Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part I

A young teacher came down from the capital to teach foreign languages to Saeki's youth for nearly a year, arriving in mid-autumn and departing in mid-summer. In early summer, growing weary of living in the castle town, he moved to the shore of a harbor called Katsura half a ri away and commuted to school from there. Thus he stayed by the seaside for a month, and within that month, those with whom he became acquainted enough to exchange words could be counted on one hand. One of those counted was the innkeeper. One evening, as rain fell and wind rose, with the sound of waves crashing against the rocks growing somewhat rough, even the teacher—who preferred solitude and spoke little—found himself overcome by loneliness. He descended from his room on the second floor and came to the veranda where the innkeeper and his wife sat with legs outstretched, cooling themselves. The couple, without bothering to light a lamp, sat talking in the dimness while fanning away mosquitoes with flat fans. Upon seeing the teacher, they yielded their seats as if encountering something rare. When the evening wind scattered raindrops lightly—one drop, two drops—brushing against their faces, the three people accepted this pleasantly and fell into casual conversation.

After the teacher had returned to the capital, several years passed. One winter night, late past the first hour, he sat alone at his small desk writing a letter. He was sending this to an old friend in his hometown. Its pale blue hue wore a worried expression; this night, his cheeks bore a faint flush, his downcast gaze—nowhere fixed—as though wishing to clearly see something veiled in mist.

Within the mist stood an old man.

The teacher set down his brush and reread it. He reread it and closed his eyes. When his eyes closed outwardly and opened inwardly, what appeared was again the old man. In the letter he wrote: “The innkeeper spoke of this old man’s circumstances as if they were nothing remarkable. Truly, it was nothing but an ordinary person’s circumstances—if one were to seek such an old man, in mountain shadows, by water’s edge, in every province they would be plentiful. Yet how could I ever forget this old man? To me, this old man seemed like a box holding some unknown secret—one that no one could ever open. Could this be but the strange workings of my mind as ever? “Be that as it may, when I remember this old man, I feel akin to a traveler hearing a distant flute and longing for home, or to one who has finished reading a sublime verse and gazes up at the boundless sky.”

Yet the teacher did not know the old man’s circumstances in detail. What he had heard from the innkeeper was only the general outline. The teacher could not comprehend why the innkeeper inquired so persistently about this old man, but when questioned, he narrated accordingly.

“This harbor suits Saeki Town. “As you can see—how many houses worthy of the name remain? The population scarcely reaches twenty, and this loneliness always resembles tonight’s.” “Yet imagine the desolation before Genshuku’s solitary house stood upon this shore.” The pine beside his house—now standing by a broad road where it lends travelers cool summer shade—had its roots washed by incoming waves time and again over ten years past. Those who came from the castle town to summon Genshuku’s boat would often perch on sea-jutting rocks—though now even those precarious cliffs have been split open through gunpowder’s might.

“No—even he could not have lived alone from the start.”

“His wife was beautiful.” “Her name was Yuri, and she was born on Ōnyū Island.” Though people considered half the rumors false, this matter alone was deemed true when Genshuku spoke of it one night in his cups: when he was twenty-eight or twenty-nine, on a spring night after Myoken’s light had been extinguished and the hour grown late, there came a persistent knocking at his door. Genshuku rose and asked, “Who is there?” The voice that replied “Take me to the island” was a woman’s. When he peered by the light of the waning moon, it was none other than a young girl named Yuri from Ōnyū Island whom he had long known.

"In those days when many plied the ferry trade, even among them, Genshuku’s name resounded through every cove." "This was not merely because he was a youth of chivalrous spirit and steadfast heart—there lay a deeper reason still. What I particularly wish you to hear concerns the quality of Genshuku’s voice from that time." "People would select his boat specifically to hear him sing as he plied the oars." "Yet his taciturn nature remains unchanged from past to present." "The island girl must have harbored her own intentions when requesting Genshuku’s boat so late—a secret known only to Myoken-sama gazing down from on high." "When questioned about what words they exchanged after mooring, he—even in drunkenness remaining sparing of speech—would merely deepen the twin furrows on his brow and smile; that smile bore an inexplicable sorrow that chilled the blood."

