words with could be counted on one hand. One of those few was the innkeeper. One evening, as rain fell and wind rose—the sound of waves crashing on the shore growing somewhat rough—even the teacher, who preferred solitude and spoke little, found himself lonely; he descended from his room on the second floor and came to the veranda where the innkeeper and his wife sat with legs stretched out, cooling themselves. The innkeeper and his wife talked while fanning away mosquitoes in the dimness without lighting a lamp; upon seeing the teacher, they yielded their seats as if something rare had appeared. The evening dusk wind, lightly blowing the rain—a drop or two brushing their faces—the three of them accepted this pleasantly and drifted into casual conversation.

Several years had passed since the Teacher returned to the capital when one winter night, late into the hours past midnight, he sat alone at a small desk writing a letter. It was addressed to an old friend in his hometown. His concerned countenance bore a bluish pallor; this night his cheeks were slightly flushed, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular—as if willing himself to see clearly something shrouded in mist.

In the mist stood an old man.

The Teacher set down his brush and reread. Having reread, he closed his eyes. When he closed his eyes to the outside and opened them inward, what appeared before him was once again the old man.

Within the letter he wrote: “The innkeeper spoke nonchalantly of this old man’s circumstances. Truly, these are but ordinary circumstances—to find such old men, one need only look to mountain shadows, watersides, or any province. Yet how could I ever forget this old man? To me, he seems naught but a box guarding some secret none may unlock. Is this merely my mind’s usual strange workings? Be that as it may, when I recall him, it moves me like a traveler hearing distant flute-song who yearns for home—or like one who gazes at endless skies after reading sublime poetry.”

However, the Teacher did not know the old man’s circumstances in detail. He had heard only the outline from the innkeeper. Why had **the innkeeper** inquired so persistently into **this old man**’s affairs? Though **the Teacher** found it difficult to fathom in his heart—when pressed—**the innkeeper** recounted everything accordingly. “This harbor is fitting for Saeki Town. As you can see, how many houses are there that can be called proper houses? The population likely doesn’t even reach twenty—the loneliness is always like tonight’s. But imagine the loneliness before Uncle Gen’s solitary house stood on this shore. The pine beside his house, which now stands by a broad road lending travelers cool shade in summer, had its roots washed by incoming waves from offshore over a decade ago. Those who came from the castle town to request Uncle Gen’s boat would often sit on rocks jutting out into the sea—though now they’ve split even the perilous cliffs with gunpowder’s force.”

“No—how could he have lived alone from the start? "The wife was beautiful. Her name was Yuri, born on Ōiri Island. Though he dismissed half of what people said as lies, this alone he believed true—so Uncle Gen once confessed when drunk one night. When he was twenty-eight or twenty-nine, on a spring night after Myoken’s light had vanished, there came steady knocking at his door." When Gen rose and asked who sought passage to the island, it was a woman’s voice that answered. Peering through the waning moon’s light, there stood Yuri—the girl from Ōiri Island he had long known.

In those days when many made their living operating ferries, even among them, Gen’s name was known across every inlet. This was not only because he was a young man of steadfast heart and chivalrous spirit—there lay another profound reason, and what I wish you to hear now is the sound of Gen’s voice from those days. People would choose his boat just to listen to him sing as he rowed. Yet his reticence remains unchanged from then to now. “That young island woman had the presence of mind to request Gen’s boat even so late at night—a secret known only to Lord Myoken gazing down from above.” Though people asked what words they had exchanged after mooring, he—still sparing with words even when drunk—merely deepened the two creases on his forehead and laughed; a laugh somehow mournful that chilled the hearer.

