Pathway to Japanese Literature

Pilgrimage to Kiyomizu

I

“Ah, what a fine moon.” “Like a silver mirror polished bright.” As if compressing all possible admiration into this timeworn phrase, the youth raised his clear brows toward the vivid mid-September moon that would herald tomorrow’s Thirteenth Night. He appeared three years older than his true age this evening, yet remained a boy not yet numbered among full-grown men. Naturally he wore no eboshi. His black hair hung tied behind him in a plain light-blue linen kosode with tubular sleeves dyed in large and small tomoe patterns, paired with a short split hakama of earthenware hue. Though night obscured his garments’ true colors, both sleeves and hakama showed fading from countless washings, the trouser hems crumpled and rolled into creases.

In stark contrast to his shabby attire, the boy possessed a handsome, manly face that wouldn't have shamed him even when illuminated by tonight's moon. Were he dressed in an egg-colored robe and pale plum child's suikan, with a sword of Chinese bamboo at his waist, he would have presented as beautiful and valiant a figure as Nanwaka-maru - a temple acolyte whose very presence might make even warrior monks bow in reverent awe. Yet around his desolate waist now hung no sword. Nor was any dagger visible. He wore thin, grimy straw sandals on his bare feet.

“Truly, what a splendid moon.”

The one who answered in unison with him was a girl who appeared either his age or perhaps a year or so younger. Given the need to advance this tale, there was no time now to describe her features in detail. There, we shall simply note that she possessed a noble face shining even more beautifully than her companion boy’s, wore a pale spring-green small-sleeved kimono with white-dyed patterns resembling Mutsu Shinobu-suri fabric, and similarly had straw sandals on her bare feet.

The boy and the girl stood on Kiyomizu Slope, gazing up at tonight's moon. The night dew of Kyoto had already settled gently, and the two thin-skinned figures walked on with their small shoulders rubbing together against the cold.

The capital from over seven hundred and sixty years ago, even though deemed the royal seat, appears to have been more desolate than modern people might imagine. Particularly in this Boshin year of Kyūan 4 (1148 CE), conflagration had ravaged the imperial palace. The wooden effigy of Lord Kamatari at Tanzan spontaneously split asunder. Through summer's span, a fearsome pestilence ran rampant. With winter's approach, bandits multiplied like locusts. The once-glorious Heian epoch had now entered its terminal decline, an amorphous dread of societal disintegration taking root in every heart. These accumulated calamities—appearing as harbingers of some cataclysm—held the capital's populace in thrall to terror.

Among these calamities, what proved most immediately terrifying was the proliferation of bandits, so that even the main thoroughfares of the capital had now become deserted from early evening. As for this Kiyomizu Hall area tucked away in a corner—daytime matters aside—when autumn’s pale sun hurriedly set and the time came to look down upon Kyoto’s towns with their scattered lamps glowing faint yellow, even the shadows of sedge hats and sounds of straw sandals would vanish as if blown out, so that not even the most devout believers would journey this far for night pilgrimages.

Along that desolate night slope path, the two of them made their way as if with little hope. The moonlight was caught in high treetops, their small figures occasionally vanishing into dim shadows. The looming thickets on both sides rustled abruptly as if to intimidate them, while somewhere echoed a fox's cry. “Hey, Algae.” “Oh, Chiematsu!” The boy and the girl exchanged each other’s names. Algae was the girl's name, and Chiematsu was the boy's name. They hadn’t called out for any practical reason—unable to bear the overwhelming loneliness, they had simply called each other’s names without cause. Once again, the two walked on in silence.

“I wonder if Kannon-sama will grant us her divine favor...” Algae sighed uncertainly. “What’re you saying—no divine favor?” Chiematsu retorted immediately. “You mustn’t doubt the Buddha—Aunt says so morning and night. It’s precisely because I believe in Kannon-sama that I’ve been coming here with you every night like this, see?”

“And yet it was this spring—when Father came on this Pilgrimage to Kiyomizu—that he slipped on moss at Sannen-zaka Slope and fell. From that moment he took to his bed.” “I’ve heard that those who fall on Sannen-zaka Slope won’t live three years,” Algae’s voice trembled tearfully. Having emerged from an area thick with obstructive treetops, the moon once again cast its bright light upon the two. Jewel-like tears trailed like threads down Algae’s cheeks, glistening white. Chiematsu immediately denied it again.

“That ‘Sannen-zaka Slope’ talk is nonsense. That’s actually called the Child-Rearing Slope. Even if you fall, even if you stumble—hah—what’s there to fear?”

Abruptly refuted, Algae pressed her lips together once more. The two of them hurried along the night country path toward Yamashina. Though he had spoken with manly resolve earlier, a faint anxiety about Sannen-zaka Slope still dwelled deep in the boy’s heart. “Your father’s illness has lingered so long. How many days has it been now today?” he asked as he walked. “It’s been nearly half a year now. What will become of us? I’m so anxious...”

“What’d the doctor say?”

“The sorrow of those living in poverty is that even doctors these days do not deign to visit,” Algae said, pressing her sleeve to her eyes. “But that’s not all. Because of Father’s long illness, we had already sold off everything we had in the house.” Autumn was already nearing its end. When the northern mountain sleet began to fall, would we parent and child freeze to death? Or starve to death? When I thought of that, it was truly heartbreaking. Yesterday as well, the Potter’s wife from next door came and said I might as well sink myself into becoming one of those Eguchi prostitutes or something. “‘You could let your ailing father live comfortably alone,’ she kindly suggested, but…”

“Did that Potter’s wife suggest such a thing?” Chiematsu’s voice trembled with shock and anger. “And what did you say?” “I didn’t say anything. I simply remained silent and listened.” “If that hag says such things again, tell me immediately! I’ll storm into her shopfront with stones and smash three or four of her new jars to smithereens!”

The vehemence of his scolding was so intense that Algae felt strangely unsettled. She said to the man in a soothing tone, “That Potter’s wife spoke kindly out of concern for our hardship.”

“What do you mean ‘kindness’?” Chiematsu sneered. “That damned hag! “She preys on people’s hardships to work all manner of wicked schemes.” “What folk say holds no lie.” “That crone’s more fearsome than any plague!” “Don’t you pay any mind to a word that wench says—whether good or ill, don’t engage with any of it!” When he admonished her in the precocious tone of an elder brother lecturing his younger sister, Algae listened obediently. Chiematsu, his resentment still unvented, continued spewing every scornful word and curse he knew, berating the hateful, hateful Potter’s plague-ridden hag all the way until they reached their house.

Though the autumn night had just passed the Hour of the Dog (8 PM), Yamashina village lay sleeping under a bright moon. Not a single glimmer of light leaked from any house. Under the large persimmon tree, Algae came to a stop. “I’ll come to fetch you again tomorrow night,” Chiematsu said gently. “Please be sure to come and fetch me.” “You have my word!”

Chiematsu had taken no more than two steps before turning back once more. “Just as I told you along the way. No matter what that plague-ridden hag says, you mustn’t pay her any heed! Do you hear me? Do you hear me?” In a hushed but forceful voice, he reiterated his warnings multiple times; Algae wordlessly nodded and slipped away from beneath the persimmon tree toward the narrow garden entrance, her figure vanishing like mist. After confirming she had entered her home, Chiematsu stood at the neighboring potter’s gate with stealthy steps. The elderly couple seemed to have fallen asleep early, and no sounds could be heard from within. He shouted in an affected voice.

“It’s the messenger of Atago’s tengu! Open up!”

Chiematsu banged on the front door two or three times with such force it nearly splintered, then fled headlong.

II

“Oh, those blasted crows have come again.”

The following morning dawned beautifully clear, and beneath a sky as wide and blue as the sea, the persimmon treetops jutted high. Algae was out on the bamboo veranda chasing away the flock of crows that came eyeing the red fruits. “Hah! Have those blasted crows come again? Hateful creatures. But you’ll never chase them all away—just leave them be,” said Father Yukitsuna, slightly adjusting his wrinkled paper quilt as he sat up on the thin reed-floss bedding.

“If I see Chiematsu, I’ll have him make a scarecrow or something.” “That would be acceptable indeed,” Father smiled, squinting up at the morning sun that filled their narrow garden. “At night I already crave a brazier, but the days remain pleasantly warm. Though I know my dutiful child would never cease her nightly Kiyomizu pilgrimages even if I forbade them, I’ve let you follow your heart—but the nights will grow colder from here on. The dew grows heavier. Be careful not to catch a cold. The transitional periods from summer to autumn and autumn to winter are particularly harsh on a sick person’s body. If only winter would fully set in, I might finally be able to rise again. Don’t fret over me so much. If my limbs regain their strength—whether wrapping sword hilts or fletching arrows for sparrow bows—the two of us won’t want for sustenance. Hah, just a little more patience now.”

“Yes.” In the persimmon treetops, a large crow with cunningly glinting eyes and a sharp beak flapping about was flying from branch to branch, but Algae no longer even lifted a hand to chase it away. She placed her hands before her father and bowed her head meekly. Under the crumbling bamboo veranda, even during the day, crickets were chirping.

Father Yukitsuna, now reduced to such emaciation, had seven years earlier been known as Sakabe Shōji Kuranushi Yukitsuna and served as a warrior of the Cloistered Emperor's North Face Guard. One evening at dusk, when a fox appeared beneath the steps of the Seiryōden Pavilion and the Regent took notice—commanding that it be shot down—Yukitsuna, who happened to be present, immediately seized his bow and pursued it, yet his first arrow pitifully missed its mark. As he frantically attempted to nock a second arrow, his bowstring snapped with an abrupt twang. The fox naturally escaped unscathed. Not only had he failed to strike his quarry, but this snapping of the bowstring at the critical moment suggested habitual negligence in his preparations—thus he incurred imperial censure. He was no man to forget loyal service to his sovereign. Neither was he one to neglect a warrior's disciplines. This outcome flowed from lifelong misfortune—Yukitsuna withdrew with his wife and daughter to a remote corner of Yamashina Village on what were then considered Kyoto's rustic outskirts, there commencing a destitute ronin's existence.

The wife who should have consoled his misfortune departed for the next world a little over half a year later, leaving behind her husband and daughter. Still in his prime, Yukitsuna did not take another wife and raised his young daughter Algae with loving care using only his own hands as a widower. Algae, born with a beautiful face, possessed a heart just as lovely. A father who had lost all hope of advancement for himself now had no choice but to cling to his heir. Thus Yukitsuna, envisioning pleasant dreams of his old age, waited earnestly for his daughter to grow. Algae turned fourteen that year.

In the spring of that year, Yukitsuna took his daughter on a pilgrimage to Kiyomizu Temple. It was from stumbling on what they call Sannen-zaka Slope during that outing that he had been confined to his sickbed since late March. Even as summer passed and autumn came, he remained intimate with his pillow and medicine, so the dutiful Algae’s hardships never ceased. To save her father, tormented by poverty and illness, she resolved to make twenty-one nightly pilgrimages to Kannon, whom she had long worshipped, and from the end of August onward, she trod through the night dew each evening to visit Kiyomizu. In these autumn nights when the capital had grown lawless and bandits proliferated, her father had initially tried repeatedly to dissuade her from walking the night roads alone as a maiden—but Algae refused utterly. With her whole heart set on curing her father’s illness, she continued making her way along those terrifying night roads over great distances.

However, after seventeen days, Algae gained a reliable companion. That companion was none other than Chiematsu; he was a child of an eboshi maker. This unfortunate orphan, who had lost both parents early in life, was taken in by an uncle and aunt who also made their living as eboshi makers, and this year he turned fifteen. Uncle Dairoku did not keep a shop. Every day, he would wander around the area from Kyoto-Fushimi to Ōtsu, folding eboshi hats at houses that summoned him. Therefore, as there were few days when he was home, Chiematsu kept lonely watch every day with his aunt. Though their villages differed, since both resided in Yamashina Village, he eventually grew close to Algae—just one year his junior—and paying no mind to other children, the two of them always played together in perfect harmony.

“Algae and Chiematsu are husband and wife!” Whenever the other children teased them out of jealousy, Chiematsu would always turn bright red with anger.

“Well, let them say what they will,” said Algae. “Once Father’s illness is cured, I want to go learn eboshi-making at your Honored Aunt’s place.”

“Oh, even without my aunt, I’ll teach you myself! Whether it’s yokosabi or kazeori folds, I know them all. Once next year comes, I’ll be going out trading with Uncle too,” Chiematsu declared proudly. Chiematsu was to become an eboshi artisan. Algae too had expressed her wish to learn eboshi-making. Though he didn’t fully understand what meaning lay behind those words, something faintly stirred within Chiematsu’s youthful heart. He grew ever closer to Algae. As her father remained long afflicted by illness, he came daily to visit like one concerned for his own parent. And when he first learned—seventeen days later—that Algae had been making night pilgrimages to Kiyomizu, he flew into a rage more bitter than any before.

“Why did you hide it from me? What if something were to happen to a young girl walking alone at night? I’ll go with you starting tonight.” He obtained his aunt’s permission, and from then on went out together with Algae every night. Even with his strong-looking face, Chiematsu was still a fifteen-year-old boy. Although to outside eyes it seemed quite uncertain whether he could adequately fulfill his guard duty even against bandits or demons, let alone wild dogs, for Algae he was an immensely reliable, steadfast companion. She waited joyfully for Chiematsu to come invite her every evening. Chiematsu too invariably came at the appointed hour without fail, and the two of them would make their way to Kiyomizu while reciting the Universal Gateway Chapter they had memorized by ear.

The potter's wife who had urged Algae to become an Eguchi courtesan was, whether acting from goodwill or malice, undeniably a hateful enemy in Chiematsu's eyes. That he cursed with such extremity was only natural. Even pounding on her door and threatening her scarcely eased his fury. Though he had fled back to his own home that night, his irritation lingered and sleep eluded him. Despite deeming it improbable, his unease persisted—so come morning, after seeing his uncle off to work, he straightaway went to call at Algae's house in the neighboring village.

When he arrived, he first peered into the neighboring potter's shop. Before the shop's small kiln stood an old potter who seemed kindhearted, wearing a drooping eboshi hat as he hunched slightly forward, earnestly shaping something like a pot atop a small straw mat. Beyond the half-lowered bamboo shade meant for sun protection, a single wild chrysanthemum that appeared to have grown naturally stretched spindly and tall, while a white autumn butterfly fluttered listlessly about it. The old woman was spinning hemp in the dimly lit rear area.

“Old Master. “It’s fine weather today, isn’t it?” When Chiematsu deliberately called out, the old man paused his work and turned around. And then, wrinkling his long white eyebrows, he smiled warmly.

“Oh, Chiematsu from the neighboring village. “Truly fine autumn weather we’re having.” “When autumn nears its end, there’s usually much rain—but this year’s unbroken fair skies are a blessing.” “Our pottery trade fares poorly when storms come.”

“I suppose that’s right,” said Chiematsu, gazing at the pot in the old man’s hands. He detested the old woman, but he couldn’t very well pick a fight with this old man. Even so, he asked in a threatening whisper: “Lately, they say tengu have been appearing around here. Is that true?”

“What nonsense,” the old man laughed again. “Those who live round here are all decent folk. Not a single wicked soul among us. No call for Lord Tengu’s wrath to fall on us.” “Ha ha ha ha ha.” “Even when they prattle ’bout demon tengu, most of ’em’s just human mischief.” “Last night too, some scoundrel came knockin’ on our door tryin’ to scare us by claimin’ he was a tengu.”

“They’re truly wicked folk,” the Potter’s Wife called from the back. “Try another prank and I’ll chase you down quick, catch you, and hack your shins clean with that sickle o’ mine.”

“As if a tengu would ever get caught,” Chiematsu sneered. “Hmm—not a tengu but a human, you say…” “Warō! If ya find them pranksters—let me know,” said the old woman with glaring white eyes.

Chiematsu felt an eerie unease creep over him and wondered if his prank had been discovered. But he sneered again to hide any weakness. "Tengu or human—so long as we do no wrong ourselves, there'll be no curses or pranks coming our way." "What wrong have we done?" retorted the Potter’s Wife, straightening her knees.

Oh, I did something terrible. Chiematsu tried to retort—You tried to sell the girl next door into prostitution!—but ultimately hesitated.

“If you don’t do bad things, that’s fine enough. “If you do bad things, the tengu will come to snatch you away tonight!” With these final words, he darted out of the shopfront, and at that very moment a red dragonfly grazed past the tip of his nose. Scowling in disgust, he stood at the gate of the neighboring house, where the persimmon treetop first caught his eye. “Shoo! Shoo!” he cried, picking up a clod of earth at his feet to chase away the crow. Hearing that voice, Algae came out to the edge of the veranda.

“Chiematsu…” The two faced each other affectionately. The white butterfly from earlier seemed to brush against Chiematsu’s hem before fluttering between them.

Three

After visiting Yukitsuna who was ill, Chiematsu and Algae stood hand in hand by the edge of a nearby stream. Tonight was the thirteenth night, and they went out to cut pampas grass to offer to the moon. Although it was a narrow stream less than three ken wide, upon its waters flowing coldly and soundlessly was reflected the same azure hue as the sky above, while white shadows of autumn clouds occasionally rippled and drifted by. The low embankment had collapsed in last year's flood, and with no subsequent maintenance done, the clear boundary between water and land had vanished. Yet come autumn, pampas grass and reeds grew tall there, so water and people passed separately through this thicket. Nevertheless, children gathering crabs and people catching small crucian carp had pressed down the pampas grass and reeds to create pathways between water and land by packing narrow trails here and there, so the two also felt their way along these paths until they reached the water’s edge. The two knew that there lay a great willow tree uprooted and fallen there.

“The water’s beautifully clear.”

The two sat down on the willow trunk and gazed intently at the autumn water flowing near their fingertips. The surface of a large stone, half-submerged in water, glittered in the autumn sunlight, and at its base, smartweed flowers, crimson and damp, trailed in the current. Across the river, millet fields spread wide and far, while along the broad thoroughfare between those fields and the bank, Ōtsu oxen plodded slowly, pulling brushwood carts. From time to time, a shrike also cried as it passed by.

“I’m frustrated I can’t compose poetry.”

When Chiematsu suddenly spoke up, Algae widened her beautiful eyes in surprise.

“What would you do if you could compose poetry indeed?” “Even when I see such a splendid view, I can’t compose a single poem.” “Algae, you do compose poetry, don’t you?”

“Though I learned from Father, I too am unskilled by nature and cannot compose well.” “Well, even if I cannot compose, it’s no matter.” “Living an amusing life through poetry is something for senior court ladies and court nobles.”

“That’s true indeed,” Chiematsu laughed. “Truth be told, when I returned home last night, Uncle said he’d heard such news from the capital. “The other day at the Regent’s poetry gathering, they presented this impossible theme called ‘Parting from Solitary Sleep.’ “There can’t possibly be any parting from solitary sleep. “They say it’s an unprecedented challenge since ancient times—apparently even those court nobles were racking their brains over it, but no matter how they pondered, they couldn’t devise any clever solutions, and not a single soul managed to compose a satisfactory poem. “Henceforth, anyone dwelling in the capital—be they merchants, artisans, or peasants—their station matters not. “They say an imperial decree came from the Grand Counselor of the Poetry Bureau: those who present fine poems shall receive vast rewards. “Then Uncle said, ‘Here I’ve spent years crafting eboshi hats, yet I can’t even compose a crude verse—how utterly galling!’ “‘If only someone could fashion a worthy poem for such occasions—they might live in comfort all their days!’ he lamented, though laughing as he did.”

“Hmm, this is the first I’ve heard of such a thing,” Algae said, furrowing her brows. “Ah, I see—‘Parting from Solitary Sleep.’ This is absurd. No master poet, however skilled, could compose verses about something unprecedented in this world. It’s truly the same as speaking of the moon at month’s end—as nonexistent as that.” “It’s the same as trying to light a fire underwater—as impossible as that.”

“It’s the same as climbing trees to catch fish—just as futile.” The two exchanged glances and burst into childlike laughter all at once. As if to drown out their mirth, a temple bell somewhere rang out high in the autumn sky, its deep tolling beginning to hum. “Oh! It’s already noon!”

Algae was the first to startle and stand up. Chiematsu followed suit. The two hurriedly snapped off pampas grass from the area, each taking one bunch in hand as they returned. When parting with Algae at the gate, Chiematsu asked again. “Didn’t you see the neighbor’s old woman this morning?” Algae said nobody had come. Still feeling somehow uneasy, Chiematsu peered into the potter’s shop once more as he was leaving, where the old man crouched in the same spot as before, intently shaping a jar in identical posture. The old woman was nowhere to be seen.

The windless autumn day quietly waned, and as soon as the thin evening mist had drifted low over Yamashina's villages, it gradually cleared to reveal the moon—that same keen-edged moon Chiematsu had praised the night before—now floating high with its cold white radiance. The persimmon leaves of Algae’s gate shone white as if frost had settled on them.

“Algae.” “It’s gotten a bit late tonight.” “Forgive me.”

Chiematsu came running breathlessly and called out from outside the fence, but there was no response from within. When he hurriedly called out two or three more times, Yukitsuna’s faint reply could finally be heard—it was said Algae had left home quite some time earlier. “Ah, I’m too late.” Chiematsu immediately broke into a run again. In those days, the road between Yamashina and Kiyomizu stretched through numerous fields and paddies; under the bright moon, one could see clearly for five or eight chō ahead. Yet there was no sign of Algae—not even the shadow of a single stray dog wandering about. Chiematsu grew increasingly frantic and dashed straight onward. He ran and ran until he finally reached Kiyomizu in one breath, but even before the hall’s entrance, there was no trace of the young girl’s praying figure. Just to be thorough, he stretched up to peer inside. In the dim depths of the hall, a yellow lamp flickered faintly while the elderly monk caretaker dozed. Chiematsu roused the monk and asked whether a girl of fourteen or fifteen had come to worship there just now.

The monk seemed hard of hearing. After making him repeat it several times, he said with a laugh.

“Who would come to pray after dark?” “The world’s been so turbulent lately.”

Without listening to the rest, Chiematsu turned back and started running again. An indescribable anxiety welled up in his chest, and he frantically ran down the slope. Since it was the same single road for both coming and going, there should have been no way for them to miss each other along the way. As he thought this, his anxiety grew even more intense. He could no longer bear it and ran while shouting the woman’s name in a loud voice.

“Algae! Algae!” Perhaps startled by his footsteps, two or three sleeping birds fluttered up from the roadside treetops with a rustle. No human voices answered from anywhere. In his desperate running, when he reached the midpoint of the long field path, even his legs had stiffened with exhaustion, bringing him near collapse. He dropped heavily before the roadside Jizō statue and sat taking great breaths. Gazing upward without intent, he saw the moon’s light shining crystalline in the clear vault of sky, enveloping all within view—the broad fields, shadowy woods, and scattered low roofs of dwellings—in a silvery haze like frost’s glow. Around his collar where sweat still clung damp, the night’s chill seeped in like water.

The distant cry of a fox reached his ears. "Had a fox tricked her?" Chiematsu wondered. If not that, then bandits must have taken her. For a beautiful maiden like Algae to walk alone after dusk was like willingly stepping into a bandit's snare. He shuddered. Fox or bandit? As Chiematsu wavered between possibilities, the image of that potter's wife suddenly rose in his mind. "Could that damned hag have finally lured Algae off to Eguchi or somewhere?!" He suddenly leapt up and broke into another desperate run. By the time he glimpsed the persimmon tree at Algae's gate, his legs had given out completely.

“Algae! Are you back?” “Are you back?”

When he called out from outside the fence, Yukitsuna's reply came immediately this time. "Tonight my daughter's return is late, so I'm worried too. Didn't you meet her along the way?" he said. Chiematsu hastily replied that he hadn't met her either and immediately began roughly knocking on the neighboring potter's door. "I hear another tengu prankster's come around." From inside came the sound of the old man's laughter. Chiematsu hastily shouted. "I'm not a tengu! It's Chiematsu!"

“What’s Chiematsu doing here at this hour?” the old woman asked reproachfully. “I want to see the old hag.” “Open up!” “You’re making a racket after dark.” “If you’ve got business, come back tomorrow!”

Chiematsu grew increasingly frantic. Instead of replying, he continued knocking on the front door with all his strength. “Oh, such a noisy brat you are!” Grumbling under her breath, the old hag got up and thrust her sleep-swollen face into the bright moonlight—whereupon Chiematsu, who’d been lying in wait, pounced like a locust and seized her by the collar.

“Speak! Where did you take Algae next door?!” “What nonsense, you fool! If you’re investigating Algae, go next door. Coming here means you’ve got the wrong house.” “No—you should know! Hey, hag! You enticed Algae and sold her off to Eguchi prostitutes... Tell me straight!” Chiematsu strengthened his grip and shoved her hard.

“Oh, you’re making such preposterous accusations!” “Last night’s mischief was surely your doing too!” “Old man! Come quick and put this brat in his place!” the hag bellowed while staggering.

The old man too crawled out from his bed. Separating the two who were breathing hotly and roaring, as he gradually heard their story, he too knit his long brows with careful consideration.

“This is strange,” said the potter’s old man. “Algae’s been a devoted daughter all along—there’s no reason she’d abandon her parent and disappear. This must be bandits’ work or a fox’s trickery. If it were bandits, they wouldn’t linger around here—but if it’s a fox, we mostly know where its den lies. Chiematsu, come with me.” “Have at it,” the hag said with her trademark white-eyed glare. “Even if you think her a child, Algae’s already fourteen. There’s no telling what sort of fox might’ve possessed her. Honestly combing through those parts would just be wasted effort.”

Chiematsu frowned in irritation again. However, wisely reconsidering that arguing there was futile, he forcibly dragged the old man outside.

“Old man. Where’s the fox’s den?” “Now, don’t rush. There’s plenty of places around here where stray foxes keep their dens. Let’s start by searching the nearest forest.” The old man turned back inside and brought out a small sickle and hatchet. Thinking they needed some weapon to intimidate those beasts, he handed the hatchet to Chiematsu and tucked the sickle into his own waistband. And then he pointed to the small forest beyond the rice paddies.

“You know it too. Around that forest, fox fires sometimes dance.” “That’s true.” The two of them hurried off toward the forest beyond. Trampling through fallen leaves and withered grass, they combed every corner of the area, but Algae’s figure remained nowhere to be found. The two of them abandoned that place and hurried on to the next hill. Chiematsu walked calling Algae’s name until his throat grew hoarse, but his voice merely echoed through the distant forest, and no human reply came from anywhere. After combing through one place after another for what felt like hours, the two of them ended up utterly disheartened. When they came to their senses and looked around, somehow or other—without knowing which paths they’d taken—the two of them had wandered into a place called Ono within Yamashina Village. This place was said to be the former site of Ono no Komachi, where there gushed forth a spring called Komachi’s Water. The two of them scooped up the cold clear water and drank it continuously without pausing for breath.

“Chiematsu. The night’s grown late,” said the old man, hunching his shoulders against the cold. “Let’s head back. She won’t be going out tonight anyway.” “But I want to search a bit more,” Chiematsu insisted. “Old man—aren’t there any fox dens around here?” “Hmm, you’re a persistent one, Warou.” The old man nodded slowly. “Aye, that’s the way of it.”

After thinking for a moment, the old man wiped around his mouth and nodded. “Oh, there is, there is. “They say that west of this Komachi Spring, there’s a forest thick with large cedar trees where foxes dwell.” “But you can’t just go carelessly guiding folks there.” “Now, why do I say that? Deep within that forest lies a great ancient burial mound from centuries past—no one knows who was buried there or from where.” “They say the spirit of that mound brings calamity, which is why no one’s dared go near it.”

“It ain’t the mound’s spirit cursing folks—it’s gotta be a fox causing trouble,” Chiematsu said. “Either way, hearing there’s a curse makes it terrifying,” the old man admonished. “No—I don’t care if it’s terrifying.” “I’ll search the depths of that forest to settle my mind.” Chiematsu regripped the hatchet and dashed off.

Parting from Solitary Sleep

I

Seeing that trying to stop him would be futile, the Potter’s Old Man followed unsteadily after the boy. The two of them stood before the cedar forest shrouded in eerie legends. The ancient cedars spread their branches apart, looming darkly even at midday, yet the forest’s depths did not appear particularly extensive—its rear connected to a low hill. As Chiematsu gripped his hatchet and tried to push through the trees without hesitation, the old man stopped him again.

“Now listen—I mean no harm,” warned the Potter’s Old Man, his voice trembling like wind through reeds. “To tread where spirits have dwelt since antiquity—to force one’s way there at this unholy hour—’tis madness plain as day.” His gnarled hand tightened on Chiematsu’s sleeve. “Cease this folly, lad!” “Nay—I’ll not be stayed,” Chiematsu growled, eyes reflecting the moon’s cold gleam. His calloused fingers flexed around the hatchet’s worn grip. “If your bones quake at shadows, old man, leave me to walk this path alone.” With a violent twist, he tore free from the restraining grasp and plunged into the forest’s maw, Algae’s name tearing from his throat like a war cry. The old potter stood frozen—a gnarled tree rooted in indecision—before gritting teeth yellowed by sixty winters of pipe smoke. Drawing the sickle that had reaped a thousand rice harvests, he crossed himself with its curved blade and stumbled after the boy’s retreating form. Contrary to their fears, the wood’s belly held more gloom than utter darkness—the thirteenth-night moon silvering cedar boughs like lacquered combs in a courtesan’s hair. They groped forward through this spectral light, feet sinking knee-deep into centuries of rotted leaves that sighed like dying breaths beneath their tread. Each step released the stench of forgotten decomposition until they moved as men crossing a peat bog—clutching at trunks bearded with moss, their geta lost to the hungry mire below.

“Chiematsu, what’s that?”

When the old man whispered softly, Chiematsu also involuntarily froze. This must probably be that ancient burial mound they spoke of. At the base of an exceptionally large cedar lay an earthen mound-like object roughly five or six shaku in height, and near this mound, a faint blue cold light akin to will-o’-the-wisp was dimly burning.

“Who knows?” Chiematsu murmured back. Driven by indescribable fear mingled with curiosity, he crawled along the tree roots like a dog, guided by that eerie glow. No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than he cried out: “Ah! Algae! You were here!”

“There you are!” the old man also cried out involuntarily, stumbling over tree roots as he groped closer.

Algae lay beneath the ancient burial mound as if sleeping. What glowed blue like a will-o’-the-wisp was the single skull she used as a pillow. Algae had hidden deep in the forest where no human had ever entered since ancient times and was sleeping beneath the ancient burial mound with the skull for her pillow. At this bizarre sight, the two of them shuddered, but Chiematsu’s heart now swelled more with joy than fear, and forgetting all caution, he crawled toward the woman’s bedside. He grabbed Algae’s hand and shouted.

“Algae! It’s Chiematsu!” “Algae!” The old man also called out in unison. Summoned, Algae staggered upright but remained in a dreamlike trance; the two of them supported her as she leaned limply against Chiematsu’s arm and guided her out of the forest. Standing under the bright moon, Algae let out a long breath of relief as though revived. “How do you feel?” “Are you feeling any different?” “Why did you wander into such a place?”

Chiematsu and the old man took turns asking questions, but Algae said she knew nothing, as if in a dream. That night, since Chiematsu had come later than usual to fetch her, she left home alone and made her way toward Kiyomizu. She clearly remembered up to that point, but from then onward—how she walked where, why she wandered into the depths of this forest, why she ended up lying there—she herself could not comprehend in the slightest, as if in a half-dream.

“As expected—’twas some damned stray fox’s prank,” the old man nodded. “But well—’tis a blessing you’re unharmed. “Your father must be terribly worried. “Now hurry back.”

The night deepened. The three of them walked in silence, stepping on their own shadows. The Potter’s Old Man parted from the two in front of his house. Chiematsu escorted Algae to the neighbor’s gate and whispered again.

“Take this as a lesson—don’t go walking alone at night anymore.” “Tomorrow night too, wait until I come to get you without fail.” “You hear?” Having emphasized his point and trying to part ways, Chiematsu suddenly noticed something the woman was cradling in her left hand. It was the old skull she had used as a pillow, glowing palely before the moon. Chiematsu started and said scoldingly:

“What’re you doing with that...?” “Doesn’t that give you the creeps?” “Toss it away.” “Get rid of it!”

Without replying, Algae slipped inside, still cradling the skull as though it were precious. Chiematsu watched her retreating figure in bewilderment. Then, he began to suspect that the fox still hadn’t released its hold on her.

That night, Chiematsu had a strange dream.

The first dream world was a land so scorching it could melt iron. There towered grasses and trees of such deep green they might stain human garments, while across a flower garden of boundless expanse bloomed poppies redder than human blood and lilies larger than demon faces—all heaped in riotous profusion. These flowers were not merely crimson; purples, whites, blacks and yellows all festered beneath the blazing sun, exuding hues so lurid they seemed venomous. At their roots writhed a swarm of dreadful serpents flickering crimson tongues.

“Where could this be?” Chiematsu stared vacantly with eyes wide in wonder as an uncanny music resounded from somewhere. When a certain wealthy man of the capital had held a Buddhist service at a temple in Yamashina, numerous venerable priests had gathered in the main hall to chant sutras. At that time, he had slipped into the temple garden and listened entranced to that music, struck by an indescribable sense of solemnity; yet the melody he now heard bore some resemblance to that memory while possessing an enchantingly demonic beauty capable of melting one’s very soul. In a drunken daze, he peered toward the source of the music and saw four emaciated men approaching, each holding aloft something resembling a Japanese long-handled parasol with blue and white jeweled pendants hanging like cool cascades from its rim. The men were all barefoot, wearing thin mouse-gray kimonos that exposed their chests. Following them came eight women clad in pale blue thin garments, holding aloft what appeared to be Chinese-style fans. Next emerged a gigantic beast resembling a small hill. Chiematsu had seen it in temple hanging scrolls before, so he immediately realized it was an elephant—a beast from India. The elephant was white as snow.

On the elephant’s back was mounted something like a palanquin fitted with railings. On the palanquin rode a man and a woman. Following the elephant, a large crowd of men and women also came. Though all the surrounding men and women exposed dark complexions, the woman riding the palanquin alone appeared whiter than the elephant itself—making Chiematsu inadvertently fix his gaze upon her. She proudly bared her pale chest and arms, clad in a translucent crimson silk robe that seemed to merge with her luminous skin. Chiematsu peered at her face and was about to cry out in surprise when he caught his breath. The woman atop the elephant was indeed that Algae.

Looking closer still, the woman appeared to be six or seven years older than Algae. She was not an innocent maiden like Algae. Yet her facial features were not at all different from Algae’s. No matter how many times he looked her over, she was unmistakably Algae herself.

He wanted to call out, "Algae!" Had there not been so many eyes around him, he might have leapt onto the great elephant’s back and clung to the woman’s pale arm. Yet the woman who resembled Algae did not so much as glance their way; laughing at something, she whispered to the man beside her, whereupon he tilted something like a crown woven from grass leaves and let out a raucous laugh.

The sky burned like fire. As the music's resonance swelled even more intensely beneath that blazing crimson sky, countless venomous snakes emerged linked together from the shadows of the flowers, and in unison with the music's notes, they abruptly raised their sickle-shaped heads. And then they gradually formed a large ring, twisting and tangling as though dancing wildly in a frenzy. As Chiematsu gazed intently, holding his breath, another crowd of men and women were driven there. The men and women were naked, brutally bound with thick iron chains.

These prisoners must have numbered about ten. Following them came twenty or thirty men baring one shoulder, brandishing long iron whips as they drove the prisoners forward. The prisoners trembling in terror all knelt before the elephant in unison, and the woman looked down from above and laughed coldly. Her cool eyes carried a murderous air that was utterly terrifying. As Chiematsu stiffened his body and watched intently, the woman gave some instructions in a low voice. The men with iron whips immediately rushed in and began kicking down the prisoners one after another, until both men and women were sent sprawling—some on their backs, others sideways—into the ring of countless venomous snakes—

Having no courage left to witness what followed, Chiematsu instinctively covered his eyes and fled. Behind him, only the resplendent laughter of the woman who resembled Algae rang out loudly. As Chiematsu ran dreamily onward, someone—he knew not who—tapped his shoulder. When he opened his eyes in startled fear, an old monk stood beneath towering palm fronds.

“Do you know that white woman riding atop the elephant?”

Because it was too terrifying, Chiematsu answered that he did not know. The old monk said quietly: “If you recognize that, consider your life forfeit.” “This land is called Tenjiku; he who rides the elephant with her is Prince Hansoku.” “The woman’s name is Kayō Fujin. Remember it well.” “That woman may appear peerlessly beautiful in this world, but she is no human.” “She is a terrifying metamorphic being that manifests once every hundred thousand years.” “An evil spirit scheming to destroy Tenjiku’s Buddhist teachings and plunge the great chiliocosm into demonic darkness.” “First she beguiled Prince Hansoku, then indulged in atrocities unheard since heaven and earth’s creation.” “What you witnessed amounts to less than one hundredth of her deeds.” “Only yesterday she beheaded a thousand souls and raised a great mound of their skulls.” “Yet even with her supernatural powers, evil cannot overcome righteousness.” “Moreover, Tenjiku remains Buddha’s sacred land.” “The time approaches when demons perish through Buddhist teachings’ majestic virtue.” “Fear nothing.” “But lingering here eternally serves you ill.” “Go quickly.” “Return at once.”