“Genshuku’s singing voice grew ever clearer and more vibrant. Thus the young couple’s blissful days passed more fleetingly than a dream. When his only son Kōsuke was seven years old, his wife Yuri died during her second childbirth. Though there were those from the castle town who proposed taking in Kōsuke to make him into a merchant someday, having lost his beloved wife and now facing separation from his only son proved unbearable—so he refused. He, already a man of few words, grew ever more silent in those days, his laughter becoming rare, singing only when emboldened by drink even while rowing. Even his once-cheerful voice that had resounded through Daigo Inlet as moonlight danced upon the waves now carried sorrow—this was not merely in the ears of those who heard him, for losing his wife had shattered half the heart of a man once full of vitality. On days when rain drizzled down, deeming it pitiable to leave Kōsuke alone in their lonely house, he would take him aboard the ferry with passengers; people would show pity. Thus when they bought sweets in the castle town as souvenirs for children and opened the bags to share with this orphan, many mothers did so. The father would never offer thanks, behaving like a stranger; yet none considered that this too must stem from overwhelming sorrow.”

Thus two years passed.

“When the harbor construction was halfway completed, we, husband and wife, moved here from the island, built this house, and began our current trade. They cut into the mountain ridges to open roads—before Genshuku’s house there now lay a proper roadway—steamships sounded their whistles twice daily at dawn and dusk, and what was once a desolate shore where not even fishing nets were dried transformed in an instant to its present state. However, Genshuku’s ferry business remained as it had been in the past. He continued ferrying shore people and islanders to and from the castle town as before, and though the harbor’s opening and road construction had brought bustling crowds—making this place, compared to former times, part of the transient world—he showed no sign of considering this either joyful or sorrowful.”

“Thus another three years passed.” When Kōsuke was twelve years old, he played in the sea with other children and accidentally drowned. The children who witnessed this fled in terror without telling anyone of the incident. When evening fell and we noticed Kōsuke had not returned, we joined the search in alarm—needless to say, it was too late. The pitiful remains had mysteriously sunk to the bottom of Genshuku’s boat.

“He would never sing again; he began to avoid even exchanging words with those close to him.” As he spent his years without speaking, singing, or laughing, it seemed any person would be forgotten by the world. Though Genshuku’s rowing of his boat remained unchanged from days of old, the shore people came to forget that he existed in this world even as they rode in his boat. “Even I, who speak of this, would sometimes see Genshuku returning with his round eyes half-closed, carrying his oar, and think, ‘Ah, Genshuku is still living here.’” “That the question ‘What manner of man is he?’ had been posed was first done by you.”

“If so—were they to call him and make him drink—he might even sing again.” “Yet the meaning of that song was difficult to comprehend.” “No, he did not mutter, did not voice any complaints; he only heaved deep sighs from time to time.” “Doesn’t he feel any pity—”

What the innkeeper had told the teacher did not go beyond this.

Even after returning to the capital, the teacher did not forget about Genshuku. On nights when he sat by lamplight listening to rain’s sound, his thoughts would often leap to this pitiable old man. He wondered: Where might Genshuku be now—perhaps closing his round eyes alone by hearthside while listening to waves and thinking of ancient spring nights? Or might he still dwell solely on thoughts of Kōsuke? But the teacher did not know that on a winter night several years after he had imagined this, sleet was falling on the old man’s grave.

While the young teacher, with a poet’s heart, was turning the pages of memory, yet more sorrowful events had befallen the old man—he had already departed from this world.

And thus, the teacher’s poem lacked its final stanza.

Middle

The year when Saeki's disciples bade farewell to their language teacher at Katsuura Port's harbor drew to a close, and in late January of the following year, one day Genshuku went out to the castle town on business from before noon.