“Gen’s singing voice grew ever more piercing.” And so the young couple’s blissful days faded more swiftly than a dream. When their only child Kosuke was seven years old, his wife Yuri succumbed to complications during her second childbirth. Though there were those from the castle town who proposed taking in Kosuke and training him to be a merchant in time, having lost his beloved wife and now faced with parting from his only child, he found it unbearable and thus declined. The reticent man grew ever more silent these days, rarely laughed, and sang only when emboldened by drink while rowing; even his once-cheerful voice that had shattered the evening moonlight over Daigo Inlet now carried a tinge of sorrow—whether this resonated in listeners’ hearts or not, losing his wife had shattered half the spirit of a man once full of vitality. On days when rain drizzled down, finding it pitiful to leave Kosuke alone in the lonely house, he would take the boy aboard his boat with passengers, and people would feel compassion. Therefore, opening bags of sweets bought in the castle town as souvenirs for their own children, there were not a few mothers who shared them with this orphan. The father would typically act like a stranger and not even utter a word of thanks, and there were none who considered this too to be an excess of sorrow.

“And so two years passed.” When construction on this harbor reached its midpoint, we—the couple—moved here from the island, built this house, and began our current trade. Mountainsides were cut away to open roads; before Uncle Gen’s house now stretched a carriageway where steamships blew their whistles twice daily; the desolate shore that had never dried fishing nets in former times was swiftly transformed into its present state. Yet Uncle Gen’s ferry business remained unchanged from days of old. He continued transporting fishermen and islanders to and from the castle town as always; though with the harbor developed, carriageways built, and foot traffic grown bustling enough that compared to former times this place too had joined the worldly realm—he showed no indication of finding this either joyful or sorrowful.

And so another three years passed. When Kosuke was twelve years old, he went to play in the sea with other children and accidentally drowned; those children who witnessed it fled in fear and did not tell anyone what had happened. When dusk fell and Kosuke had not returned home, we grew concerned and joined the search in alarm—needless to say, it was too late by then, for the pitiful corpse had mysteriously sunk to the bottom of Uncle Gen’s boat. "He ceased singing altogether," "and began avoiding even casual exchanges with those closest to him." "Any soul who spends their years without speech, song, or laughter—it seemed such a one would fade from the world’s memory." "Though Uncle Gen rowed his boat as he always had," "the fishermen and islanders came to forget his very existence even as they rode in his vessel." "Even I—who tell you this tale—would sometimes see Uncle Gen returning with those round eyes half-closed and an oar upon his shoulder," "and catch myself thinking: ‘Ah—Uncle Gen still walks among us.’" "You were first to ask what manner of man he was."

“Indeed—if one were to call him over and make him drink sake—he might even sing again.” Yet the meaning of that song remained unfathomable. “No—he neither muttered nor rambled, but merely heaved deep sighs from time to time.” “Does he not feel any sorrow—?”

The innkeeper’s account to the Teacher went no further than this. The Teacher, even after returning to the capital, did not forget about Uncle Gen. On nights when sitting under the lamp and listening to the sound of rain, his thoughts would often dart to this pitiable old man. He imagined: Where might Uncle Gen be now? Listening to wave sounds while recalling old spring nights, sitting alone by the hearth with round eyes half-closed—or perhaps continuing to dwell solely on thoughts of Kosuke. However, the Teacher did not know that on a winter night several years after he had thus imagined—sleet was falling on the old man’s grave.

While the young Teacher, with a heart attuned to poetry, was turning the pages of memory, yet another sorrow had befallen the old man—he had already passed from this world. Thus, the Teacher's poem remained without its final stanza.

Middle

The year in which Saeki’s students had sent their language teacher to the harbor of Katsura Port drew to a close, and at the end of January the following year, one day, Uncle Gen went out to the castle town on errands from before noon.

The vast sky clouded over, and snow threatened to fall. Snow was rare in this land, and the cold of that day could be gauged. The people of mountain villages and fishing hamlets—as was customary in Saeki’s vicinity to sail small boats from rivers and seas for errands to the castle town—meant ferries always gathered at Banshō River’s bank: some boarding, some disembarking; fishermen sang, mountain folk shouted, a scene once lively indeed—but today stood lonely, ripples forming on the water’s surface as shadows of gray clouds drifted down. The main streets were all desolate; eaves darkened, traffic ceased, and the stone-paved side street lay frozen over. A bell struck at the foot of the castle mountain resounded into the clouds, and through this town—where roof tiles wore white moss—the mournful sound drifted from end to end like a single stone thrown into the center of a fishless lake.