The monk took Chiematsu’s hand and pushed him outside the gate, whereupon the large iron door closed without a sound. Chiematsu stood dazedly rooted to the spot as though his soul had fled. However much he reconsidered, that beautiful woman called Kayō Fujin seemed none other than Algae herself—Algae who shared such closeness with him. Even were she a metamorphic being, it mattered not. Even a demon’s essence would suffice. He yearned to reenter that garden once more and steal another glimpse of the white woman’s face where she sat astride the white elephant.

He pounded on the iron door with all his strength. The bones of his fist throbbed as though shattered, and he jolted awake. However, his mind was too exhausted to dwell on the memory of this terrifying dream. He pressed his face into the pillow and fell soundly asleep once more.

Two

The second dream world seemed to lie much further north than the previous Tenjiku, where a swirling sandstorm whipped up by the continent's frigid winds cast the dim sky into an even deeper yellow gloom. A grand palace loomed tall amidst the swirling sand.

The palace seemed to face south, with a high staircase at its entrance. Both above and below the stairs were paved with white stones, and a large brocade curtain hung overhead. Thick, round pillars painted vermilion stood here and there, and upon them were carved phoenixes, dragons, tigers, and the like—adorned with rich colors of gold, silver, vermilion, azure, and purple—each vividly sculpted as though alive. The long, winding handrails gleamed like jewels. Chiematsu crept on tiptoe and stood trembling at the foot of the high staircase. At the foot of the staircase, besides him, many Tang people were stationed.

“Hush!” A voice that seemed to reprimand someone was solemnly heard from nowhere, and the brocade curtains parted left and right before being smoothly drawn up. At the elevated front sat a man wearing a brocade crown and yellow robe, his face flushed as if intoxicated, upon a jewel-inlaid couch. Chiematsu surmised this must be the king of the Tang people. Beside the king trailed a beautiful woman in a crimson brocade robe so long it swept the ground—one might think her the Dragon Palace Princess herself—reclining with queenly arrogance upon an identical jewel-inlaid couch. Chiematsu stretched up and was surprised again. That beautiful woman was none other than Algae herself.

“Why is the sake late?” “Bring the meat!” roared the King in a thunderous voice that rebuked the hall. The woman resembling Algae turned her bewitching eyes toward the King’s crimson face and burst into shrill laughter. No wonder she mocked—before the King stood rows of massive wine jars, each brimming with green liquor that threatened to spill over. Platters fashioned from pearls and tortoiseshell towered with fish fins and animal haunches. Through eyes clouded by endless feasting, the King could no longer distinguish wine ponds from meat forests. Retainers and serving women alike kept silent, their heads bowed low.

Before long, the woman resembling Algae whispered something, and the King nodded with a guileless laugh. The Tang retainer was immediately summoned before the King and given some command. The retainer withdrew deferentially, and before long returned bearing a large oil jar that appeared heavy. Chiematsu had not noticed until now, but at this moment he discovered for the first time a thick bronze pillar standing at one side beneath the staircase. When a crowd of retainers gathered and began slathering the pillar with viscous oil, others brought loads of firewood and piled them mountain-high at the bottom of the large pit beneath. Two or three people brought what resembled torches and threw them inside. Others poured oil in.

"Perhaps they're building a bonfire because it's cold," Chiematsu thought. However, his assumption was immediately proven wrong. The firewood seemed to have ignited. As if spewing crimson lotus flames from hell's depths, a mass of blazing fire filled the pit and rose fiercely high; its terrifying light reflected off the bronze pillar, dyeing the brows and sidelocks of those nearby demonically red. Even Chiematsu's cheeks, watching from afar, grew burning hot. When confirming the flames had fully risen, the woman resembling Algae raised high her Tang fan, and at this signal, an ear-splitting gong resounded. As Chiematsu turned around in renewed surprise, a long-bearded man and pale-skinned woman were being led out to the staircase base. They too, like Tenjiku prisoners, had their bare hands bound by iron chains.

Chiematsu shuddered. The gong resounded fiercely once more, and the two victims were pushed toward the bronze pillar. Chiematsu realized for the first time. The two who leaned against the oiled pillar would likely slip and plunge into hell's fiery pit in an instant. Just as he could no longer bear it and was about to close his eyes, hurried footsteps echoed from below the staircase.

The man who came rushing in was a ruddy-faced giant standing nearly seven feet tall, clad in yellow oxhide armor and wearing a pitch-black iron helmet, with a large halberd gripped in his hand. He leapt toward the pillar like a wild horse, and spreading his massive hands, seized the two victims. Two or three retainers who tried to intercept him were instantly kicked into the fiery pit by his force. With eyes blazing as if about to burst from wrath, he roared like a crashing thunderbolt.

“Raishin is here! Perish, demons!” As he adjusted his grip on the halberd and began ascending the stairs, the woman reprimanded him in a voice as clear and piercing as clashing metal bells. A crowd of retainers drew their swords and surrounded Raishin. The fire in the pit blazed up even more fiercely, casting a crimson glow that seemed to scorch the vast palace. Against the backdrop of that raging fire, countless sword lights scattered like autumn pampas grass. Raishin’s halberd flashed like a great moon, appearing and disappearing amidst the thicket of pampas grass.

The woman resembling Algae whispered to the King and quietly rose from her seat. Chiematsu quietly followed after them, and the two climbed hand in hand up to a high platform. It was not only Chiematsu who had followed them - a great number of Tang people clad in armor and helmets, bearing bows and spears, had also gathered and swiftly surrounded the platform in multiple layers. Among them stood an old man with white sideburns and beard that hung long like crane feathers, appearing to be their general. Chiematsu went to the old man's side and timidly inquired.

“What manner of place is this? And what manner of person might you be?”

“This is Tang China,” he declared, introducing himself as Taigong Wang, military strategist to King Wu of Zhou. And then he explained further: “The current ruler of this land, King Zhou of Yin, has been beguiled by a demoness called Daji and wallows in debauchery day and night.” “Not content with this alone—at Daji’s urging—he devised a punishment known as the paoluo execution, a terror unto all beneath heaven.” “Had you been present from the beginning, you would have witnessed this torment with your own eyes.” “Nay—Daji’s cruelties defy description.” “They seize living men and boil them in cauldrons.” “They slit open the bellies of women with child.” “They commit atrocities beyond comparison to any demon or devil, finding daily delight in these crimes.” “Should this continue unchecked, the people will wail in the fields and the world sink into abyssal darkness.” “Our King Wu could no longer endure this sight. Gathering feudal lords from over four hundred provinces, he overthrew King Zhou and slew Daji to restore the world’s former radiance—thereby seeking to deliver all people from suffering.” “However monstrous a tyrant men name King Zhou, he remains but mortal flesh.” “Destroying him posed no great difficulty,” he continued, “but truly fearsome was that demoness Daji—her true form being that of a golden-haired, white-faced fox who has endured ten thousand years of kalpas.” “Were one to mistakenly let this fiend escape, know this—it would surely bring fresh calamity upon the world.”

Before those words had even finished, yellow smoke swirled forth and gushed down from the high platform. The old man looked up at the smoke and clicked his tongue.

“So they’ve set fire to destroy themselves,” observed the old man. “The tyrant’s downfall is fated by natural law, but do not let that demon escape through carelessness! Is Raishin not here? Charge into the smoke and swiftly slaughter the demon!” Brandishing his great halberd, Raishin appeared from the fray. He pushed through the clamoring Tang people, braved the rain of sparks cascading over his helmet, and charged straight up the platform’s steps. The old man watched his ascent with furrowed brow. As Chiematsu stood gripping sweat-slick palms and staring skyward, thick tendrils of yellow smoke began coiling from the platform like a great serpent writhing in agony. From within that churning haze emerged a woman’s face—pale as moonlight and bearing Algae’s features—shining with unearthly radiance.

“Loose!” commanded the old man, raising his whip.

Countless war arrows flew toward the smoke. The woman looked down upon the mortal world with a scornful laugh as she soared higher and higher into the sky. Chiematsu was terrified. At the same time, an indescribable sadness welled up in his chest, and he involuntarily cried out and wept.

The strange dream ended here.

Even when the next morning came, Chiematsu could not leave his bed. Perhaps because he had been assailed by a strange dream the previous night, he was shivering with chills and had a headache. The uncle and aunt said he must have gotten chilled from the night dew. The aunt brewed herbal medicine. Chiematsu had just sipped the medicinal brew and couldn’t even swallow porridge.

*What about Algae?*

Though he was anxiously worrying about that, he was pinned down by a malicious illness and couldn't get up no matter how much he struggled. His aunt also admonished him not to rise. For about five days after that, he was confined to his sickbed and knew nothing of what events were transpiring, both in Algae's life and in the world at large.

III

The blue sky was quietly clear and high, but from that lofty height, a sharp wintry wind suddenly blew down, making the willow shadows appear noticeably thinner compared to yesterday. Outside the tsukiji wall of Dainagon Moromichi’s residence as well, those willow leaves lay scattered white.

A beautiful maiden stood before the four-pillared gate of the residence and requested an audience. “I am a lowly woman called Algae who lives in wretchedness in Yamashina Village.” “I have come to request an audience with His Lordship.” The blue-robed guard mediating her request looked at this impoverished maiden with eyes full of disdain, fixing a piercing glare upon her form. Moreover, those glaring eyes gradually softened, and he found himself holding his breath as he stared at the maiden’s beautiful face with such intensity it might have bored holes through her. Algae repeated.

“Having heard His Excellency the Regent has issued a decree calling for poems titled ‘Parting from Solitary Sleep’...” “Though unskilled, I have composed a crude verse and humbly wish to present it for your consideration...”

She flushed slightly with embarrassment. The blue-robed guard nodded as if coming to his senses.

“Ah, yes. By decree of His Excellency the Regent, Lord Dainagon of this residence has been commanded to widely solicit poems titled ‘Parting from Solitary Sleep’ from society at large. You also wish to present a poem for this occasion? A commendable endeavor. Wait here for a moment.”

Peering once more at the beautiful maiden's face, he withdrew into the interior. Willow leaves fluttered down upon the maiden once more. After making her wait for some time, the blue-robed guard came out again and said kindly: “His Lordship has commanded an audience.” “No objections. Proceed immediately.” Guided inside, Algae was led to a study-like chamber in the inner quarters. From somewhere drifted the delicate scent of incense, and Algae, country-bred as she was, found herself instinctively straightening her posture. Lord Dainagon Moromichi sat facing her intimately. From that gentle courtier disposition which holds that in the Way of Shikishima there are no distinctions between high and low, Lord Dainagon gave a soft nod of acknowledgment even to this low-born woman.

"I hear you have come to present your 'Parting from Solitary Sleep' poem." "I make no distinction between those of high birth and those of low station." "You need only present a good poem." "I have heard your name is Algae, but who might your parents be?" “Father is…” Algae began, then hesitated slightly.

When even after waiting for some time the next phrase did not come easily, Moromichi pressed her with a question. “Though I said we make no distinction of status, you may think this unnecessary questioning, but these poems are to be presented before His Excellency the Regent.” “As a formality, if I do not investigate and ascertain the poet’s status, I cannot fulfill my duty.” “Whether your father be whoever he may be, or your mother whatever she may be, there is no need to feel shame.” “You need not hesitate.” “You need only state your name honestly.”

“Mother is no longer in this world.” “Unless I explicitly state my father’s name, will the presentation of the poem not be permitted?” Algae asked in return. “I do not say it is impossible, but first properly declare your status before requesting to present your poem—that is the proper procedure.” “Will you not state your father’s name?”

“Yes.” "Why do you not speak?" "How curious indeed," Lord Moromichi smiled. “Ah, I understand now." "If you were to proclaim your father’s name first and then have your poem prove utterly inept—you fear this would shame your household?" "For a maiden not yet of age, such discretion is only natural." “Very well, very well.” “Then I shall cease my inquiries for the present.” "I shall judge this poem of yours, Algae, though knowing not whose child you are." “Have you inscribed it upon decorative paper or a poem strip?”

“No, I have brought neither decorative paper nor poem strips,” Algae answered embarrassedly.

Moromichi immediately had someone bring inkstones, decorative paper, and the like.

Since this poem had been widely solicited from society, dozens of decorated papers and poem strips piled high daily at the Dainagon's residence. Indeed, such being the capital's nature, though he marveled at how many hidden poets might dwell here, not a single verse had been found that met his expectations. While one cannot discern poetic merit from physical appearance alone, considering both this maiden's unparalleled beauty and her clever manner of speech, a peculiar interest began stirring within Moromichi's breast. He wondered whether some undiscovered prodigy might have suddenly manifested here to astonish him. Fixing his gaze unwaveringly, he watched the maiden's brush flow smoothly across the paper.

“I am most ashamed.” Algae presented the decorative paper and prostrated herself before the Dainagon. Moromichi read it as if he could scarcely wait. "The night not yet deepened— The chamber lamp fades unknown, From even my shadow Must I part alone." “Ah!” he let out an involuntary breath of admiration, comparing equally the surface of the decorative paper and the maiden’s face. Imagination had become reality—the hidden talented woman had indeed come to astonish him. “Oh, splendid!” “Masterfully done!” “There exists none in the capital—nay, in all Japan—who could compose such a treatment of ‘Parting from Solitary Sleep’.” “Truly you have wrought perfection.” “A marvel most rare!” “His Excellency the Regent shall surely find satisfaction.” “That even in this decaying age, the Way of Shikishima remains undimmed—this gladdens our hearts indeed.”

Moromichi read the poem over and over again. The brushstrokes were vivid. He was overcome with emotion and teared up for a while. Moreover, he wanted to know about this talented woman’s circumstances. “As one hears even now.” “There can be no other poem like this.” “I must immediately present this to His Excellency the Regent, but when that time comes and I am asked who this poet is, what am I to say?” “There is no need to hide any further.” “Just be honest and tell me whose child you are and where you’re from.”

“Must I truly speak of it?” Algae said with visible distress. “If inquiring into my status proves difficult, then please deem it ‘poet unknown’.” “That may be so, but why will you not state your parent’s name?”

“I cannot disclose it.” “I shall take my leave now.” Having declared this, Algae rose gracefully from her seat. As if struck by her imposing dignity, the Dainagon found himself unable to forcibly detain her. He had been watching the beautiful, mysterious maiden’s retreating figure as if in a dream when he suddenly came to his senses and called for a blue-robed retainer.

“Follow that maiden and ascertain where she is from and who she is.”

Having sent out the blue-robed retainer, Moromichi once again took up the decorative paper and gazed at it. Whether in appearance or penmanship, a maiden of such caliber could not possibly be the descendant of a low-born person. Or perhaps she was the daughter of someone of standing, amusing herself with such mischief? Or perhaps—a demon? A fox? A raccoon dog?

As he too was perplexed by this judgment, the blue-robed retainer returned at dusk with a weary expression.

“My lord.” “I have discovered the maiden’s dwelling.” “Ah, you have ascertained it then?” “She was from Yamashina Village, east of the capital. When I inquired with those nearby, they informed me that her father was once a Hokumen no Bushi named Sakabe no Shōji something-or-other.” “A Hokumen no Bushi named Sakabe something-or-other…” The Dainagon closed his eyes in contemplation, then suddenly slapped his knee as if remembering. “Ah, that’s it! Sakabe no Shōji Kuranushi Yukitsuna… That’s certainly it.” He had incurred imperial censure for failing to shoot a fox beneath the Ōdono stairs. After that, there had been no word of where he had gone into hiding—but lo and behold, here he was concealed in Yamashina, and Algae was his daughter? “To have a child born superior even to her parents—he is a splendidly fortunate man, indeed.”

The particulars of Algae concealing her father’s name also became clear from that. This was out of deference to his status as one under imperial censure. Whether her father had instructed her or she had conceived it herself, the Dainagon found that modest disposition both admirable yet pitiable. That very night, he immediately attended at Regent Tadamichi's residence and reported the emergence of a rare prodigy among women; upon reading her poem, the Regent too let out a cry of admiration.

Needless to say, after the passing of Minamoto no Toshiaki, as the path of waka poetry had gradually declined, it was this Lord Tadamichi who strove to restore it to its former glory. The Kyūan Hyakushu was a product of this era, and among men there was Shunzei. There was Kiyosuke. There was Takaie. For women, there was Horikawa. There was Aki. There was Kodaishin. National poetry was now in the full glory of its revival. That even the renowned poets of this era had all struggled with the challenging theme of "Parting from Solitary Sleep," yet this unknown lowborn maiden composed it with such ease—it was only natural that the Regent and Dainagon clicked their tongues in astonished admiration.

“Even if her father is under imperial censure, there should be no issue with the daughter.” “We wish to meet her.” “Summon her immediately,” said Tadamichi. The Regent’s samurai Oribe Kiyoharu set out for Yamashina Village the very next day and visited Sakabe Yukitsuna’s humble dwelling. Receiving this utterly unexpected envoy, Yukitsuna was astonished. He had not the slightest idea that his daughter had visited the Dainagon’s residence. As an accomplishment expected of women at the time, Yukitsuna had taught his daughter waka poetry. However, he had never dreamed she would become an honored poet capable of astonishing contemporary court nobles. He was surprised and delighted. Rather than scolding his daughter for visiting the Dainagon’s residence without permission, he was filled with parental pride at having such an accomplished young woman as his child.

“This gracious summons far exceeds my humble station, and though I am deeply grateful...”

He began to speak but hesitated slightly. Cursed by poverty and illness, he had made no preparations to present his own child before His Highness the Regent. Even if she were an unpolished gem, to present her beneath this wintry sky wearing nothing but a single unlined kimono of thin moegi-green silk would not only bring shame upon himself—he also feared it would show disrespect toward the noble. The envoy had perceived this too. Declaring it was a gift from his lordship, Kiyoharu placed before Yukitsuna a beautiful layered set of large-sleeved kimonos in dyed silk.

“This profound favor—there is no way I could ever adequately express my gratitude.”

Yukitsuna reverently received the bestowed items and rejoiced. Urged by the envoy, Algae promptly prepared herself. Beneath the gate’s persimmon tree, two of Kiyoharu’s attendants stood waiting. The mischievous crow, perhaps sensing something unusual about today, kept its distance and merely watched the red persimmons from afar, not daring to approach carelessly.

"Your Excellency, I humbly beg your kind consideration in this matter," said Yukitsuna, crawling out to the edge of the veranda.

"I understand." "Now come along." As Kiyoharu and the servants formed ranks around Algae to depart through the gate, Chiematsu arrived. His face remained pallid from recent illness as he dragged his straw sandals, leaning on a withered branch for support. He gasped upon seeing Algae, but the imposing samurai standing guard with stern countenance prevented him from rashly calling out. Rooted before the neighboring potter's shop, he stared dumbstruck at Algae's transfigured beauty while the potter and his wife watched wide-eyed through gaps in their bamboo blinds.

Algae, paying no heed to them, straightened her posture and walked straight ahead. Chiematsu could no longer bear it and called out.

“Algae! Where are you going?” She did not even turn around. A surge of anxiety and dissatisfaction welled up in his chest, and without a thought for consequences, Chiematsu dashed to the woman’s side.

“Hey, Algae. Where are you going?” he asked again. “Enough, don’t interfere. Step aside. Get back.”

Kiyoharu brushed him aside with his fan. Though he likely hadn't meant to strike hard, the fan snapped sharply against Chiematsu's cheek from the motion's momentum. Flushing crimson, Chiematsu instinctively tightened his grip on the cane, but froze under Kiyoharu's fearsome glare. Algae swept past with an air of feigned ignorance.

The Mound's Curse

I

“Ah, Reverend! You have graced us with your presence.” “How good of you to come.”

Regent Tadamichi greeted the slender monk of small stature who had just entered—a man who seemed to have his peculiarities—with his customary gentle smile. The monk was Shōnagon Michinori Nyūdō Shinzei. To this aged monastic revered throughout court and country as the peerless scholar of his generation, even the Regent had to offer a respectful bow. Tadamichi, who particularly cherished learning, had long honored Shinzei as a master.

“Today brings that most extraordinary maiden called Algae,” said Tadamichi with a laugh. “How fortuitous you should come at this hour, Reverend. I would have you assess her once we meet face to face.” “This Algae...” Shinzei softened his severe brows in contemplation. “What manner of creature might she be?” “Observe this—the composer of these verses.” The regent’s audience chamber maintained relative austerity, with only writing paper, an inkstone, and sparse furnishings arranged beside Tadamichi’s seat. When the regent produced a sheet of fine paper and laid it before the monk, Shinzei reread the poem and exhaled deeply.

“What an exquisite work she has composed!” “There are likely not two people in this world who could render the challenging theme ‘Parting from Solitary Sleep’ with such mastery.” “And what manner of being is this maiden?” “A form like waterweed severed from roots, drifting wherever currents flow—Algae is such a pitifully tender name,” he said, taking up the writing paper once more and gazing at it as though entranced. When told she was the daughter of Sakabe no Shōji Kuranoto Yukitsuna—he who had previously incurred imperial censure—Shinzei furrowed his brows anew. He did not recall the name Kuranoto Yukitsuna. Since it had left no imprint in his memory, Yukitsuna’s character seemed largely inconsequential. That such a man could have fathered this prodigy struck him as a marvel scarcely witnessed in this age. He too now wished to lay eyes upon this maiden called Algae.

“Then, Your Highness, have you summoned that maiden today?”

“According to Dainagon’s account, she is said to be a maiden of such beauty that one might deem her without equal in this world,” said Regent Tadamichi. “We thought We should like to meet her once, and so today We have summoned her. She should be arriving shortly.” Though some criticized him as somewhat indecisive, Tadamichi was a man of noble bearing among the court nobles of his time—pure-hearted and truly not unworthy of being Chancellor of the Realm. He did not care for sensual pleasures. He was already nearing forty. Even when the words “beautiful maiden” left his lips, his listener well understood they carried no improper implication. Both guest and host waited for this rare beauty’s arrival with an elegant poise akin to anticipating the sixteenth-night moon—a refined expectancy tinged with wistful longing.

“Algae has arrived.” “Will Your Highness summon her immediately?” Oribe Kiyoharu, mindful of the guest’s presence, quietly inquired while gauging his master’s expression, and Tadamichi promptly said to send her in. Before long, guided by Kiyoharu, Algae entered the garden front.

This was the eastern garden of the northern taiya residence. The bright afternoon sun cast slanting shadows from the buildings across the ground, while beyond those shadows' reach at the mound's base grew clusters of pale crimson maple trees—their low-spreading branches coloring the waning autumn like a springtime painting. Algae crouched small before this backdrop and reverently placed her hands upon the earth. "Nay, let us dispense with formalities," said Tadamichi with a chin gesture. "Have her approach and bring a straw mat."

Kiyoharu, comprehending the instruction, guided Algae up onto the veranda. He then attempted to have a straw round cushion laid out, but Algae politely declined and instead seated herself with proper decorum upon the wooden floorboards of the veranda.

“We are Tadamichi. You are the daughter of the former Kurando Sakabe no Shōji, called Algae?” Tadamichi turned to address her. “As Your Highness says—Algae, daughter of Sakabe Yukitsuna, humbly presents herself before you for the first time.”

She answered reverently, and Shinzei gave a light nod. “I am Shōnagon Shinzei.”

“There is no need for reserve.” “Lift your face and show me.”

When called out to again by the Regent, Algae quietly raised her head. Her face shone like a white jewel. Her eyebrows appeared more slender and gentle than young willow leaves. Her eyes appeared softer and clearer than those of the compassionate Kannon. That noble face, that graceful form—could this truly be human progeny? Even Tadamichi, who cared not for beauty, found himself involuntarily gasping in awe as he gazed upon this exquisite maiden’s features as though peering into them. Shinzei Nyūdō, nearing sixty, also unconsciously adjusted his plain silk collar.

“How old are you?” Tadamichi inquired again.

"I have attained fourteen years of age."

“Ah, fourteen years old?” “Being of talented birth, you appear older than your years.” “From what age did you begin composing poetry, and under whom did you study?”

To this question, Algae answered clearly. "I had only learned the phonetic use of kanji from my father and never studied under any formal teacher," she said. "In a way, it is self-taught and quite embarrassing." Her sincere, unassuming attitude increasingly captivated Tadamichi's heart. He spoke even more frankly. "Regarding the challenging theme of 'Parting from Solitary Sleep' that has vexed all poets—to whoever has skillfully composed it—I, Tadamichi, had previously promised they should receive a fitting reward." "What shall I grant you?" "Gold or silk, furnishings or their like—name whatever you desire."

Algae's tears scattered down onto the dyed silk sleeves.

“How gracious of Your Highness’s words. Since you have deigned to praise this clumsy verse of mine so generously—and declared I may ask for anything—clinging to that mercy, might I now presume to present the request of Algae’s lifetime without reservation?” “Oh, excellent, excellent.” Tadamichi nodded with keen interest. “Speak plainly.” “My father Yukitsuna’s pardon…”

Having begun to speak, she timidly prostrated herself on the veranda. Tadamichi and Shinzei exchanged glances. Tadamichi's voice darkened slightly. “How compassionate of you to ask.” “Do you wish for your father’s pardon as your reward?” This plea moved Tadamichi’s heart with twofold significance. The first was being moved by the maiden’s filial piety, and the second was having faint regrets about his own past drawn forth. It was he himself who had commanded Yukitsuna of the Northern Guards to shoot the fox. In the event that Yukitsuna failed, it was he himself who had become greatly displeased. Even though it was imperial censure, had he shown him some conciliation then, Yukitsuna likely could have retained his family’s position without being stripped of it. Of course, he had his faults, but even at the time, Tadamichi had felt a twinge of regret thinking he need not have imposed such severe punishment—a sentiment that had faded with the passing years. That had been drawn forth by this poem, and the name of Yukitsuna of the Northern Guards resurfaced in Tadamichi’s heart. Moreover, before his very eyes was there not a beautiful maiden weeping and pleading for her father’s pardon? Tadamichi too was involuntarily moved to tears.

“Your father remains under imperial censure.” “This response cannot be given through my sole judgment, yet moved by your filial devotion, I shall take note of your plea’s substance.” “Await the proper season.”

In this era, when such words were directly bestowed by His Highness the Regent, it was understood that one’s wish would inevitably be fulfilled sooner or later; so Algae dried her tears and offered her grateful thanks. Seeing that the audience had concluded favorably, Kiyoharu prompted Algae to withdraw. “I may summon you again. When that time comes, present yourself once more.” Tadamichi personally bestowed as immediate gifts exquisite decorated poetry cards and layered maple-leaf patterned silk. Then he instructed her to devote herself henceforth to the Way of Poetry. Algae humbly accepted the items and, accompanied by Kiyoharu, quietly withdrew through the original garden entrance.

“What a clever maiden, what a gentle maiden.” Though she had presented the 'Parting from Solitary Sleep' poem, her heart sought no personal acclaim. Was it to beg her father’s pardon? “How truly pitiful and endearing,” Tadamichi murmured as he watched her retreating figure for a long time, releasing another sigh of admiration.

Shinzei remained silent. Contrary to his expectation that he would surely offer some response—since the other party kept his mouth tightly shut—Tadamichi felt a bit deflated. As if urging Shinzei to respond, he spoke again. “It would be pitiful to let such a maiden decay in a grass-thatched house. “Whether it be her features or her disposition, she appears unparalleled in the world…” “Well, Reverend…” “I intend to bring her into my residence to educate and nurture her, eventually having her serve at court. What say you?”

Shinzei closed his eyes and remained silent. His stern eyebrows suddenly contracted as if recoiling, etching a single deep wrinkle across his broad forehead. Tadamichi knew full well that whenever grave matters arose and solutions eluded him, he would assume this fearsome countenance. Knowing this precisely, he found himself feeling both strangely unsettled and uneasy.

“Reverend. Have you reached a conclusion?” Having been called again, Shinzei finally opened his eyes, but as if fearing something unseen, he narrowed them once more and for a time fixed his gaze upon the sky. Then, as if groaning, he uttered just a single word. “How curious.” That was around the time when Algae was sent out through the mansion’s four-legged gate.

II

Chiematsu returned home once and ventured out again as the sun began to dip. He saw Algae wearing a breathtakingly beautiful robe being led away by an unfamiliar samurai. Startled and suspicious, he tried to press for details, but Algae passed by without sparing him a glance. The samurai struck him with a fan. Regret and sorrow merged into one, bringing a teardrop to his eyes. He kept watching until Algae's retreating figure faded into the distance, then immediately made for her house. Having learned from Yukitsuna that Algae had been summoned to the Regent's mansion, he finally felt relieved—yet unease about her fate after entering those gates lingered in his chest, leaving him restless even after returning home.

“You’ve just recovered from illness. Where could you be going as day fades?” Ignoring his aunt’s scolding from behind, Chiematsu quietly slipped out of the house.

The Hour of the Monkey had likely already passed. Autumn clouds like cotton still dyed their skirts crimson in the sunset, yet from the shadows of trees all around, the hues of dusk were already seeping forth, and a chill autumn wind shook the white plumes of pampas grass by the roadside. Chiematsu came trudging along, using a dead branch as a cane just as he had that morning, and the elderly potter stood at the gate gazing up at the high sky.

“Chiematsu. Back again? Algae won’t be back yet,” said the old man, laughing. “Hasn’t she returned?” Chiematsu asked disappointedly, staring at the old man’s face. “She was summoned to His Highness the Regent’s mansion—what could she possibly be doing there until now?” “From here to the upper capital—that’s a woman’s journey there and back.” “That alone would take quite some time.” “If you’re so set on seeing Algae, get inside and wait.” “It’ll turn cold once night falls.”

The old man clasped his hands behind his back, let out a sneeze, and ducked inside through the bamboo blind. Chiematsu followed silently inside as well, and the potter's wife was adding firewood to the hearth.

“You’ve just recovered from illness and go out morning and night—doesn’t your aunt scold you?” said the old woman with smoke-filled eyes. “You’re just as obsessed with Algae, aren’t you? Did you make some promise to become husband and wife in the end?”

Chiematsu’s face, now illuminated by the blazing brushwood fire, turned crimson. He lowered his eyes as if avoiding the smoke and remained silent. “That’s each person’s own business—none of our concern—but do you realize? Lately, Algae’s behavior has been somehow different from usual. Just the other night, she made you and the old man go to so much trouble, yet the next morning when you met her, she didn’t even give a proper nod. She’s like a completely different person from the quiet, obedient girl she used to be. Hey, old man.”

The good-natured old man seemed to have already grown weary of hearing the neighbor girl’s slanderous accusations. He simply remained silent, grinning quietly. While comparing the innocent smile with the malicious-looking wrinkled face of the old woman, Chiematsu continued listening in silence. Then the crone twisted her lips further apart, baring her mottled teeth. “But that’s not all. I saw something strange. The evening before last, when I went to the neighboring village to buy sake, there in a thicket of pampas grass and reeds by the river, Algae was standing alone. If she were merely standing there, it wouldn’t be particularly noteworthy, but she held a skull in one hand and seemed to be raising it above her head or something. I got creeped out too and tiptoed past quietly.”

Chiematsu immediately realized that the skull was undoubtedly the one they had brought from the ancient burial mound, but why Algae continued to cherish it so dearly and engage in such suspicious behavior remained beyond his comprehension. "I haven’t seen Algae since then either—do you think she’s doing such things every night?" Chiematsu asked the old woman anxiously. "I don’t know either. What I saw was just once. Why she was doing such a thing—when you meet her, ask her yourself."

“Ha ha, what need is there for such complicated inquiry?” laughed the old man abruptly. “In the dim evening light, the old hag must have mistaken something for it. Or else she went to discard it in that river when none were watching. Holding a skull to one’s brow won’t make it a crown. Ha ha ha ha!” Having her account dismissed so casually, the old woman grew agitated. She embellished her explanation with hand gestures as she recounted the incident in detail. All the while, he kept choking on wisps of brushwood smoke.

“How could I have mistaken it?” “Algae definitely had that skull atop her head!” “Just as the old man says, this must be some sort of mistake,” interjected Chiematsu from the side, his face betraying lingering doubts. Caught between adversaries on both sides, the Potter’s Wife pursed her lips even tighter. “How dare you all speak without even seeing for yourselves?” “I happened to be passing by that very spot and saw it clearly with my own two eyes, I tell you.”

“Even if you did see it, they’re old eyes.” “With those fish-like white eyes of yours?” Chiematsu sneered. “What’s this about fish eyes?” The old woman straightened her knees. “These eyes of mine can see through anything, I tell you.” “Would I join forces with day-blind fools like you?” “What ‘day-blind fools’?” Chiematsu also straightened up defiantly. “Then why did you call me ‘fish eyes,’ I tell you?” “I said it because that’s how it looked, I tell you.” As the two squared off like fighters about to froth at the mouth, the old man laughed as if to say “Not again” and calmed them down.

“Now then, enough of this, enough. Whether the neighbor’s girl tries to place the skull atop her head or cling to it, it’s none of our concern. There’s no need to make such a scene and argue over it. Chiematsu and the old hag just don’t get along well. Leaving those two together makes an unbearable racket. Chiematsu, go home already and come back fresh tomorrow.”

“That’s right. ‘It’s the old man’s fault for bringing in this idiot,’ snarled the old woman, glaring across the bonfire. ‘This here’s our house. We can’t have you staying here. Get out now.’”

“Oh, so I can’t stay, huh? You’ve got some nerve callin’ my business foolish. You’re the damn fool plague hag!”

Ranting angrily, Chiematsu slipped outside only to find dusk had already fallen.

In the dimness, a woman's face appeared faintly white. The woman whispered his name.

“Chiematsu.”

It was Algae. Chiematsu stumbled over himself as he rushed to her.

“Oh, Algae. You’re back?”

“You—were you quarreling at the neighbors’ house again? Calling someone a ‘damn fool’ or ‘plague hag’—you shouldn’t use such spiteful words.” “But that hag—she slanders you at every chance! She’s a hateful wretch through and through! Even now she’s spreading tales about you carrying that skull on your head—claiming she saw it herself—all to make a mockery of me!” Chiematsu spat, glaring back over his shoulder.

Algae said in an unexpectedly calm voice. "That Potter’s wife isn’t as bad a person as you make her out to be. She must have indeed seen me holding the skull. The reason is thus: The white skull I used as my pillow the other night—though I know not whose keepsake it may be from where—must share some karmic bond with me for having touched my person. I thought to perform memorial rites for it and brought it home, enshrining it quietly in the family altar, but when Father eventually discovered it, he scolded me, saying such a defiled thing must not be kept in the house. I was ordered to return it where it belonged, but I was too terrified to venture into that forest again. Even if I wanted to ask you, you were unfortunately nowhere to be found. Having no choice, I took it to that riverside, recited the Universal Gateway Chapter, and sank it there. The Potter’s wife must have happened to pass by there just then and seen me holding up the skull. It’s no wonder those unaware of the circumstances would find it strange. The Potter’s wife wasn’t trying to mock you. She was simply telling the truth honestly, I tell you."

“Hmm. So that’s how it was…”

Chiematsu nodded for the first time. The circumstances of Algae standing at the dim riverside holding up the skull had also become clear now. Evidence had also emerged that the Potter’s Wife hadn’t spread baseless rumors. He had begun to feel some remorse for having picked a fight in a momentary fit of anger and distressed the kind old man. “Then today you were summoned to the Regent’s mansion—how did things go there?” “Everything went splendidly,” Algae declared proudly. “I was given various gifts—colored paper, poem strips, and such. On the way back, the samurai attendants even escorted me, but according to them, it seems I might be summoned to serve at the mansion—”

“What’s this—being summoned into service…? So what do you intend to do then?” Chiematsu asked urgently.

“What do you mean...?” “I shall gratefully accept it, that is all.” “If that were to happen, Father would indeed be delighted by such an unexpected rise in my station.”

The autumn evening darkness enveloped the two, and the woman’s pale face had vanished from sight. In the darkness, Chiematsu strained his owl-like large eyes, trying to read her expression. “I’ll accept…” “Are you going to the Regent’s mansion?” “I’ve heard court service is a lifelong duty.” “Even if it’s not that extreme, they’d never grant you leave after just three or five years. When do you plan to come back here?” “That even I cannot say. “Three years or five years, eight years or ten years—maybe a lifetime,” Algae replied nonchalantly.