The sky grew overcast, threatening to snow. Snow was rare in this region; one could infer the day’s bitter cold. Following Saeki’s local custom, people from mountain villages and waterside hamlets would row small boats from rivers and the sea to conduct errands in the castle town. At Banjō River’s banks, ferries always gathered—some boarding, others disembarking; shorefolk singing, mountain people clamoring—a scene of great bustle. Yet today felt desolate, ripples forming on the river’s surface where shadows of gray clouds fell. Every main street lay deserted; eaves turned dark; traffic vanished; the cobblestone side lane lay frozen. From Shiroyama’s foothills, a struck bell resonated through the clouds—across this town of moss-whitened roof tiles drifted a mournful sound from end to end, like a stone cast into the center of a fishless lake.

On festival days, there was a wide crossroads where a stage could be set up; children from poor families played there, exposing bloodless faces, while others stood with hands tucked in their sleeves. Here had come a beggar. One of the children called out “Kishū! Kishū!”, but he tried to pass by without turning around. At a glance he appeared fifteen or sixteen; his disheveled hair covered his neck, and his long face—made gaunt by sunken cheeks—revealed the sharp line of his jawbone. The light in his eyes was clouded; his pupils moved slowly as he gazed vacantly into nowhere, his gaze dull. What he wore was a single lined kimono; its hem was short, with tatters hanging down, soaked as it was, barely concealing his shins. From his armpit emerged an arm as spindly as a cricket’s legs, trembling as he went.

At this moment, the one who approached from afar was Genshuku. The two met at the center of the crossroads. Genshuku opened his round eyes wide and looked at the beggar. The old man’s voice calling out “Kishū” was low in pitch yet resonant. The young beggar raised his dull eyes along with his face and looked at Genshuku’s eyes as though gazing at stones. The two stood for a time, gazing into each other's eyes.

Genshuku searched his sleeve, took out a bamboo-skin wrapper, picked up a rice ball, and thrust it toward Kishū; the beggar produced a bowl from his robe and accepted it. Neither giver nor receiver spoke a word—no semblance of joy or pity passed between them. Kishū walked straight past without turning back. Genshuku watched his receding figure until it disappeared around the corner. Gazing up at the leaden sky, he saw two or three snowflakes drifting down as though uncertain whether to fall at all. Once more he looked toward where the beggar had gone and heaved a deep sigh. The children stifled giggles and nudged one another with their elbows, but the old man noticed nothing.

Genshuku returned home at dusk. The windows of his house faced the road yet remained unopened, unlit even without that added darkness; he sat before the hearth, pressed his thick-fingered hands to his face, bowed his head, and sighed. In the hearth lay a handful of dead branches to feed the fire. A flame no larger than a candle’s flickered onto the slender branches, sputtering out and reigniting in turns. When it burned, it briefly illuminated the room. The old man’s shadow, thick upon the wall, shifted; what emerged on the soot-blackened surface was a brocade tableau. When Kōsuke was five or six, his wife Yuri had returned to her parents’ home, and that moment remained fixed in time; now, after over ten years had passed, it seemed as if brushed with diluted ink. Tonight there was no wind, no sound of waves. The old man strained his ears to listen to the rustling, murmuring sounds encircling the house. This was the sound of sleet. Genshuku listened intently to this desolate sound for a time, then sighed deeply and looked around the house.

When he lit the bean-oil lamp and stepped outside, the cold seeped into his bones; though he was one who never found rowing his oar on winter nights burdensome, now he felt his flesh break out in goosebumps. The mountains were black; the sea was dark. As far as the firelight reached, snowflakes could be seen glittering as they fell. The ground was frozen hard. At this time two young men came talking from the direction of the castle town; seeing the old man standing at the gate holding a lamp, they said, “Genshuku, how fares tonight’s cold?” The old man answered only with “Such it is,” his eyes turning toward the castle town.