On festival days, there was a wide crossroads where a stage would be set up; children from poor families played with their pallid faces exposed, while others stood with hands tucked into their sleeves. There was a beggar who had come there. One of the children called out, “Kishu, Kishu,” but he tried to pass by without even turning around. At a glance, he appeared to be fifteen or sixteen; his unkempt hair covered his neck, and his elongated face, with hollowed cheeks, exposed the sharp line of his jawbone. His clouded eyes held slowly moving pupils that fixed a dull gaze on nothing in particular. He wore a single lined kimono; its hem was short, ragged tatters hanging down damply to barely conceal his shins. His arms, emerging from his armpits like the spindly legs of a cricket, trembled violently as he walked on. At this moment, approaching from afar was Uncle Gen. The two met at the very center of the crossroads. Uncle Gen opened his round eyes wide and looked at the beggar.

The old man’s voice that called out “Kishu” was low yet resonant. The young beggar raised his dull eyes along with his face and looked at Uncle Gen’s eyes as if gazing at stones. The two stood for a time, their eyes locked. Uncle Gen searched his sleeve, took out a bamboo-skin wrapper, picked up a rice ball, and thrust it out before Kishu; the beggar took a bowl from his breast and accepted it. Neither giver nor receiver spoke a word, neither seeming to feel joy nor pity toward the other. Kishu walked straight past without looking back, while Uncle Gen watched his retreating figure until it disappeared around the corner. When he looked up at the vast sky, snowflakes—two or three—drifted down as if not truly falling. He gazed once more where the beggar had gone and heaved a deep sigh. The children stifled their laughter and elbowed each other, but Uncle Gen took no notice.

Uncle Gen returned home at dusk. The windows of his house faced the road yet remained unopened; without even lighting a lamp in the deepening darkness, he sat before the hearth, pressed his thick-fingered hands to his face, and let his head droop in a sigh. In the hearth lay a handful of dead branches set to burn. A flame the size of a candle’s fire spread to the thin branches, alternately dying out and flaring up. When it burned, the single room would brighten momentarily. Uncle Gen's shadow, thickly cast upon the wall, shifted; what emerged floating on the soot-blackened surface was an ukiyo-e-like image. The image showed Kosuke at five or six years old when his wife Yuri had returned to her parents’ home; that moment had remained fixed for over a decade, now appearing as if painted in diluted ink. Tonight held no wind, and no sound of waves could be heard. Uncle Gen strained his ears to listen to the rustling sound that seemed like whispers encircling the house. This was the sound of sleet. Uncle Gen listened intently to this lonely sound for a time, then sighed and looked around the interior of his house.

When he lit the small oil lamp and stepped outside, the cold pierced him to the bone; though he was one who thought nothing of rowing through winter nights’ chill, now he felt his flesh prickle with goosebumps. The mountains blackened; the sea darkened. Within the reach of the firelight, snowflakes glittered as they fell. The ground was hard and frozen. At this moment, two young men came talking from the direction of the castle town, and seeing the old man standing at the gate holding a lantern, said: “How bitter the cold is tonight, Uncle Gen?” The old man answered only with “Indeed,” his eyes turning toward the castle town.

After walking some distance past him, one of the young men whispered, "As ever—how fares Uncle Gen tonight? Were some lass to see that face of his, she'd swoon outright," to which his companion answered, "Come dawn, someone may yet find the old man's legs dangling from yonder pine bough." They shuddered at their own words and turned to look back—but at the gate where Uncle Gen had stood, no lamplight now remained.