Wanting to protest that this violated their understanding, Chiematsu suppressed the words and remained silent for a while. Of course, there was no formal agreement between the two. Algae had never explicitly stated from her own lips what was to become of them. Yukitsuna had never said he would give his daughter to him. In the end, it was merely that Chiematsu had set his own expectations in unspoken silence. In this situation, he had no right to directly accuse Algae of breaching their understanding. But he was sad. He was vexed. He was angry. No matter how he thought about it, he didn’t want to send Algae off into court service.

“Even if it’s your advancement, social climbing can’t be humanity’s sole blessing!” “Quit this court service!” he said bluntly.

Algae said nothing. “No?” “Are you truly going to the Regent’s mansion no matter what?” Chiematsu pressed on. “Was your talk of coming to my aunt’s place to learn eboshi folding a lie?” “Did you lie to me?” He seized upon this issue and tried to use it as grounds to accuse her of breaching their understanding, but it was effortlessly rebuffed. “That was an old matter from when I had no intention of entering service.”

“You can’t just forget that past.”

In the darkness where he couldn't discern the woman's expression, Chiematsu grew impatient and seized Algae's hand. As he led her to the neighboring potter's gate, the hearth fire filtered through sparse blinds in a faint crimson glow, making her face reappear pale. Chiematsu peered into her face and spoke.

“Even after all this pleading, won’t you listen? Won’t you heed my request? Look here, Algae. Next year I’ll come of age and start folding eboshi caps for a living. If I work my hands to the bone, you and your father won’t lack for anything. What good comes from palace service? In the end, peace lies in living humbly among the common folk. First off—if you enter service, what becomes of your ailing father? Who do you think will tend to him? Chasing your own advancement while forgetting your parents—that’s unfilial!”

Having failed in his initial protest, he next took up the reins of filial duty in his haste to pull back the woman’s heart, but this too was swiftly severed. “If I enter service, Father’s displeasure will be lifted. I can ask the lord to request a skilled physician. How could that possibly be unfilial!” Chiematsu could no longer continue his retort.

Algae laughed triumphantly.

“Though you and I have long been acquainted, this may well be our farewell.” “Just as you said earlier—next year when you’ve become a man—do show filial devotion to Uncle and Aunt.”

She vanished like a ghost back into the darkness from which she’d come.

Three

Chiematsu spent that night awake thinking. "The potter's wife spoke true. Algae isn't Algae anymore. Like someone wholly reborn."

Tomorrow he would visit her again—but what words could he use this time to persuade her? With his exhausted nerves stretched ever tighter, he tossed and turned through the long autumn night. From the time the rooster crowed at dawn, his fever rose once again.

“Look at that! “This is what happens when you go wandering about at night before you’ve fully recovered!” he was scolded again by his aunt. He was also scolded by his uncle as a reckless fool.

And so, he was strictly forbidden from going out for about four days.

However impatient he was, Chiematsu could not move. On the morning of the fourth day, since his condition had slightly improved, he took advantage of his aunt’s absence while she went shopping and crawled out of the house leaning on a bamboo cane. In just three or four days this year’s autumn had abruptly aged, and with all the sorghum in the fields harvested, the open plains stretched endlessly into the distance. Chiematsu thought the world seemed to have suddenly widened. And then, rather than feeling cheerful, he found himself tearful with a sad, somehow fragile emotion. He came trudging along dragging his heavy straw sandals.

Around the time the persimmon branches at Algae's gate faintly entered his vision, he encountered the potter's old man. The old man walked with a lonely air, holding a branch of wild chrysanthemums in his hand while often looking down. The two faced each other at the very center of the rice field path.

“Old man. Where are you going?” Since they couldn’t pass by without exchanging greetings, Chiematsu was the first to call out. The old man straightened his crooked eboshi hat and smiled in his usual way, though his chin appeared slightly gaunt.

“This here,” he said, showing the red flowers in his hand. “For visitin’ the old woman’s grave.” “Did she die?” Chiematsu couldn’t hide his shock. “When’d she pass? Was it sudden?” “Ah,’twas the very night you came havin’ that quarrel and left.”

Late that night, someone quietly knocked on the door. The old woman, contrary to her usual late-rising self, immediately got up and opened it. No one knew who stood outside, but she slipped out into the night just like that and did not return until dawn. The old man too found it strange and inquired around the neighborhood, but given how late it was, there was no one who knew anything. After exhausting all possible searches to no avail, he suddenly recalled the cedar forest from days past. When he ventured into its depths just to be thorough, he found her collapsed beneath that ancient mound—exactly like Algae. However, her throat had been torn open by someone, and there was no way to call her soul back. The funeral was conducted without incident by neighbors’ hands on the evening of the following day, he recounted with a clouded face.

As Chiematsu furrowed his brows and listened intently to this bizarre tale, the old man spoke again. “In my reckoning, all that’s the curse of the ancient mound too. Because we went tramplin’ into that forest’s depths, the curse passed me by and fell on the old woman instead. The hag must’ve been lured by the mound’s master, leavin’ her corpse to rot deep in those woods. Chiematsu, you ain’t completely free from blame either. We buried the hag at that hill’s foot. If you get a chance, go pay your respects at her grave. Even if we lived as enemies, death makes Buddhas of us all. I beg you—say the memorial prayers for her.”

As he spoke, the old man gradually returned to his usual smile. However, Chiematsu could not bring himself to laugh. Suddenly terrified by the notion of cursed retribution, he shuddered as the bitter morning wind pierced his exposed flesh, goosebumps prickling his skin. "That's truly unfortunate. I'll be sure to pay my respects as well."

After parting with the old man and taking a few steps away, he was called back from behind. “Chiematsu. There’s something I need to tell you.” “Algae isn’t at home no more.” Chiematsu’s face changed color.

The old man returned and said sympathetically.

“The old woman’s funeral—Algae came and helped with that, but then the very next day, seems a messenger came again from the capital. They decided she’d enter service right away, so she hurried off yesterday around noon.” A flock of migratory birds passed high above them in swirling formation, making the old man instinctively look skyward. Chiematsu looked down and bit his lip. “For details, ask Lord Yukitsuna yourself.” “With my wife gone, I can’t bear this lonesomeness.” “Do keep comin’ round my house same as before, y’hear?”

Chiematsu nodded and parted. Even though he had hated the plague-ridden old woman like a sworn enemy, upon hearing of her death, he couldn’t help but feel sorrow. The grotesque manner of her death was even more terrifying. But for Chiematsu now, neither the old woman’s death nor the mound’s curse was of any concern anymore. Half in a daze, he hurried off to Algae’s house, where Yukitsuna had sat up on his futon. “Oh, I’m grateful you always come to visit me,” Yukitsuna said with unusually bright eyes. “Algae, who was close to you, was summoned away to the Regent’s mansion.” “Though I still lie bedridden and found it no small hardship to part with the daughter who cared for me, foremost this shall become her advancement—nay, in time my own fortune too—so I resolved to send her forth.” “The future remains uncertain, but once having been summoned into service, she will not return even in five or ten years.” “You and Algae have been acquainted for a long time.” “Go on and celebrate my daughter’s success!”

Chiematsu could no longer reply. After hearing all there was to hear, he immediately went outside, where on the branch of the gate’s persimmon tree, a large fruit—pecked at and left behind by crows—rotted crimson as it overripened, its decayed leaves occasionally fluttering down. As he raised his clouded eyes to gaze at those branches, hot tears streamed down his cheeks. Algae had abandoned herself and gone into service. Five or ten years—perhaps she might never return in her lifetime. The thought of it made him overwhelmingly sad. The very anticipation of becoming a full-fledged man and entering the eboshi-making trade from next year existed solely because of Algae’s presence—now that this Algae had flown away like a bird, determined never to return to my cage again, what purpose could I possibly find to work toward hereafter? With what purpose should I go on living? At the very moment Chiematsu felt as though the world had abruptly plunged into darkness, the fever from his not yet fully healed illness flared up once more. His entire body burned as if scorched by fire. His throat grew so parched he could barely breathe, so he tried to stumble into the neighboring potter’s house for a drink of water, but knowing the old man was away, he ultimately held back. He wandered off to the nearby riverside, leaning on his cane.

This was the place where he and Algae had often come to play together. This was also where they had come just the other day to gather silver grass for the Thirteenth Night. The large willow tree where the two had once sat affectionately side by side remained unchanged, and the autumn water flowed soundlessly white. Chiematsu crawled to the water's edge, scooped up cold water in both hands, and drank deeply, but his entire body burned hotter still, his vision dimming as his head throbbed with mounting pain. He could no longer stand to walk, so he abandoned his cane there. Crawling crab-like through withered reeds and pampas grass thickets, he somehow emerged onto the road—but then he thought again.

*I might as well be dead.*

To forget the sorrow of losing Algae and the torment of being afflicted by illness, he resolved in an instant to sink to the bottom of this water. He crawled back to the water’s edge again, and in the moment his pallid face reflected on the surface, someone grabbed him by the waist from behind and suddenly yanked him backward.

“Hey, you—wait!” That was a small man who appeared to be a servant. On the collapsed embankment stood a man who appeared to be his master. Chiematsu, who no longer had the strength to resist, was dragged along the edge of the embankment like a puppy seized by a child.

“What are you doing there?” asked the man who appeared to be his master gently. The man appeared to be thirty-seven or thirty-eight. He wore a pristine water-blue hunting robe over white servant-style trousers, with a tall black court hat crowning his head—a man whose bearing exuded nobility at first glance. He had a thin mustache under his nose. Struck by the light in his eyes—gentle yet bearing an indomitable authority—Chiematsu placed his hands on the ground. “Looking at you, your complexion appears unwell,” the man repeated. “I discern signs that you are possessed by a supernatural phenomenon and will lose your life.” “This is perilous.”

“It is my lord’s inquiry,” said the servant. “Speak plainly. You may have been resolved to drown yourself, but…” he snapped. “I am Harima no Kami Yasuchika,” declared the man. “I know not whose child you are, but I wish to save your life. Explain in detail the circumstances leading to your death.” Upon hearing the name Yasuchika, Chiematsu involuntarily raised his head and timidly looked up at the face of the man standing before him. Harima no Kami Yasuchika was the sixth-generation descendant of Abe no Seimei, Master Yin-Yang, and as the head of astronomy, tortoise shell divination, and arithmetic, he belonged to a family of renown without equal in all Japan. When this man declared from his own mouth that a supernatural phenomenon had taken hold of him, Chiematsu grew all the more terrified.

He spoke truthfully about everything before Yasuchika. Yasuchika closed his eyes and pondered for a while, then eventually spoke again slowly.

“Where does this girl called Algae dwell?” “Lead me there.” Yasuchika produced some manner of medicine. When Chiematsu drank it, his vitality sharpened as though cleansed. Supported by the servant, he staggered to Yukitsuna’s dwelling, where Yasuchika halted to scrutinize the premises. Then, deepening his frown, he tilted his head back to study the roof’s height. “A cursed abode.” Upon the persimmon bough, the ever-present crow loosed its raucous cry.

Banquet of Flowers

I

Then, after four calendar years had turned, spring arrived in Ninpei Year 2. For these three or four years, even the God of Pestilence had been sealed away somewhere, its violent hands no longer descending upon humanity. The mountain monks of Enryaku-ji Temple—who were once apt to shake their mikoshi palanquins violently and cause uproars—now seemed to sip monastic miso soup quietly while reciting sutras. Neither the glint of naginata blades nor the clatter of tall geta disturbed the capital people's dreams. Due to the Kebiishi's rigorous scrutiny, even rumors of bandits had ceased. Fires grew scarce. Storms vanished entirely. The hearts of people in the late Heian period—which had trembled as if the world's chaos drew near—gradually slackened and returned to their former carefree spirit. As though to further loosen these relaxed threads of their souls, this spring continued with serenely clear days. In fields and mountains alike, so many people gathered beneath cherry blossoms that exuberant butterflies busied themselves pursuing the fragrance of their robes.

At Regent Tadamichi’s villa in Katsura Village as well, a flower banquet was held in mid-March. It was proclaimed that failing to attend Regent Tadamichi’s banquet—he being the clan head—would be a lifelong disgrace, and every courtier of note vied to gather there. It had been an elegant invitation evoking the sentiment, “Even if drenched, let us find shelter beneath the blossoms,” but as if the god of spring itself sought to adorn these resplendent banquet mats, beautiful sunlight filled heaven and earth from morning onward on this day. Tadamichi—who had devoted his soul to the way of refined elegance and had never much favored ostentatious displays—found that since being appointed clan head for the first time two years prior, his heart had naturally grown prideful. He had also grown accustomed to the peace of the world. Amidst the courtiers of this era—maples flaunting their brocade—he had been seen as a solitary pine tree devoid of ornamentation; yet gradually, dyed by the drizzling rains of time, he too had come to transform into one who favored splendor. Moreover, blended with a political strategy to demonstrate the great authority of being the Fujiwara clan head, today’s banquet had truly reached unprecedented extravagance for him. Even those guests who had long imagined something of this sort found their tender hearts overwhelmed by the banquet’s exquisite hospitality, which far surpassed all expectations. The host was pleased. The guests were, of course, satisfied.

Some gathered in groups of their own choosing, dipping brushes to compose on colored paper and poem cards. There were also those performing gagaku music. As it was said that having only male guests would make the occasion too stiff and lackluster, various ladies-in-waiting and princesses adorned themselves in splendid attire and lined up on the mats. The robes' hues, the sleeves' fragrances, the music's melodies—all merged into one, melting and flowing beneath the scorching warmth of spring light until even the blossoms, butterflies, and bush warblers lost their hues and hushed their songs.

He too seemed to have stepped out from that beautiful picture scroll. A young courtier in fresh light-blue noble robes—appearing to sober himself in the spring breeze—stood upon a white stone at the water's edge gazing down at flower shadows drifting on the surface when someone softly called out from behind. The man turned and adjusted his standing eboshi hat's forehead band.

“Lady Tamamo.” “Your gracious hospitality today must have caused you much trouble.” The young courtier was Sashōben Kansuke—a fair-complexioned man of elegant bearing with sparse facial hair, no mean hand at poetry and prose, and a skilled composer of songs. He dabbled in painting; played the flute with distinction. Among contemporary courtiers, he enjoyed renown as a man of refined taste—bestowed amorous nicknames by various ladies-in-waiting and chambermaids, the envy of others, a fact in which he took great pride.

A woman who stood before this man of refined tastes and spoke with such casual ease—without even a hint of bashfulness—could only be one of two things: either a seasoned court woman who had long forgotten human passions and romance, or a refined maiden confident that her charm and grace were in no way inferior to his. The maiden facing him indeed fully embodied the latter qualification. “What need is there for such courtesies? Hospitality is our duty; I can offer no excuse for anything lacking. The dusk of these spring days must still be some time away. Why not come over to that pavilion and spend a little more time with your cup? I shall be honored to guide you.”

“Ah no—though kindly offered, I must decline further cups.” Kansuke smiled, shielding his forehead with a fan. “Since earlier I grew so thoroughly drunk that I retreated to this tree’s shade rather than let others see my unseemly state.” “What you claim is false—it seems you arranged to meet someone here.” The woman laughed lightly behind her fan. “If so, I shall linger here eternally and obstruct your plans.”

“This is troublesome. We have not the slightest such ulterior motive. I merely wander here, doing nothing but gaze at the silent shadows of flowers. Do not tease me so.” The woman continued laughing as she stared intently at the man’s face, which wore an earnest expression while he made excuses. From the distant pavilion hall, the sound of a flute drifted softly on the breeze, while cherry blossom petals—borne aloft by a wind that seemed not to blow at all—fluttered down to rest like snow upon the woman’s temples. The woman was Tamamo-no-Mae. It was in the autumn of her fourteenth year that Algae, daughter of Sakabe no Shōji Yukitsuna, had been summoned to Regent Tadamichi’s mansion and added to the ranks of his maidservants. Tadamichi’s wife, who had been proclaimed the wisest woman of her time, died suddenly not long after that. Since Tadamichi had remained without a wife afterward, Algae—beautiful and moreover ardent—gathered her lord’s exclusive favor and welcomed her eighteenth spring this year. Even after her service began, Tadamichi continued having her called by the name Algae as before—but her jade-like countenance had swiftly drawn the eyes of young courtiers, and without anyone knowing who first proposed it, the character for “jade” came to be appended to her name. This had gradually become customary, until even her master Tadamichi now called her Tamamo. That this maiden of peerless talent and beauty was kept within his mansion had become a point of pride for the master, and whenever there were guests, Tadamichi summoned Tamamo to serve. Even on casual pilgrimages or pleasure excursions, he invariably took Tamamo along as part of his retinue. It was only after Tadamichi had drawn Tamamo near that he had finally come to be steeped in extravagant tastes of late.

When Tamamo returned from outside, her long sleeves always grew heavy. Into those sleeves were secretly thrown numerous letters and poems, each imbued with the souls of yearning men, yet Tamamo never once responded. Nevertheless, with so many persisting suitors, her sleeves today appeared particularly weighted. Noticing this, Kansuke now teased: "Now, Lady Tamamo. Your sleeves must surely hang heavy today. They say drowning souls fill their sleeves with stones before sinking - one as burdened as you might never resurface should you stumble into this stream. Best mind your step!"

Intending to banter as playfully as he could manage, he approached with a self-deprecating laugh, whereupon Tamamo—as though unable to contain herself—said while hiding her face with a fan: “That is Your Grace’s own affair.” “What would a lowly servant like myself have to do with such things…” “The current evidence is you yourself—have you not been hiding here with the look of waiting for someone since earlier?” This time, Kansuke made no attempt to offer excuses and merely smirked. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely without such intentions. Being a man of his stature who had left the crowd to wander alone like this, he was certain some woman would come yearning for him—and so he cast his net of waiting without any particular target in mind when, quite unexpectedly, a beautiful mermaid approached. He was secretly devising how he might capture this prey.

“Let suspicions fall upon others—you are no man to harbor such a frivolous soul. If that be so, what brings Your Grace here? Our presence must surely prove a hindrance…” “Precisely so.” “When you earlier bade me go to yonder pavilion—was that your riddle? Our unwitting trespass through lingering shows want of tact. Pray forgive us.”

He intended to probe the other’s heart. As he tried to slip away slowly under cover of laughter, his sleeve was seized by a white hand.

“How cowardly of you, my lord.” Kansuke, unable to fathom her intent, stood silent. “Among all courtiers, Your Grace bears renown for cultured refinement. Though you may deem it ordinary sport to toy with women, should there be some artless maiden here—single-minded and unaware she’s being trifled with—what would Your Grace do about such a one?” “We are honest folk,” Kansuke proclaimed with an empty laugh that crinkled his eyes, “who recall tormenting none.”

“Oh no, I won’t allow you to deny it.” “Your Grace, are you not acquainted with this?” Tamamo carefully pulled out a neatly folded poem card from her kimono and thrust it before the man’s eyes. Joy and no small amount of embarrassment merged into one, slightly coloring Kansuke’s face. “Is it so unreasonable for me to call Your Grace a coward?” “When I came stealing away from prying eyes intending to present my response to this poem, would Your Grace cruelly push me away and attempt to flee?”

Struck by the bewitching light in her eyes, Kansuke felt as though his flesh and bones were melting all at once. Tamamo laughed as she tucked the poem card back into her own bosom—and with it, the young courtier’s soul was sucked into the woman’s embrace.

II

“Your Grace’s uncle is said to be Ryūshu Ajari of Hosshō-ji Temple.” “A scholar-saint of such renown—I too wish to have an audience just once and receive teachings directly from his presence.” “Would Your Grace be so kind as to guide me?” Tamamo said with affected earnestness. It was after she had whispered the response to his love poem into Kansuke’s ear. “Oh? You’ve not yet met my uncle at Hosshō-ji Temple?” Kansuke made a slightly puzzled face.

Hosshō-ji Temple was, as all knew, an institution founded by the regent's house. That Lord Tadamichi's devotion ran deep had long been known to Kansuke. This being so, Tamamo's never having met the temple's venerable Ajari struck him as strangely incongruous.

“The Ajari seems to strongly dislike women,” Tamamo said with a lonely smile, as though explaining the matter. Unlike his nephew Kansuke, Uncle Ryūshu Ajari was an eminent monk of unwavering discipline. He seemed to despise women as demons resistant to ordination, and toward any noble lady or princess—regardless of status—he refused to sit and converse. Tadamichi, being well aware of this, never took any women with him when making pilgrimages to Hosshō-ji Temple. Even Tamamo’s wish to accompany him there was never once granted. Kansuke noticed this and gave a wry smile.

“Ahaha, my uncle’s obstinacy is nothing new,” “Even we get scolded for every little thing just by showing our faces and get made to listen to his tedious sermons for half an hour straight.” “If I were to thoughtlessly bring some beautiful woman before him, who knows what he might say.” “But since it’s none other than Your Grace’s request,” “A bit of scolding won’t trouble me.” “I’ll guide you whenever you wish and arrange your meeting with Uncle Ajari,” he responded airily.

"The fact that the eight-year-old Dragon Girl attained Buddhahood in this very existence is expounded in the Devadatta Chapter." "Though I am but a woman burdened by deep sins," Tamamo's voice grew faintly somber, "were I to receive the venerable Ajari's guidance, then even if this present life remains troubled, at least in the next life I might find peace—it is solely this wish that fills my thoughts." Tamamo's figure, which appeared pitifully wilted, seemed to Kansuke's eyes to possess an even greater allure. The phrase "a pear blossom branch in spring, bearing rain" from Bai Juyi's *The Song of Everlasting Sorrow*—which he often recited—seemed to capture precisely this sentiment. He spoke again in a comforting tone.

“Now, there is no falsehood in our promise.” “Whether tomorrow or the day after, we shall without fail go there together.” “If you but send a letter, we will come at once to escort you, no matter the hour.” “No matter what stubborn objections my uncle may raise, we shall surely take you out beforehand and arrange a meeting.” Hearing this reassuring vow, Tamamo nodded with apparent delight. The two pressed close together and were about to whisper something further when the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard through the trees. When Kansuke turned around in slight fluster, he saw a man who had just passed thirty—slender in build and somewhat pale of face, yet with a keen intensity brimming in his sharp eyes that was rarely seen among courtiers of these times. He had likely chosen this petulant display on purpose—wearing a priest-like white informal court robe to today’s resplendent banquet, paired with equally white servant’s hakama.

He was Tadamichi’s younger brother—today’s host—and Yorinaga, the Left Minister of Uji. A man of such erudition that it astonished even his teacher Shinzei Nyūdō, yet filled with such irrepressible ambition that he ceaselessly derided his poetry-devoted brother Tadamichi as weak and effete. When this man fixed him with a piercing glare, Kansuke felt an inexplicable unease creep through him. Given the precariousness of their situation, he utterly lost composure, cold sweat seeping across the back of his neck.

“Ah, so the Sashōben was here,” Yorinaga said in a soft voice that ill-suited his fearsome eyes. Even so, Kansuke still couldn’t remain composed. When he answered apologetically that he had come down to this riverside to sober up from the wine’s intoxication, Yorinaga listened in silence with a sneering look in his eyes. Feeling ill at ease, Kansuke exchanged glances with Tamamo and quickly fled the spot. Yorinaga paid no heed to Tamamo still standing there and quietly gazed up at the spring evening sky fading into pale purple haze. It seemed a storm had begun to blow slightly, and a blizzard of petals enveloped his white standing figure as they fell.

“Lord Left Minister,” Tamamo addressed him gracefully. “What is it?” Yorinaga calmly turned back. “The storm has come calling.” “The flowers here have but two or three days left to their bloom indeed. What were you discussing with Kansuke here?” Yorinaga inquired with a laugh. “We were exchanging tales of poetry.” “A disquisition on love poems?” he said with that sneering look in his eyes again. “Yes. I thought to ask someone’s mediation in matters of love...” Even Yorinaga, who disdained such lukewarm love talk, found himself unable to give too callous a reply to this beautiful and talented woman, and so half-heartedly cobbled together a response.

“Even one such as Your Lordship cannot kindle love without relying on others? Love proves rather difficult, does it not?” “Since it is a wish beyond my station...” Tamamo let out a low sigh, as if at her wit’s end, and peered furtively at Yorinaga’s face. Captivated by the luminous gaze of this compassionate woman—whose eyes seemed compelled to bewitch—Yorinaga’s soul quivered involuntarily. “Hoh—‘a wish beyond your station,’ you say. This seems to grow ever more complicated! Should Kansuke’s strength alone prove insufficient, I too shall assist in fulfilling your love. Who is the one? Will you not reveal it?”

“I cannot speak of it before Your Lordship,” Tamamo said, bowing her head as she cradled her anguished chest with the sleeve of her wisteria-hued kosode.

The storm passed through, shaking the cherry blossom treetops. “You cannot speak of it before Us? Was Yorinaga deemed less reliable than Kansuke? This is most unexpected!” Yorinaga laughed loudly, his amusement heightening.

From the shadow of wisteria-purple sleeves, the white face appeared once more. She whispered coquettishly in a low voice. “Whether you are seen as reliable or unreliable depends solely on Your Lordship’s heart.”

“Now, one does not speak in such riddling terms. How must Yorinaga act to become a man deemed reliable in this world? Speak bluntly! State it plainly!” “Shall I tell you?” Tamamo showed a hint of hesitation, but finally said resolutely. “A relative of the Regent... an esteemed person of peerless learning in this world… Amidst cherry blossoms alluring like adversaries, a noble figure who appears as white and pure as pear blossoms… I can say no more beyond that. I pray you will discern.”

Yorinaga fixed his eyes as if waking from a dream and furrowed his splendid brows slightly, then immediately shrugged his shoulders and sneered. “Ah, I see. And did you indeed entrust Kansuke with mediating this affair of the heart?” “Before I could even confide and make the request...” “Did Yorinaga’s interference disrupt things? That makes for a fortunate conclusion indeed. Not even Kansuke—let alone the Regent, Shinzei Nyūdō, or any mediator you might find—could ever make this love come to fruition. Know this.”

“Is it not possible?” “It won’t do, it won’t do. For you to speak of love, someone like Kansuke—that weakling—makes a fitting partner.”

As Yorinaga dismissively threw out his words and tried to leave, Tamamo blocked his path, pressing close enough to collide and leaning her body against his chest area. "Therefore, did I not say it was a wish beyond my station?" she protested in a voice trembling with feigned resentment. "Even if you call it beyond your station, there must be limits!" Yorinaga laughed mockingly. "A love greater than coveting the realm itself. After all, it's clear this won't come to pass."

Yorinaga casually pushed aside the woman’s long black hair coiled snake-like around his chest and quickened his steps toward her pavilion. Tamamo raised her voice loud enough to be heard as she collapsed against the cherry tree trunk in tears, but when she realized his shadow had grown distant, she suddenly looked up to the sky and let slip a terrifying smile. Brushing away the petals fluttering down onto her face with an annoyed flick of her fan, she too began quietly making her way toward the sitting room. The spring day had already ended, and along the long covered corridor, the pale crimson shadows of lanterns carried by ladies-in-waiting and young samurai passed swaying through the gaps between the trees.

“Oh, Lady Tamamo. “You were here after all.” Oribe Kiyoharu had been searching for Tamamo’s whereabouts since earlier on his master’s orders. Though serving in the same mansion, Tamamo received the lord’s ardent favor—and since Tadamichi, having no daughter of his own, cherished her as if she were his child—Kiyoharu too had to show exceptional deference toward her. Tamamo bowed her head as if afraid her face would be seen and came to a halt.

“His Lordship has been inquiring after you since earlier,” Kiyoharu urged again. “I don’t want to,” Tamamo pleaded through sleeves still covering her face, remaining rooted in place. Finding her demeanor suspicious, Kiyoharu approached for details and received a tearful reply: she felt unwell and would no longer attend gatherings in the sitting room. She wished only to rest awhile at his pavilion far from the crowd. Growing concerned, he offered to summon a physician at once—a proposal she flatly refused—insisting instead on seclusion where prying eyes could not reach her aching heart. Unable to abandon his duty, Kiyoharu returned to his master and whispered of these developments, whereupon Tadamichi furrowed his brows.

“This is most unusual.” “What is to be done?”

He rose from his seat and searched for Tamamo's hiding place with Kiyoharu, where they discovered her lying prostrate in the dim recesses of a secluded pavilion. "I heard you were unwell—how do you fare now?" Tadamichi inquired as he approached, then startled as he tried to peer over her shoulder from behind. Tamamo had thrown herself down with her face pressed against the floor, letting out choked sobs. Kiyoharu too was startled. Master and servant exchanged looks and remained silent for a while.

“Haha, it seems someone’s been having fun with you here,” Tadamichi smiled.

At the banquet that had continued since noon, everyone—others and ourselves alike—was drunk. Among the young courtiers intoxicated by flowers and wine, there must have been those who stealthily pulled at her sleeve in the twilight dimness, and others who toyed with her black hair. Even if this mischief was improper, reminded of the ancient tale where King Chu severed hat strings, Lord Tadamichi found himself disinclined to reprimand it harshly on this occasion. When Kiyoharu noticed this as well, all his previous anxiety vanished at once, and he too began to smirk.

“There’s nothing unusual about this. If one were to thoroughly investigate such matters, who knows how many sinners might be found around here tonight,” the Heian-period retainer muttered to himself. In emulation of Tang China’s Peach and Plum Garden refinement—following their longstanding plan to take up candles and revel through the night—every room was lit as brightly as day. Even after whiling away a spring day in revelry, those still unsated by pleasure’s thrills meant to carouse wildly until collapsing drunk or exhausted. The muddied voices of poetic recitations and Saibara melodies drifted through the air. Young women’s brilliant laughter rang out. Amidst the clamorous spring night’s lukewarm air, only cherry blossoms fell silently.

“Come now.” “The hall feels desolate without you.” “Lady Tamamo is the flower of today’s gathering—so everyone says.” “If illuminated by the night’s lights, that beautiful face would shine all the more brilliantly.” “Come now, come now.” “Toward that bustle…” As if her hand would be taken in being led along, Tamamo stood while suppressing her tear-streaked face. Tadamichi and Kiyoharu flanked her front and back as they walked quietly through the dim covered corridor. The hazy moon seemed especially misted tonight, with even the flower-laden branches near the eaves appearing faintly pale when gazed upon.

III

As the lanterns were carried in, Yorinaga rose from his seat and departed. With the restraining presence gone, the young nobles grew increasingly unrestrained. Sashōben Kansuke in particular breathed a sigh of relief. The man with the scarred shin—who had felt Yorinaga's piercing gaze upon him and taken pains to avoid approaching—now had no reason to hold back. Masking his intent with drunkenness, he staggered to his feet, determined to seek out Tamamo once more and resume the half-told tales he'd left dangling earlier.

"Oh, careful!"

As if the wind itself encouraged his drunkenness, he pushed away the young court ladies attending him from both sides—more brusquely than usual—and wandered out into the hazy moonlit garden, but nowhere among the tree shadows could he see any trace of the person he sought. Like a fox foraging for food, he threaded through the trees and wandered around peering into other pavilions, but Tamamo’s glowing face could not be found under any of the lights. When he returned disappointed to the original sitting room, the ladies-in-waiting surrounded him again as if they had been waiting impatiently.

This was the largest sitting room, and most of today’s principal guests took seats here. Kansuke was pulled back down onto the straw mattress and once again had sake forced upon him. Even he, who prided himself on his strong drinking capacity, found his head growing heavy with his chest full of sake consumed since noon; unabashedly using the lap of a young lady-in-waiting beside him as a pillow, he chanted Chinese-style poetry in a low voice. It was not only Kansuke; the entire gathering had already descended into utter disarray, and more and more young men who could no longer keep their seats were growing in number around them. Those who had emerged onto the veranda to idly gaze at the moon were now only elderly ladies-in-waiting with thinning hairlines at their foreheads, long past the height of spring’s bloom, while the young women with fragrantly painted brows busied themselves tending to men, each in their own way. From time to time, a burst of laughter so boisterous it seemed to shake the spacious sitting room erupted.

“It seems Shinzei Nyūdō won’t be appearing today,” a young courtier remarked as if suddenly remembering. “That old monk despises joining such revelries, so he’s claimed fatigue and stayed away.” “Lord Yorinaga, the Left Minister of Uji, has already returned, they say,” said a young lady-in-waiting, seductively reclining by his pillow as she brushed back a stray lock from her temple. “His Lordship rarely deigns to approach such gatherings, but today he forced himself to endure until dusk out of duty to his elder brother Lord.” “Both Lord Yorinaga and Shinzei Nyūdō are difficult for us to handle.” “When stared at by those sharp eyes, you can’t help but feel eerie and freeze up.” “Hahahaha!”

When another man burst into loud laughter, Kansuke half-rose with eyes that looked weary.

"That's certainly true. Just now..." He began to say—then suddenly fell silent again. In a place crowded with jealous men and women, he thought it unwise to carelessly reveal the secret from earlier. Though his heart swelled with fierce pride at having splendidly gathered to his own hand the pond's Tamamo—who had yet to find a place to settle—he forcibly bit back this triumph with his molars, knowing the time was not yet ripe to reveal it. "What happened earlier? Was your lordship also scolded or glared at?" asked the woman who had been letting him use her lap as a pillow, wiping her lipstick with thin hemp paper.

“Oh, nothing in particular happened. I merely passed by her in the garden and made a hasty retreat,” Kansuke replied, masking his words with laughter. Even as he spoke, anxiety nagged at him. He straightened up to scan every corner of the sitting room, but no shadow resembling Tamamo could be found anywhere. A peculiar unease began to stir within him. Could someone have lured her into some secluded bower, he wondered, pressing for poetic replies to love verses just as he himself had done? He made to rise and venture into the garden once more when—most inconveniently—a burly man bearing a bottle and earthenware vessel in both hands came nose-to-nose before him.

“Sashōben, where are you going?” “Sanemasa’s cup!” “Take it!” He plopped down there. He was Shōshō Sanemasa—a man of poor conduct when drunk. Kansuke shook his head with a troubled look.

“I can’t take any more. Spare me this.” “That’s cowardly!” Shōshō Sanemasa insisted, thrusting the earthenware cup forward. “If you refuse to drink this wine, then as penalty you’ll compose a hundred poems while I drain this flagon.” “No—verses and odes are beyond me. In this drunken state, I beg your mercy!” Kansuke deliberately adopted a comical pose, planting his hands on the floor like a frog. “Oh? Do you grovel before me? That alone won’t earn clemency. You—confess here and now!”

Kansuke felt a chill. Staring fixedly at that flustered face, Sanemasa leaned back, thrust out his chest, and sneered. “Well? Won’t you confess? You—who were you talking to earlier by that riverside, and what were you discussing? Won’t you just come out and say it?” Kansuke grew increasingly flustered. He felt a happiness that made him want to burst into laughter, yet at the same time was aware of a ticklish anguish. While wavering between whether to confess or not, he feigned nonchalance as if to provoke impatience in his interrogator.

“That must be a case of mistaken identity. We have not moved an inch from this seat since daytime.” “No—that’s a lie!” The court ladies surrounded him from three sides and chattered in unison like swallows. “Of course during daylight hours—and even after nightfall—he was loitering about the garden...” “In fact, even now you were trying to slip out of here!”

“There, you see?” Sanemasa rubbed the thin mustache beneath his nose and glared again. “Do you still claim to have nothing to hide?” “No matter how you press me—what I don’t know, I don’t know,” Kansuke replied with a laugh as he tried to rise from his seat—but white hands clung to his sleeves and robes from both sides. “No—we won’t let you escape! This time we’ll conduct the interrogation.” “Come now—who were you speaking with?” “We will hear it.” “Out with it!”

Half out of jealousy and half for amusement, the women let their shrill voices grow ever more clamorous from their teeth-blackened mouths. They crumpled Kansuke’s splendid ceremonial robes to utter ruin—grabbing sleeves and cuffs without restraint, shoving him about as they pressed, “Now, confess!” The scents of incense burned into the women’s sleeves, their hair oils and perfumes, all swirled together chaotically—even Kansuke, who was accustomed to women’s fragrances, now nearly choked on the suffocating blend.

As he contorted his face in agony, Sanemasa glared at him with increasing jealousy, but then suddenly seemed to notice something and turned his gaze toward the garden.

“Whoa! A terrible storm’s upon us!” It was a monstrous tempest. The hazy moon vanished as if blown out by the gale, while thunderous winds roared through the darkness like quaking void. Though spring storms often assail blossoms, this maelstrom raged with such fury it seemed determined to strip every cherry petal from the mountainside at once. Even Kurama’s demonic winds might have swept down to this hall—the banquet’s laughter died mid-breath. Women threw themselves face-down, sleeves pressed to eyes. The storm burst through shutters, snuffing lamps one after another like a thief stealing every last glimmer of light.

In the pitch darkness, the men held their breath. The women burst into tears. Outside, the storm still raged on, and a mass of black clouds swirled low over the roof. It was feared that the tengu, envious of humanity’s boundless revelry, might seize both people and houses together and attempt to hurl them into the valley before their eyes. Among them, the quick-witted old man called out.