After walking a short distance past, one of the youths whispered, "As always, what of Genshuku's appearance tonight? If a young woman were to see that face, she'd surely faint on the spot." The other replied, "Come morning, we might well find the old man's legs dangling from those pine branches." A shiver ran through them both, and when they turned to look, the lamp at Genshuku's gate had already vanished. The night deepened. Snow shifted to sleet, sleet turned to snow, falling and ceasing intermittently.

When the moon slipped from Nada Mountain’s edge and wrapped its light in a sea of clouds, Old Castle City lay like a parched graveyard. At the foot of mountains lay villages; in their depths lay graves. The graves now stirred awake, while people now fell asleep, meeting the deceased in the world of dreams—clinging and laughing.

A shadow-like figure now crossed the wide crossroads and moved over the small bridge. The dog that had been sleeping at the base of the bridge raised its head and watched the receding figure but did not bark. Ah, pitiable soul—had this person escaped from the grave? Who did he mean to meet? With whom did he intend to speak? Thus he wandered aimlessly. He was Kishū.

In the autumn of the same year that Genshuku’s only son Kōsuke drowned and perished at sea, a lone female beggar wandered in from Hyūga and settled in Saeki Town. With her was a boy of about eight. When the mother stood at household gates with her child, she received abundant alms—the people here showed more compassion than she had seen elsewhere. Perhaps calculating this boded well for her child’s future, come spring she vanished without trace, abandoning the boy. According to one who had visited Dazaifu and returned, a woman resembling that beggar—clad in rags alongside a sumo wrestler—was seen begging by a torii gate. All found elements of truth in this account. The townspeople resented the mother’s cruelty while pitying the abandoned child all the more. Thus her scheme seemed successful. No—though villages had temples, people’s compassion had limits. Though they lamented his pitiful state, none would seriously take him in to raise long-term; some ordered him to sweep gardens and treated him humanely at times, but such kindness never lasted. At first the child wept for his mother; people gave him things to console him. The child ceased missing his mother; their compassion had only made him forget her. Whether called forgetful child, idiot, filthy thing, or thief—pretexts varied but the result remained singular: they cast this boy fully into beggary and buried him beyond compassion’s realm.

When playfully taught the syllabary, he learned it; when playfully taught a primer, he memorized passages; hearing children’s songs, he sang them; laughing, chatting, and playing—he seemed no different from any ordinary child. He indeed appeared no different. As the child claimed his birthplace was Kishū Province, they came to call him “Kishū” and eventually treated him like an item attached to Saeki Town, while the children playing in the streets grew up alongside this boy. Thus, his heart perished unbeknownst to others; while people believed they coexisted with him in a world where morning sunrises trailed cooking smoke—where parents and children, husbands and wives, siblings and friends all lived in tearful bonds—he had long since moved his lonely nest to an uninhabited island and buried his heart there.

Even when they gave him things, he did not say thank you. He ceased to laugh. To see him angry was difficult; to see him cry was no easy task—he neither resented nor rejoiced. He merely moved, merely walked, merely ate. When he ate, if someone nearby asked, “Is it tasty?” he would answer “Tasty” in a flat voice—his words resonating as though from the earth’s depths. If someone, in jest, raised a stick over his head, his manner of proceeding with slow steps while wearing an expression as if laughing resembled yet differed from a dog wagging its tail while fleeing its scolding master; he never offered flattery to others. To call him pitiable with the same heart one pities ordinary beggars does not suffice. To eyes that view those adrift and drowning in the waves of the transient world with pity, he remains unseen—for he crawls along the seabed beneath those waves.

After Kishū crossed the small bridge in the distance, before long a figure arrived at the wide crossroads and surveyed the surroundings. In his hand he carried a small boat lantern. As he swung the boat lantern’s glowing mouth this way and that, fanning out firelight raced across the thinly accumulated snow, making it glisten beautifully, while round shadows of flame leapt beneath the dark eaves of houses encircling the crossroads.

At this moment, what suddenly appeared from the direction of Honmachi was a policeman. Stomping closer, he called out “Who goes there?” and raised his lantern to illuminate the man’s face. Round eyes, deep wrinkles, a thick nose—a robust boatman stood there.