Night deepened. Snow turned to sleet and sleet to snow, falling and ceasing. When the moon parted from Nada Mountain’s edge and enveloped its light in a sea of clouds, the ancient city lay like a parched graveyard. At the feet of the mountains lie villages; in the depths of the villages lie graves. The graves awaken at this hour, people sleep at this hour—in the world of dreams they meet the departed, weeping and laughing. A shadow-like person had just crossed the wide crossroads and was now passing over the small bridge. The dog that had been sleeping at the base of the bridge raised its head and saw his retreating figure, yet did not bark. Ah, had this person escaped from the grave? Who does he wander to meet, with whom to speak? He is Kishu.

In the same autumn that Uncle Gen’s only son Kosuke had drowned and perished in the sea, a lone female beggar wandered in from the direction of Hyūga and settled in Saeki Town. The one accompanying her was a boy of about eight. When the mother stood at the gates of houses with this child in tow and received many alms—for the people there were more compassionate than any she had seen in other lands—she must have calculated that her child’s future would be secure; thus, in the spring of the following year, she left him behind and vanished into obscurity. According to the account of someone who had visited Dazaifu and returned, a woman resembling that female beggar—clad in tattered garments—was seen accompanied by a sumo wrestler, begging beside a torii gate. It is said that all the people found this account to have plausible details. The townspeople detested the mother’s heartlessness; all the more did they pity the child she had abandoned. Thus, the mother’s scheme appeared to have succeeded. No—though villages have temples, people’s compassion has its limits. Though they spoke of him as pitiable, none would seriously take him in to raise long-term; though some occasionally ordered him to sweep their gardens and treated him like a person, these gestures never lasted. At first, the child cried for his mother; people gave him things to comfort him. The child ceased to think of his mother; the people’s compassion had only made him forget her. Whether they called him a forgetful child, an idiot, filthy, or a thief—the pretexts were varied—the result of casting this child into the realm of beggary and burying him beyond the world of human compassion was one and the same.

When they playfully taught him the iroha syllabary, he learned it; when they playfully taught him a reader, he memorized a passage or two; hearing the children’s songs, he would sing them; laughing, talking, and playing—he seemed no different from any ordinary child. He indeed appeared unchanged.

Since the boy said his birthplace was Kishu, people came to call him Kishu accordingly; eventually treated like an appendage of Saeki Town, the children playing in the streets grew up alongside this youth. Thus his heart withered unknown to others; while people believed they coexisted with him in a world of morning sunrises and curling hearth smoke—where parents and children, husbands and wives, siblings and friends lived in tears—he had long since transplanted his lonely nest to a deserted island and buried his heart there. Even when given things, he no longer offered thanks. He ceased to laugh.

It was hard to see him angry, yet easy to see him weep; he neither resented nor rejoiced. He merely moved, merely walked, merely ate. When eating, if asked from beside him, “Is it good?” he would answer in an accentless voice, “It’s good”—that voice as if echoing from the earth’s depths. If someone playfully raised a stick and held it over his head, his manner of walking slowly onward with an expression like a smile resembled yet differed from that of a scolded dog wagging its tail as it flees; he never offered flattery to people. To call him pitiable with the same heart that pities ordinary beggars does not suffice. To eyes that pity those adrift and drowning in the world’s turbulent currents, finding him would prove difficult—for he crawls along the seabed of existence.

Not long after Kishu crossed the small bridge in the distance, a figure arrived at the wide crossroads and began surveying the area. In his hand hung a small sidelight. As he swung the lamp’s beam back and forth, spreading firelight raced across thinly accumulated snow—making it glitter—while circular patches leapt beneath dark eaves of houses encircling the intersection. At that moment from Honmachi’s direction abruptly appeared a policeman. He marched over demanding “Who’s there?,” raised his lantern to illuminate the face before him. Round eyes, deep wrinkles, a thick nose—a stalwart boatman.