“At any rate, hurry with the lamps! Light them!” The voice was blown away by the storm, unheard in the distance. The Regent’s retainers attending service and the women alike were too terrified to leave their seats. A certain general, a certain lieutenant general—before this fearsome adversary, they too found no words and prostrated themselves in dread. Sanemasa was naturally among them. “What a dreadful tempest.”

Tadamichi peered through the outer darkness and muttered. He had just now arrived here with Tamamo. Kiyoharu also said uneasily while holding down his court cap with his sleeve. “It is truly a dreadful storm.” “Every corner has been plunged into true darkness.”

“It’s too dark to manage anything.” “Bring the lamps quickly!”

“Yes.” As Kiyoharu acknowledged the order and turned to leave, another fierce gust swept under his feet like a tripping force; he collapsed to his knees like pampas grass flattened by a gale. Tadamichi too nearly toppled over, shielding his face with his fan as irritation took hold. “The lamps… The lamps….” “Make haste!” At that instant, the hall brightened as though bathed in moonlight. When they thought it an untimely lightning flash, the glow persisted unwaning. The painting on the sliding door against which Tadamichi leaned, the scattered cups and dishes strewn about, the hues of robes worn by the astonished onlookers—all stood revealed in vivid clarity.

This mysterious light that illuminated the darkness gushed forth from Tamamo's body. She stood shining with blazing radiance all around her, like a Buddha bearing a halo.

Hosshō-ji Temple

One

“Hmm… That Yorinaga… Did he indeed speak those words so clearly?” Regent Tadamichi—his pallid, seemingly hungover forehead ridged with thick blue veins snaking across it—kept his fan firmly planted on his knee as he listened to the tearful appeal of the beautiful woman prostrated before him.

It was the day after the Banquet of Flowers; the guests who had been drunk since the previous evening gradually dispersed by the time the sun was high, and even the master’s light cough could be heard as far as the distant pavilion—the vast villa had fallen utterly silent. Due to the remnants of the fierce night storm, the garden was carpeted with white petals as far as the eye could see. “May the gods and buddhas bear witness—I swear I speak no falsehood,” said Tamamo, raising her tearful, beautiful eyes to steal a glance at her master’s expression.

“That Yorinaga has always been vain about his looks.” “He wouldn’t hesitate to say such things.” Tadamichi said in a deliberately calm voice. Moreover, Tamamo seemed to understand well that the ends of his words trembled with barely suppressed fury. Their conversation lapsed into silence for a time. Tadamichi too had collapsed drunk at this villa the previous night, and it was around when the guests had mostly dispersed that he raised his heavy head with great effort. Still not sober from his drunkenness, he took a few sips of gruel served by Tamamo, had a richly scented incense burning in the censer, and was about to drift back into a dreamlike state while pleasantly inhaling the fragrance when Tamamo shook him from that reverie and he was made to hear an unforeseen accusation. This incident had occurred yesterday evening at the height of the Banquet of Flowers—as Tamamo stood by the riverbank gazing at scattered blossoms floating on the water, her master’s younger brother, Left Minister Yorinaga, approached. He did not appear drunk, but he grabbed Tamamo and made a few crude remarks. The other party was the master’s younger brother—Yorinaga, the Left Minister, unrivaled in the court at that time. Since she could not coldly reject him and flee, Tamamo handled him appropriately—but Yorinaga grew increasingly emboldened, engaging in such lewd behavior that it nearly amounted to assault.

“If it were merely my own plight, I could endure it in any manner…” Tamamo appealed, choking back bitter tears. Not only had Yorinaga acted rudely toward her, but he had also proudly blurted out such things. “Brother Tadamichi is not fit to be Chancellor of the realm. He is merely a weak-willed poet. Though he now boasts of being the clan elder, it is evident that he will soon be overthrown by this Yorinaga and stripped of his dominion over the realm. The Hosshō-ji Temple he had built would become his final refuge. What could possibly come of serving a brother as insubstantial as a shadow?” “There exists the proverb ‘Take shelter under a great tree’—why do you not obey my will?” “Abandon your brother! Submit to me!” With unbearable insults and curses hurled at his brother, Yorinaga tried to forcibly wrest Tamamo into his own hands.

Even between close brothers, hearing such an accusation would never leave one in good spirits. Moreover, given the differences in their personalities, Tadamichi and Yorinaga were not on amicable terms inwardly, whatever their outward appearances. Yorinaga belittling his brother as weak in martial prowess and overly scholarly had faintly reached Tadamichi’s ears. He had even harbored the dark suspicion that Yorinaga, so proud of his own capabilities, might perhaps be jealous of his ascension as clan elder. At yesterday’s banquet as well, Yorinaga had displayed a sulking demeanor and then left midway without properly partaking in the festivities—a development that Tadamichi found far from amusing. While these circumstances were piling up, he heard this complaint from his beloved Tamamo. Tadamichi no longer had any room to doubt it.

“Detestable wretch.”

He cursed his brother in his heart. His still-drunken head swayed unsteadily, growing so heavy he could scarcely bear the weight of his eboshi hat. To overthrow his current brother and thrust himself into that position—this was the first unforgivable crime. For my brother to seize my beloved woman and attempt to bend her to his will—this was the second unforgivable crime. Even for someone naturally mild-mannered, suppressing this fury would have seemed exceedingly difficult—how much more so now, as his pride swelled daily and his irritability grew ever more conspicuous. Tadamichi’s heart was seared by fury. However, knowing full well that in his current position as Regent, he could not possibly use a mere maid’s complaint as a shield to openly crush Yorinaga, he had no choice but to suppress his overwhelming resentment and bide his time for a while.

At length, he spoke to Tamamo in a soothing tone. “Though my hatred for Yorinaga runs deep, what we—who ought to be clan elders—find most detestable is the disgrace of brothers quarreling within our walls tarnishing his reputation.” “Consider his harassment of you mere drunken folly at the banquet and endure it.” “We too shall endure for a time and ascertain his true intentions!” To calm Tamamo was to calm himself. Tadamichi forced a lonely smile and gazed at the black hair of the woman who sat with her head bowed.

“I shall endure in whatever manner required. However, should Lord Left Minister harbor schemes that would surpass Your Lordship’s position…” “Nay, such concern is needless. He may belittle Us as weak in martial prowess,” Tadamichi declared, “but Tadamichi is the Fujiwara clan elder. Tadamichi is the Regent. No matter how frantically they may rush, they cannot hope to topple Us. What do they think they’re—”

Tadamichi raised his voice in a discordant, nervous tone. And then, as if wanting to tear out his sideburns, he pressed both hands on the edge of his eboshi and shook his head forcefully two or three times. Tamamo watched with pained eyes as his nerves grew increasingly agitated, but before long, white droplets scattered down from those very eyes. “Hmm? Why are you crying? Can you still not endure it?” Tadamichi said reproachfully, his eyes fixed on her tears.

“As I have just stated, I shall endure in whatever manner required, but…” “Enough.” “We have Our own considerations regarding Our affairs.” “There is no need for that concern.” His complexion grew increasingly pale, and in the depths of Tadamichi’s eyes, a light of resolve flickered. “However, do not disclose this matter to others.” “Yes.”

The two met each other's eyes again. In contrast to last night, today was a day without even a rustling breeze. The lingering blossoms occasionally fell quietly, and from somewhere, the song of a warbler could be heard.

That afternoon, Tadamichi returned to his mansion from Katsura Village. Pleading exhaustion from yesterday's banquet duties, he dismissed his attendants and secluded himself in a chamber, but when lamps were being lit, he summoned Shōnagon Shinzei. Assuming this would involve their customary poetry discussions, Monk Shinzei prepared at leisure and went to attend—only to find himself immediately ushered into Tadamichi's presence as though his lord had been waiting impatiently. Without acknowledging the monk's apologies for yesterday's absence, Tadamichi launched abruptly into speech.

“Let us be quick, Monk. Does Yorinaga still frequent your presence these days?” “He is seen from time to time.” “Does his scholarship progress ever further?” “His scholarship has advanced so remarkably that one can hardly tell master from pupil these days—I find myself quite at a loss for dignity, Your Excellency.”

Shinzei relaxed his slightly twisted lips into a smile, but the listener did not so much as smirk. "It is said that Chōtatsu, though he had memorized eighty thousand scrolls, ultimately fell into the abyss." "No matter how one excels in scholarship alone, if the root intent remains twisted toward heresy, it proves futile." "There are instances where scholarship instead becomes one's downfall." "In Our estimation, Our younger brother Yorinaga too falls into that category." "When he visits you, counsel him against further study."

Regardless of good or evil, it was Shinzei’s habit never to reply carelessly. As he remained silent in thought tonight, Tadamichi grew somewhat impatient. “If observing the disciple does not equal knowing the teacher,” he said, “then you must already know most of his character. He has a habit of growing conceited about his intellect. If we permit him further study, he will grow ever more prideful of his erudition until—seduced by demons—there’s no telling what he might do. Tell him to abandon his studies.” Tadamichi’s voice hardened. “I have entrusted this matter firmly to you!”

To tell the truth, Shinzei was not without such concerns regarding Yorinaga. He too felt a faint unease regarding the future of Yorinaga, whose exceptional scholarship was matched by a vigorous spirit. In this regard, he too was in agreement with Tadamichi’s view. However, Tadamichi’s tone tonight did not seem to overflow with the warm, familial humanity of one concerned for his younger brother’s future. The aged monk Shinzei had already discerned the fraternal discord—the elder brother’s resentment that seemed to stem from it.

“I have duly received Your Excellency’s most reasonable command.” “Though I would more earnestly offer your wise counsel than any other, to bid him abandon the studies to which he is so devoted…” “Can you not tell him?” The monk kept his eyes half-closed and still gave no clear answer of refusal or consent, so Tadamichi grew increasingly impatient and attempted to thrust before him the present evidence that he was bewitched by demonic forces. “You do not yet know, Monk.” “Yorinaga has been secretly scheming to overthrow this elder brother.”

“Surely such a matter could not…” Shinzei immediately denied. “No—there is a witness.” "He indeed spoke those words from his own mouth." As if forgetting that he had sworn others to secrecy, Regent Tadamichi himself laid bare the secret.

“As for that witness…”

The other’s composure struck Tadamichi as infuriatingly smug. “The witness is Tamamo. He lewdly trifled with Tamamo yesterday, and what’s more, blurted out such things without the slightest hesitation.” “Hō, Tamamo...” Shinzei’s pupils glinted sharply, just like Tadamichi’s.

Two

Two days later, a messenger from Sashōben Kansuke came to Tamamo. He intended to invite her to join him in making a pilgrimage to Hosshō-ji Temple the next day to fulfill their previous agreement. Tamamo wrote a reply of consent. The following day, she received her master’s permission and made a pilgrimage to Hosshō-ji Temple together with Kansuke. The day hung thinly overcast, and beneath a drowsy sky the great temple’s roof soared high. Passing through the gate, they found white flowers scattered along the long stone steps where two or three pigeons pecked at fallen petals as they foraged.

Due to their close uncle-nephew relationship, Kansuke was promptly ushered into the inner study, where he sat facing Ryūshu Ajari. Ryūshu Ajari was an elderly monk nearing sixty, his modest appearance ill-suited to the master of a temple founded by the regent’s family. Yet he possessed an indefinable dignity befitting a saint of high virtue revered throughout his generation—so much so that even in their familiar rapport, Kansuke’s head bowed of its own accord. “Lord Sashōben, it has been quite some time since we last met. I am most gratified to find you unchanged at first glance.” “Are you alone today?”

“No—” Kansuke began, then faltered slightly. “Do you have a companion?” Ryūshu Ajari demanded, as if abruptly realizing, fixing his gaze upon his nephew’s face. “Is your companion not a woman?”

Cornered by this precise accusation, Kansuke grew increasingly fearful, but having steeled himself from the outset to endure his uncle's displeasure, he answered without concealment. “It is no one else—a woman named Tamamo who serves at the Regent’s mansion.” Under the aegis of Regent Tadamichi, he tried to suppress his stubborn uncle, but that was effortlessly deflected. “Even if she were a noble person from the Regent’s mansion, I have resolved not to meet with women.” “Go and tell her there will be no meeting.” “That is something His Excellency the Regent should already be well aware of.”

Under normal circumstances he might have complied, but today Kansuke could not simply withdraw in defeat. He expounded the Devadatta Chapter of the Lotus Sutra that Tamamo had taught him. He cited the example of the eight-year-old dragon girl attaining Buddhahood in her present form, and repeatedly pleaded that even if she were a woman burdened with grave sins, someone might admire her sincere faith and grant her an audience to personally impart teachings. However, his uncle was as firm as a rock. “No matter how glibly you argue, know that it will not be permitted.” “Tell that woman a meeting is unnecessary.”

“Uncle, because you do not know this woman, you lump her together with ordinary women and abhor her like a snake—but this Tamamo…” “Nay, there is no need to hear it—I already know well enough.” “She is said to be a woman of rare talent.” “Whether she be a talented woman or a wise one, in our eyes she remains ultimately no different from any other woman.” “There’s no benefit in such a meeting.” “It is better not to meet, I say.” No matter what he said, his uncle remained stubbornly unresponsive, leaving Kansuke at his wit’s end. Now that matters had reached this point, he regretted his rash promise and felt he could not face Tamamo. Yet persuading this obstinate uncle was no easy task, and as he stood perplexed, secretly sighing, Tamamo—who should have been waiting at the distant entrance—had somehow slipped all the way here, gliding smoothly along the wooden veranda with her long robes trailing behind her.

Kansuke was slightly surprised. As Ryūshu Ajari fixed his gaze and stared intently at the figure of the alluring woman who had now appeared before them, Tamamo respectfully prostrated herself. "I have the honor of meeting you for the first time." The old monk did not acknowledge her. He quietly turned his prayer beads. "As Lord Sashōben has conveyed in his request, this woman's sins run too deep—the future holds terrors beyond bearing." "If there be no falsehood in the Buddha's teaching that self and others are equal," Tamamo entreated as though begging mercy, "deign to save this wretched soul."

She had adorned herself with exceptional purity today for the pilgrimage. She had deliberately applied her rouge and powder lightly. Moreover, this instead enhanced her lustrous beauty, and her jade-like face appeared all the more radiant. As if gathering unbearable human sorrow in her gentle eyes, she moistened them and demurely observed the Ajari’s countenance—and in that moment, the old monk’s soul unwittingly wavered. He could no longer bear to harshly scold and send away this woman who resembled a living celestial maiden.

“Do you truly desire to receive teachings so fervently?” Ryūshu Ajari asked, his voice softening. Tamamo silently clasped her hands in prayer. On her white wrist too, crystal prayer beads glimmered. “And have you ever recited sutras before?” Ryūshu Ajari inquired again. “Though I am one who naturally lacks any proper understanding, I have at least glanced upon fragments of sutras before,” Tamamo answered without hesitation. When Ryūshu Ajari tentatively posed two or three questions, she answered without a moment’s hesitation. As he probed deeper with his questions, her answers grew increasingly lucid. No matter how devoted she might be, she was ultimately a woman. Moreover, she appeared especially young in years. How could she have so effortlessly mastered the doctrines we had only recently grasped after decades of rigorous training endured until our fifties or sixties? Ryūshu Ajari was so astonished that he even began to suspect her of being a bodhisattva reborn. The world indeed held such women as well. That his stubborn despising, hating, and loathing of women until now had stemmed from his own narrow perspective was something Ryūshu Ajari profoundly realized on this very day, and he let out an involuntary long sigh.

“Be that as it may, under whom did you undergo such rigorous training?”

From a young age, Tamamo had been taught by her father to read sutras. After that, she studied a little under a monk at Kiyomizu Temple. Apart from that, she said with embarrassment, she had not undergone any particular training of this sort. “Might someone as shallow in training as myself still receive the holy one’s teachings?”

"Indeed, indeed," Ryūshu Ajari nodded several times. “Even if you are a woman, for one of your stature, we would gladly expound the Dharma.” "In your spare moments from service, please visit." Contrary to expectations, his uncle’s mood had improved, so Kansuke, who had been listening nearby, let out a sigh of relief. He felt a certain pride in having introduced such a talented woman to his uncle. At the same time, he felt a certain pleasure akin to having gotten one over on his usually stubborn uncle. He stroked the thin mustache on his upper lip and smirked to himself.

“Uncle, from now on, even this temple’s ban on women will be lifted, I suppose.”

"That depends on the person," Ryūshu Ajari replied with a smile. "Would there be another woman of such caliber elsewhere?" He began to speak but, meeting Tamamo’s gaze, the aged monk’s bloodless fingertips trembled of their own accord, and his prayer beads rustled as they swayed. Kansuke, who had been focused solely on Tamamo’s complexion, seemed not to notice this. "Then I shall return again." "Do be sure to meet me again."

After promising another day, Tamamo withdrew from before Ajari. Kansuke also rose to his feet. Ryūshu Ajari came out to the veranda and continued watching them leave for a long time. Though he resembled a withered tree, he suddenly felt rejuvenated, as if all the blood in his body were boiling. As he raised his blazing eyes and gazed up at the dreamily overcast sky, a lukewarm spring breeze rustled through his priestly robes. Unaware why, he sighed several times and walked with unsteady steps toward the main hall. In the depths of the Sumeru altar, dim even at midday, candle flames flickered faintly, and incense smoke drifted aimlessly. In that mysterious atmosphere, Ryūshu Ajari sat in silence.

He tried to recite the Kannon Sutra as usual, but his throat felt strangely constricted, and the familiar sutra verses simply would not leave his lips. His chest throbbed strangely. When he suddenly looked up, the revered face of Amida Nyorai before him had transformed into Tamamo's resplendent smile. Ryūshu Ajari began to tremble violently as if possessed. He could no longer endure it and called together his disciple monks with a voice so loud it bordered on frenzy.

“There is a slight complication.” “All of you, chant the Kannon Sutra loudly and in unison at once!” The many monks sat properly in rows. The loud voices of sutra chanting arose in unison. The prayer beads rustled softly as well. Drawn in by this, Ryūshu Ajari too tried to raise his voice in unison, but his tongue remained tangled and refused to move freely. His chest surged with a strange, high wave.

“Add more candles!” “Burn incense!” He strained his voice and shouted again. The candles multiplied until the Sumeru altar shone dazzlingly bright. The revered Amida Nyorai statue became shrouded in incense smoke that smoldered without flame. Within those swirling fumes emerged a countenance of perfect serenity—yet it was unmistakably Tamamo’s smiling visage. Ryūshu Ajari flung down his prayer beads, trembling with such agitation he nearly leapt up. Oily sweat cascaded down his furrowed brow.

“Strike the gong.” “Ring the ritual cymbals.”

He frantically tried to suppress the delusions swelling through various means, but all proved futile. The more he panicked, the more intensely the searing karmic flames that eroded his religious devotion spread through his chest, and Tamamo's figure refused to leave his sight. When Ajari realized the obsession of the Shiga Temple abbot—whom he had always derided—had now become his own, tears spilled from his eyes at the wretchedness and pitifulness of it all. Over the garden too, rain mirroring Ajari's tears began falling in soft droplets.

He wiped his tears on his priestly sleeve and timidly looked up once more—the Buddha’s face was still the beautiful Tamamo. The precious soul of a renowned monk of his generation thus melted away cruelly.

Three

“You have shown me such strenuous kindness today.”

When they exited the gate of Hosshō-ji Temple, Tamamo said to Kansuke. Kansuke too felt pleased with how matters had progressed that day. “Even my obstinate uncle cannot withstand meeting you. “How much less we who’ve been tender-hearted from the start. “You must perceive this without my stating it.” He pressed his shoulder against Tamamo and leaned close as if inhaling her hair’s fragrance to whisper; Tamamo flushed faintly and smiled. “Do you mock me again with such words? “At each day’s wind’s whim—eastward today, westward tomorrow—swaying like a roadside willow. How precarious that pliant soul feels! “To think I’ve entangled myself in this uncertain romance with you—a flighty man trailing ill repute from Lady Such-and-such’s chambers to Princess So-and-so’s quarters—what wretched end awaits me now?”

“No, no,” the man said in a low, forceful voice. “The past is the past; the present is now. I’ve decided my lover shall be you alone. Even should the Kamo River reverse its flow, you and we shall remain until the end of time.” “If that were certain, how happy I would be. Yet even in this joy, another concern weighs upon me—that my lowly self might bring undeserved misfortune upon you…” “Undeserved misfortune… What do you mean by this?”

As Tamamo remained silent with bowed head, Kansuke asked again with a touch of triumph. "If we love you, we will incur others' jealousy... That is something we have already resolved." "They say love isn't worth pursuing unless it provokes others' envy." "Being envied is Kansuke's honor." "To incur misfortune for your sake is precisely our heart's desire—such is the depth of our resolve." "Would one not cast aside even life itself for love?" "That is exactly as you say," Tamamo sighed softly. "Yet how could I simply stand by and watch as this snake-like shadow of misfortune clings to you?"

“That’s precisely why I’m asking,” said Kansuke. “What is this shadow of misfortune? Where does this misfortune originate, and who is its source?” “It’s Lord Shōshō.” “Sanemasa?” Kansuke’s eyes widened. Tamamo explained that Shōshō Sanemasa had long harbored feelings for her. Though love poems and amorous letters had accumulated by the thousands, she had steadfastly refused to respond. Enraged by her silence, Sanemasa had finally resorted to threats—if he discovered her taking another lover, he would kill the man without hesitation, even if it meant mutual destruction. Though a courtier, he came from generations of warriors, she cautioned, and his single-minded temperament made him fully capable of such violence. Tamamo lowered her voice as she confessed this was the calamity she feared might befall Kansuke.

He couldn’t say there was nothing that came to mind. Indeed, on the evening of the Regent’s flower banquet, he had apparently eavesdropped on his conversation with Tamamo and pressed him to confess it by thrusting a clay vessel. At that moment he had been smiling nonchalantly, but beneath that smile there might have lurked a blade. Depending on his response, he might well have intended for them to stab each other to death. Thinking this, Kansuke suddenly shuddered. The timid man already felt as if Sanemasa had seized him by the collar and pressed an icy blade against his throat.

The two walked in silence along the Kujō riverbank heading north, and as they proceeded, Tadasu no Mori—its form making the dim sky appear even darker—lay far in the distance before their eyes. Shōgoin Forest too was already shrouded in the dark shadows of verdant summer leaves. With hearts attuned to the potential song of a lesser cuckoo, when they looked up at the sky, fine raindrops fell soundlessly upon their brows. “Ah, it’s starting to rain.”

Kansuke regretted not having taken an ox-drawn carriage. For a pilgrimage shared with his beloved, he had reasoned it would be more relaxing without attendants—this was why he had deliberately come on foot today—but being caught in this sudden rain left him somewhat flustered. While he himself cared little about getting wet, not wishing Tamamo to be drenched made him hold up his fan and survey their surroundings. "Pray wait here a moment," he said. "Before the downpour worsens, I shall procure a hat."

Having left Tamamo standing beneath the shade of a riverside willow, he hurried off at a trot toward where houses stood. The threads of rain grew gradually denser, and the color of the white stones he trod upon began to change. Tamamo stood with her thin veil pulled low, letting the wet willow leaves toy with her slender shoulders—she too must have been driven there by the sudden rain. A person passed hurriedly there, holding the sleeve of his court robe over the tall black lacquered hat on his forehead. He caught a sidelong glimpse of the woman standing in the willow’s shadow and halted abruptly, as though yanked backward.

Tamamo exchanged glances with the man. He was Chiematsu. In the time since she had last seen him, he had grown into a fine man, his masculine features having become more pronounced. That he was no longer the youth who once wore the tall black hat became immediately apparent from his refined attire.

However, Chiematsu stood silently. Tamamo also remained silent, their eyes meeting. “Algae?” After a moment, the man called out as he drew near.

Algae and Chiematsu reunited for the first time in four years. Of course, the man had known all about the woman’s circumstances. That she had been summoned by the Regent, showered with his exclusive favor, and celebrated by the world as Lady Tamamo had reached both his ears and eyes. Moreover, this was indeed the fourth year since they had last faced each other like this and begun to speak intimately. Resentment and nostalgia tangled together within him, making words difficult to form.

Even when called by her old name, Tamamo did not respond. Chiematsu took another step closer and said. "So now you go by Lady Tamamo." "Surely you haven't forgotten your childhood friend Chiematsu..." "It has been long since we last met," Tamamo replied with unavoidable courtesy. "I have heard of your success from afar." "What blessed fortune." The other person smiled lightly as though unaware that the congratulatory words seemed to conceal a certain resentment.

“Oh ho, this blessing holds little worth for envy.” “You too remember your past counsel.” “Service to nobility bears its own bitter trials—pray understand this.” “Then—do you still dwell with your uncle as one?”

“Nay, I quit my work as an eboshi craftsman and became a disciple to a man of renown throughout Japan,” Chiematsu answered proudly. “And what manner of person might this master of yours be?” “Lord Harima no Kami Yasuchika, the onmyōji.” “Oh, Lord Abe no Yasuchika?” Tamamo’s countenance shifted abruptly, but at once returned to its former soft smile.

“That is fortunate. With your steadfast nature, if you’ve found a good master, your future success will be plain to see. And now that you’ve become a man, are you still called by your former name?” “When my master deemed ‘Chiematsu’ too childish a name, he graciously changed it to ‘Chieda Taro.’ Moreover, by sharing one character from Lord Yasuchika’s name, I have been called Yasukiyo since the morning of my coming-of-age.”

“Chieda Taro Yasukiyo... Truly an impressive name.” “When a name changes, so does the person—I can hardly recognize you as the Chiematsu of old,” Tamamo herself gazed at her old friend’s grown figure with evident nostalgia. Unable to bear the sorrow of being abandoned by Algae and the torment of illness, Chiematsu had tried to sink his young life into the water’s depths—but fate proved strong, and he was saved by Yasuchika who happened to pass by. Yasuchika pitied him. Particularly impressed by his apparent intelligence, Yasuchika explained the details to his uncle and aunt and expressed his desire to take him as his disciple. Chiematsu shed tears of joy, for it was an honor to his person to be counted among the disciples of a prestigious house—one whose renown extended not just throughout the capital, but all of Japan. His uncle and aunt had no objections either.

The eboshi-crafting youth, whose misfortune had become a blessing, then entered Yasuchika’s tutelage and studied astronomy. He learned divination. True to Yasuchika’s discernment, his progress was truly remarkable despite his youth. By the time he turned nineteen, he had surpassed even the long-standing disciples and reached the point of inheriting the secret techniques of demon-subjugating prayers passed down since Abe no Seimei’s era. He was one of Yasuchika’s treasured disciples.

Even without knowing the full circumstances in detail, that the former Chiematsu now called himself Chieda Tarō Yasukiyo seemed an unexpected new discovery to Tamamo. She showed a dejected demeanor toward this old friend, as though repenting past sins.

“Well, Lord Chieda Tarō. You must surely think of the Algae of old as a hateful creature, I suppose. In those days, I too was still naive, single-mindedly yearning for court service and duty, and so I cast you aside to ascend to the capital—but as you so persistently say, service is indeed a bitter and trying thing. Now I find myself recalling those carefree days we lived in the countryside of Yamashina, feeling a deep nostalgia that comes too late. You must feel the same way. Lord Yasuchika is strict—I have heard he is a man whose methods of disciplining his disciples are severe. In morning and evening service, there must certainly be countless hardships. Even if they envy me for success and good fortune—what comfort does that bring to my life? Ours is a world of mutual suffering.”

As she reminisced about the past with heartfelt earnestness, Chieda Tarō found himself feeling strangely lonesome. The years of accumulated resentment toward the woman gradually dissolved, until he found himself pitying her instead. He could no longer muster the will to blame her with his former obstinacy. "I heard your father passed away the following year," he said, lowering his voice. "Oh, it was late spring the year after I entered service." Tamamo's eyes grew moist as if freshly confronting the memory. "Though His Lordship the Regent commanded the Chief Court Physician to exhaust every remedy in tending to him, mortal lifespans cannot be defied."

“When my master stood at the gate of the Yamashina house and declared it a cursed dwelling where those who lived there would not keep their lives, that divination proved indeed true.” “Did my master say it thus?” Tamamo’s pupils flickered once more before she finally released a sigh of admiration. “Divination does not lie. My master is a god-like man.” “That is a truth known throughout the world. For four years now, I have served by his side and know everything—when my master looks at the sky and says rain will fall, it surely does. When he says the wind will blow, it surely blows. Even through thick sliding doors, he can predict everything someone does from start to finish. When my master cut white paper, formed a seal, and threw it into the garden, a large toad ended up crushed beneath that paper and dead.”

Tamamo cowered fearfully. The drooping willow leaves fluttered in the river wind, scattering raindrops in a shower, which Chieda Tarō brushed away with his sleeve as he spoke again. “As today proves—my master told me to prepare rain gear and go, but I carelessly thought the path was short and came out as I was—and immediately this happened. When I think about it, it’s terrifying.”

“Will you too become like that terrifying person?” Tamamo gazed fixedly at the man’s face with apprehension. “It isn’t frightening,” “It is truly noble,” “I too shall strive in my training and resolve to become master’s foremost disciple.”

“That would be fine. But...” Tamamo was about to say something when she suddenly looked across and saw Kansuke, holding two bamboo hats, dashing through the horizontal spray along the riverbank. “Oh, my companion has returned with borrowed hats. Lord Chieda Tarō, let us meet again.” While she was saying this, Kansuke had already drawn near. Before the beautiful woman standing drenched in rain dripping from willow branches, the young courtier and the young onmyōji exchanged jealous glances.

Court Lady

I Chieda Tarō Yasukiyo returned home soaked in the willow rain. The residence of Harima no Kami Yasuchika was located in Tsuchimikado, where his ancestors had lived for many years since the time of Abe no Seimei.

“I have just returned.” “My, you’ve returned quite drenched.” “You came without a hat,” said Yasuchika, smiling down at the young disciple’s eboshi hat as he bowed before him. “I went against your words and left without preparing a hat,” said Chieda Tarō, bowing his head again in a contrite manner. “Ah, being chastened is also part of one’s training.” Yasuchika laughed casually once more, but the gentle light in his eyes rapidly darkened. He planted his fan on his knee and stared at his disciple’s face as if glaring.

“Did you encounter someone along the way?”

Chieda Tarō was startled. Moreover, before his god-like master who possessed eyes that saw through all things, he knew no way to speak falsehood. When he honestly confessed to having encountered Tamamo-no-Mae on the riverbank, Yasuchika let out a low sigh.

“I saw it too.” "You have been possessed by a supernatural entity once again." “Take heed!” Seized by indescribable terror, Chieda Tarō held his breath and stiffened as Yasuchika spoke to him in a tone both pitying and admonishing. "You have not forgotten that you were once possessed by a supernatural being and nearly lost your life. After that, you devoted yourself wholeheartedly to training—young though you are, I had placed firm hopes that in time you would become my foremost disciple—yet today your countenance has suddenly appeared altered. Do not think I threaten you without cause. Are you not aware that the mark of death appears vividly upon your face? It is precisely because I care for you that I now secretly impart what Yasuchika has long known—but swear this remains between us."

After pressing the point emphatically, Yasuchika disclosed a certain secret he had long harbored in his heart. That concerned Tamamo’s circumstances. Yasuchika had earlier divined Tamamo’s residence in Yamashina as a cursed house, and as he gradually observed her thereafter, he discerned that though this beguiling woman named Tamamo might possess the form of a beautiful human, a terrifying demonic presence resided within her soul. A demon dwells hidden within her body. Unaware of this, the Regent had summoned her to his side and was bestowing extraordinary favor upon her. If this calamity were confined to the Regent himself and his household, it would be one thing—but the demon’s ambition reached far beyond that. Scattering seeds of calamity from one place to another, it ultimately plotted to plunge this Japan into the dark abyss of the demon realm.—Having spoken thus far, Yasuchika’s voice grew even more solemn.

“This is what I meant when I told you to take heed.” “In all this vast capital, only one other person besides myself recognizes that woman as no ordinary being.” “That would be Lord Shinzei Nyūdō of Shōnagon.” “Being deeply versed in astronomy and physiognomy, he too has long harbored suspicions about her—when I met him recently, he privately confided as much.” “Though His Highness the Regent has already had his soul stolen by her and would scarcely heed ordinary counsel now, our sole hope lies with his younger brother, the Lord Left Minister.” “Through Lord Shinzei’s persuasion of His Lordship, we must first remove Tamamo from the Regent’s mansion. Only then can we perform the secret rite of demon subjugation and seal this seed of calamity forever within the depths of the eight million hells.” “Should you recklessly approach that demon again during these critical preparations and let slip any secret—all our labors would vanish like foam on water.” “Demons surpass humans in cunning.” “Once they grasp your intentions, who can say what stratagems they might weave?” “Today’s encounter was unavoidable circumstance—but never dream of using this chance to draw near her again.” “Defy this teaching and your life will surely perish.” “Never forget this!”

“Your august teachings shall be carved into my very soul—never shall I forget them,” Chieda Tarō vowed solemnly before his revered master.

“Do you understand?” said Yasuchika, still watching him with eyes full of doubt.

“Understood.” Half in a dream-like state, Chieda Tarō withdrew from before his master. Returning to his room, he sat down at his desk, but having been suddenly told such an unimaginable story, his mind became a turmoil of terror and wonder. That adorable Algae, that beautiful Tamamo—how could such a terrifying demon’s soul dwell within her? No matter how he thought about it, it remained an unbelievable mystery. He even once wondered whether some shadow of doubt might not have fallen over even his god-like Master’s eyes.

However, as he continued to ponder deeply, various memories came flooding back to his mind. Algae had once disappeared and slept beneath an ancient burial mound said to have been cursed since times of old. According to the potter’s wife’s account, Algae had once stood by a dark riverside holding a white skull to her forehead. Moreover, the potter’s wife who had spoken of this had also died in a suspicious manner by the ancient burial mound. But that was not all. There were also rumors that recently, at His Highness the Regent’s flower banquet, a mysterious light had emanated from Tamamo’s body, illuminating the dark night. Gathering all these things and considering them, the judgment that Tamamo was not an ordinary human was by no means a baseless fantasy.

"To have doubted my Master even momentarily was my delusion." Tamamo is a demon. The witches of India and China I once saw in my dream must undoubtedly be incarnations of Tamamo as well. When this realization struck him, Chieda Tarō suddenly grew so terrified that his hair stood on end. He borrowed a mirror from a maid serving at the mansion and scrutinized his own reflected face. He stared intently several times, peering through the glass, but could detect no deathly pallor upon his youthful countenance. With a sigh, he flung down the mirror.

"An Onmyōji unaware of my own fate—this is what I am."

Thinking of this, he marveled anew that his master Yasuchika was a truly great and noble man who surpassed all others. He thought Shinzei Nyūdō was also great. He felt ashamed of his own scholarly inadequacy while his reverence for his master and Shinzei grew ever deeper. Having been saved by such a noble master and now receiving his teachings directly, he was compelled to consider deeply just how fortunate he was.

“I should simply follow Master’s instructions in all things”—at this moment, he had no choice but to think with such resigned sincerity.

To tell the truth, when parting with Tamamo earlier at the riverbed, the woman had said nothing aloud out of deference to the young courtier who happened upon them there—but her beautiful eyes had spoken plainly. Chieda Tarō had already discerned that it was her intention for them to meet again before long. He answered with his eyes in kind and parted. But now that things had reached this point, even thinking of such things was terrifying. From that very moment, I had once again become possessed by the supernatural. He resolved that he must undergo purification rituals for seventeen days to dispel the demonic miasma.

He had Master by his side—when he thought this，he suddenly felt emboldened. With my own immature power，I could never hope to overcome that demon—but by borrowing Master’s strength，I would surely prevail. Since Master had also been laboring over this matter，I—though my abilities were meager—had to lend my strength to him and together concentrate wholeheartedly on subduing the demon. If the demon perished，it was no small matter of my own life being saved—we could also rescue the nation of Japan from the abyssal darkness of the demon realm. He solidified a strong，strong，gallant，and valiant resolve that he must muster a lifetime’s worth of courage all at once and face the demon in battle. He sat properly at his desk until late into the night，reading intently through the scrolls of transmitted writings from the time of Abe no Seimei.

About ten days later, when Yasuchika returned from outside, he quietly called Chieda Tarō to the inner chambers. “It seems even the Ajari of Hosshō-ji Temple has gone mad.” The words “even the Ajari” seemed to carry profound implications, so Chieda Tarō shuddered and looked up at his master’s face—whereupon Yasuchika began to explain further.