“If it isn’t Uncle Genshuku,” exclaimed the policeman in exasperation. “Such is the case,” he answered in a hoarse voice. “Whom are you searching for so late at night?”

“Have you not seen Kishū?”

“What business could you have with Kishū?” “As tonight grows bitterly cold, I thought to bring him home with me.” “But not even dogs know where he beds down. You’d do better not to catch cold yourself.”

The compassionate policeman departed.

Genshuku came to the small bridge while sighing, but there were footprints where the firelight had fallen. They seemed to have just been stepped on. Who but Kishū would walk barefoot through this snow? The old man broke into a trot and ran in the direction the footprints led.

Below

The news that Genshuku had taken Kishū into his home spread, and those who heard and spoke of it at first did not believe it, then were astonished, and in the end there was none who did not laugh. The sight of these two sitting face-to-face at supper was something they wished to see; there were those who mocked them with hearts that yearned to witness some comic play. Lately Genshuku—who had come to be thought of as barely existing—had once again begun to become the subject of people’s gossip.

More than seven days had passed since the snowy night.

The evening sun cast its vivid glow; Shikoku’s land appeared to float on the distant waves. Around Tsurumisaki, full sails and single sails gleamed white. At Kawaguchi’s sandbar, plovers flew. Genshuku was about to cast off with five passengers when three young men came running and boarded, filling the boat to capacity. The two girls returning to the island seemed to be sisters—hand towels draped over their heads, small bundles in hand. The remaining five were harbor folk: besides the two belated youths, there were an elderly couple and a child they tended. The passengers spoke only of town affairs. When a young man mentioned the play, the elder sister said, “Though few from Yushima have seen it yet, they say this year’s costumes surpass all others—the rumors alone soar high.” “Nonsense,” dismissed the old woman. “They’re merely somewhat finer than last year’s.” Talk turned to Kume Gorō, a rumored beauty among the actors—when the youth pressed the sisters about him, their cheeks flushed scarlet as the crone roared with laughter. Genshuku rowed, eyes fixed on the far horizon; he fancied he heard the transient world’s raucous mirth through vacant ears, yet uttered not a word.

“I hear you’ve brought Kishū into your home—can it be true?” One of the young men, recalling something, asked. “Such is the case.” The old man answered without so much as a glance. “There are not a few who find it hard to comprehend why you took that beggar child into your home and consider it strange—could it be that solitude weighs too heavily on you?”

“Such is the case.” “Even if not Kishū, surely you could find a child to live with—there must be such in the islands or the harbor.” “Indeed, that is so,” the old woman interjected, looking up at Genshuku’s face. Genshuku wore a troubled expression and did not answer for some time. Smoke rising straight from the western mountain’s embrace, its tip glowing in the setting sun, seemed to gaze upon the deep blue. “Kishū is a child with neither parents nor siblings nor home; I am an old man with neither wife nor children.” “If I were to become his father, and he my child—would that not bring happiness to us both?”

The people were inwardly astonished at his speaking as if to himself—they had never before heard this old man speak so smoothly. “Truly how swiftly time passes us by now,” said Uncle Genshuku. “When I saw Lady Yuri standing on that rocky shore cradling her newborn—to my heart it still feels like yesterday.” The old woman sighed deeply then asked him directly: “How old would Lord Kōsuke have been today had he lived?”

“He would be two or three years older than Kishū.” He answered nonchalantly. “There’s nothing harder to guess than Kishū’s age—the years themselves seem buried under filth. Is he ten or maybe eighteen?” The people’s laughter showed no sign of ceasing. “I don’t know for certain myself—they say sixteen or seventeen.” “How could anyone know without being his birth mother? Don’t you find this pitiable?”

The old man looked back at the child—who seemed to be the elderly couple’s seven-year-old grandchild—they said. With even his voice trembling, the people, taking pity, ceased their laughter.