“Isn’t this Uncle Gen?” said the policeman in exasperation. “Indeed,” he answered hoarsely. “What brings you searching so late at night?” “Have you not seen Kishu?” “What business could you have with Kishu?” “The cold bites too harshly tonight—I meant to bring him home.” “Even dogs lose his trail. Let him mind his own chill.” The policeman of merciful bent walked away.

Uncle Gen came to the small bridge with a sigh—where the firelight fell, there were footprints. They seemed freshly trodden. Who but Kishu would walk barefoot in this snow? Uncle Gen hurried off at a trot toward the direction of the footprints. Downward. The news that Uncle Gen had taken Kishu into his home spread, and those who heard of it at first did not believe it, then were astonished, until finally there was no one who did not laugh. Some longed to see how this pair must have looked sitting face-to-face at their evening meal, while there were those who ridiculed them as if watching a comic play they ached to witness. Recently, Uncle Gen—who had come to be thought of as barely existing—once again began to be talked about among people.

More than seven days had passed since the snowy night. The sunset’s glow vividly illuminated; the land of Shikoku appeared distant, floating upon the waves.

Around Tsurumisaki, full sails and single sails were white. At the sandbar of Kawaguchi, plovers were flying. Uncle Gen was about to cast off with five passengers when three young men came running and boarded; the boat became crowded. The two girls returning to the island appeared to be sisters; they wore head towels and carried small packages in their hands. The remaining five were fishermen; of these, the three others besides the two youths who had boarded late were an elderly couple and a child in tow. The people spoke only of town matters. When one of the youths brought up the matter of the play, the elder sister said that while this time’s costumes were exceptionally splendid, few on the island had yet seen it, though the rumors alone were quite lofty. Not to that extent—the old woman interjected dismissively, saying they were only slightly superior to last year’s. There was a rumor among the island’s girls that among the actors was an exceptionally handsome man named Kume Gorō; when the young men asked the sisters about this, the two flushed red, and the old woman burst into loud laughter. Uncle Gen rowed while keeping his gaze fixed only on the distant horizon; there, amidst what seemed like illusory echoes of worldly laughter, he did not utter a single word.

“I heard you took Kishu into your home—is it true?” One of the youths, recalling something, asked.

“Indeed.” Uncle Gen answered without even looking. “Not a few people find it puzzling and wonder why you took a beggar child into your home—could it be that being alone was too lonely?” “Indeed.” “Even if not Kishu, there must certainly be children in the islands and fishing villages whom you could seek to live with.” “Indeed,” interjected the old woman, looking up at Uncle Gen’s face. Uncle Gen wore a troubled look and did not answer for some time. He appeared to be gazing at smoke rising straight from the western mountain’s embrace—its tip glowing a deep blue in the setting sun.

“Kishu is a child with no parents, siblings, or home; I am an old man with no wife or children.” “If I were to become his father and he my child, would that not bring us both happiness?” The people were inwardly astonished at his words, spoken as if to himself, for never before had they heard this old man speak so smoothly.

“Truly, how swiftly time passes, Uncle Gen.” “When I beheld Lady Yuri standing on the shore holding her infant, it feels to me as though it were yesterday.” The old woman sighed,

“If Master Kosuke were alive and well now, how old would he be?” she asked. “He would be two or three years older than Kishu.” He answered nonchalantly. “There is nothing so difficult to guess as Kishu’s age—I imagine his years are buried beneath grime. Ten? Or perhaps eighteen?” The sound of people’s laughter did not cease for some time. “I don’t know well either—they say around sixteen or seventeen.” “If one isn’t the birth mother, how could anyone know for certain? Do you not find that pitiable?” Uncle Gen said while looking back at the child—who appeared to be the elderly couple’s seven-year-old grandchild—they had brought along. Even his voice trembled; the people, pitying him, ceased their laughter.

“Truly, were parental affection to blossom between those two, Uncle Gen’s days ahead would surely be happy.” “Even Kishu is human—if he were to wait at the gate for your late return, it wouldn’t be only you shedding tears.” The old man’s conciliatory words carried genuine intent. “Indeed—truly happy then,” replied Uncle Gen, his voice brimming with joy.