“It’s a terrifying thing to even think about.” “The reason you encountered Tamamo at the riverbed was that she had been returning from Hosshō-ji Temple.” “Through Sashōben Kansuke’s mediation, the Ajari received an audience with Tamamo.” “Afterward his condition altered strangely—to outside observers he seemed either possessed or driven mad.” “Others ignorant of particulars could only gape at it as a marvel—but to my discernment, this too was that demon’s handiwork.” “To destroy Japan’s Buddhist Law was its aim—it must have schemed to invade souls of eminent monk-sages and derange their spiritual resolve.” “Lord Sashōben unwittingly abetted this—I wonder what fate awaits him now.”

The other day, Chieda Tarō learned for the first time that the young courtier he had encountered at the riverbed was Lord Sashōben Kansuke. At that time, he had looked upon that man with eyes of jealousy; now, however, it seemed he must look upon him with eyes of pity.

“However, there is no need for you to fear.” “Yasuchika was born at an opportune time.” “If with my power I can subdue the demon and save the world from darkness, it will bring honor to my house for generations to come.”

Yasuchika said in a powerful voice.

II “Even the Ajari seems to have gone mad.” At exactly the same time, those identical words slipped from Tamamo’s lips within the Regent’s mansion. She appeared to have learned of it through Kansuke’s letter, which she now pored over repeatedly. The missive reported the Ajari’s illness and contained an invitation stating that he intended to visit Hosshō-ji Temple that night to pay his respects—would she care to accompany him? The Ajari and Kansuke were uncle and nephew bound by close ties. Upon hearing of such a grave affliction befalling his relative, he ought to have rushed to his bedside without delay—yet here he was, contriving to bring a woman along. Moreover, choosing to go by night. Though Kansuke’s true purpose—that this was no mere visit to an ailing uncle—lay transparent as glass, Tamamo penned her consent without hesitation. Yet should a young man come courting invitations so frequently, she explained—out of deference to her master, others’ prying eyes, and her own disquiet—she bid him meet her instead at Shijō Riverbed.

Waiting for the sun to set, Tamamo stealthily left the mansion. The calendar had already entered the Fourth Month, and from daytime onward, it was a dark evening heavy with impending rain. Like the demon woman said to have appeared long ago at Ichijō Modoribashi Bridge, she wore a thin silk veil pulled low over her brow. Before she had even stepped half a *chō* beyond the mansion’s four-pillared gate, a large man burst forth from the dark shadows of the trees and seized her wrist with the force of Watanabe no Tsuna.

“Huh?” Even as she struggled to break free, the man would not loosen his grip. He said in a low voice, putting force into his words.

“Don’t make a sound, Lady Tamamo.” “Even in the dark, you should recognize this voice.” “I am Sanemasa.” “Oh. “Lord Shōshō?” Tamamo seemed relieved. “I thought you were a demon or a thief…” “I might be more fearsome than any demon,” Sanemasa sneered in the darkness. “Where do you go this night?” Tamamo stood frozen in silence. “To Hosshō-ji Temple? Skulking about with Kansuke…” “Hah! Why so startled?” “Every deed of yours flows straight to my ears.” “We meant to visit Lord Dainagon Moromichi’s mansion tonight for song-tales, but nearing Shijō’s bank, there stood Kansuke—waiting like a lovelorn fool.” “When asked his purpose, he claimed to visit his uncle at Hosshō-ji.” His flustered manner roused suspicion. After passing five-six *ken*, I glanced back—he still lingered. “Then I knew—he awaited a companion here. And that companion could only be you.” “Did you not know I raced here to watch these gates since dusk?” “Out with it! Confess!” Sanemasa demanded, heaving breaths restrained as he shook her slender wrist.

“If you already know that much, hiding it would be futile.” “Indeed, this evening I arranged with Lord Sashōben and stole away to visit Hosshō-ji Temple—there can be no mistake.” “Hmm. No mistake then?” Sanemasa growled, his large frame quivering. “You went to Hosshō-ji last month too with that Kansuke whelp—is that true?” “That too holds truth,” Tamamo answered. Yet when she claimed she had sought Kansuke’s guidance solely to receive Ryūshu Ajari’s teachings—insisting no ulterior motives existed—Sanemasa refused to accept this plainly. In truth, even at the recent Banquet of Flowers, he had spied from afar their clandestine meeting. He laughed derisively once more, certain such flimsy pretense could no longer deceive him now.

“In light of this, Shōshō Sanemasa has something he wishes to ask you once again.” “Since you refuse my love, you must not give your heart to another man.” “If you break that promise… I will not let that man live.”

“I remember that well.” Clutching Sanemasa’s hand, Tamamo burst into bitter tears. “Now that matters have reached this point, I shall confess everything—the truth is Kansuke coerced me into accepting his advances.” “Of course I desperately refused at the time, using my promise to you as my shield—but he absolutely would not relent, declaring there was no need to fear what a fool like you might say.” “Should he persist in his obstinate grumbling, I myself shall ensure he never speaks again.” “What nonsense—a gluttonous pauper of a court noble! What could you possibly achieve?” he had mercilessly derided Sanemasa before forcibly claiming her as his own. When one reflects, women are frail creatures—in those moments she had been so overcome with shame and sorrow she could scarcely endure it, but now that events had progressed thus far, there remained nothing to be done. And so tonight she had wandered out from the mansion at his bidding. “You must surely loathe me now—but I beg you to find mercy in your heart,” Tamamo implored through her tears.

“Is that certain? Are you truly not lying?” Sanemasa pressed impatiently. “What falsehood could I possibly tell? By the gods…” “Good. I’ve resolved myself.” Shoving Tamamo aside, Sanemasa charged down the darkened avenue like a frenzied stallion. His massive frame shook with each pounding stride until, upon reaching Shijō Riverbed, his breath came so ragged he could barely speak—yet when he discerned the figure lingering beneath willow shadows through the gloom, he roared with a voice that threatened to shred his throat.

“Still here, Kansuke?”

Kansuke inwardly clicked his tongue at the thought that he had come back again. Then, as he tried to slip silently through the darkness, Sanemasa—who had already spotted him by the water’s faint glow—rushed over without a word and yanked the sleeve of his noble robe with all his strength. Even if he were a court noble of the Heian period, Sanemasa was after all a warrior Shōshō—and moreover, a hulking man who prided himself on his strength. Wrenched by that powerful grip, the frail Sashōben was pulled down limply and spinelessly to the ground.

“Hey, Kansuke! On the night of the Regent’s Banquet of Flowers, I meant to crush you then and there—but that accursed storm interfered and let you live. Yet instead of gratitude, you spewed grandiose boasts to a woman, flouting all decency!” “Who do you think you are, you gluttonous pauper of a court noble?” “Say it again clearly to my face!” “This is an outrageous interrogation!” “We would never even dream of such—” Kansuke’s frantic denial was drowned out as Sanemasa—already roaring—pressed forward with another bellow.

“Oh, what’s so unreasonable…? You with your silver tongue let every manner of slander spill forth, speaking of this Sanemasa as though I were mere dust—I know it all! Trying to weasel out now? I’ve got a solid witness!” “Who would spout such calumny?” “Ah, Tamamo said it! You forced her out here tonight again, dragging her off to Hosshō-ji Temple! Damnable cur!”

Sanemasa’s fist struck Kansuke’s cheek two or three times in succession. Struck with tremendous force, Kansuke let out a sorrowful cry and crawled around like a kitten seized by a child, trying to escape under his opponent’s knees—Sanemasa raised his foot and kicked him down like a ball. Faced with such violent manhandling, even Kansuke could not help but feel bitter resentment. Moreover, mixed with the fear that if he remained captured in his hands, he might end up meeting a gruesome, torturous death, he groped for the pebbles scattered at his feet by the riverbed and threw three or four of them toward where he thought his opponent’s face would be. Seizing the moment of his panic, as he leapt up to flee, Sanemasa immediately gave chase and once more seized him by the collar and hair.

Blinded by jealousy and rage, and then struck in the eyes by painful pebbles, Sanemasa’s vision went completely dark. He kicked down his rival in love once more, and as his hand reached for the Imperial Guard’s longsword at his hip, the blade’s tip flashed through the darkness—striking off Kansuke’s court hat and grazing his temple. “Ah! You’re a murderer!” Before that cry could fade, the sword’s edge swept horizontally across Kansuke’s neck. He collapsed without a sound. Sanemasa prodded the body two or three times with his foot, but Kansuke lay motionless as stone, showing no sign of stirring again.

“Hah! Fragile fool.” “With that disgraceful state of yours, did you dare to badmouth Sanemasa?” He felt the satisfaction of victory while simultaneously experiencing a sudden surge of anxiety and regret. Though dead men tell no tales and any excuse could be made, having ambushed a Sashōben-ranked man in the darkened riverbed would surely invite troublesome inquiries in days to come. Though the wretch deserved hatred, he now regretted having gone so far as to kill him. Tonight’s riverbed lay cloaked in darkness. Thinking he could slip away under this veil—leaving his opponent slain without consequence and avoiding investigation—Sanemasa abruptly foresaw complications. As he frantically wiped his bloodied blade on Kansuke’s sleeve and tried to quietly sheathe it, someone tapped his shoulder from behind. Startled, he whirled around to find Tamamo standing beside him. Her ghostly pale smile glowed vividly through the gloom.

“You have performed splendidly.” Her preternatural composure unsettled Sanemasa; he stood frozen in silence until Tamamo spoke again. “To slay one’s sworn enemy becomes a man’s honor—a deed most splendid and admirable—yet what course will you now take?” “Having spilled blood, surely you would not shame yourself through cowardly flight.” As if pierced by starlight’s judgment, Sanemasa jolted anew. He stood vacant-eyed, his longsword half-sheathed in trembling hands.

“You are a man, Lord Shōshō.” “Now perform a splendid seppuku, using your enemy’s corpse as a pillow,” Tamamo said in a commanding tone. Upon receiving this terrifying decree, Sanemasa regained his senses. However, he could not bring himself to obey that command. If a woman who would never be his, then killing Tamamo there and then to silence any future testimony would be more advantageous—he resolved this in an instant. He pretended as if to say something and, in the same moment he slipped closer to Tamamo, brandished the longsword in his hand with a swoosh—the blade sliced through empty air as Tamamo’s figure vanished in an instant. When he looked around in surprise, Tamamo stood to his left with their shoulders aligned, laughing.

Sanemasa swung sideways again. That blade too sliced through empty air as Tamamo now stood to his right. He frantically slashed to the right. He slashed to the left. He swung behind. He swept forward. Spinning like a top, he madly slashed at everything within reach yet met no resistance. Frenzied and deranged, he leapt up and raced east then west across the dark riverbed until, spent from madness, he collapsed with a thud. As he fell, the momentum plunged his own blade deep into his chest.

The waters of the Kamo River flowed as if gasping. Kneeling in the dark riverbed was someone who sucked his still-warm fresh blood.

Three

The news that Sashōben Kansuke and Shōshō Sanemasa had met suspicious deaths at Shijō Riverbed quickly became a major rumor throughout the capital. Of course, no one knew the facts, but judging from the wounds on the two corpses, it seemed Sanemasa had first cut down Kansuke before moving a short distance downstream to take his own life. With both perpetrator and victim dead, there remained no means for further investigation; yet Sanemasa had been a warrior beloved by Lord Yorinaga, the Left Minister of Uji, while Kansuke was rather the close associate of Regent Tadamichi. From this connection sprang various baseless rumors, with some proclaiming that the violent clash between Sanemasa and Kansuke stemmed not from personal enmity but from the ill will between the brothers Tadamichi and Yorinaga. Yorinaga paid it no particular mind, but his brother Tadamichi—grown remarkably nervous of late—could not let the matter pass unheeded. He ordered a strict investigation into the circumstances of Sanemasa's assault, yet no concrete evidence was ultimately found.

Since no evidence was found, the matter naturally died out, but Tadamichi found no peace in his heart. What particularly displeased him even more was that Sanemasa appeared to have instigated the attack and killed Kansuke. In other words, Yorinaga's ally had defeated his own ally. Tadamichi found this somehow distasteful. He felt as though his brother had challenged him to battle. In the end, both as a modest consolation and to demonstrate his authority, Tadamichi resolved to hold a grand twenty-one-day memorial service for Kansuke at Hosshō-ji Temple.

According to the customs of this era, there was no cemetery within Hosshō-ji Temple, but the memorial service was conducted within the temple grounds. Especially since this temple had been founded by the Regent himself and was entrusted to Ryūshu Ajari—who was Kansuke’s uncle by blood—it appeared only fitting in everyone’s eyes that Tadamichi should hold his memorial service there. Yet one concern lingered: rumors that the Ajari himself, who was to serve as chief officiant that day, had been behaving with strange wildness these past days as though possessed by some entity.

“How fares the Ajari?” “Go and see.” Acting on his master’s orders, Oribe Kiyoharu went to Hosshō-ji Temple and found the Ajari sitting on his bed with terrifyingly disheveled long hair, like Raigō of Miidera Temple from legend—said to have had his grudge turn into rats. After hearing Kiyoharu’s address, he nodded respectfully. “For my unworthy nephew’s sake, that His Excellency the Regent would sponsor such a grand memorial service to ensure his peaceful afterlife—your gracious intentions are as boundless as the seas and mountains, leaving this humble monk with no means to express his gratitude.” “No matter how grave my illness may be, this humble monk shall assuredly fulfill the duties of chief officiant on that day.” “Please kindly convey this matter to His Highness…”

Though he appeared pitifully haggard at a glance, Kiyoharu felt somewhat reassured since there was no abnormality in his responses. He immediately returned to the mansion and reported this exactly as instructed, whereupon Tadamichi's brow relaxed.

“Since you report it thus, there can be no complications.” “Do not neglect any preparation for that day.”

At last, the day arrived. Since it was a grand memorial service sponsored by the current Regent, all those—whether close or distant to the late Kansuke—gathered in unison at Hosshō-ji Temple’s hall. The gate was so crowded with people and carriages that they pressed against each other. The capital’s residents—old and young, men and women—had swarmed from all directions to catch even a distant glimpse of that resplendent and solemn Buddhist ceremony, packing themselves so tightly they nearly buried the temple gatefront. The midday sun near the end of the fourth month shone down upon this unparalleled congestion, and sweat beaded on men’s foreheads and women’s brows.

“Well, what a massive crowd,” a young man muttered, holding up a half-opened fan, and as if noticing his voice, an old man twisted around at the shoulders.

“Oh, Chiematsu! It’s been ages.” That was the old potter from Yamashina Village. When called out to, Chiematsu drew near nostalgically. “Old man. It truly has been ages.”

As if he had found a good listener, the old man drew near and whispered. "Did you catch sight of Algae?" "Algae… Did Algae come here today as well?" "Oh, she arrived in a magnificent ox-drawn carriage about half an hour ago. I glimpsed her alighting from afar—they say her name's changed to Tamamo now… When names change, people change too. Her face and form now shine with such beauty I thought her a celestial maiden or Princess Otohime herself. What a grand rise in station! Even old acquaintances like us probably can't approach her anymore now. Hahahaha!" The old man showed a smile unchanged from days past—a kindly one at that.

Algae—that name was unbearably nostalgic yet shudderingly terrifying to Chiematsu. Was she truly a demonic being? Under the bright sun, Chiematsu wanted to confirm her true nature once again.

“I wonder what time today’s memorial service will conclude,” he murmured to himself.

“I’ve heard it’s at the Hour of the Monkey,” the old man said. “It’ll likely take a bit over an hour before everyone clears out.”

As they spoke, the people who had been pressing forward up front suddenly broke apart and began moving as if driven by some unseen force. Pushed by the human surge and knocked down, the old man and Chiematsu became separated from each other. The memorial service had ended abruptly halfway through, and as all attendees began leaving at once, the low-ranking attendants at the front started driving away the crowd gathered before the gate. Why had the memorial service ended halfway? Chiematsu asked everyone he encountered, but no one knew anything definitive. However, during the sutra chanting with the assembled monks, the chief officiant Ajari—upon seeing something—had abruptly changed complexion, let beads of sweat stream down his forehead, snapped his prayer beads' string and flung them aside before tumbling down from the platform; this seemed to be what truly occurred.

“It’s the work of demonic power.”

Chiematsu also turned pale and hurriedly fled the scene. What had the Ajari seen that caused him to panic so suddenly? Most likely, he had caught sight of Tamamo’s bewitching figure among the attendees, and his spiritual resolve had begun to waver ominously. Mourning the wretched karma of the Ajari, who was being dragged into the demonic path while still alive, Chiematsu grew all the more awed by his master’s noble and lofty discernment.

However, only Chiematsu and his master had perceived this; to others' eyes, this secret remained unseen. People could only fear in terror that the virtuous monk's descent into madness might have been caused by tengu's demonic interference. And as if this signaled the decline of Japan's Buddhist Law, sharp-tongued Kyoto urchins were quick to spread such talk, making Tadamichi feel increasingly uneasy. Having embarked on that ill-advised course of action, he found it mortifying as though he had only wounded his own authority. He felt surrounded by invisible enemies and tormented as if being gradually pressed from all sides; his nerves grew ever more acute. Around this time, he had discarded his beloved waka as if he had forgotten them. He increasingly neglected his administrative duties until finally secluding himself under pretext of illness.

This summer, no lesser cuckoo’s cry echoed through the capital’s skies, yet the rains of Fifth Month fell more heavily than in ordinary years. From May’s start they poured ceaselessly—day after damp day—until the young leaves’ green grew so sodden they seemed ready to rot and wash away. Tadamichi’s head hung heavy as though bearing an iron crown. His nerves frayed without cause, irritation sparking at nothing. Even night brought no reprieve from wakefulness. As days accumulated, he began fearing he might follow Hosshō-ji’s Ajari down that same wretched path.

The retainers and maidservants were all anxious because their master was in a foul mood. Even his favorite, Oribe Kiyoharu, was being scolded daily. Above all, it was because he—having failed to properly ascertain the Ajari’s condition when dispatched to Hosshō-ji Temple days prior—had allowed the crucial memorial service to end in disastrous results that he further angered his master. Among them, Tamamo alone remained undiminished in favor; the more difficult her master’s temper grew, the more indispensable she became at his side, until Tadamichi’s morning and evening care and service fell entirely to her.

“How it pours.” Tadamichi gazed at the rain falling in the twilight-cloaked garden and let out a disheartened sigh.

“It truly continues to pour without respite,” said Tamamo, furrowing beautiful brows that gave her an air of discomfort. “I hear the riverbed lies completely submerged now.” “Another flood,” came the response. “What tiresome business.” “Plague will likely follow the deluge.” “Floods, plagues, then bandits—has the world reverted to its former wretchedness?” “The springtide of peace proves fleeting indeed.”

As the regent of the realm, this hardship was only natural. When the two fell silent again, the young leaves in the garden were gradually enveloped in dark shadows, and frogs began clamoring noisily by the pond swollen nearly to overflowing. “Ah, the world has become so turbulent. I too shall request leave and retire from the world,” Tadamichi sighed again. “Your renunciation…” said Tamamo, as if challenging him. “If My Lord were to renounce the world, who would take your place?”

“Yorinaga, perhaps?” “If that were to happen, it would achieve exactly what the Left Minister desires.” “In fact, since My Lord has secluded himself, that person has been single-handedly managing everything and strutting about the court as if he owns it, or so I hear.” “Even now, that is precisely what is happening. Should My Lord deign to retire, the future of your esteemed authority would be a matter of grave concern.” “It’s his doing,” Tadamichi said with a bitter smile. “That’s likely how it is.” Beneath that laughter lurked an irrepressible dissatisfaction. That Yorinaga—who from the start had ever sought to surpass his elder brother—now took advantage of my seclusion to throw back his crown and strut about the court as though it were his own. That arrogant attitude seemed to appear vividly before his eyes, and Tadamichi suddenly grew furious. The thought that if he were to rashly renounce the world and have his long-held authority endlessly usurped by him would be unbearably regrettable.

“But this is the state of my ailment.” “Yorinaga handling affairs in place of his elder brother should pose no issue.” “My courtiers do nothing but hang on his every word—there’s not a single soul in the palace capable of opposing him!” Tadamichi declared indignantly. He keenly felt how aligning with power was simply the way of the world.

Staring up at that uncertain face, Tamamo quietly began to speak. "In that regard, I have a request to make..." "What request do you speak of now?" "That through Your Lordship's esteemed recommendation... I might be appointed as a court lady."

“Hoh—so you wish to serve at court, you say?”

Tadamichi considered for a moment. With talents and beauty like Tamamo's, it was only natural she would wish to serve as a court lady. Even Ono no Komachi of old likely could not surpass her. In truth, Tadamichi himself had long harbored such intentions; yet reluctant to lose her presence at his side, he had let matters drift until now. At this juncture, he even considered granting Tamamo's wish to have her appointed as a court lady and using her power to humble that Yorinaga. Tadamichi understood well the hidden power women could wield.

“If it is your wish, I wouldn’t refuse to recommend you, but…” “That Yorinaga might well try to interfere in every way possible,” Tadamichi said with a bitter laugh. “No, I will show you how splendidly I can oppose that Lord Left Minister.” “Compete with Yorinaga?”

“If I were to be summoned to the court, even the Left Minister Lord...” she began, trailing off with a light laugh.

This was not entirely self-praise. If Tamamo, being such a talented woman, could utilize that hidden power of hers to perhaps knock that Yorinaga down from the court—Tadamichi thought with reassurance.

Rainmaking Ritual

I

The following morning, Dainagon Moromichi was summoned to the Regent’s residence. Moromichi came braving the rain. “With this rain continuing since yesterday, how utterly dreary it is. How fares Your Lordship?” Dainagon Moromichi cordially inquired after the Regent’s condition.

“I remain unwell in every way,” Tadamichi said, pressing heavily on the forehead of his eboshi. “The reason I summoned you today is for no other purpose than this.” “You and Tadamichi have been acquainted for years.” “There is a matter I wish to discuss openly with you...” “Pray, come closer.” That was the confidential matter of recommending Tamamo as a court lady. Moromichi had no objection of course. “I am fully aware this is a most excellent matter.” “Given His Highness the Regent’s current esteemed authority, should we recommend her for appointment as a court lady, there would likely be none who could voice any objection.”

“Ah, but that’s precisely it,” Tadamichi said with a troubled expression, tilting his head. “As you say, there should be no obstacle in recommending her with Tadamichi’s authority—yet as the proverb goes, tall trees are harmed by the wind, and these days Tadamichi has many unseen enemies. No—it’s not mere paranoia. Tadamichi indeed perceives it as such. In that case, there may well be those who obstruct and interfere with Tamamo’s matter in every way possible. First and foremost is that Yorinaga. Next is Shinzei Nyūdō—lately he’s been clinging to that brother of mine’s coattails, constantly trying to oppose me, that outrageous old monk. And if one were to count them all, there would be many others besides. While feigning nonchalance on the surface, those scheming in their hearts to topple Tadamichi are overflowing within the court. Are you still unaware of this?”

Moromichi was not entirely unaware of the discord between these brothers, Tadamichi and Yorinaga, but the notion that Tadamichi’s enemies filled the court was something he could not fathom in the slightest—he thought it likely stemmed from the Regent’s own resentment. In truth, the Regent’s demeanor had changed considerably from former times. A once modest man had gradually grown prone to extravagance. A once gentle man had transformed into a capricious character prone to fits of irritability. Especially of late, confined by illness, his irritability had intensified all the more, likely causing him to lose his mind over trivial matters. Having thought that it would not be wise to oppose this, Moromichi obediently listened to his words.

“Therefore, if Tamamo’s appointment were proposed from my own mouth, there would certainly be those who interfere.” “Hence, Dainagon—could you not propose it favorably from your side?” “You are the one who first discovered Tamamo.” “If you were to recommend her from your position, none would dare openly oppose it.” “What say you?” “Will you not grant me this request?” pressed Regent Tadamichi again. It was Regent Fujiwara no Tadamichi himself making this humble entreaty. Moromichi could find no grounds for objection. Moreover, he had long received Tadamichi’s patronage. It was he who had originally recommended Tamamo to him. Bound by these obligations, Moromichi found himself unable to refuse—and thus acquiesced obediently.

“I have thoroughly comprehended Your Lordship’s gracious intentions in every particular.” “Tomorrow I shall attend court and properly undertake the formal presentation of all matters…”

“Oh! You’ll arrange it for me?” Tadamichi rejoiced, shaking with childlike delight.

After various discussions, Moromichi soon took his leave from the Regent, and in his place, Tamamo was summoned. Tadamichi explained to her with a smile. “The Grand Counselor has taken responsibility for everything.” “Rest assured.” “Thank you kindly,” Tamamo replied with a radiant gaze and a bow.

The rain had ceased for a time since that evening, and the mouse-gray clouds brightened as if peeling away one by one. Above that bright expanse of sky, three or four red stars were shining.

By the custom of this era, by the Hour of the Boar (around 10 PM), all within the vast mansion fell silent in sleep, and in the garden thickets, the sound of young leaves' droplets spilling to the ground could occasionally be heard. Tonight, the frogs did not croak either.

A girl named Koyuki awoke and arose to use the privy. When she lit a paper-covered candle and proceeded down the long corridor, the flame abruptly extinguished despite the absence of wind. Simultaneously, a luminous glow materialized in the darkness ahead, drifting silently some seven or eight ken away—at this sight, young Koyuki stiffened in alarm. The bearer of this radiance proved to be a woman. Dragging the lengthy train of her hakama skirts, she advanced noiselessly along the passageway. As Koyuki registered how closely the retreating silhouette resembled Tamamo, a single storm shutter at the corridor's edge slid open without sound, and the feminine form seemed to dissolve into the garden beyond. Compelled by peculiar curiosity, Koyuki muffled her footsteps and alighted stealthily into the courtyard behind. The Tamamo-like figure threaded through shrubbery before halting rigidly at the verge of the inner garden's expansive pond.

The pond, aged over the years with its waters stagnant blue-black, had swelled from recent rains until murky darkness lapped at its very shores. Irises and sweet flags sank beneath turbid waves while pale algae flowers floated faintly visible in starlight. The woman first turned northward and bowed to a large star. Amidst crimson celestial peers, this solitary orb shone golden and immense. "That must be what they call the Big Dipper," Koyuki thought.

The woman had been worshiping that star for some time when she turned and knelt at the pond's edge. Pressing down her long sleeve with her left hand, she extended her right hand—pale even in the night's darkness—as if to scoop up algae from the water. As curiosity swelled within her, the girl watched breathlessly until the woman gathered blue-green strands in her palm and pressed them dripping to her brow. Foxes carry algae on their heads—Koyuki knew this lore, and terror seized her. When she tried retreating with stiffened legs, the woman's light vanished like a snuffed flame.

“Koyuki?” A woman’s cool voice rang out in the darkness. That was unmistakably Tamamo’s voice.

The girl was already terrified and could not utter a sound. As she crouched there, stiffening her body, Tamamo smoothly approached and seized her slender arm. “Did you see?” The girl still remained silent and cowered. “Don’t hide it—speak.” “What did you see?” “I… saw nothing.”

She answered while trembling, but it was already too late. The girl’s small body stiffened with limbs splayed like a frog about to be swallowed by a snake. Having rolled the mysterious girl onto the ground, Tamamo first sniffed the scent of black hair. She savored the plump flesh of the cheek. At that moment, a small torchlight resembling will-o’-the-wisps flickered from between the bushes and gradually drew nearer. That was Oribe Kiyoharu—his duty was to patrol the entire mansion garden thrice nightly: at dusk, midnight, and dawn.

In the darkness, he heard an eerie sound like a dog drinking water, so he crept there on stealthy feet. When he raised his torch to ascertain its true form, the flame was extinguished as if doused with water. Yet in that very instant, he recognized that the person crouching there was likely Tamamo.

“Lady Tamamo?” Kiyoharu called out, and the surroundings suddenly brightened. The light appeared the same as that which had shone from Tamamo’s body on the evening of the Banquet of Flowers.

But what startled Kiyoharu even more was the ghastly scene illuminated by that light. The girl Koyuki lay there like a dead cricket, her hands and legs torn asunder. Fresh blood stained Tamamo’s mouth. Now that it had come to this, the Tamamo before him was truly a demon woman. Oribe Kiyoharu immediately reached for his sword, but his hand was numb and unresponsive. Tamamo let escape a monstrous smile across her coldly beautiful face. The mysterious light vanished once more, and in the darkness, a man’s groaning voice could be heard.

“When I thought the season to fulfill my wish was nearing, just then I had the good fortune to obtain a man and woman as sacrifices.”

The man’s groans and Tamamo’s voice fell silent from that point onward. When dawn broke, the wretched corpses of Kiyoharu and the girl were found floating in the waters of the old pond. Moreover, why the two had met such a gruesome end was something no one could understand. Following Kansuke’s death, when yet another bizarre incident occurred, Tadamichi’s nerves grew increasingly frayed. Especially since this time it had occurred within his own mansion, he was seized by indescribable terror and unease. He had come to find even three meals a day difficult to swallow.

After about four days had passed, Dainagon Moromichi arrived. His report became yet another seed that drove Tadamichi’s mind to madness. The proposal to recommend Tamamo for appointment as a court lady had indeed drawn vehement protest from Minister of the Left Yorinaga. Shinzei Nyūdō too had opposed it. Though Moromichi had privately anticipated their resistance and tried by every means to suppress this opposition, whatever argument he made found its true adversary in Yorinaga. Moreover, with Shinzei Nyūdō—that man of vast erudition and talent—adding his strength to their faction, Moromichi stood utterly incapable of opposing them. In the end, thoroughly berated and humiliated, he withdrew from their presence.

"Do they claim there is no reason?" Tadamichi bit his lip as he asked. "Do they object because her lineage is base?" "No—that alone would not suffice." Moromichi answered ambiguously. "Regarding this Tamamo... it is said there are certain aspects that cannot be overlooked..." "Shinzei Nyūdō declared that appointing such a woman would bring chaos to the realm." "What chaos in the realm... "It is you lot who conspire to overthrow this Tadamichi and cast the realm into disorder!"

Tadamichi clenched his fist and writhed in frustration as if about to leap up.

II

After Moromichi left early, Tadamichi immediately called Tamamo. He exhaled fiery breath as he recounted the details he had just heard. “I can no longer endure or show mercy. I shall gather the Imperial Guards’ retainers and dispatch them to Uji.”

“To Uji…” Tamamo furrowed her brows. “Ah, I shall subjugate that wretch Yorinaga.” “Those who oppose me, Tadamichi—granted as Head of the Fujiwara Clan and serving as Regent—are no different from rebels.” “Even my brother will not be spared.” “It’s simply a matter of immediately directing forces to attack and destroy them.” “That wretch Shinzei Nyūdō—all this time we revered him as our teacher, yet he grew arrogant, became an ally of the rebels, and now dares to defy me. He too can no longer be forgiven.” “We shall strike down Lord Yorinaga and his faction in unison.” “If we destroy those two, their remaining followers will be like a headless snake—they’ll hardly be able to accomplish anything!” “Call the warriors! Call them now!” Tadamichi roared, glaring fiercely.

“I fully comprehend Your Lordship’s profound displeasure, but first, I beg you to calm yourself.” Tamamo interrupted and stopped him. Even if His Lordship were to summon the Imperial Guards now, it remained uncertain whether they would obediently comply with an order to strike down the Minister of the Left. Though the Minister of the Left’s ambition had long been transparent, since there was no definitive evidence to decisively condemn it, acting rashly there risked falling into error despite having reason. If there were those among the Imperial Guards sympathetic to the Minister of the Left and Shinzei Nyūdō—and should that be swiftly reported to the enemy—that formidable Yorinaga and cunning Shinzei might unite to instigate some scheme. Or perhaps they might seize the initiative and come charging in a counterattack from their side. As the commonplace proverb said, haste makes waste. Even if they were ultimately to subjugate them, she wisely advised that it would be safer to endure for now and bide their time.

There was, in a manner of speaking, a logic to it. Particularly since this was Tamamo's counsel, Tadamichi acquiesced with visible reluctance, whereupon she rose from that spot wearing an expression of relief.

That afternoon, Tamamo pulled her veil low and slipped out of the mansion unnoticed. From the night Kiyoharu and the girl died, the rainy-season sky had cleared as though wiped clean, and now Kyoto’s streets—suddenly bathed in summer’s fierce sunlight—were already swirling with light sand. In the shade of the willow trees, people could be seen resting with oxen tethered. Tamamo visited Shinzei Nyūdō’s mansion in Anegakōji. When she entered the gate, cicadas were singing in the branches of a large locust tree. Beside the carriage parking area, a young man stood still, seemingly listening to the sound of the cicadas. The man was Chieda Taro.

“Lord Chieda Taro.”

Called by Tamamo, Chieda Taro turned around.

“Oh… Tamamo…” He twitched his brows slightly and gave a casual nod. “Since clearing up so suddenly—it’s turned blazing hot.” “With you—we’ve only ever met at riverbeds. Has nothing changed?”

“And has nothing changed for you as well?” Tamamo said nostalgically. “After that moment, there were no suitable occasions—we couldn’t meet.” “So tell me… what brings you here now… Have you come with Master—?” “Have you come with Master—?”

Chieda Taro nodded. He faced Tamamo under the bright summer sun, resolved to finally witness her true form today. The shadow of Tamamo cast black upon the ground was, after all, that of an ordinary woman’s form. Chieda Taro stared even more intently at the woman’s face, and Tamamo tilted her head as if slightly bashful, glancing obliquely into the man’s eyes. “What official business does Master have?”

“I don’t know,” Chieda Taro said dejectedly.

The cicadas in the branches continued to sing. The two remained silent for a while. "There are things I wish to discuss earnestly with you—could we find a suitable occasion?" Tamamo asked, taking a step closer. As he gazed into her eyes—nostalgic, longing, and brimming with compassion—Chieda Taro’s chest grew inexplicably flushed. Could she truly be a being of demonic nature? The young Chieda Taro began to doubt his master’s teachings slightly. Even so, he did not carelessly let his guard down.

“Master is strict; he rarely goes out except for official business.” “It’s not just me.” “All the other disciples are the same—there’s nothing to be done.” “I suppose that’s true,” Tamamo let out a low sigh. “Even so, there must be times when you can slip out unnoticed—couldn’t you meet me just once?” “It’s the Algae of old—you’ve no cause to hate me.” “Or have you gotten close to another girl?” “Do you no longer care about the Algae of old?” “As I said the other day, the course of a person’s life cannot be known.” “We grew up together in Yamashina Village, and you were to become an eboshi-folding artisan.” “I also learned to fold courtly hats…” “When I think back, that too was but a dream we shared in our youth.”

Before Chieda Taro's eyes unfurled the beautiful picture scroll of their childhood dreams. The forests and rivers of Yamashina Village formed its backdrop, where phantom-like figures of the two playing together materialized. He gazed at Tamamo's face in fresh rapture, as if beholding it for the first time. Just as he began to speak, a samurai emerged from the inner quarters. The samurai eyed Tamamo with open suspicion, prompting her to bow courteously and request an audience with Master Nyūdō. At this, the warrior glared fiercely at her face before wheeling about and striding back inside.

“That is a man called Uemon no Jō Narikage,” Chieda Taro informed her, watching his retreating figure. “He looks quite robust at a glance.” “Truly, one worthy of serving in Lord Shōnagon’s household,” Tamamo nodded, then began to speak again.

“Now, Lord Chieda Taro.” “I may be repeating myself, but do you truly dislike meeting me no matter what?” “Not limited to tonight—tomorrow or the day after…” “If you go to the Regent’s mansion and say you wish to meet Tamamo, I will surely manage to come out.” “Is this so disagreeable to you at all?” “Can’t you even give me an answer?”

She pressed her crimson lips against the man’s ear and whispered. The sweet fragrance of incense infused into the woman’s thin silk enveloped Chieda Taro’s body like a dream, and the young onmyōji’s blood surged hotly. As he gazed up at the fierce summer sun, his eyes grew dizzyingly blurred; unable to maintain his upright posture, he instinctively leaned against the woman’s arm—whereupon Tamamo smiled and lightly supported him. Then once more, she whispered in a coaxing tone.

“You are truly a cold-hearted person. Have you forgotten the Algae of old?” At an inopportune moment, Uemon no Jō Narikage appeared again. He solemnly addressed Tamamo. “Master Shōnagon regrettably has a guest at present, making an audience impossible.” “I must beg your pardon—please take your leave at once.” “What a pity,” Tamamo said, laughing radiantly without reproaching his rudeness. “The guest is a certain Lord Governor of Harima, I take it?” “Is it a matter of great importance?”

“As for my Master’s private meeting in the inner chamber, we know nothing of what sort of discussion it entails,” Narikage said brusquely. Even so, Tamamo did not obediently leave. Because she had a confidential matter she urgently needed to discuss privately with Master Nyūdō after meeting him face-to-face, she pressed on, insisting she wished to meet him briefly in a separate room so as not to disturb his guest. Narikage seemed determined to prevent his master from meeting her and tried various pretexts to drive her away, but as Tamamo showed no sign of budging, he finally relented and retreated back inside—only to emerge moments later and guide Tamamo within.