“If parental affection were to arise between them, Genshuku’s future would surely be happy.” “Kishū too is a human child. Were he to wait at the gate for your delayed return, would it be Genshuku alone who sheds tears?” The elderly man’s conciliatory words were not without sincerity. “Such is the case—truly that moment would be joyous,” answered Genshuku, his words brimming with joy. “Would you like to take Kishū to see this play?” The young man who spoke thus did not intend to mock Genshuku; he simply wished to see the island girls’ smiling faces. The sisters merely smiled out of consideration for Genshuku. The old woman struck the gunwale and laughed, thinking it must be extremely amusing.

“Showing him something like Awa Jūrōbei and making my child cry would be of no benefit.” Genshuku said with a completely serious face. “Who, pray tell, is this ‘my child’?” The old woman asked with feigned innocence, “I heard Lord Kōsuke drowned over there.” She turned and pointed toward the dark shadow of Myōken Mountain; all the people looked that way.

“The child I speak of is Kishū,” declared Genshuku, pausing his rowing to look toward Hikodake, his face flushing crimson. An emotion—whether anger, sorrow, shame, or even joy—indescribable in words pierced through his chest. Setting his foot against the gunwale and heaving at the oar, he suddenly burst into loud song. Neither sea nor mountain had heard this voice in many long years. The singing old man himself had not heard this voice in many long years. Across the evening-calm sea surface, this voice’s pulse seemed to trace slow ripples as it faded away. The ripples lapped against the shore. The mountain echo faintly answered back. The old man had not heard this answering call in many long years. Does not my self of thirty years past—awakened from long slumber—call out to my present self from beyond those mountains?

The elderly couple praised how his voice and melody were just as in days of old, while the four young people listened enraptured, finding that he indeed lived up to the rumors. Genshuku completely forgot that seven passengers were aboard his boat.

After disembarking the two girls on the island, the young people—saying it was cold—covered themselves with blankets, drew up their legs, and lay down. The elderly couple gave their grandchild sweets and such, and discussed household matters in hushed tones. By the time they reached the harbor, the sun had set, and evening smoke covered the village and enveloped the inlet.

The returning ferry had no passengers. As he exited Daigo Inlet’s mouth, Hikodake’s wind seeped into his bones; looking back, the great white light shattered upon ripples while on this side Ōnyū Island’s firelight had already begun its early flickering. The shadow of the old man quietly rowing was reflected black upon the water. When the bow floated lightly, the sound of water tapping against the boat’s bottom—what does sorrow whisper? To this soporific lapping of water—heard yet not truly heard—Genshuku clung, his mind weaving only bright imaginings; but when sorrows or cares rose unbidden, he would grip the oar tighter and shake his head as though to cast them off. It was as if he were driving things away.

At home there was someone waiting—he sat before the hearth perhaps dozing off; compared to when he was a beggar, his heart melted in the joy and warmth of my home; perhaps gazing absently at the lamplight free of thoughts; had he finished supper without waiting for my return? When I said I would teach him how to row, he nodded cheerfully; his being sparing of words yet perpetually pensive must be his longstanding habit; with time perhaps his cheeks would fill out and grow ruddy—but... but.

Genshuku shook his head. No no—he too is a human child, my child. How I yearned to hear his voice skillfully singing what I'd taught! Were there a moonlit night when he rowed a boat carrying some girl—he too being human—could feelings of wanting to see that maiden again help but arise? These eyes would surely discern such emotions—others would not.

When entering the harbor, the old man gazed dreamily at the trading houses' lamplight, their long shadows swaying on the water. After mooring the boat, he rolled up the sleeping mat, tucked it under his arm, shouldered the oar, and ascended the shore. Shortly after sunset, all three trading houses had closed their doors; no human figures remained and voices had vanished. When Genshuku, walking with eyes closed, came before his house, he opened his round eyes wide and looked around.