“Have you no thought of taking Kishu to see this play?” The youth who said this was not aiming to mock Uncle Gen, but rather wanted to see the smiling faces of the island girls. The sisters did nothing but smile hesitantly at Uncle Gen. The old woman struck the gunwale and laughed as though it were all terribly amusing. “What good would showing him something like Awa Jurobei do but make my child weep?” Uncle Gen said with a serious face. “Who is this ‘my child’?” The old woman pressed on with feigned ignorance, “I heard Master Kosuke drowned over there,” She turned and pointed toward the dark shadow of Mount Myoken; all the people looked in that direction.

“Kishu is my child,” declared Uncle Gen, momentarily stopping his rowing to glance toward Mount Hiko, his face flushing red. An emotion that could not be named as anger, sorrow, shame, or even joy struck his chest. The moment he planted his foot on the gunwale and applied force to the oar, he burst into a loud song.

The sea and mountains had not heard this voice in an age. Uncle Gen himself had not heard this voice in an age. Across the evening-calm sea surface appeared this voice fading while its cadence gently drew ripples. The ripples struck shore. The mountain echo faintly answered. Uncle Gen had not heard this answer in an age. The I of thirty years past awakening from long slumber—does it not call out to the present I from beyond the mountains?

The elderly couple praised his voice and melody as being just like in the old days, and the four youths listened enraptured, finding the rumors held true. Uncle Gen had completely forgotten that seven passengers were aboard his boat.

After landing the two girls on the island, the young men lay down, covering themselves with blankets and drawing up their legs against the cold. The elderly couple gave sweets to their grandchild and whispered about household matters. By the time they reached the inlet, the sun had set, evening mist enveloping both village and cove. The returning boat carried no passengers. As they exited Daigo Inlet, Mount Hiko’s storm wind seeped into their bones; looking back, the great white light shattered upon ripples while ahead, Ōnyū Island’s firelight began its early twinkling. The shadow of the old man rowing quietly lay dark upon the water. When the bow floated lightly, the water tapped against the hull—ah, what mournful whispers did it utter? Uncle Gen listened without hearing to this sleep-inducing murmur, persisting in thoughts of happy things alone; yet when sorrowful or troubling matters rose to his heart, he would tighten his grip on the oar and shake his head. As if driving something away.

At home, someone was waiting—he must have been sitting by the hearth dozing off. Compared to his days of begging, the joy and warmth of my household must have melted his heart; perhaps he gazed at the lamplight without a thought in his head. Had he finished supper without waiting for my return? When I said I would teach him how to row, he nodded cheerfully. His being quiet yet perpetually pensive must have been his long-standing habit. With time, his cheeks might have filled out and reddened—but no, no. Uncle Gen shook his head. No, no—he too is a human child, my child. How I long to hear his voice skillfully raised in song after learning from me! Were he to row a boat carrying a single girl beneath the moonlight—he too being a human child—that longing to see her again would inevitably arise. And I alone possess eyes that discern such feelings; others would surely fail to perceive them.

When entering the harbor, Uncle Gen gazed with a dreamlike look at the wholesalers' lamplight—their elongated shadows swaying upon the water. Once he finished tying up the boat, he rolled up the sleeping mat, tucked it under his arm, shouldered the oar, and went ashore. Not long after sunset, all three wholesalers had closed their doors; human figures vanished and voices fell silent. Uncle Gen walked with eyes closed until he came before his house, whereupon he opened his round eyes wide and looked all around. “O my child, I have returned now!” he called out, placed the oar in its proper place, and went inside. The house was dark.