Chieda Taro was left alone once more, standing beneath the blue shadow of the enju tree. He was half in a dream-like state, with no power to think anything. A south wind rustling the blue leaves gently billowed his sleeves, and the cicadas’ bell-like voices pleasantly reached even his dulled ears. After some time, Tamamo was escorted by Narikage and came out. A rich smile had formed at the corners of her mouth. With Narikage watching and no time left to speak, she simply exchanged a glance with Chieda Taro and parted. Watching that retreating figure disappear beyond the gate, Chieda Taro found himself filled with a lonely, unsatisfied feeling, and drifted unsteadily away from beneath the tree as though pulled by a thread. And as though chasing after her, when he too exited beyond the gate, Tamamo—who had not yet gone more than five or six *ken*—let out a shrill scream.

“Ah! Someone, please...” “Help me, I beg you!” Startled by the cry, he looked and saw a gaunt old monk gripping Tamamo’s sleeve firmly with one hand, a bamboo cane clutched in the other. The monk appeared deranged. His mouse-gray robe hung torn and dirty, one foot shod in a straw sandal while the other remained bare. Chieda Taro rushed over at once and forced his way between them.

“Oh, Lord Chieda Taro.” “You’ve come.” “This reverend monk seems to have gone mad.” “He suddenly grabbed me and tried to drag me away somewhere.” “Please help me,” Tamamo said, hiding her anguished face in her sleeve. “Reverend!” “However deranged you may be—what madness is this, seizing a woman?” Chieda Taro rebuked. “Compose yourself! Release her this instant!” The monk remained silent. His patchy white beard framed gaunt cheekbones, sunken eyes blazing fiercely as he stared at Tamamo’s pale throat. Faced with such obstinacy, Chieda Taro grew increasingly desperate.

“You there! Back off…!” “Let go!” “Won’t you release her?!” He seized the monk’s emaciated arm and strained to wrench it away, but the hand clutching Tamamo’s sleeve—as though clinging to life itself—refused to loosen its grip. The hot-blooded youth grew frantic, twisting the bony wrist until it threatened to snap before finally prying it loose with a violent jerk—sending the spent old monk crumpling like felled timber. Tamamo departed swiftly without sparing a backward glance.

The monk crawled up and tried to pursue again, but Chieda Taro grabbed and held him back once more. The monk was panting heavily and thrashing about when four or five young monks, drenched in sweat, came chasing after him. "Oh, here he is! Though we know not who you are, we are deeply grateful."

They thanked Chieda Taro and carried away the old monk—still raging and thrashing—as if lifting him through empty air. The maddened old monk was the Ajari of Hosshō-ji Temple.

Three When Chieda Taro heard that the Ajari of Hosshō-ji Temple had drowned himself in the temple pond that night, he shuddered again. The eminent monk, enchanted by Tamamo's bewitchment, must have met a wretched end—a death in madness. The sweet words she had whispered to him yesterday at Shinzei Nyūdō's mansion now seemed like a demon's whispers, and Chieda Taro feared his precarious fate—how easily he might be drawn into the demonic path. "Did you meet Tamamo yesterday?" Harima no Kami Yasuchika asked his young disciple.

When Chieda Taro honestly confessed that he had met her, Yasuchika’s brows furrowed again. “I may speak of many things,” he said gravely, “but take heed.” “Your path grows ever more perilous.” “They say Tamamo visited Master Nyūdō’s mansion yesterday—whispered some dreadful scheme in private chambers.” “Word has it His Excellency now musters troops to purge both Lord Yorinaga of Uji and Master Nyūdō at once.” “A sage like Nyūdō would never credit such slander from one long-suspected! Yet they say he dismissed her with courtly grace—though mark me—that viper will coil fresh lies wherever she slithers next.” “A chilling thought.” “She twists methods like serpents shed skins—sowing ruin among men until chaos engulfs all.” “But there’s worse.” “They claim she’s inflamed His Excellency’s mind—kindled ambitions of making her imperial consort.” “True enough—Lord Yorinaga blocked it once—but should such hellspawn ever ascend those sacred chambers?” His voice dropped like stones in darkness: “Our radiant land would drown in endless night.”

Since there was no longer any possibility of delay, after consulting with Master Shinzei Nyūdō, he resolved to purify himself and perform seventy days of ritual prayers starting that day. Left Minister Yorinaga had naturally agreed. Though the ultimate secret of esoteric practice lay in prostrating oneself before such a demonic being to expose its true form on the spot, summoning the woman His Excellency the Regent cherished to attempt a demon-subjugation prayer before her very eyes was unthinkable. Thus he resolved to build an altar for vanquishing demons within his chambers and pray for her subjugation from afar over seventy days. For this purpose, there were four disciples besides himself. "You are to be counted among them," he meticulously instructed Chieda Taro. "Excel with single-minded devotion and serve without negligence."

“Understood,” Chieda Taro acknowledged at once, feeling the weight of his own responsibility.

“For Yasuchika, this is a prayer of utmost gravity—a once-in-a-lifetime undertaking.” “I shall cast aside life itself to fulfill this duty.” “You too must pray without sparing your lives—with every fiber of strength and depth of spirit.” “Know this: should even one among our five falter in resolve, this ritual shall never reach fruition.” “Carve these words into your hearts—never forget them!”

Harima no Kami Yasuchika was resolved to confront this grave undertaking with mortal determination. In addition to Chieda Taro, three other exceptional disciples had been summoned in succession and similarly made to hear their master's solemn resolution. The disciples all bowed their heads before their godlike revered master with emotions so profound they verged on tears. A solemnly tragic atmosphere permeated the house of Abe no Seimei's descendants.

The early summer rains of this year—once feared to make the Kamo River overflow—suddenly cleared from late May onward, and not a single drop fell in June or July. Flame-like clouds streaked across the sky, and the scorching sun blazed from morning till night. Scorched by this, the capital’s soil cracked white as if after a great earthquake. The waters of the Kamo River dwindled and dried up enough to reveal its bottom, and dead fish lay exposing their white bellies on the riverbed. The willows along the main avenues drooped their leaves limply, and across the vast capital city, not a single swallow’s shadow could be seen flying. Not only the capital but all the surrounding villages and provinces were oppressed by this great drought, and every green thing in the fields had withered away.

Prayers for rain were conducted at every shrine and temple. If this drought were to continue unabated, it was feared that not only the plants but even the humans might eventually be steamed to death. Even when August arrived, not a shadow of rain clouds stirred.

“What terrible heat this is.” “It feels as though my whole body is being boiled.”

Looking up at the pale blue sky, Regent Tadamichi let out a groan-like sigh. Already worn down by illness and now tormented daily by the relentless heat, his bones and flesh seemed half-melted, leaving him no longer feeling truly alive. If enduring such torturous torment was his fate, he thought it might be better to die swiftly in one decisive stroke. Moreover, his heart brimmed with countless seeds of dissatisfaction and displeasure. Yet now that matters had come to this, to renounce the world as a monk—to stand idly by while Yorinaga usurped his position and power—was equally unbearable.

He sipped a little of the melon juice Tamamo had peeled for him and writhed upon the rush mat like a dying snake. It was Tamamo’s usual gentle voice that comforted him. “What dreadful heat this is.” “Though I know not of India, that Japan should suffer such a summer...” “Not a drop has fallen these sixty days and more.” “All these rain prayers across the land remain but empty rumors, showing no divine favor.” “Truly the world approaches its end,” Tadamichi sighed weakly once more.

“Do you mean to say the gods and buddhas have shown no divine favor?” “Proof over arguments,” he replied. “No matter how we pray, not a single drop falls.” “It is not that they lack divine favor,” she countered. “I believe it may be because people’s sincerity falls short.” “That may be so,” Tadamichi nodded. “In this world where younger brothers scheme to overthrow their elders, where allies become enemies—in such times, can we truly fault men for their hollow devotion?”

Tamamo paused her hand that had been fanning Tadamichi with the Chinese fan, seemed to ponder for a moment, then formally bowed before her master. "As Your Excellency has just stated, that all rainmaking prayers at every shrine and temple have shown no efficacy makes it seem as though the world has reached its end, and I perceive the divine majesty of the gods and buddhas to have diminished." "That is far too wasteful!" "Therefore, though unworthy, might Your Excellency permit this Tamamo to perform the rainmaking ritual?"

Ono no Komachi prayed for rain at Shinsen-en Garden. “If there is sincerity in oneself, the gods and buddhas will surely accept it without fail,” Tamamo said. Indeed, Tadamichi thought, such reasoning might well exist. This Tamamo would be no less than Komachi of old. If her sincere heart reached heaven and she could indeed summon rain, it would be a blessing for the world and could save multitudes from suffering. Furthermore, if she were allowed to demonstrate such divine favor here, the matter of her court lady appointment would be easily resolved, leaving neither Yorinaga nor Shinzei any room to raise objections. Tamamo would immediately be summoned to the palace, and she could then oust Yorinaga and Shinzei’s faction as planned. As he thought this, Tadamichi’s weakened soul revived as if brought back to life, and he suddenly sat up.

“Oh, what a noble wish!” Tadamichi granted permission. “Quickly begin that ritual prayer.”

“Then, after purifying myself for seventeen days and having an altar built at Kamo Riverbed, I shall attempt the rainmaking ritual.” Tamamo’s rainmaking ritual was proclaimed throughout the regent’s house. The ceremony would be conducted with utmost solemnity, requiring attendance from all courtiers both high and low. To prevent disturbances by common folk, not only the Imperial Guards but every Minamoto and Taira warrior received orders to secure the riverbed. The day was fixed as August eighth.

“Hmm, how extraordinary.” “This coincides precisely with the seventieth day—the culmination of our vow,” Yasuchika nodded. He promptly dispatched a messenger to Shinzei Nyūdō, declaring their intention to pray at the riverbed that very day. To subjugate a demonic entity before one’s very eyes—this was an opportunity beyond what they could have prayed for, he reflected. Shinzei concurred. After consulting Yorinaga, he resolved to publicly frame their efforts as rainmaking prayers too, staging a ritual contest at the same riverbed. They partitioned the day: Yasuchika would pray from dawn’s Hour of the Hare (6 AM) until noon’s Hour of the Horse (12 PM), while Tamamo would take from noon until dusk’s Hour of the Cock (6 PM)—thus determining which side manifested divine efficacy.

“Are they defying me yet again?” Tadamichi snapped, his impatience boiling into anger. Yet Tamamo remained unperturbed. A prayer contest would prove advantageous. “Let us test whose side holds divine favor before all,” she declared. “And should I prevail,” she inquired, “what becomes of Lord Harima?” “Exile, naturally.” “One born to an Onmyōji house who fails this prayer deserves the Abe clan’s ruin!” Tadamichi spat venomously.

“A pity, but there is no alternative.” She spoke with unshakable conviction in her victory. Tadamichi too desired her triumph. Regardless of Yasuchika’s role as opponent, this contest’s outcome would decide—so it seemed—the fates of both himself and Yorinaga’s faction. He awaited that day in a state of prickling agitation.

August eighth dawned perfectly clear. The red clouds must have already burned themselves out that day, leaving the great sky uniformly pale blue like a distant sea. Yasuchika commenced the riverbed prayers first.

A Pack of Dogs

I The ritual altar was a divine sight. The platform was tightly covered with a new rough straw mat, bamboo branches were erected at each corner, and pure sacred ropes were hung around the tips of those bamboo branches. At each of the four corners, plain wooden sanbō* stands were placed, and upon each sanbō* were arranged various tamagushi* sacred branches. Those who ascended the platform were five people, wearing sacred robes symbolizing the five colors: white, black, blue, yellow, and red. Chiematsu Taro Yasukiyo wore a blue sacred robe, held a hemp offering of the same color, and sat facing south. The other three were clad in black, red, and yellow sacred robes, each taking an offering of the same color as their robes, and sat facing north, east, and west.

Abe no Harima no Kami Yasuchika, wearing a white sacred robe and holding a white offering, was seated at the center of the platform. He was facing north. Under the relentless sun that had parched everything dry these days, amidst riverbed stones and soil all gleaming stark white, his figure appeared yet another degree whiter. The rainmaking ritual showed no signs of efficacy even after passing the Hour of the Snake (10 AM). Around the platform, Hokumen no samurai held bows and arrows while solemnly standing guard. Starting with Minister of the Left Yorinaga, all court nobles stood properly attired in formal court dress and arranged in rows. Both banks' main roads and side streets were packed with crowds of spectators. Every one of these thousands upon thousands gazed uneasily at the white-scorched sky with sweat beading their brows, yet the sky remained vexingly calm—not a single bird's shadow could be seen flying.

“Before long two hours will have passed, and still not a single cloud shows sign of moving.” “They say the prayers will continue until the Hour of the Horse.” “Even if we wait till then, who can say whether any miracle will manifest?” Such whispers spilled from the spectators’ lips. Among the sweat-beaded brows of countless court nobles, wrinkles of anxiety deepened. Yet Yorinaga remained unperturbed. Yasuchika’s prayers this day were never meant to bring rain. This was an exorcism ritual targeting Tamamo-no-Mae. For Yorinaga and Shinzei’s faction, whether rain fell mattered not. Knowing full well Yasuchika had never prayed for rain in the first place, they regarded its absence as only natural.

Yasuchika and his four disciples continued praying, as motionless as the sky that day. They did not so much as blink. On the windless platform, the five-colored ritual streamers did not stir in the slightest. While sunlight bathed the entire riverbed, court nobles and samurai alike held their breath and waited.

At last, the Hour of the Horse arrived. On the bank, sighs of disappointment released all at once began to sound like an evening shower. “It’s hopeless—the time has come.” “No matter how much we rely on the gods, isn’t it certain that rain which won’t fall simply won’t fall?” “Wait—we mustn’t lose heart yet.” “Once the Hour of the Horse passes, they say it’s Lady Tamamo’s prayer.” “Even Lord Harima couldn’t manage it—what could a woman’s power possibly achieve?” “That lady is exceptional in both wisdom and beauty—there’s even talk she may soon be appointed as a court lady.” “That’s the ritual prayer.” “The gods may not deign to respond either.”

At the signal of the Hour of the Horse, the subject of rumors revealed her elegant and alluring figure at the riverbed. Tamamo was splendidly attired that day. She let her lacquer-black hair cascade down her back, carefully arranging a golden hairpin that glittered in the sunlight. The outer robe of her five-layered ensemble displayed wave patterns of the blue sea adorned with vibrantly colored birds, over which she wore a Chinese-style jacket on a pale chartreuse ground embroidered with dark green jade seaweed. She wore crimson-lacquered hakama trousers and trailed a grand train dyed with phantom-like shadows of orchids and chrysanthemums in pale yellow and blue upon white. Truly the attire befitting a court lady. Yorinaga, with but a single glance, felt not so much indignation at her presumption as profound outrage toward his elder brother Tadamichi's irrationality in having her appear in such extravagant guise.

However, now was not the time for such debate, so as Yorinaga and Shinzei remained silent while observing developments, Tamamo—protected by the Regent’s retainers—quietly approached the platform, but no sooner had she done so than her complexion abruptly changed. She tried to turn back without uttering a word. “Lady Tamamo, pray wait.”

Yasuchika called out from the platform. Appearing to pay no heed to this, Tamamo persisted in trying to retreat, so Yorinaga, unable to endure it any longer, called out to stop her. “Tamamo, why retreat? Is it not your prayer that begins from the Hour of the Horse?” Tamamo quietly looked back. Her beautiful eyes seemed to contain a hint of wrath. “Today’s prayers are not for rainmaking. I saw it as a prayer of subjugation. Curses and poisons rebound upon their originator—the Buddha himself has taught this. I would never even think to approach such a terrifying place.”

As she tried to leave, hiding her white face behind a hiōgi fan, Yasuchika called her back once more.

“So you perceived these prayers of mine as subjugation?” “And whom did you perceive as their intended target?”

“There is no need to ask,” Tamamo declared. “If this were truly a rainmaking ritual, you should have invoked the Eight Great Dragon Kings. Yet you made offerings at the altar’s four quarters—summoning in the south the Great Bodhisattva Hachiman of Otokoyama; in the north, the Kamo Deity and Tenman Tenjin; in west and east, the gods of Inari, Gion, Matsuo, and Ōharano. This can only be a prayer for national protection and demon subjugation.” Her voice rang clear across the riverbed. “And would not the target of such prayers be none other than this Tamamo?” Yasuchika swiftly retorted.

“If you know this, why do you show your back to this altar? Is Yasuchika’s prayer truly so dreadful to you?”

Tamamo laughed lightly while covering her mouth with a cypress-wood fan. “When I said I was afraid, I meant it is the hearts of people—those who so skillfully perform curses and subjugations—that are terrifying.” “Why would Tamamo—in whom dwells not a single stain—fear such prayers from you all?” She must have sought to demonstrate this fearless proof before their very eyes. She smoothly trailed her long train as she approached the front of the altar. Yasuchika took up a white ritual streamer once more and spoke again.

“First, there is something I must ask you,” Yasuchika called down from the platform. “I hear that during His Excellency’s flower banquet last night, someone emitted an uncanny light from within their very body, illuminating the storm’s darkness through sheer radiance.” He adjusted his ritual streamers, their white paper fluttering like captive spirits. “Deities and Buddhas might perform such wonders, but for a mortal to shine thus—Yasuchika knows no precedent in all our chronicles. What does Lady Tamamo make of this?” Tamamo’s lips curled in a smile thin as crescent moon. “Does the illustrious Lord of Harima truly lack such knowledge?” Her fan snapped shut with a sound like cracking ice. “Tell me—do you deem Empress Kōmyō less than human for her luminous virtue? Would you name Princess Sotoori demonic for skin that glowed through silken robes?” She took one measured step upward, her train rippling like dark water. “Or does your doctrine only condemn those lights that outshine your own?”

Yasuchika said these individuals had performed no actual miracles. The former was called Kōmyō because people revered the radiance of her virtue. The latter was named Sotoori for they praised the purity of her skin. No human being, however noble, could emit light from within their body to turn night into day. "If such a person exists in this world," he declared sharply, "they must be either an avatar of the Buddha or else an incarnation of a demon."

“Then, do you regard this Tamamo as a demonic incarnation? Is that not so?” Tamamo said without so much as a twitch of her brow. “How amusing that you would take interest in such things. At this point, continuing this debate is futile. You must first vacate that altar.” “Do you mean to ascend here?”

“Ah, I shall ascend.” “You claim I would fearlessly ascend even this subjugation altar? This stands as foremost proof that Tamamo’s being holds not a shadow of taint.” “Once the Hour of the Horse passes, you shall have no further purpose here.” “I shall pray in your stead.” “Step back, step back.” “Withdraw.” She issued the commands with solemn authority. Regripping her hiōgi fan, she serenely ascended to the prayer altar’s summit. Compelled by logic, Yasuchika could no longer maintain his position. He reluctantly descended from the dais. Following his pale form, the blue, red, yellow, and black figures gradually retreated until a resplendent woman in five-layered robes and karaginu mantle claimed dominion over the altar. At her chin’s imperious tilt, an attendant samurai advanced bearing a sakaki branch draped with hemp streamers upon an unvarnished sanbō tray. Tamamo solemnly grasped the sacred bough, closed her eyes, and commenced her prayer.

Yasuchika knelt on the scorched pebbles and watched her prayer with bated breath. Yorinaga too watched anxiously while gripping sweat-slicked palms. That Tamamo had ascended the subjugation altar without showing any distress already meant Yasuchika's defeat. Should her prayer manifest its miracle—should even a single raindrop fall—Yasuchika would have no choice but to kneel before her and beg forgiveness for his transgression. Yorinaga and Shinzei stood consumed by unbearable tension.

A little past the Hour of the Sheep (2 PM), a small black cloud about the size of a kemari ball floated up over the summit of Mount Hiei. Before one could process the thought, it spread out like a curtain until the vast white sky turned murky mouse-gray. The dazzling sunlight was snuffed out as if blown away, plunging everything into darkness. “Ah! A tengu!”

On the bank, the crowd suddenly erupted in uproar. They couldn’t tell if it was a tengu or something else, but a mass of black cloud—like some monstrous bird spreading its wings—now surged forth from the direction of Otokoyama, sweeping past the sun as though taking flight. When that cloud passed, the world below grew dimly bright again, but the mouse-gray hue of the sky no longer peeled away.

“Rain, come forth. Eight Great Dragon Kings!” As Tamamo raised the sakaki branch to her forehead and shook it three times left and right, the white hemp streamers scattered like pampas grass, and the golden hairpin fluttered down. “Ah! Rain!”

On the bank, they all shouted at once. A cold, damp wind bent the bamboo grasses at the four corners of the altar, and from the dark sky above, large raindrops began to fall like hurled stones. “Eight Great Dragon Kings, deign to respond!” Tamamo straightened up and shouted once more. The hairpin at her forehead tilted askew, and her long black hair was wildly disheveled. As if illuminating her pale face, a great bolt of lightning split through the altar. “Rain! Rain!”

Even the samurai guards looked up at the sky and raised their voices. A waterfall-like deluge poured down as though the Milky Way had been split asunder.

II The rain as sweet as nectar continued pouring until deep into the night, and voices exalting heaven's blessing overflowed within and beyond the capital. They gave thanks for heaven's blessing while praising Tamamo's boundless virtue. It was not just them. Tadamichi danced a little dance of joy.

“Look at them.” “Even after witnessing such divine favor, do they still take Tamamo for an enemy?” “Do they dare scorn this Tadamichi?” “Hah! How utterly gratifying!”

In truth, Tamamo's enemies could not help but hold their breath in response to this. Yorinaga and Shinzei could no longer utter a word. Above all, it was Yasuchika who had been humiliated. He did not wait for an official judgment and closed his gate to enter seclusion of his own accord.

Yasuchika had not originally prayed for rain. Therefore, it was not that he had been bested in a prayer contest against Tamamo—for demon subjugation was a secret rite, while outwardly this remained a rainmaking ritual—but given that Yasuchika’s half-day of prayer had produced no effect, whereas Tamamo, who replaced him, summoned such torrential rain after only a short while, his defeat in appearance was inevitable. The sixth-generation descendant of Abe no Seimei brought shame upon his ancestors. He had no choice but to humbly await his punishment. The disciples, of course, were also in seclusion along with their master. Yasuchika remained shut away in his room and spoke to no one.

The following day was clear, but the vast sky, washed by yesterday’s rain, suddenly rose a ri higher, and an autumn-like wind came rustling down from that lofty height. As Yasuchika gazed fixedly at one or two leaves of the Chinese parasol tree near the veranda falling soundlessly and forlornly, Chiematsu Taro stole forward on tiptoe and quietly brought a lampstand. Today too was already fading into dusk before one knew it. “Chiematsu Taro, has no one come since this morning?”

“No one has come.” “Has there been no messenger from Lord Regent either?” “Yes.” Chiematsu Taro lowered his eyes to observe his master’s complexion, and Yasuchika’s face, illuminated by the lampstand’s light, was as pale as water. “It is Yasuchika who failed the crucial prayer.” “If severe, exile; if lenient, the deprivation of my family’s position.” “His Majesty’s judgment should have come today, yet still there is no messenger…” Yasuchika inclined his head. “People may say what they will, but the outcome of the rainmaking ritual is beyond debate.” “What is truly regrettable is that my secret technique was defeated so helplessly.” “Seventy days of prayer have ended in vain, and with the Demon ascending the subjugation altar to raise its victory cry—Yasuchika’s arts have fallen into ruin.” “I have no excuse to give to my superiors; I have no excuse to give to my ancestors.” “I have no excuse to give to Lord Yorinaga or Lord Shinzei either.” “Now there is nothing left but to remain prudent and await my punishment, but no matter how much I reflect, to simply fold my hands and idly witness the Demon’s rampage is something I cannot endure for the sake of the nation, the world, and the people.” “Do not deem Yasuchika cowardly.” “Do not think I am reluctant.” “Yasuchika’s life has long been cast away.” “But now that I have safely endured these seventy days, as long as this life remains, I wish to attempt the prayer once more.” “Therefore, Chiematsu Taro, I have a favor I must ask of you.” “Will you grant me this request?”

In the depths of his master’s eyes, a fierce light of resolve flashed. Chiematsu Taro bowed his head as though struck by that radiance. “Whatever task you command, I shall undertake it without fail.” “You honor me too much,” said Yasuchika. “The hour has fortunately grown late.” “When a little more time has passed, slip from this mansion and steal your way to Lord Shōnagon’s residence.”

Chiematsu Taro nodded with an understanding expression, and Yasuchika further lowered his voice as he spoke. "The purpose is none other than to cling to Shinzei Nyūdō's sleeve and beg for seventy more days' grace. Should my family's position be stripped or should I be exiled to distant lands, there would be no means left to attempt demon-subjugating prayers again. Before any judgment comes from the Lord Regent, I must somehow atone for my failure and beg to be granted time for two more prayer attempts. Even if after those seventy days there remains no effect, I would not shun exile - nay, not even execution and public display. Of course, this cannot be settled by Shinzei Nyūdō's sole discretion alone. You must appeal through him to Left Minister Yorinaga and spare no effort in having this petition granted. As I am under house arrest and cannot venture beyond these gates without permission, you must secretly undertake this errand tonight."

Chiematsu Taro immediately agreed.

“I have understood all particulars.” “I shall carry it out exactly as you command.” He admirably accepted the task and withdrew from his master’s presence. Even after failing one prayer, his master’s strong resolve to undertake two more prayers filled Chiematsu Taro with admiration. Moreover, the fact that among his many fellow disciples he had been entrusted with this crucial mission seemed to him a matter of lifelong honor. No matter what Shinzei Nyūdō might say, he was determined to cling to and accomplish this duty, and so he waited for nightfall in a tense state of mind.

Impatiently awaiting the temple bells of the capital to announce the Hour of the Dog (8 PM), Chiematsu Taro stole out of the Tsuchimikado mansion, and the moon of the ninth day of the eighth month shone white upon his sleeves as if frosted.

“Lord Chiematsu Taro.” “Chiematsu.”

From the shadow of the willow, a woman’s voice was heard. It was when he had arrived in front of Shinzei Nyūdō’s residence. The voice was indeed familiar to him, so he froze as if nailed to the ground, but when he tried to walk away with a feigned look of ignorance, the sleeve of his noble robe had been seized by a white hand. “Lord Chiematsu Taro, why do you flee?” “How cold you are!” “No—I have urgent business.”

Even when he tried to shake free, Tamamo would not let go. “I do not know what your business may be, but you are in circumstances requiring prudence. Does it not trouble you to wander about at night as you please?”

Chiematsu Taro was at a loss. Of course, neither confinement nor house arrest had yet been officially ordered; however, in these circumstances, confinement was only to be expected. Given his circumstances, he walked about at night as he pleased. If he were seen, there would be no excuse. He also stood silently rooted to the spot for a while. “There, see?” Tamamo smiled. “What business have you coming to this mansion tonight?” “Are you here on your master’s errand?” Chiematsu Taro still remained silent.

“Hoho, I can guess well enough even if you don’t say it. Thinking so, I’ve been waiting here for you since earlier. The other day I begged you so earnestly to meet me properly just once—yet still today you feign ignorance. Do you hate me so? But like your Master, do you stubbornly suspect me of being some demonic creature? Setting aside my Master—why would you, who grew up with me since childhood in Yamashina Village, doubt me now? The proof lies in yesterday’s prayer. You all joined with your Master to perform demon-subjugating prayers—did you splendidly witness any effect? What sign could appear from praying or cursing at me for a hundred or thousand days when I’m no demon to begin with? It’s plain as day. The Lord Regent flew into extraordinary rage—Yasuchika goes without saying—and ordered all who ascended the prayer platform exiled to distant Kikaigashima Island. That I clung pleading to appease him was solely because you’re dear to me. My Master may be my enemy, but you his disciple are precious. That terrible Kikaigashima spewing sulfurous smoke day and night—would they send you there? Now, Chiematsu. Do you find my devotion pitiable? Or pleasing? Truly, truly—you cruel man, cold man, hateful man! I’m so aggrieved I can’t even weep. Please understand!”

She pressed her face against Chiematsu Taro's chest and writhed helplessly as she wept. The man stood silently under the bright moon, still holding the woman. Chiematsu Taro now realized for the first time that the reason there had been no word from the Regent until now was because Tamamo had been blocking it from within. Exile to Kikaigashima Island—so dreadful that even hearing its name inspired terror—finally made the young man shudder. Considering that it was Tamamo's compassion that had saved him from this, Chiematsu Taro could no longer bring himself to coldly push her away.

Was Tamamo truly a demonic woman?—this doubt once again sprouted in his chest. He had always trusted his master. Moreover, as Tamamo said—if she were indeed a demonic being, there should be no reason why her true form would not have been revealed by the desperate prayers of his Master, known as Japan’s foremost, who had exhausted his very soul over seventy days. She had ascended the subjugation altar without showing a trace of fear. Was it right to consider that a demon’s victory? Or was it our misapprehension—persisting in futile prayers against one who was not a demon at all? As he thought this, darkness suddenly engulfed his heart. He became unable to comprehend how to handle the woman he held.

“Do you still doubt me?” “No—not just you, there’s no doubt Master suspects me too.” “They say Lord Harima no Kami is a man of unyielding resolve.” “No doubt they’ll attempt a second prayer without learning from this failure.” “Though I wouldn’t mind twice or thrice more, I mourn to imagine what future awaits those who compound such sins.” “If you value your Master, why not counsel him to abandon this course?” “Or do you mean to side with him forever and curse me as a demon?”

Tamamo placed her hand on the man’s arm and looked up at him resentfully. In her eyes, white dew glistened and sparkled.

Three No matter how much Tamamo tried to persuade him, Chiematsu Taro had no choice but to fulfill his master’s mission. Continuing futile prayers time and again and compounding sin upon sin was an utmost sorrowful thing, but he understood all too well that his Master was not one to heed such admonitions at this late hour. Not only would he not accept admonitions, but he might even disown him as a weak-hearted person. Chiematsu Taro was terrified even of that.

The primary issue was determining whether Tamamo was truly a demonic being or not; without ascertaining this definitively, one could neither advance nor retreat. Yet unfortunately, Chiematsu Taro at that moment lacked the keen insight required to discern it. While he trusted his master, he tried to doubt him. While doubting Tamamo, he tried to believe in her. Tormented by these sorrowful contradictions, he now lost sight of where he stood.

The other party seemed to sense his anguish as well, and said slowly while covering her eyes.

“I understand well the painful predicament you’re in.” “Whether to perform two prayers or not ultimately depends solely on Master’s will.” “Even should they fail in it and incur whatever terrible punishment, in the end, it will be Master’s own doing.” “Though I bear resentment toward your Master, I have no gratitude, no obligation, and no ties to him.” “I don’t care what becomes of that person, but the only one I truly worry about is you.” “At heart, do you hold Master dearer, or cherish me more? That is what I wish to hear.” “I want to know your true nature without doubt.” “Please tell me that truthfully.”

Giving that honest answer was a once-in-a-lifetime ordeal for Chiematsu Taro. He himself did not clearly understand it either. Tamamo waited for his reply for a while, but as the man merely kept his head bowed, gazing at their two black shadows cast upon the ground, she eventually let out a low sigh and spoke.

“No matter what, I see you side with Master.” “From this point on, I will say nothing more.” “Unite with Master and pray against me or curse me as you please.” “But, Chiematsu.” “I will always hold you dear.” “No matter what calamity befalls Master, I am determined to save you above all.” “Please at least remember this one thing well.”

Having declared this, she looked up at the bright moon. Unlike her ghastly face illuminated by yesterday's lightning, her pure and divine countenance bathed in the moon tonight seemed to harbor the spirit of the moon itself. In Chiematsu Taro, doubt toward his master arose once more. Yet finding himself unable to bring his heart to detain the departing woman after all, he watched her retreating figure with lingering reluctance—but when he finally steeled himself and passed through Shinzei's mansion gate, both his sleeves were already damp with night dew.

Shinzei Nyūdō met with him immediately. When Chiematsu Taro relayed his master’s message, Shinzei, somewhat unexpectedly, readily agreed.

“Ah, that must indeed be the case.” “Even if one fails once, to stake one’s very life and strive for a second prayer—for Yasuchika, that is only natural.” Shinzei had also wished to be so. Lord Yorinaga likely shared the same sentiment. “I shall proceed to Uji first thing tomorrow and ensure Lord Harima no Kami’s request is properly conveyed.” “However, regarding this recent failure, we too found it most disagreeable to place the blame solely upon Lord Harima no Kami. In fact, we had been devising ways to settle the matter discreetly for some time now.” “If he requests two prayers, then all the more reason we must find a way to save him.” “And has there been any word from the Regent yet?”

“There has been no word from His Highness the Regent.” “Most gratifying.” “The Regent is fundamentally a wise sovereign—I cannot imagine him issuing any unrighteous decree. Yet given his current enthrallment by demonic forces, I had privately harbored concerns about what edicts might emerge. With no communication thus far, matters may resolve more peaceably than anticipated.” “In any event, Shinzei has assumed responsibility.” “Inform Lord Harima no Kami he may set his mind at ease.”

Though he knew the lack of any word from the Regent was due to Tamamo’s intercession, Chiematsu Taro refrained from stating this plainly even in front of this person. He respectfully bowed and left Shinzei’s mansion, whereupon the moon grew ever brighter, illuminating the willow leaves along the roadside so distinctly they could almost be counted one by one.

Exiting Anegakoji and approaching Takakura no Tsuji, he heard dogs barking up ahead. As he walked on without giving it much thought, their barks echoed from all directions. This was no ordinary growling.

"Bandits, perhaps?" Chiematsu Taro wondered as he walked.

However, he was a robust young man. With the determination to subdue at least one thief, he deliberately strode into the center of the crossroads, and the barking of dogs gradually drew nearer. Not just one—they were swarming in from all directions, seemingly encircling someone.

When he looked, a woman stood frozen before his eyes. With her hood pulled low and back turned toward him, her face remained hidden—yet Chiematsu Taro's heart surged with immediate conviction that this must be Tamamo. She appeared to have been lingering in the area, for numerous dogs bared their fangs while encircling her at a distance. Among them were some as large as bears. Others roared like tigers. Yet they seemed to lack even the courage to attack a single unarmed woman, merely raising ferocious growls while barking uselessly at the shadow she cast upon the ground.

A frail woman was surrounded by a pack of dogs. Even if it had been a complete stranger, one could not simply pass by—and given that the person was likely Tamamo, Chiematsu Taro’s heart leaped. He first picked up pebbles from the roadside and scattered them at the two or three dogs leading the pack, then strode briskly over to encircle the woman. Even so, the dogs showed little sign of retreating, remaining a couple of ken back as they continued barking with relentless determination, so Chiematsu Taro grew impatient. However, as he too carried nothing but a fan, he picked up whatever small stones and clumps of dirt lay scattered around and threw them. He fended off the enemies leaping close to attack with his fan.

Because the dogs’ barking was so ferocious, even the city dwellers who had retired early seemed to have been startled from their dreams. At the small merchant shops along the roadside, they opened their doors a crack. When they realized it was not bandits but dogs’ mischief, two or three men emerged from nearby houses carrying sticks. They came to Chiematsu Taro’s aid and drove off the swarming dogs. As their numbers gradually increased, the dogs were finally driven away.

“My deepest gratitude.” After expressing his gratitude to the helpers, Chiematsu Taro turned to check on the woman he had been protecting—only to find she had already slipped away from behind him and taken shelter in the dark shadow beneath a house’s eaves. Chiematsu Taro called out to her. “You must have been terrified. “The dogs have all been driven off. “Please set your heart at ease.” The woman silently emerged from beneath the eaves. While she still kept her hood pulled low, Chiematsu Taro peered at her in the moonlight and asked.

“Aren’t you Tamamo?” He began to speak but froze in shock. The face partially revealed beneath her hood was of unspeakable ghastliness. Her eyes were unnervingly upturned and blazed like fire. Her mouth tapered sharply like a beast’s muzzle. When Chiematsu Taro fixed his gaze and looked again, it proved but a fleeting illusion—the moonlit face remained unmistakably that of the beautiful Tamamo.

“It’s terrifying to be surrounded by dogs.” “Even men can struggle in such situations.” “Were you hurt at all?” he asked, edging closer once more.

Tamamo still remained silent. Seized by unnatural terror, she still seemed unable to draw breath. Chiematsu Taro asked the helpers to bring water from the house. After drinking the water, Tamamo seemed to finally regain her composure, but even so, she merely bowed silently without uttering a word. After greeting and parting with the people, Chiematsu Taro escorted Tamamo.

“I owe you many debts of gratitude,” Tamamo said for the first time during their journey. “When that mad monk captured me before and I was in dire straits, you rescued me—and now tonight again...” “Tonight’s terror especially—I felt not a shred of being alive.”