“My child, I have come home now,” he called out, placed the oar where it belonged, and went inside. The house stood dark. “What is this? My child, I’ve returned—why haven’t you lit the lamp?” Desolate silence met him. “Kishū! Kishū!” Only the cricket’s ceaseless chirping replied. Flustered, the old man pulled matches from his pocket. One strike abruptly brightened the room—no human shape visible—then darkness reclaimed all. A sinister chill rose through floor cracks to seep into his chest. Swiftly kindling the bean-sized oil lamp, his dull eyes swept the room; ears straining as he croaked “My child,” breath turning ragged—or so it seemed.

The hearth lay cold and ash-white; not a trace remained of any supper having been eaten. There was no need to search the house—the old man simply let his gaze drift slowly about the single room. In the sooty corners where lamplight failed to reach, shadows pooled thick enough to suggest human forms when stared at intently. Genshuku buried his face in both hands and released a sigh that seemed dredged from his very core. Then came the thought—could it be?—piercing his chest like an ice shard. He jerked upright, letting fat tears carve glistening trails down his weathered cheeks without attempting to wipe them away. Snatching the ship’s lantern from its pillar hook, he transferred flame to wick with trembling hands before rushing out into the night, making straight for the castle town.

He was about to pass before the sparks scattering from Kanita’s nighttime forge labor into the darkness when he stopped. Upon asking whether Kishū had come this way around dusk, one of the hammer-wielding youths answered they hadn’t noticed him, wearing a puzzled expression. They put on smiling faces to show they weren’t hindered in their night work, and he hurried off again. To the right lay fields; to the left stretched a straight road lined with aged pines along an embankment—he had come halfway along this path when someone moved ahead. When he hastily turned his lantern light toward it, the retreating figure was unmistakably Kishū. He thrust both hands into his pockets and walked hunched forward.

“Kishū! Isn’t it you?” he called out, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going alone?” Anger, then joy, then sorrow, then boundless disappointment—all seemed compressed into this single utterance. Kishū showed no sign of surprise at seeing Genshuku’s face, standing guard in a manner akin to mindlessly watching passersby from the gate. The old man was dumbfounded and momentarily speechless. “Aren’t you cold? Hurry back home, my child.” As he said this, he took Kishū’s hand and led him back home. All along the way, Genshuku kept saying—perhaps unable to bear the loneliness due to his own late return—things like how he’d prepared supper in the cupboard and such as they walked. Kishū said not a word—it was the old man who let slip an ill-timed sigh.

Upon returning home, he vigorously lit the hearth fire, made Kishū sit beside it, took out a meal tray from the cupboard, and without eating himself, had only Kishū eat. Kishū did as the old man said and even ate the old man’s portion. During this time, Genshuku would occasionally look at Kishū’s face, close his eyes, and sigh. “When you finish eating, warm yourself by the fire,” he said; when asked “Was it good?”, Kishū merely nodded faintly with sleepy eyes at the old man’s face. When Genshuku saw this, he said kindly, “If you’re sleepy, go to bed,” and himself spread the bedding and laid out the futon. After Kishū had fallen asleep, the old man sat alone before the hearth, closed his eyes, and did not move. Though the hearth fire was on the verge of dying out, he did not add firewood; on his face—exposed for fifty long years to nothing but sea winds—the crimson flame’s shadow drifted faintly. What glistened upon his cheeks might have been tears.

The sound of wind crossed the roof; whistling through the pine treetops standing at the gate, it moved on. The next morning, rising early, Genshuku had Kishū eat breakfast while he himself, with a heavy head and unbearable thirst, drank only water and ate nothing. After a while—taking Kishū’s hand to make him touch his forehead and concluding he had caught a slight cold—he finally spread bedding and lay down. For Genshuku to fall ill and take to his bed was a rare occurrence. “By tomorrow I shall recover. Come here—I will tell you a tale.” Forcing a smile, he had Kishū sit by his pillow and proceeded to tell him various tales in exhaustive detail. “You have never seen a shark-like fearsome fish”—he spoke as if addressing a child of seven or eight. After some time passed.