“What is this? My child, I’ve returned now—why don’t you light the lamp quickly?” Only silence answered. “Kishu, Kishu”—only the hearth cricket continued its ceaseless chirping. Uncle Gen, flustered, took a match from his pocket; one strike suddenly lit the room—no human-like figure visible—then darkness returned after a moment. An eerie chill rose from beneath the floorboards and seeped into his chest. He swiftly transferred the flame to the bean-sized lamp—his gaze dull as he scanned the area—then cocked his ear and called “My child,” his voice hoarse and breath ragged, or so it seemed.

The hearth lay cold and ash-white, bearing no trace of an evening meal having been eaten. There was no need to search the house—the old man simply gazed slowly about the single room. The soot-blackened walls' corners lay beyond the lamplight's reach, yet when stared at intently, they seemed to take on human form. Uncle Gen buried his face in both hands and heaved a deep sigh. When the thought—Could it be?—pierced his chest, he jerked upright. Fat tears streamed down his weathered cheeks unheeded as he transferred flame to the lantern hanging from a pillar, then rushed from the house and ran toward the castle town.

He stopped before passing through the scattering sparks of nightwork at Kanita’s forge and asked whether Kishu had come this way around dusk; one of the hammer-wielding young men answered they hadn’t noticed, his face puzzled. He forced a smile as if to say he wasn’t disturbing their work, then hurried onward. When he had come halfway along the straight road—fields stretching to his right, a row of ancient pines lining the embankment to his left—he spotted someone moving ahead. Shining his lantern toward them, the retreating figure was unmistakably Kishu. He walked hunched forward with both hands thrust deep into his pockets.

“Is that not Kishu?” he called out, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Where do you think you’re going alone?” In that single utterance seemed wrapped anger—then joy—then sorrow—then boundless despair. Kishu showed no sign of surprise upon seeing Uncle Gen’s face, keeping watch as though standing idly at a gate vacantly observing passersby. Uncle Gen stood dumbfounded, momentarily speechless.

“Aren’t you cold? Hurry home, my child.” While saying this, he took Kishu’s hand and led him back. All along the way, Uncle Gen—perhaps unable to bear the loneliness from his own delayed return—kept saying things like how he had prepared the evening meal and left it in the cupboard as they walked. Kishu did not utter a single word; it was the old man who let out an unwelcome sigh. Upon returning home, he blazed the hearth fire, seated Kishu beside it, took out the meal from the cupboard, and without eating himself, made only Kishu eat. Kishu did exactly as the old man instructed, devouring even the portion meant for him. All the while, Uncle Gen would occasionally look at Kishu’s face, close his eyes, and sigh. “When you finish eating, warm yourself by the fire,” he said, and Kishu—asked if it was tasty—merely gave a faint nod with sleep-laden eyes as he looked at the old man’s face. When Uncle Gen saw this, he gently said, “If you’re sleepy, go to bed,” then laid out the bedding himself and covered him with a futon. After Kishu had fallen asleep, the old man sat alone before the hearth, closed his eyes, and did not move. The hearth fire verged on dying out, yet he did not add firewood; on the face that had been exposed solely to sea winds for fifty long years, the shadow of red flames drifted faintly. That which glistened upon his cheeks—might they be tears? The wind crossing the roof made a sound; whistling through the pine branches at the gate, it passed on.

The next morning, rising early, Uncle Gen had Kishu eat breakfast while he himself drank only water—his head heavy and thirst unbearable—and ate nothing. After a while, he took Kishu’s hand and had him touch his forehead to check his fever; concluding he must have caught a slight cold, he finally laid out the bedding and lay down. It was rare for Uncle Gen to take to his sickbed.

“I’ll be better by tomorrow. Come here—I’ll tell you a story.” Forcing a faint smile, he made Kishu sit by his pillow and recounted tales in great detail, as if speaking to a child of seven or eight—“You’ve never laid eyes on a shark, have you? A fearsome creature like that...” After a time, “Don’t you ever miss your mother?” he asked, studying Kishu’s face. Yet Kishu seemed unable to grasp the question. “Stay here with me for good. Think of me as your father—”

He tried to continue speaking but breathed painfully. “The night after tomorrow, I will take you to see a play.” “The title is *Awa Jūrōbei*—a tale of paternal bonds, I’ve heard.” “If I show it to you, a heart yearning for parents will surely awaken—then think of me as your father. Your father is me.” And so Uncle Gen recounted the plot of a play he had seen long ago, sang a pilgrim’s song in a faint voice, asked “Do you not feel pity?” and wept himself. Kishu seemed to understand nothing of it.