“Does His Excellency the Regent not keep dogs at his mansion?” “I loathe dogs,” she replied, “so I entreated His Lordship to drive them all away without leaving a single one.” “Dogs can be quite endearing when tame,” said Chiematsu Taro, “but strays that swarm to bite folk—those are truly detestable.” “You mustn’t tell anyone,” Tamamo implored with sudden intensity, “that I walked by night and suffered such canine harassment.”

“Oh, I won’t tell a soul.” “If such a thing were to become known to others, I would be scolded as well.”

“Even to your Master?” Chiematsu Taro silently gazed up at the moon. “When I think on it, it is a curious thing,” Tamamo sighed. “While you and I have grown close like this, your Master curses me as if I were his sworn enemy. As his disciple, you and I too stand as enemies—what will become of us both, I wonder.” Chiematsu Taro found himself drawn into a lonely reverie. Tamamo spoke again.

“Though I may sound repetitive, your master is destined for ruin sooner or later. No matter how much Lord Yorinaga may favor him, one cannot pervert reason. Take good care not to be caught in the backlash.”

At the gatefront of the Regent’s mansion, the two parted ways. By the time Chiematsu Taro returned to his master’s house, the night had grown quite late. Because Yasuchika had still been awake and waiting, Chiematsu Taro immediately went before his master and reported the results of tonight’s errand, whereupon Yasuchika nodded with a smile.

“Shōnagon’s gracious intentions are as vast as the sea and mountains.” Yasuchika felt as though revived. “You have accomplished an important task—it was quite an ordeal.” As he spoke these words, Yasuchika’s brows gradually darkened—a change the young disciple failed to notice at all. He took pride in his master’s praise and quietly withdrew to his room. There were many things he wished to ponder regarding Tamamo, but being too exhausted that night, he fell into peaceful sleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

However, when that peaceful dream faded, he was startled by a sudden thunderclap. When dawn broke, he was summoned before his master and suddenly informed of his expulsion from the sect.

“I thought you were a promising young man and have devoted myself to nurturing you thus far, but you are obstinately possessed by a strange apparition.” “The deathly pallor that has appeared on your face will not fade no matter what.” “To say this feels deeply distressing, as though I am smearing my own sins upon another—but there are suspicions that even my failure in this recent ritual prayer may stem from having included you among the five arrayed in five colors.” “For all of us, remaining here indefinitely would be disadvantageous even for Yasuchika.” “For you, it would be particularly disadvantageous.” “For now, return to your uncle’s side and try becoming a hat maker again.” “Then, if you spend a year or two without incident and it appears the calamity has passed, you may return to being master and disciple once more.” “It’s not out of hatred that I’m disowning you.” “In the end, it’s because I care for you.” “Do not resent me as a cruel master.”

Having painstakingly impressed it upon him, Yasuchika wrapped some coins and handed them over. Chiematsu Taro felt as though he were in a dream and knew not how to reply. He was spontaneously moved to tears.

Hat Maker

One “Regarding the matter from the day before yesterday, even I, Yorinaga, find recent developments most unexpected.” “Yasuchika’s once-in-a-lifetime prayer—I had trusted he would surely not fail, yet the result was as you saw… no—utterly disastrous.” Mixing a sigh of disappointment into his voice of unbearable anger, Yorinaga glared at Shinzei Nyūdō’s composed face where he sat across from him. Shinzei had received Yasuchika’s formal message the previous evening and visited Left Minister Yorinaga of Uji from early that morning. Though Shinzei had largely anticipated the scale of Yorinaga’s wrath over Yasuchika’s failure two days prior, witnessing its ferocity surpassing his imagination gave even him pause. Unable to leave matters unresolved, he slowly began to speak while adjusting the sleeves of his nōshi robe in its faded autumn-leaf hue.

“Regarding that matter, Yasuchika humbly states that he feels profound regret and must accept whatever reprimand may come.”

“It is only natural.” “We intend to strip him of his family’s position and sentence him to exile in a distant province.” “Yasuchika must have that much resolve.” “Even if We were to let it pass, the Regent would never pardon him.” “Moreover, by Our elder brother’s side is that Tamamo.” “In the end, it’s an inescapable fate for him,” Yorinaga said scornfully.

“In truth, last night, one of Yasuchika’s disciples came secretly to this humble one’s residence as his messenger.” “A plea for pardon?” “No—once more, a demon-subjugating ritual prayer—” “Hmm,” Yorinaga tilted his eboshi hat. “And what does Master Shinzei think of this?” “If this humble one may voice his foolish opinion: deign to hear Yasuchika’s plea, and permit him once more to repeat the seventy-day secret prayer…”

Yasuchika’s failure was indeed grievous, yet even now—let alone this capital—throughout all Japan there remained none but him capable of performing this duty. He must surely feel shame for this recent failure; thus it stood to reason he would devote himself wholeheartedly to esoteric rituals—therefore they should bend propriety and grant his earnest plea once more. With that settled—what could not be done must be accepted as impossible—and other methods might yet be devised. "At any rate—one more time—" Shinzei patiently repeated his argument.

While blinking busily, Yorinaga listened intently to the lengthy explanation, then nodded as if enlightened.

“Very well. Yasuchika’s plea—I shall grant it. However, should he fail this time, it shall be a grave crime. Have Master Shinzei thoroughly convey all these conditions to him as well.” “Your swift granting of permission—this humble one and my companions offer our deepest gratitude,” said Shinzei, his furrowed brows relaxing as he bowed with solemn deference. With this matter now temporarily settled, Yorinaga and Shinzei eased into their customary academic discourse.

Then Yorinaga lowered his voice slightly and said: "Master Shinzei—though brothers may quarrel within walls, they must unite against external threats. In this dire hour when an unprecedented demon ravages Japan, seeking to plunge our world into darkness, my elder brother persists in envying his junior sibling, ever quick to show hostility. How despicable!" "That too," Shinzei responded, "may stem from the demon having taken root in His Excellency the Regent's very soul. Though we speak with trepidation—Your Excellency's recent conduct—"

“That’s precisely it,” said Yorinaga, leaning forward impatiently as if he could wait no longer. “There’s no need for me to recount it all—you already know every detail.” “Unlike former days when he indulged in arrogance and amplified his own authority—is such conduct worthy of the Chancellor governing the realm?” “So long as my elder brother does not amend his present disposition, even should we destroy Tamamo alone, a second Tamamo would likely emerge ere long.” “When a nation stands at ruin’s brink, it is said evil portents must surely arise—and this matter proves that axiom true.” “When the Chancellor steering the realm lacks requisite capacity, and precisely because the nation teeters toward collapse, do all manner of supernatural calamities manifest.” “Ultimately it is not that demons appear to topple nations—rather, nations already faltering summon forth demons,” Yorinaga declared critically. “What says Master Shinzei to this?”

Shinzei silently gazed at Yorinaga's face. He recognized this reply would not come easily. Indeed, Yorinaga's argument contained its own logic. If anything, it might well be the correct criticism. Yet considering how his response could irrevocably bind him to Yorinaga's faction, he hesitated to voice his opinion carelessly. Yorinaga sought to destroy Tamamo while simultaneously overthrowing his elder brother Tadamichi. This became unmistakably clear through his present tone. By Yorinaga's reasoning, the demon itself constituted merely the final symptom—the true root cause lay elsewhere. That root cause was his elder brother, the Regent. Even were Tamamo destroyed once, should his brother remain unchanged in power, another Tamamo would inevitably arise. However Shinzei considered it, this response left him profoundly troubled.

He was close to Yorinaga from the start. He marveled at his erudition as well. However, because of this, he could not afford to harbor hostility toward Yorinaga’s elder brother. He felt the same affinity for Yorinaga as he did for his elder brother. Broadly speaking, that was for the sake of the realm. Secondly, he also believed it was for his own sake. At present, the reason he appeared to lean primarily toward Yorinaga was for the purpose of defeating the demon. It was for the purpose of destroying Tamamo. It was not for the purpose of fomenting discord between Yorinaga and Tadamichi. On this point, his position differed from Yorinaga’s; therefore, he could not rashly agree to the current argument. Once he agreed, it was obvious he would have to ally with Yorinaga and oppose Tadamichi, so he feared that outcome. As a veteran monk, he rather considered that foolish.

Unlike the inept court nobles whose only talent lay in composing poems on small sheets of decorated paper, or the fledgling officials whose sole skill was bearing ceremonial quivers with tassels, Shōnagon Michinori Nyūdō Shinzei was recognized by society for his vast learning and great talent. There was no need for him to deliberately form cliques, curry favor with others, or cling to his position. Whether Tadamichi prevailed, Yorinaga prevailed, or the brothers destroyed each other in mutual combat, he himself believed his status would remain unshaken.

From the perspective of his unshakable confidence, aligning himself with either faction seemed nothing but a futile endeavor. He thought it wisest and safest to adopt a non-confrontational approach, mediating between Yorinaga and Tadamichi as much as possible—or, should that prove unfeasible, to quietly withdraw and observe their conflict from afar. However, in this case, seeing that remaining silent would not suffice, the veteran monk skillfully evaded.

“However, since that calamity has already manifested itself, our foremost priority must lie in devising methods to subdue it.” “Should the people witness this affliction and thereby repent their ways, the realm will naturally find peace—there should be no occasion for a second calamity to arise.”

“That may be so,” Yorinaga nodded reluctantly. He too seemed to lack sufficient argument to counter it for the time being. The two fell silent for a moment. The autumn grass-painted kichō screen swayed gently in the midday breeze, and a cricket chirped once within the beautiful lacquered insect cage placed at the veranda’s edge.

“My Lord.” “I have just returned.”

Fujinai Hyōe Tōmitsu - a shrewd-looking samurai of about thirty-two or thirty-three with sharp eyes much like his master's - crouched politely at the veranda's edge.

“Ah, Hyōe. Come closer.” “Come closer, Hyōe.”

Summoned by Yorinaga with a jerk of his chin, Fujinai Hyōe Tōmitsu raised the front of his eboshi hat. He looked up at Shinzei Nyūdō and then performed a respectful ritual bow. "What news? Is there nothing of note occurring within or beyond the capital districts?" Yorinaga inquired quietly. Tōmitsu was Yorinaga’s trusted retainer, ceaselessly traveling between Uji and the capital to fulfill his role as an intelligence gatherer who reported each and every thing he saw or heard to his master, regardless of its significance. Yorinaga, through his reports, knew the state of the world in detail without ever leaving his residence.

“Lady Tamamo is scheduled to make pilgrimage to Miidera Temple tomorrow.” “Tamamo makes pilgrimage to Miidera?” Yorinaga and Shinzei exchanged glances. “Enryaku-ji and Miidera share ancient enmity.” “Does she mean to visit that Miidera,” Yorinaga sneered with clairvoyant scorn, “incite its monks and brew fresh chaos?” “Yet this bears gravity.” “Enryaku-ji’s warrior monks won’t watch idly.” “This renewed strife between Enryaku-ji and Miidera—the very thought reeks of wretchedness.”

The discord between Enryaku-ji and Miidera had been a long-standing issue, and it was even said that due to the conflict over establishing an ordination platform, Ryūshu Ajari of Miidera had died in anger, his vengeful spirit transforming into a rat. What seeds of calamity did the witch Tamamo intend to sow by making a pilgrimage to that Miidera Temple? Ultimately, it must be her stratagem to incite Miidera’s monks against Enryaku-ji, pit them in relentless conflict, and thereby bring chaos to Buddhist Law and, by extension, Imperial Law. As he thought this, Shinzei’s steep eyebrows furrowed as though they might devour something.

“Her wicked deeds only grow more heinous—this humble one cannot afford even a moment’s negligence.” “Indeed. We cannot know what further schemes she may yet devise,” Yorinaga declared, gripping his knee firmly through his servant’s hakama. “Listen, Nyūdō. Under these circumstances, we cannot meekly wait another seventy days for prayers. We must also inform Yasuchika of our intentions and swiftly devise crucial measures to subjugate her through prayer.” On this point, Shinzei too was naturally in agreement.

“Your words are most reasonable. This humble one shall also spare no effort in devising a means to destroy the demon as swiftly as possible.”

Two

August 11th was clear. Even so, since the recent heavy rain, the bright color of the sun suddenly took on an autumnal cast, and the midday wind blowing across the lake—like indigo dye floating on its surface—turned cool at one's sleeves.

When the blue-threaded ox carriage came to a quiet stop before Miidera Temple’s gate, a purple-threaded ox carriage had already been hitched there ahead of it. Behind the blue-threaded carriage that had arrived afterward, attendants set down a black-lacquered heron-legged stool. The rear curtain rustled softly as it was rolled up, revealing Tamamo’s pale face within. As an autumn breeze swept through just then, lightly stirring the scarlet folds of her hakama, she gracefully alighted from the carriage—whereupon a samurai who had been standing at the gate strode briskly toward her. The samurai was Fujinai Hyōe Tōmitsu.

“Are you here on pilgrimage to Miidera Temple?” Tōmitsu inquired with a courteous bow.

Among Tamamo’s attending samurai, there were those who recognized Tōmitsu. When Tamamo and her retinue answered that they were visiting as the Regent’s proxy, Tōmitsu made a bitter face and said: “At present, Lord Left Minister of Uji is on pilgrimage here. Whoever you may be, kindly refrain from entering the temple grounds for the time being.” Being obstructed in their path, Tamamo’s retinue grew indignant. As if to say “Can you not see this blue-threaded [ox carriage]?” they answered while looking back at their vehicle: “As we have just stated, this is the Regent’s proxy pilgrimage, I tell you. We will not be obstructed.”

As if to say, "Are you blind to this purple-threaded [ox carriage] while flaunting your own threads?" Tōmitsu retorted, indicating his vehicle with a jerk of his chin.

“Even if you claim it’s the Regent’s [ox carriage], that’s merely a proxy—and a woman at that.” “You should not find a brief period of restraint too burdensome.” While his words were calm, Tōmitsu stood blocking the path before the [ox carriage] with a force that seemed ready to grab the opponent’s shafts and push them back. Beside the purple-threaded ox carriage, in addition to Tōmitsu, seven or eight burly samurai stood at the ready, their chins thrust out with the cords of their eboshi hats pulled tight as though ready to bite into flesh, glaring fixedly in this direction. Among them were some who already had their hands resting on the pommels of their tachi. Their stance had been confrontational from the very beginning. Even though their numbers were equal, Tamamo’s retinue were not as seasoned as their opponents. Caught off guard by this sudden provocation, they faltered slightly.

Be that as it may, as both enemies and allies focused their eyes on what Tamamo herself would say next, trying to read her expression, Tamamo at last spoke quietly. "Hoho, this is most unexpected to hear. If this is an official proxy pilgrimage, the Regent's household stands equal—there should be no reason to receive instructions for restraint from your Lord Left Minister, his younger brother." She looked back at her attendant samurai and beckoned them to follow with her fan. At her invitation, they moved to follow her, but Tōmitsu resolutely blocked their path.

“We cannot permit it. While we stand guard here, not a single foot shall pass through this gate...” “Do you dare refuse me?”

“Enough.” “We cannot permit it.” “Is this truly impossible?” Tamamo’s tone grew slightly edged with irritation. Tōmitsu no longer replied, instead fixing his gaze intently on her eyes. Sensing something—Tamamo abruptly hid her face behind her fan and laughed brightly. She raised her eyebrows and looked back mockingly toward the temple gate while once again calmly entering the ox carriage’s compartment; then, in a low voice, she commanded, “Turn back the ox carriage,” whereupon the ox eventually began to lumber forward, and the shafts turned to face the direction of the capital.

Just as they thought this, a white-feathered arrow came flying, grazing the blue-threaded carriage canopy. Startled by the sound, the attendant samurai turned around with a gasp as a second arrow came flying in succession—its black feathers struck down the blue tassel of the rear compartment as it passed through. “Ah, a distant shot!” “This is sheer lawlessness…” Tamamo restrained the clamoring samurai from behind the curtain, and the large wheels of the ox carriage creaked slowly as they headed toward the capital. As he watched the blue shadow gradually grow distant, Yorinaga emerged from the shadow of the temple gate. Following behind, two samurai armed with bows and arrows appeared, both biting their lips in disappointment. Having learned of Tamamo’s pilgrimage that day, Yorinaga had outmaneuvered her and been lying in wait there since earlier. Tōmitsu, acting on his master’s secret orders, had resolved to deliberately block Tamamo’s path, provoke an unreasonable quarrel, drive away the Regent’s retainers, and ultimately slay Tamamo there. By Yorinaga’s side accompanied stalwart archers named Fujinai Taro and Fujinai Jiro, who had nocked arrows to their bows and lay in wait, ready to shoot her down immediately should they see an opening. Of course Yorinaga and the two archers had concealed themselves in the shadow of the temple gate, but it seemed Tamamo had already detected them. She bestowed a mocking smile as if outmaneuvering them and slowly departed from there. Determined not to let this opportunity slip away, the two men immediately loosed arrows from behind the ox carriage at Yorinaga’s command—yet despite their renowned skill, both somehow missed their mark. As they frantically tried to nock the second arrow, the bowstring snapped. The ox carriage passed by as if mocking them, its wheels creaking loudly.

Having witnessed this terrifying divine power before their very eyes, both archers and Tōmitsu stood frozen, breathless. Yorinaga alone seethed with frustration, but no matter how he tried to scold and rally his retainers—cowed as they were by shock and fear—it seemed any effort would prove futile in the end. “We may not have let you demon cross these temple gates—but that much we managed.”

Thus resigning himself, Yorinaga returned to Uji. Between the previous rainmaking ritual and today's ambush - failures occurring not once but twice - even he found his composure increasingly unsettled. Wary of demonic retaliation, he had secretly increased the night watchmen's numbers and maintained vigilance from that night onward, yet no direct calamity befell him. However, Tamamo had no intention of letting matters conclude peacefully. She returned to the capital and reported every particular concerning Ichijō of Miidera to Tadamichi.

“To refuse entry through the temple gates to you, who go as Our proxy—nay, to loose arrows at Our retreating back—is an outrage beyond words! That Yorinaga has clearly lost his wits. We shall not endure this another moment! You wretch! You wretch! Trampling at your elder brother’s feet—I shall turn your Uji mansion to barren grassland!” Tadamichi raged, sounding every bit as deranged as he accused his brother of being.

“That may be so, but I beg Your Grace to grant me a moment’s forbearance...” “Will you stay your hand yet again?” The Regent’s voice sharpened like drawn steel. “Do you shield Our sworn enemy?” “I shield no one.” Tamamo’s fan trembled imperceptibly as she invoked the sacred maxim. “Though those schemers plot my ruin through darkest arts—does not virtue ever triumph? The gods themselves shelter the righteous.” Her eyes glimmered with pious fire. “Recall how dragon kings answered my rainmaking plea! Where sincerity dwells...” She pressed a hand to her breast, “...even Buddhas unveil marvels.”

“Therefore, Our patience has indeed reached its limit.” “Even forbearance and compassion have their bounds.” “Yorinaga and I have been sworn enemies since lives before this.” “Either the younger brother slays, or the older brother falls—in the end, it is fate that the two cannot stand side by side.” “Then, does this mean you will indeed carry out the punitive expedition against Lord Left Minister?” Tamamo asked with feigned unease. “It goes without saying.” “And your allies…”

Whenever he encountered this problem, Tadamichi always reached an impasse. Ever since his seclusion that summer, he had come to clearly understand his allies were distancing themselves from him through the dwindling number of daily visitors. The turncoat allies must all have been gathering beneath Yorinaga's banner. The mere thought of it made Tadamichi's chest seethe.

“Yesterday’s allies become today’s enemies—this world is utterly unreliable.” “Even if I, Tadamichi, proclaim a campaign against Yorinaga, few would rally to my side,” he said, heaving a long, dreadful sigh as if cursing this world. “In a world where yesterday’s allies become today’s enemies, there lie convenient advantages too,” Tamamo said consolingly. “Precisely because such people abound—once our standing improves—yesterday’s foes will flip sides to become today’s allies with ease.” “To speak plainly, among current court nobles, those with backbone are exceedingly rare.” “Even Shinzei Nyūdō is but an opportunistic trimmer.” “In short, should we but find a way to humble Yorinaga, the rest will turn their palms and join us as plainly as daybreak follows night.” "There’s no need for grandiose clamor over subjugation and slaughter," she explained with disarming calm.

“Regarding this matter—how does it seem to you that I should be appointed to that Court Lady position?” “If it concerns that matter, have no fear. This time, it shall undoubtedly succeed.” Tadamichi let slip a triumphant smile. The previous attempt had met with objections from Yorinaga and Shinzei Nyūdō, ultimately being swept under the rug, but this time would be different. The fact that Tamamo had manifested the miracle of rainmaking should have reached even to the heavens above. What possible obstruction could there be to recommending Tamamo? Even if they persisted in their stubbornness to the bitter end, their reasoning no longer held. We too possessed splendid reasoning capable of scattering their arguments. Rather than frantically scrambling to gather unreliable allies and destroy Yorinaga’s faction, it seemed safer and more effective to recommend Tamamo alone for the court lady position and use her power to suppress their enemies—this too Tadamichi had come to reconsider.

“We have taken charge.” “Relying on the Great Counselor and such will get us nowhere.” In the coming days, Regent Tadamichi would attend court despite his illness. “If there are those who raise objections, We shall personally refute them.” “Haha, this time... This time verily it shall be!” Tadamichi let out an eerie voice and laughed loudly while leaning back. Tamamo’s pupils also shone eerily.

Three

“Oh, Chiematsu.” “When did you get back?”

The old potter laughed and looked back. He moved some handcrafted jars aside and ushered Chiematsu into the narrow workshop’s entrance. “I heard rumors you’ve been back home lately—why haven’t you come to visit sooner?” “The old hag is dead.” “The house next door where Algae lived has moved away, and unfamiliar people have come.” “Around here too, within four or five years, residents shift and change—it’s lonely how familiar faces dwindle.” “So why’d you come back from your Master’s estate? Capital service too harsh for you, Chiematsu?”

Chiematsu Taro remained silent, gazing at the autumn sunlight streaming through gaps in the bamboo blinds that cast a pale light on the workshop’s damp earthen floor, then finally spoke in a subdued voice. "I was excommunicated by Master Yasuchika." “Excommunicated…” The old man’s white eyebrows rippled like waves. "Did you commit some transgression?" “If I remain by Master Yasuchika’s side, it will do me no good. He ordered me to return home.” “Why would that be?” The old man tilted his head again. "But if Master says so, then there’s no helping it. So what will you do now? Uncle has been growing older, and lately he says his business isn’t going as he’d like. Your return might be just fortunate. You should work your hardest and be filial to your uncle and aunt. Eh?”

“Oh, I’ve been going out to work with that very intention these days.” “Look at that.”

He pointed outside, and at the entrance lay the hat maker’s supplies. The old man nodded.

“Oh, good, good.” “You’re not the Chiematsu of old—you’ve grown into a fine young man now.” “And you’ve had a trade you learned since childhood.” “As long as you work diligently, you’ll want for nothing.”

The carefree old man showed a genuinely open smile as he spoke nostalgically of the Chiematsu of old. When Chiematsu Taro looked around the house with nostalgic eyes, the small kiln now facing him, the large furnace cut into the back, and the shelf leaning as if about to collapse—none had changed at all from how they were in the past. Even on the old man’s weathered forehead, bathed in autumn sunlight, the number of wrinkles did not seem to have increased. In the quiet potter’s house of Yamashina Village, it seemed as though the passage of time did not exist. In stark contrast, from Kyūan 4 to Ninpei 2—over this span of five years—how much had his own circumstances changed? Chiematsu Taro looked back and reflected.

He, who was supposed to become a hat maker by learning his uncle’s trade, became a disciple of an Onmyōji Master in Japan after being cast aside by Algae. Thus was he taken under his master’s wing. His future career prospects seemed clearly within sight. This fortune did not last long—after he chanced upon Tamamo that March, the embers of his nearly extinguished feelings blazed up once more in his heart. Though admonished by his master and resolved to keep his distance from her—she who bore suspicion of demonic influence—fate mysteriously intertwined, and chance encounters with her occurred time and again. Each time he struggled to regain control of his eerily disturbed heart yet found himself step by step drawn toward her—a truth his godlike master saw through piercing eyes—until at last he received the verdict of compassionate excommunication. Knowing his master would not accept belated apologies, he dejectedly withdrew and returned to his old home in Yamashina.

When he returned, the decline of his uncle and aunt’s old age struck his eyes as if for the first time. Chiematsu Taro grew sorrowful. His uncle and aunt did not scold their nephew—who had returned after being excommunicated by his master—in the slightest; instead, they welcomed him with such nostalgic warmth that he was all the more moved to tears. For nearly five years, he had studied under his master, but now that he had been excommunicated, he could not present that learning as a public profession. However, as a full-fledged young man idly keeping his hands in his sleeves, he could not remain a burden on his uncle and aunt; for the time being, he thought of returning to his former role as a hat maker to help his uncle even a little. His uncle gladly agreed. Since then, Chiematsu Taro sometimes went out for business with his uncle. He sometimes went out alone as well. As he spent another month like this, he gradually became accustomed to the work, and since he would leave home in the morning and return at dusk with some coins, his elderly uncle and aunt were rather pleased to have a good earner back.

This might be my fate. He too had recently resigned himself to at least working diligently while he could and being filial to his uncle and aunt. He tried hard to forget the thoughts of his master and Tamamo that filled his heart.

Today, as he was carelessly thinking about that again, the old man seemed to find the gradually creeping sunlight too bright. He sluggishly stood up and lowered the rush blinds at the entrance.

“Chiematsu. What’re you brooding over?” “Your uncle and aunt must be right pleased you’ve come back.” “An old neighbor returning does this heart good too.” “Drop by like you used to from now on, eh?” “Hear me?” “Look yonder.” “The persimmons on that gate there—plumper every year. This autumn’ll see ’em ripe fine as ever.” “Aye, reckon so.”

When he stood at that gate, Chiematsu Taro immediately looked up at the neighboring treetop. Since the fruits were still green, no shadow of a large crow could be seen there, yet he could not help recalling that autumn when he and Algae had chased away those hateful crows from the branches. Now prompted by the old man's words, he peered through the lowered rush blinds and released a quiet sigh.

“The days and months pass so quickly, don’t they?”

“Truly fast.” “It’s already been four years since the old hag died,” said the old man, his face tinged with loneliness.

The death of the old woman he had been on bad terms with—since he thought there might be some connection to Algae, Chiematsu Taro casually asked the old man.

“Has it been four years since the old woman died? The old woman died in such a suspicious manner—do the details still remain unclear even now?” In response to this inquiry about whether there had been any strange occurrences since then, the old man answered thus: “Well, nothing particularly strange... No—actually, there was just one instance. Oh yes—it was last autumn... I remember it being around this very time too. You must know of this. A man named Yaigorō in this village... When that man passed near Komachi’s water on a dark night, a beautiful noblewoman—rare in these parts—was making her way alone through the darkness. But here’s the strange thing—they say a faint light emanated from that woman’s body, making her figure dimly visible even from afar. Yaigorō, too, overwhelmed by curiosity, stealthily followed her—and the woman’s figure seemed to vanish as she disappeared deep into the forest around that ancient burial mound.”

Chiematsu Taro listened with bated breath. “Yaigorō shuddered and fled home,” “The next day when he told the neighbors, they all just called it strange—none could grasp the particulars,” “Then came that night,” “Yaigorō died sudden-like,” “Throat ripped clean out…same as my old woman…” “What did this noblewoman look like?” Chiematsu Taro pressed urgently.

“I don’t know about that.” “It’s not that I saw it myself—I only heard tell from others,” the old man answered calmly. “But in my thinking, that might’ve been the master of the ancient burial mound.” “Carelessly crossing paths with it was Yaigoro’s misfortune.” “Since that lesson, seems not a soul passes near those woods after dark these days.” “How strange…”

“More than strange—it’s terrifying.” “You be careful now, and make sure you don’t go meetin’ that curse.” “Take the old woman and Yaigoro as warnings.” The suspicion that this noblewoman might indeed be Tamamo suddenly sprang up in Chiematsu Taro’s chest. If that were indeed the case, then Algae had been cursed by the mound’s master, and her soul had already been replaced. Even if her form remained that of the Algae of old, a demon now dwelled within Tamamo’s soul. To resolve his doubts, he resolved that from now on he would prowl around that forest every night, determined to catch sight of the mysterious noblewoman. And so, by making that a feat, he thought to have his master’s disownment forgiven.

Ending his conversation with the old man there, Chiematsu Taro hurriedly left the place. As he departed, he looked up once more at the neighboring persimmon tree's crown. Its high branches spread wide as though propping up the blue sky, already bearing here and there fruits with a pale crimson luster that hung like large bells. The face of young Algae and the face of sophisticated Tamamo merged into one and flashed before his eyes like lightning.

“Business is runnin’ late.”

Chiematsu Taro turned his feet toward the direction of the capital. Meeting his former fellow apprentices and acquaintances had indeed been too painful, so until now he had not ventured into the capital for business; but having been instructed by his uncle that commerce must be conducted in the capital above all else—and having convinced himself of this—today he resolutely hastened toward its bustling districts. His calculations proved unexpectedly flawed; with unfamiliar young craftsmen refusing to summon him anywhere, he grew bitterly disappointed. Even after tirelessly soliciting work throughout the day, he failed to earn a single copper coin in the capital’s streets.

The early September autumn day ended abruptly as if blown out, and as the chilly west mountain wind seeped through his hemp summer robe with a whispering rustle, Chiematsu Taro felt his heart grow ever more desolate. Regretting that had he known it would come to this, he would never have exposed his shameful face throughout the capital's streets, he was dragging his weary legs and plodding back when someone called out to him at the foot of Rokujō Bridge.

“Are you the hat maker? “I have a request for you.” When he turned around, it was a dignified samurai nearing sixty, wearing a hikitate eboshi court hat, clad in a hitatare robe with one side in chartreuse and the other in brown, and bearing a long tachi sword. He spoke in a Kantō accent from beneath his white mustache. “I am but a recent arrival to the capital and am not well acquainted with its ways, but from your appearance, you seem to be a hat maker.” “Will you accept this commission?” “Understood.” There, immediately unloading his baggage, the samurai turned to a retainer and instructed him to retrieve the hat if it broke. Then he continued on his way without pause.

“Isn’t your workspace too dark?” said the retainer who had been left behind, peering at Chiematsu Taro’s hands as he spoke. “No, there should be light enough for shaping a single hat,” Chiematsu Taro answered while working. “Might your lordship be from the eastern provinces?” “Aye, we’re men of Sagami,” declared the retainer proudly, remaining planted in his stance. “This humble one’s master is Lord Miura no Suke.” “Lord Miura no Suke...” “Then that would be Lord Miura no Suke of Kinusaga?”

“I am well aware. “The one who has just arrived is that Lord Miura no Suke.”

The retainer explained that the commissioner of the hat was Miura no Suke Minamoto no Yoshimitsu, lord of Kinusaga Castle in Sagami Province. Lord Miura no Suke, along with Taira no Hirotsune, Governor of Kazusa, had recently been summoned from the Kantō region to serve as Guardians of Kyoto.

“Crafting the headgear of such a distinguished warrior is an honor of my profession,” said Chiematsu Taro without sounding obsequious.

“If that is your understanding, then proceed with care,” the retainer said, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his hitatare robe. It seemed the Kantō samurai had come to adorn their first journey to the capital with splendor, and the scent of indigo from their hitatare robes still seemed fresh.

Miura’s daughter

I

At that time, Miura’s retainer spoke boastfully of such matters as well. Lord Miura no Suke has a granddaughter named Kinusaga. Given that he had gone so far as to name her after the castle his family had inhabited for generations, his doting affection needed no explanation. At sixteen years old, she was a beauty without peer in all Sagami Province. Out of grandfatherly devotion, Yoshimitsu had brought her along on this journey to the capital, wishing to show his beloved granddaughter the ways of Kyoto at least once—and indeed, even in that capital in full bloom, few could match her radiance. Though I myself have accompanied my master daily in touring both within and beyond the city walls, I’ve scarcely encountered any woman as comely as Lady Kinusaga. I know not what sort of person this much-discussed Lady Tamamo of the capital might be, but they say she likely wouldn’t surpass her.

It was not unusual for country samurai to boast of their masters. However, even hearing only half of that story, Chiematsu Taro could well imagine that Miura’s granddaughter must be an exceptional beauty. The young hat maker found himself lightheartedly wishing to catch a glimpse of that beautiful Sagami woman. “Does Lord Miura have many retainers?” he inquired. “Twenty retainers of high and low rank, plus Lady Kinusaga and two accompanying maidservants.” “With twenty retainers, there must be need for eboshi. And your lodgings…?”

“In Shichijō,” “Drop by from time to time.” “I humbly ask for your favor when that time comes.” Chiematsu Taro made his promise and parted ways with him. When he returned home and recounted the day’s events, his uncle Daidoku—a man seasoned in trade—remarked: “That’s how it goes for everyone—business stays thin when you’ve few familiar faces.” “Craftsmen and merchants who can’t endure tedium won’t survive this world.” “To grow acquainted with Lord Miura no Suke’s retainers is fortune itself.” “The Kantō samurai are open-handed.” “You must visit their lodgings without fail and turn them into proper clients.”

While still concerned about the burial mound, today after walking around Kyoto all day, even Chiematsu Taro had grown exhausted, and so he fell asleep as he was.

The next day, he got up early and went out to Kyoto.

When he went to Shichijō and was searching for Miura’s lodgings, he happened to encounter the retainer from the day before. The retainer was wearing a hitatare robe different from yesterday’s. Chiematsu Taro struck up a conversation in a familiar manner and even managed to learn that his name was Kogenji. “If you’ll pardon my saying, your manner of folding the eboshi seems rather rustic—unbefitting your attire.” “I shall fashion it for you in the capital style.”

He crafted a new eboshi for him. And then, he did not accept payment. In exchange, when he asked Kogenji to guide him to his lodgings and put in a good word so that others would commission work from him, Kogenji readily agreed. “Then come along. The mansion’s just ahead.”

They seemed to have appropriated someone’s vacant mansion as temporary lodgings; though grand in structure, the interior was severely rundown, and in the dimly lit garden, autumn grasses swayed gently in a wild, overgrown thicket. In what appeared to be the reception area for retainers, seven or eight retainers were sitting in the samurai cross-legged position. Kogenji introduced Chiematsu Taro to them and then went back out to the front.

The master was away, and the retainers with nothing to do seemed bored; they listened to Chiematsu Taro talk about rumors of Kyoto’s famous places and customs. Among them were those who ordered eboshi. As Chiematsu Taro worked diligently to humor them while crafting their orders, the honest Kantō men came to place immense trust in this unfamiliar eboshi maker, confiding everything to him. Before long, talk of Kinusaga also arose. “I have heard the young lady is renowned as a beauty in this world. Is she at the lodgings today?” “Is she at your lodgings today as well?” Chiematsu Taro asked.

“Oh, she is inside,” one of them said. “Why don’t you proceed to the inner quarters and have an audience? As it’s a matter of women’s propriety, she cannot go out every day. However, as this is her first visit to the capital, she has no particularly close friends either. She spends her days only with maidservants, and it’s truly pitiful to see how bored she seems. If you were to come and regale her with some novel tales of the capital, it would surely provide her some diversion…” That was exactly what Chiematsu Taro had been waiting for. When he earnestly requested an audience, one of the retainers went into the inner quarters. Before long, he returned with a woman who appeared to be a maid and instructed that Chiematsu should go around to the garden entrance under her guidance. Following her lead, Chiematsu Taro proceeded along the garden path overgrown with grass toward the inner quarters. In a room dim even at midday sat a divinely beautiful young woman. By her side, a single maidservant waited attentively.

“I have brought the hat maker,” said the maidservant who had guided Chiematsu Taro.

She left Chiematsu Taro in the front garden and, alone, stepped up to the veranda to sit properly beside her master. “I humbly request an audience for the first time.” Chiematsu Taro, resting his hands on the grass and looking up quietly, saw before him a young woman—undoubtedly Kinusaga, Miura’s granddaughter—who, though slightly younger in years, bore a face that was the very spitting image of Tamamo. He gasped, swallowing his breath as he tried to exclaim, then leaned forward and stared unceremoniously at her face. The woman’s features resembled Tamamo’s so uncannily that he began to feel an inexplicable unease. He began to suspect that a metamorphosed creature was dwelling in hiding deep within this vacant mansion, attempting to deceive him.