“Do you not miss your mother?” He asked while gazing at Kishū’s face. Since Kishū appeared unable to grasp this question. “Stay in my home forever—consider me your father—” He attempted to continue but breathed with labored breath. “Two nights hence, I shall take you to see the play.” “The title is Awa Jūrōbei, so I’ve heard.” “When you see it, a longing for parents will surely stir within you—then regard me as your father. Your father is I.” Thus Genshuku recounted the plot of that long-ago play, sang a pilgrimage ballad in a faint voice for him to hear, and asked “Does this not move you?” while weeping himself. To Kishū, all remained incomprehensible.

“There, there—it’s hard to grasp through words alone. If you saw it with your own eyes, you too would surely weep.” Having finished speaking, he heaved a labored breath. Exhausted from speaking, he drifted into shallow sleep. When he awoke and looked at the bedside, Kishū was gone. “Kishū! My child!” he cried while running—when a beggar woman with half her face caked in crimson emerged from nowhere claiming “Kishū is mine,” her eyes shifting mid-sentence to those of a young girl. Was this Yuri’s scheme—what had become of Kōsuke? While I slept,Kōsuke must have escaped—come search with me! Look—Kōsuke digs through refuse piles for radish scraps!—he shouted hoarsely until “My child!” echoed behind him—his mother’s voice. Mother extended a graceful hand.“Will you not watch the play?” Candle flames glared from the stage,bright enough to sear retinas. Bewildered by Mother’s tear-reddened eyes,I nibbled sweets until resting my small head on her lap,fading into sleep. As Mother Yuri gently shook me awake,the dream dissolved. Genshuku lifted his head,

“You, my child—I just saw a terrifying dream,” he said, looking at the bedside. Kishū dragged himself.

“My child.” He called out in a hoarse voice. There was no answer. The sound of wind blowing against the window rang out eerily. Was it dream or reality? Genshuku flung off the futon, suddenly rose up—and at the moment he called “Kishū! My child!”—his vision swam and he collapsed back onto the futon, feeling as though he had fallen into a thousand-fathom abyss, waves shattering over his head.

That day, Genshuku did not rise from under his futon, ate nothing, and did not even stick his head out from beneath the covers.

The wind that had begun blowing since morning gradually grew fierce, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore was terrifying. Today, the villagers did not go out to the castle town, nor were there any crossing from the castle town to the island, and no one came to take the ferry.

As night fell, the waves grew increasingly wild, and there came a sound that made one suspect the harbor was collapsing.

In the predawn darkness, as the eastern sky finally began to pale, all the people arose, put on raincoats, lit lanterns, carried sidelights and such, and gathered at the harbor. The harbor was unharmed. Though the wind had died down, the waves remained high; offshore there was a sound like thunder roaring as the shore-crashing waves shattered into spray like rain.

As the people surveyed the desolate ruins, they discovered a small boat that had been washed up onto a rock and remained half-shattered.

“Whose boat is this?” A man resembling a warehouse master asked.

“There’s no mistaking it—this is Genshuku’s boat.” One of the youths answered. The people exchanged glances and were speechless.

“Won’t someone go call Genshuku?”

“I’ll go.” The youth set the sidelight on the ground and ran off. Ten steps ahead, it could already be seen. From a pine branch extending over the road hung a strange object. The bold youth resolutely approached and fixed his eyes to look. The one who had been hanged was Genshuku.

In the embrace of mountains not far from Katsura Port stood a small cemetery facing eastward. There lay the graves of Genshuku’s wife Yuri and his only son Kōsuke. A stone marker inscribed “Ikeda Gentarō’s Grave” had also been erected there. With Kōsuke’s grave at their center, three tombstones stood aligned; though sleet fell on winter nights, the young teacher from the capital clung to his belief that Genshuku still lived alone by the shore—weeping as he remembered his wife and child—and pitied him relentlessly for it.

Kishū remained Kishū; viewed by the townspeople as an attached item of Saeki just as before, he wandered the old castle town at midnight like one who had escaped from a grave, just as before. When a certain person told him that Genshuku had hanged himself to death, he merely kept gazing at that person’s face.