“There, there—it’s hard to grasp through words alone. If you saw it with your own eyes, even you would surely weep.” Having finished speaking, he let out a labored breath— Having talked himself to exhaustion, he dozed off for a while. When he awoke and looked by the pillow, Kishu was not there. As he ran calling “Kishu! My child!”, a female beggar with half her face stained crimson appeared from somewhere, declaring “Kishu is my child,” but as he looked on, her eyes transformed into those of a young woman. “Yuri—was it not you? What have you done with Kosuke? While I slept, Kosuke fled and vanished somewhere—come, come, come, let us search together! See—Kosuke digs out radish scraps from the trash heap!” he cried aloud, and from behind came the voice of a mother calling “My child!” Mother pointed gracefully and said, “Aren’t you going to see the stage?” On the stage, the candlelight shone blindingly bright. Wondering at his mother reddening the rims of her eyes as she wept gracefully, he ate only sweets and finally laid his small head upon her lap, falling asleep just like that. With the sensation of Mother Yuri gracefully rousing him, the dream shattered. Uncle Gen raised his head,

“My child—I just had a terrible dream,” he said while looking beside the pillow. Kishu stirred.

“My child.” He called out in a hoarse voice. No answer. The wind blowing against the window echoed eerily. Was it dream or reality? Uncle Gen threw off the futon and abruptly stood up; when he cried “Kishu! My child!”, dizziness struck and he collapsed back onto the bedding, feeling as though he had fallen into a thousand-fathom abyss where waves shattered over his head. That day, Uncle Gen stayed buried beneath his futon without rising, ate nothing, and never once stuck his head out from under the covers. The wind that had begun at dawn gradually intensified; the sound of waves battering the shore grew dreadful. That day, no fishermen went out to the castle town, nor did anyone come from there seeking passage to the island by ferryboat. As night fell, the waves grew wilder still, and there came a sound like the harbor itself crumbling away.

In the predawn darkness, as the eastern sky finally began to lighten, all the people rose, donned raincoats, lit lamps and ship’s lanterns, and gathered at the harbor. The harbor remained unscathed. Although the wind had subsided, the waves remained high; offshore roared a thunderous sound as breakers crashed against the rocks, their spray falling like rain. As the people inspected the storm-wrought devastation, they discovered a small boat that had been cast up onto the rocks and lay half-shattered where it remained. “Whose boat is this?” A man resembling a warehouse manager asked.

“This is unmistakably Uncle Gen’s boat.” One of the young men answered. The people exchanged glances and had no words.

“Won’t someone go call Uncle Gen?” “I’ll go.” The young man placed the ship’s lantern on the ground and ran off. Ten paces ahead, it could already be seen. From a pine branch extending over the road hung a strange object. The bold young man resolutely approached and fixed his eyes to look. The one hanging there was Uncle Gen.

In the folds of the mountains near Katsura Port, there was a small cemetery that faced east. The graves of Uncle Gen’s wife Yuri and their only child Kosuke were all here. A grave marker inscribed “Tomb of Ikeda Gentarō” had also not been erected there. With Kosuke at the center, three graves stood aligned. Though winter nights might bring sleet, the young teacher from the capital could only pity Uncle Gen, imagining him still living alone by the shore mourning his wife and child through endless tears. Kishu remained Kishu—viewed by the townsfolk as an appendage of Saeki just as before, wandering through this ancient city’s midnight hours like a revenant escaped from the grave unchanged from times past. When someone told him that Uncle Gen had hanged himself and died, he merely stared at the person’s face.