The midday autumn sun cast a pale light over the wild grass thicket where two or three crimson dragonflies darted about. Keeping his gaze lowered while stealing sideways glances at them, he maintained silence as the maidservants took turns inquiring about Kyoto's notable sights. His summons had come not from the master's daughter herself, but rather through the maidservants' coaxing—their own boredom driving them to seek conversation with a capital man. Throughout this exchange, the young mistress listened with demure restraint, her lips remaining sealed. This reticence frustrated Chiematsu Taro profoundly. Though determined to elicit speech from Tamamo's near-doppelgänger, he found himself thwarted by the garrulous attendants who dominated the dialogue while their lady's composure held firm. Only when recounting Watanabe no Tsuna's legendary severing of the Modoribashi demoness' arm did he glimpse success—the faintest furrow appearing between her elegant brows.

“Could such mysteries truly have occurred?” It was not the timid voice of fear typical in young women. A gentle yet courageous tone—a voice of crystalline clarity. Chiematsu Taro looked up sharply at her face once more; though this girl called Kinusaga closely resembled Tamamo in features, their alluring qualities differed fundamentally. Tamamo possessed bewitching beauty. Kinusaga embodied elegant grace. Chiematsu Taro weighed this contrast in his mind. Thus his youthful soul—which until now had scarcely noticed any woman besides Tamamo—began drifting toward Kinusaga as though reeled by invisible threads.

“We found all the various stories quite entertaining. Do come again tomorrow,” said the maidservants. “I shall return tomorrow to pay my respects.”

After a short while, Chiematsu Taro took his leave and returned home. Afterward, he wandered through the streets of Kyoto, but even today, the people of the capital did not let him conduct any business at all. Even so, satisfied with having done some work at the Miura mansion, he returned to Yamashina with a light heart.

The next day, Chiematsu Taro rose early and went to Kyoto. And then, when he went straight to the Miura mansion, he was told an unexpected story by Kogenji. It was said that Kinusaga had been attacked by a malevolent spirit last night. “I wasn’t present at the scene myself, but this is what the maidservants said,” whispered Kogenji as he adjusted the cord of his eboshi hat. “It was yesterday evening. As Lady Kinusaga stepped near the veranda and stood enraptured by the insects’ song, a shadowy figure emerged like smoke from the thicket of autumn grasses in the garden. In the blink of an eye, it took the form of a beautiful noblewoman and—hiding her face behind a hinoki fan—spoke in a chilling voice: ‘Should you linger long in the capital, calamity will surely claim you.’ ‘Return swiftly to your homeland…’ Yet Lady Kinusaga, born of stout heart, kept her gaze fixed unwaveringly on this strange apparition. Then the noblewoman spoke again: ‘Disregard my warning and your life shall be forfeit! When that hour comes, let there be no regrets—’ No sooner had she spoken than from behind that hinoki fan emerged a dreadful... visage—whether human wraith, demonic beast, or some unspeakable horror of this world, none could tell—...... The maidservants gasped in terror, shielding their faces as they dropped prostrate to the ground. But Lady Kinusaga stood resolute—her hand clasping the dagger at her waist—glaring as though to strike down any who dared approach. The mysterious noblewoman laughed mockingly—a soft ‘hoho’—then dissolved back into the grasses as though she had never been. When our lord heard this tale, he declared this old mansion a den of shape-shifters and ordered us to hunt them out. We brandished torches and scoured every corner—from beneath floorboards to garden’s edge—yet found not even a weasel’s shadow.” Kogenji shook his head slowly. “Strange indeed when you think on it.” “Since even Lady Kinusaga’s own eyes—not just those timid maids—saw this vision plain as day, we can’t dismiss it as mere coward’s fancy.”

In a dreamlike state as Chiematsu Taro listened to this tale, Kogenji spoke again. “By order of His Lordship, I went to Tsuchimikado early this morning and visited Lord Abe no Yasuchika’s residence.” “Oh! You went to Tsuchimikado?” Chiematsu Taro asked. “And what did Lord Harima no Kami divine?” “Though Lord Harima no Kami is in a period of mourning and could not grant direct audience, through his disciples’ mediation he imparted this much: ‘The young lady has been afflicted by a supernatural phenomenon. For twenty-one days she must refrain from outings and audiences with anyone.’ Such being the case, His Lordship has ordered that those without proper standing are not to enter the premises for the time being.” Kogenji tightened his eboshi cord. “Regrettable though it is, you too must refrain from entering.”

Chiematsu Taro was disappointed.

Yet there was nothing he could contest, so he reluctantly parted ways and left—whereupon a blue-gray ox-drawn carriage creaked quietly as it passed before the mansion's gate. As he walked past it, the carriage's bamboo blind was slightly raised, revealing a brief glimpse of a woman's pale face. When that face seemed to belong to Tamamo, Chiematsu Taro took a step back to peer inside—but in that instant, the blind was lowered without a sound.

Only the terrifying gleam in the woman’s eyes—as if burning with intense jealousy—remained in Chiematsu Taro’s memory.

II

Chiematsu Taro walked while pondering the mysterious story he had heard from Kogenji along the way. There was disappointment at not having met Kinusaga. There was doubt about who that mysterious noblewoman might be. The suspicion first fell upon Tamamo.

The owner of the ox-drawn carriage encountered at Miura’s gate seemed very much to be Tamamo. Even if it were Tamamo, meeting people on public roads held nothing unusual. Yet Chiematsu Taro doubted this had been a chance encounter. As he gradually broadened this suspicion, he arrived at the conclusion that the mysterious noblewoman who had threatened Kinusaga the previous night might indeed be Tamamo.

Even so, why had Tamamo tried to threaten Miura’s daughter? Moreover, judging from Kogenji’s account, her behavior seemed by no means that of an ordinary human. He recalled Tamamo’s terrifying face from that night when she had been surrounded by a pack of dogs. Yesterday morning, he recalled the figure of the mysterious woman visiting the ancient burial mound that the aged potter had described. When he considered these facts together, it seemed plausible that both the woman wandering near that ancient burial mound and the woman who had infiltrated the Miura mansion might all be none other than Tamamo. He resolved to sneak near Komachi’s Water tonight to confirm the truth and determine the identity of the woman emitting a mysterious light.

Today again, with no satisfactory business to be had, he returned home earlier than usual. And then, waiting for the night to deepen, he sneaked off to the vicinity of the large cedar forest enveloping that ancient burial mound. It was a dark, rain-laden night, and from somewhere came the cry of a night heron piercing through the darkness of the low-hanging sky. He lingered there for what felt like two hours, waiting for something to appear and block his view, but that night he returned without any quarry.

The next day, he went again to Kyoto and stood before the Miura mansion's gate. Wanting to know how Kinusaga had been faring since then, he lingered persistently at the gate until one of the retainers he recognized emerged. When he called out to stop him and quietly inquired, he learned there had been no further strange occurrences. Kinusaga remained unharmed. Miura no Suke was reportedly performing the Toad-Eye Ritual to suppress these supernatural disturbances. Hearing this brought Chiematsu Taro some relief, yet returning without meeting Kinusaga still left his heart desolate. He stood awhile before the gate with the sensation of being anchored there by some unseen force.

Having resolutely left that place, he then headed toward Tsuchimikado. Through yesterday’s account from Kogenji confirming his master Yasuchika’s safety, he had been suddenly overcome with longing for his teacher. Though a direct audience remained forbidden, he resolved to at least glimpse the residence from afar. He approached the front of the mansion and peered stealthily inside. The sacred rope stretched across the eaves swayed desolately in the autumn wind, while a large paulownia leaf—one he dimly recognized—lay withered and dried as though moth-eaten, rustling faintly now and then. As he gazed upward, an inexplicable sadness and nostalgia filled his chest until his eyes naturally grew moist. When he involuntarily knelt on the ground to apologize from afar for his prolonged absence from his master, someone suddenly called his name from above. Looking up in surprise, he found his senior disciple Yasutada there.

“I had heard from afar that you had returned to being a hat maker.” “So—has anything changed?”

Hearing his senior’s gentle voice for the first time in a long while, Chiematsu Taro grew even sadder. He answered while wiping his welling tears with both sleeves. “What matters most is that you yourself remain unchanged.” “In this state of excommunication, with nothing left to accomplish, I’ve had no choice but to return to my former trade—though facing my old comrades fills me with shame.” “And how does our Master fare?” “He still exhausts himself day and night subduing the demon, scarcely finding sleep,” Yasutada replied in a strained voice. “What truly galls me is how that fiend’s influence keeps spreading.” “Haven’t you heard? Tamamo is finally to be appointed as a court lady!”

Recently, Regent Tadamichi formally recommended Tamamo for the position of court lady. In response, Yorinaga remained vehemently opposed, but Tadamichi stubbornly refused to yield. After all, unlike before, Tamamo had demonstrated her miraculous rainmaking to the world, and her name had reached even the clouds above. The opposing faction possessed such strength, compounded by Shinzei Nyūdō—whom Yorinaga relied upon as his sole ally—adopting an inexplicably vague stance this time, neither here nor there, so his allies grew ever more diminished in influence. Even Yorinaga, who in private constantly derided and belittled his elder brother’s scholarly weakness, could not openly refute him to any effect when facing him in the court chamber. Another reason was that Tadamichi had learned of Yorinaga lying in wait for Tamamo’s pilgrimage to Miidera Temple and attempting to set up a long-range arrow ambush. Given these complicated circumstances, he seethed inwardly yet found himself unable to fight as he wished in open debate. "The situation in the court was leaning toward the opposing faction’s victory, and it seemed Tamamo would finally be appointed as a court lady," Yasutada said regretfully.

“Now it all depends on Master’s power alone,” Lord Yorinaga also states. “Master too, with his day-and-night prayers—it is feared he may soon exhaust both his vigor and vitality.” “Even we endure similar hardships—do try to understand,” Yasutada said, his pallid lips twisting. “That’s no simple matter,” Chiematsu Taro heaved a sigh that seemed wrenched from his very bowels. “Regarding that matter, I too have something that comes to mind.” “Here’s how it is.”

He brought his mouth close to his senior disciple’s ear and whispered about the ancient burial mound and the Miura mansion, whereupon Yasutada listened with wide eyes. “Hmm, that’s useful information you’ve shared.” “We and Master are aware of the Miura matter, but we have not yet heard of the strangeness at the ancient burial mound.” “Good, good. I will certainly inform Master.” “With this merit, even your excommunication may yet be pardoned.” “Furthermore, proceed with utmost care in your work.” “I’m counting on you.”

Sharply encouraged by his senior disciple, Chiematsu Taro’s wilted soul suddenly stirred with courage. He vowed to Yasutada that he would surely uncover that supernatural occurrence and parted ways. He could no longer linger idly wandering the capital, so he hurried back to his home in Yamashina.

“Another day of wasted effort, eh?” laughed his aunt, who knew nothing of his endeavors. “But in time, I’ll naturally learn this trade’s ways. You mustn’t grow weary now.” Since his good-natured aunt didn’t even chide him for idleness, Chiematsu Taro felt somewhat relieved. And so, with a heart steeled to fulfill his duty tonight, he waited for night’s deepening—yet finding himself too restless to stay still, he left home earlier than yesterday’s eve and went to seek out the potter’s old man.

“Old man.” “I have a small request.” “Won’t you guide me to Komachi’s Water Forest?” “Please show me where the woman who glowed from within passed by.” As if deeming it absurd, the elderly man stared silently at his face before finally shaking his hand dismissively. “It cannot be done.” “Have I not told you repeatedly? Do you not fear the burial mound’s curse?” “No—once I verify this, I’ll rise in station.” “I’ll see you rewarded handsomely too, old man.” “Well? Will you help me despite that?”

“Hmm, status and rewards only matter if you’re alive to enjoy them.” “Besides, I’ve only heard about it through others and know none of the details—no matter how much you beg, I can’t guide you there!” “I don’t know what kind of advancement it’ll bring, but you should quit this.” “You mustn’t go to such a place.”

Since no amount of pleading seemed likely to move [the old man], Chiematsu Taro gave up and left the place.

A pale moon illuminated the path ahead tonight, and a cold wind—almost worthy of being called a wintry blast—occasionally swept through, scattering fallen leaves as it passed. Chiematsu Taro hurried against the wind toward the forest. Taking shelter in the shadow of a large cedar, he waited for about two hours just as he had the previous evening, but there was only the occasional sound of leaves tumbling away, and not even a single dog passed over the ground.

"Another wasted night?" He was about to turn back in disappointment when the creaking sound of an oxcart reached his ears from the direction of the capital. When he stealthily craned his neck from the shadow of the trees and peered out, a large driverless oxcart slowly creaked toward him, pulled along by the ox’s own volition. The pale moon only faintly illuminated the high canopy at an angle, leaving both the shadow of the low-crawling ox and the cart’s moonward side indistinct from afar—so much so that it seemed a one-wheeled cart might be swaying forward of its own accord without any beast. Chiematsu Taro stiffened his body and strained his ears at this suspicious cart’s creaking.

The oxcart gradually drew closer until the faint glimmer of the metal fittings on its roof ridge became visible, when Chiematsu Taro—unable to wait any longer—burst out from behind the tree. As he strained to discern the cart’s true nature in the uncertain moonlight, mysteriously, the cart’s shafts shifted direction. Though there was no driver to pursue it, the ox obediently turned around and began plodding back toward the capital from whence it had come. Chiematsu Taro stood startled. His suspicions now fully inflamed, he chased after the oxcart without a second thought. He quickly caught up to the slow-moving ox’s hindquarters and, clinging to the right shaft, brusquely yanked up the front curtain. Pale moonlight streamed into the cart like a dream, faintly illuminating the face of a woman seated on the floor.

The moment he caught a glimpse of that face, Chiematsu Taro froze in place. The owner of the oxcart was Kinusaga, granddaughter of Miura. Why had Kinusaga come to such a place alone at this hour? Chiematsu Taro stared in disbelief, as if doubting his own eyes, and as he stood there dumbfounded, the curtain slipped down of its own accord, and the cart began to move once more.

“To love me is a futile endeavor.” “Give it up.” “If you don’t give it up, you’ll lose your life, I tell you.”

From inside the blinds came a cheerful voice.

Three What prayer was this? What curse? Especially since Kinusaga was confined from going out, where could she have intended to go alone at this late hour without even a single attendant? Chiematsu Taro could not possibly imagine it. What proved even more mysterious was how the oxcart had abruptly changed direction upon catching sight of him. Another thing that alarmed him was the woman’s voice resonating from within the blinds. “To love me is a futile endeavor”—these words struck Chiematsu Taro’s heart with profound force. Whether it was love or something else he knew not, but from the first moment he heard Kinusaga’s name—from the first moment he saw Kinusaga’s face—it seemed his heart had been mysteriously drawn toward her. His heart had unknowingly drifted away from Tamamo’s bewitching allure and shifted toward Kinusaga’s graceful beauty. That secret—the inner secret he himself had not yet fully grasped—the oxcart’s owner appeared to have discerned long ago. A mingling of shame and fear robbed Chiematsu Taro of all courage to pursue the cart further. He stood rooted like stone, vainly watching the black shadow recede into the distance.

Was the owner of the oxcart truly Kinusaga? Could it be his own misjudgment—was she actually Tamamo? Kinusaga's face and Tamamo's face, Kinusaga's voice and Tamamo's voice—they tangled together until Chiematsu Taro's confused mind could no longer distinguish between them. No matter how he reasoned, there was no conceivable reason for Kinusaga to come here now. As it increasingly seemed this must indeed be Tamamo, he resolved to ascertain her true form once more and boldly moved to pursue again—but the moment he stepped forward, his foot was abruptly yanked back. Someone had seized his sleeve with iron grip.

“Chiematsu Taro, wait!” He immediately recognized his master’s voice even in these circumstances, so when he hastily twisted around, the one gripping his sleeve was his senior disciple Yasutada. Beside him stood Harima no Kami Yasuchika.

“Chiematsu Taro.” “You have done splendid work,” said Yasuchika, looking down at the disciple kneeling at his feet. “There is no need to pursue further.” “I have indeed confirmed its true identity.” “Having heard your appeal from Yasutada, I myself went to investigate.” “You did well to inform me.” “You have my deepest gratitude.” “With this, all true identities stand revealed.”

The master spoke in a tone that seemed deeply satisfied, but the disciple could not quite comprehend it. Chiematsu Taro fearfully asked. “And who might the owner of that oxcart be?” “How did it appear to your eyes?” “That is unmistakably Tamamo.” “Would that be Lady Tamamo?” “If not her, who did you take it to be?” “If you thought that was Miura’s daughter, you’ve made a grave error,” Yasuchika said with a meaningful smile.

Chiematsu Taro was alarmed again. Since his master also seemed to see through to the depths of his heart, he remained crouched small with his head hung low, as though pressed down by a heavy stone.

“The night has grown late,” said Yasuchika, looking up at the shadow of the dimmed moon. “I shall return to the residence at once. “Chiematsu Taro, come along with me.” Even without any formal pronouncement, this meant his disownment had been forgiven. Chiematsu Taro rejoiced as if resurrected and returned to Kyoto with Yasutada in their master’s retinue. Upon returning, Yasuchika immediately summoned two other skilled disciples besides these two into the inner chambers. All were men who had presented ritual streamers at the riverbed prayer. The master addressed his four disciples.

“Through Chiematsu Taro’s appeal, everything has become clear. The mysterious woman making nightly pilgrimages to that ancient burial mound has been confirmed beyond doubt as Tamamo. My assessment is this—the spirit inhabiting that mound has taken residence within the maiden called Algae, unleashing calamity upon the world. Therefore, at dawn’s first light, I shall petition Lord Yorinaga of Uji. We shall construct a subjugation altar around that burial mound and perform the demon-quelling rites anew. Remember—to drive out birds, first burn their nests. This time, we conduct a ritual of utmost consequence! Let not a single moment’s complacency weaken your resolve!”

The master's face, illuminated by the lingering moon's light at dawn, held a terrifying divine radiance. His visage, gaunt from days and nights of ceaseless ritual prayer, now blazed with brilliance. The four disciples withdrew from their master's presence in awe, though the bright lamp in Yasuchika's chamber remained lit until daybreak.

The disciples had no sooner returned to their rooms and started to doze off than their master’s voice was suddenly heard.

“The night has already dawned!” “Yasutada, make haste and prepare to depart for Uji.” “Make haste and go!” “Understood.”

Yasutada immediately sprang up and left the residence. Ordinarily this errand would have been assigned to him—with a feeling akin to envy, Chiematsu Taro went out to see Yasutada off at the gate. The east had just begun to pale, and through the shadow of deep fog that filled the land, Yasutada strode forward with powerful steps—a sight so gallant and reassuring that Chiematsu Taro found himself gripped by a peculiar tension. Since people of this era traveled between the capital and Uji on foot, it stood to reason the return would be late. Chiematsu Taro thought he would go back to Yamashina once before Yasutada returned.

“Since I left last night without returning, Uncle and Aunt must surely be worried.” “I wish to return during the day and explain the circumstances…” he requested before his Master.

“A most reasonable request.” “Go and properly inform Uncle and Aunt.”

Having received his master’s permission, Chiematsu Taro departed from the Tsuchimikado residence. On the way there, he found himself assailed by unwarranted doubt once more. He himself had initially doubted it, and his master had indeed declared it so—but was the oxcart’s owner truly Tamamo? The woman’s face he had seen seemed to resemble Kinusaga’s, and notably, her person emitted no radiance whatsoever. Of course, even as he told himself he must trust his master’s discerning eye over his own in this matter, he nevertheless turned his steps toward Shichijo to resolve his lingering doubts.

When he went to Miura’s mansion and met with the retainer, the retainer gave the same response as yesterday, saying that nothing had changed since then. “Might your young lady have gone out secretly somewhere last night?” Chiematsu Taro cautiously probed. “Not at all—this is a period of mourning,” the retainer answered as if dismissing the matter from the start. “Moreover, where would she go in the dark of night?”

Hearing this, Chiematsu Taro felt relieved. There was no longer any need for doubt. That I had mistaken the oxcart's owner for Kinusaga was due to my own misperception—she was undoubtedly Tamamo after all. Yet, "falling in love with me is unnecessary"—the meaning of this phrase eluded me completely. Hadn't Tamamo herself repeatedly pressed closer, trying to arrange a tryst from her own initiative? Whether it was true love or not was a separate matter—to go so far as to declare she would take my life if I did not abandon my feelings was utterly terrifying. Chiematsu Taro considered the problem from various angles.

The mysterious court lady who had appeared at Miura’s mansion had told Kinusaga to return to her hometown quickly. Last night’s mysterious woman had told me to give up on love. When piecing these together—that Tamamo was jealous my own heart was being drawn toward Kinusaga—she must have used various means both to intimidate her and simultaneously attempt to intimidate me. Last night as well, she must have shown me Kinusaga’s figure and, imitating her voice, tried to frighten me.

As I reasoned through this step by step, Tamamo was undeniably a demonic being. There remained not a shred of doubt. Chiematsu Taro summoned every ounce of courage and resolved to destroy this fearsome demon alongside his master. He raised his masculine brows and walked with firm steps upon the earth—gazing up at the cloudless vault above—just as Yasutada had done that dawn.

Uncle had gone out on business and was away. After meeting his aunt and briefly explaining why his disownment had been revoked, Chiematsu Taro immediately returned to the capital. When he returned to the Tsuchimikado residence, Yasutada had already arrived back before him. He had met Yorinaga on his way to Uji and been given a ride in an ox-drawn carriage. "We have finally resolved to perform the final ritual prayer at that ancient burial mound tomorrow." "Lord Yorinaga commands that the mound be excavated." "That too shall be done." "In any event, tomorrow is of grave importance." "Do not grow negligent," Yasuchika solemnly declared once more. "Chiematsu Taro, through your merits in this endeavor, I shall include you among those conducting ritual prayers."

Chiematsu Taro choked back tears and expressed gratitude for his master’s benevolence. In the middle of that night, he had a strange dream.

He did not know where they were, but he was walking across a vast grassland with Miura's granddaughter. There, wild chrysanthemums and bellflowers bloomed in profusion while autumn butterflies fluttered about. The two walked hand-in-hand through the field when they encountered what seemed a hidden pitfall among the grass. Kinusaga’s figure sank abruptly as though vanishing into nothingness. The instant this thought struck him, Tamamo’s form materialized vividly before his eyes. “Even should you attempt to turn your heart toward Miura’s daughter,” “You and Algae share a bond forged through past lives.” “However fiercely you may resolve to oppose me,” “This fated tether between us shall never break.” “Though we part now,” “A season shall come when our paths cross anew.” “Remember this well.”

She pointed to a large, strangely shaped stone deep in the grass and vanished. Chiematsu Taro awoke from his dream. When dawn broke, he suddenly felt a tightness in his chest, and neither hot water nor rice would go down his throat. However, as this was a crucial day, he forced himself to rise early and began preparing for the ritual prayer alongside the other disciples. Since Yasuchika was under house arrest, it would have been improper for him to walk openly through Kyoto's streets by daylight. He therefore rode in an ox-drawn carriage provided by Yorinaga, its blinds lowered on all sides, and slipped quietly out of the residence. The other disciples pulled their hats down low and followed behind him.

Under Yorinaga’s command, the Genji samurai retainers had formed a strict perimeter around that forest. Among them stood Miura no Suke Yoshimitsu, clad in a hitatare of magnolia-patterned fabric with a navy silk underbelly wrap, holding a black-lacquered wisteria-patterned bow at the ready. Miura’s faction—today marking their first duty since arriving in the capital—were filled with courage, both he and his retainers. Tightening the new eboshi cord that Chiematsu Taro had folded for him, Ko Genji also held his large naganaki at the ready. Pushing through this imposing security cordon, Yasuchika’s group entered the depths of the forest—dim even at midday. The obstructive trees had been cut down by the warriors, and there a ritual platform stood erected. The overcast autumn sky hung low, and in the forest, not even the cry of a single bird could be heard.

Four ascended the platform, just as in the Kawahara ritual. They wore ritual vestments patterned after five colors as before. Yasuchika’s figure stood white. Before the circular ancient burial mound buried under fallen leaves, the prayer ritual began at the Hour of the Horse—noon—but continued unceasing into night, until bonfires were lit around. The fires swayed in night winds creeping through trees—now darkly veiling five-colored shadows, now starkly revealing them—a truly fearsome spectacle. Guards held breath alongside grass and trees awaiting this ferocious prayer’s outcome until past the Hour of the Boar—10 PM—when wind shook treetops in one fierce gust, and the silent mound began swaying earthquake-like.

It was at this moment. Yasuchika, who had been sitting at the center of the platform, suddenly stood up and, while raising high the white ritual wand he had held to his forehead, hurled it toward the mound. The large mound gave one violent shake and split cleanly in two like a split pomegranate.

Sesshōseki (Killing Stone)

1

It was that night.

At the Regent’s mansion, a great number of court ladies had gathered, and a poetry gathering was convened with Tamamo-no-Mae at its center. The moon on this night before the thirteenth night shone like a pure white jewel, so radiant that even this vast mansion seemed to shrink and sink beneath it, while the autumn night’s great sky stretched clear and high to the ends of a thousand miles. The theme for tonight was “The Moon Does Not Lodge.” Even the renowned poetesses of the day—Horikawa, Aki, and Kodaishin—bowed their white necks and sank into contemplation over this vexing theme. The gathering remained utterly silent, save for the faint sound of a weakening cricket choking back its mournful song at the base of the main hedge. This silence was broken by Tamamo’s sigh.

“The more I think on it, the more this proves a vexing challenge.”

“Indeed it is,” responded Horikawa, raising her troubled face in turn. “The Regent is a cruel man. To subject us to such a difficult challenge…” “But since it has come to this, it is a matter of a woman’s pride.” “No matter what, we must compose something—I say,” said Aki, wrinkling her forehead. At the edge of the veranda, the sound of laughter suddenly rang out.

“Haha! You dare call Us cruel? If those deemed worthy of inclusion in the Kyu’an Hundred Poems should struggle so over composing such verses, it will surely resound through posterity.”

The women all turned their star-like eyes toward the person who had just entered. The person was their master, Tadamichi. Tadamichi had presented this challenging theme to the women some time earlier and withdrawn to his private quarters for a while. When he judged the time right and returned to find no trace of brushstrokes on anyone’s colored paper or poem strips, he leaned back and laughed as though it were irresistibly amusing.

“What about you, Tamamo?” “It is beyond even my abilities,” Tamamo replied bashfully. “If even Lady Tamamo cannot compose such a poem, how could we possibly manage?” said Horikawa exasperatedly. “Even if Tamamo cannot do it, it does not necessarily mean that you all cannot—this is cowardice!” Tadamichi laughed again.

Yet deep within Tadamichi's heart festered irrepressible satisfaction and pride. These women were all senior to Tamamo, long renowned for their literary talents. Thus out of jealousy toward her, none had interacted familiarly with Tamamo until this day. But since her rainmaking ritual—and particularly after her formal appointment as Court Lady—all now competed to bask in her shadow. Though aware that clinging to power was society's way, Tadamichi found himself unable to scorn them. He strained to interpret this as goodwill—to believe every talented woman had finally humbled herself to serve at Tamamo's hem. Hence tonight's poetry gathering hosted by Tamamo; seeing every court lady assemble promptly to honor one so much younger filled him with unfamiliar delight. The melancholy lingering since summer lifted completely, leaving his heart as radiantly clear as tonight's boundless sky.

“Tamamo, how about it? “Everyone urges you so—you should take the first brushstroke on that poem strip… “We shall recite it. “Hurry up and write it!”

Tamamo remained bowed in contemplation, but soon began murmuring the first verse in a low voice. "The pond meant to lodge lies buried under fallen leaves—"

Having said this much, she suddenly swallowed her breath. She raised the corners of her eyes as though pulled upward, jerked upright and slid out to the veranda's edge—and though no one had noticed until now, the bright moon abruptly darkened, while the heavy sky descended dark and low as though to crush the world beneath its weight. Those who had been so pleased with themselves for presenting the challenging theme, and those who had been vexed by it alike, now strained their eyes as if realizing for the first time and gazed at the darkened sky and the shadowed garden. The insects too made no sound of their chirping, as if they had hushed their voices.

Tamamo stared unblinkingly at the dark sky that seemed to press down ever closer, and Tadamichi too emerged near the edge, equally sensing the ominous aura of the night. “Ah, it seems a night storm is about to break out.” “On the evening of this spring’s flower banquet as well, I saw this same ominous hue in the sky.” His prediction did not miss the mark. No sooner had weak lightning stained his noble robe’s sleeve a pale blue than it raced onward, shaking every blade of grass and every tree in the garden at once as a tremendous storm swirled in with a roar. The large mansion shook violently like an earthquake, so Tadamichi nearly toppled over and grabbed Tamamo’s hand.

“It may well be the work of a mononoke.” “Do not linger near the edge and make no errors.” Pulled up, Tamamo staggered back to her seat. Moreover, as if fearing something, she buried her pale face in both sleeves and prostrated herself there. The night storm seemed to subside for a time. Yet the dark sky pressed ever lower, and it seemed as if some monstrous phenomenon might assail the mansion’s roof at any moment. “There are samurai! Quickly, come in!” “Hurry and get in here!” Tadamichi shouted in a loud voice.

The nightwatch samurai guards came rushing in, scattered along the garden path. Among them stood out Kumetake—a burly samurai recently summoned from Tsukushi—who crouched in the front garden with a large axe thrust into his belt.

“What a dreadful night this is—do not neglect your vigilance!” Tadamichi said. The women stiffened their bodies and huddled together in one place; not a single one made a sound. No sooner had lightning streaked again—threatening them by stealing the lamplight from the room and brightening the surroundings—than an indescribable strange odor, like burning women’s black hair, welled up from nowhere and seeped into the nostrils of the silent crowd.

“Ah, Lady Tamamo…!” Kumetake straightened up from beneath the veranda and shouted. Tamamo trembled violently as though poisoned. Her long hair stood on end and writhed wildly like thousands of enraged serpents. Tadamichi called out in alarm.

“Tamamo. “There is no need for such fear. “We are also here. “My strong warriors are stationed about.” She gave no answer. Or perhaps she could not answer. She writhed as if her bones and flesh were being scorched away, making no attempt to raise her face again. “Tamamo! Tamamo!” Tadamichi shouted once more. The night storm roared down again, extinguishing both the hall’s lamps and the samurai’s torches in an instant—then a strange light burst forth from Tamamo’s anguished, thrashing form. It differed not at all from the marvel witnessed during that evening’s flower banquet. Within that radiance, Tamamo rose upright. The ghastliness of her face emerging from wildly disheveled hair—Tadamichi instinctively recoiled and averted his gaze—whereupon she rippled her supple shoulders in great undulations, exhaling a faint white breath like flames, glared fiercely about her, and staggered unsteadily toward the veranda’s edge. Kumetake—that Tsukushi-born warrior—indeed recognized her as a demonic being. Without hesitation, he adjusted his grip on the axe and planted one foot on the veranda’s step—and in that very instant— A blinding lightning bolt flashed forth, hoisting his form high into the air like a brooding bird snatched by an eagle.

The world turned pitch black as though reverting to primordial darkness, and the earth groaned and shuddered as though struck by a thunderclap. Tadamichi too was dazzled and prostrated himself. The women's breath caught and they lost consciousness. As the samurai guards too covered their faces and lay prostrate on the ground, what came hurtling down from the black clouds into the front garden was none other than the corpse of Kumetake. His body had been torn in two from between the thighs. The people who had been terrified by this supernatural phenomenon finally let out a breath as if brought back to life, but only after a short while had passed. When the torches were lit again, exposing Kumetake's gruesome corpse before everyone, some of the faint-hearted women lost consciousness once more. Tadamichi too remained speechless for a time. Tamamo's figure vanished without a trace.

“A messenger from Lord Yorinaga, the Left Minister of Uji.”

The one who arrived on a swift horse at the mansion’s gate was Yorinaga’s retainer, Fujinai Hyōe Tōmitsu. He had rushed from Yamashina to the capital immediately to confirm Tamamo’s condition. Summoned before Tadamichi and reporting the results of today’s ritual prayer, he found Tadamichi—startled by the repeated supernatural phenomena—letting out a deep sigh.

“Ah, so the ancient burial mound has split in two. And what had been buried at the bottom of the mound?” “Human bones, mirrors, swords, magatama beads—none of those were found. Only one unglazed pot was discovered,” Tōmitsu explained. “An unglazed pot…” “When we shattered it and examined the contents, we found a bundle of long black hair concealed inside.” “A woman’s?”

“It is indeed as you say. Yasuchika burned that black hair and further attempted a secret ritual prayer.”

“Ah, so that’s it,” Tadamichi nodded as if something had dawned on him. “Along with the burning away of that black hair, Tamamo’s form must have vanished as well.”

By then, the clouds had gradually thinned, and in the darkened sky, two or three autumn stars began to twinkle.

Two

Tamamo’s whereabouts were naturally unknown. She had probably grabbed Kumetake and flown far off into the void. In any case, since the witch had vanished, Yorinaga’s faction raised cries of victory and celebrated. Abe no Yasuchika was promoted to Junior Third Rank for his unparalleled achievement in dispelling the demonic entity.

“Yasuchika has now fulfilled his duty.”

He faced the mirror for the first time and was shocked to find his sideburns and beard had suddenly turned white. For him, this was the honor of his lifetime and the glory for generations to come. The mansion gates, which had been closed until now, were thrown wide open from the following morning, and celebratory crowds thronged before the entrance.

Amidst the bustling mansion, there was a young man who sat alone in dejection. That was Chieda Tarō Yasukiyo. He had forced himself to endure the sudden tightness in his chest since that morning and joined the ritual entourage. When the ritual prayer ended, he was utterly exhausted, as if his soul had left him. The following day as well, his chest remained tightly constricted, and even water would not pass down his throat.

“It’s because your tightly wound nerves have relaxed. Calm yourself and get some rest,” his senior apprentice Yasutada kindly advised.

The tension had eased—but he couldn't help feeling it wasn't just that.

The demon had vanished—this was undoubtedly a cause for celebration, but at the same time, the fact that the beautiful woman called Algae had completely disappeared from this world struck Chieda Tarō as profoundly sad. Now that it had come to this, even if she did harbor a demon’s essence, he wished he could have kept the form of the woman called Algae in this world a little longer. He was suddenly overcome with longing for Algae. Though it was to quell the world’s calamity, he now found himself regretting having carelessly divulged the ancient burial mound’s secret to his senior apprentice. Though he knew it was foolish, he still yearned for Algae. He longed for Tamamo, who had borrowed that form.

To heal this unresolved heartache, he decided to visit Miura's daughter. On the afternoon of the third day after the ritual prayer, Chiematsu Tarō slipped away to Shichijō and stood before the gate of Miura's lodging, where he received an unexpected report from Ko Genji.

“Do you not yet know?” “Lady Kinusaga passed away the night before last.” “Lady Kinusaga has perished…” Chiematsu Tarō was so shocked he couldn’t utter a sound. According to Ko Genji’s account, around the Hour of the Boar on the night of the ritual prayer—at nearly the same moment Yasuchika burned that black hair in the flames—she had abruptly departed this world. Since all the men of the mansion had been away accompanying their master to Yamashina Village, the exact details remained unclear, but the maidservants whispered that at that time, the mysterious upper-class lady had once again appeared in the garden.

“Therefore, we suspect Tamamo took advantage of our lord’s absence to curse Lady Kinusaga. When that witch reveals her true form and takes flight, she seizes and slaughters those she deems hateful. That seems plausible enough, but why she would harbor such relentless malice toward Lady Kinusaga—that remains unclear. The lord’s extraordinary grief is such that even outsiders find it heartrending to behold. Had they known this would happen, they would never have gone to the trouble of bringing their precious granddaughter to the capital—so such condolences are hardly unreasonable,” said Ko Genji, his voice thick with emotion.

Chiematsu Tarō found himself gripped by fresh grief. Though no one could possibly fathom why Tamamo had taken Kinusaga's life, he couldn't claim complete ignorance. Tamamo's terrible jealousy - he felt certain this must be the root of the calamity. In a different sense than Miura no Suke's regret over bringing his granddaughter, he bitterly rued ever visiting Miura's lodgings. Vividly he recalled again that strange dream from the night before the ritual prayer.

“When I think back, it’s truly a pitiful affair,” Chiematsu Tarō said, blinking his moistened eyelids. “I can well imagine your feelings. Please convey our condolences to Lord Miura as well.” After parting with Ko Genji, he returned to the Tsuchimikado mansion with a heavy heart. Even so, as days passed, his vitality gradually recovered. As he watched his master and the other disciples’ bright faces, his knotted chest naturally began to loosen.

About ten days later, he obtained his master’s permission and went to Yamashina, where both his uncle and aunt rejoiced at his achievement. At the same time, he was told an unexpected story here as well.

“Your longtime acquaintance, the old potter, has died suddenly,” the uncle sympathetically whispered. "Oh, that old man died?" Chiematsu Tarō was surprised anew. "It was precisely the morning after that ritual prayer." “Always an early riser, that old man hadn’t opened his door even as the sun had risen high. Growing suspicious, the neighbors peered through a gap and found him halfway out of his paper quilt, both hands clawing at empty air…” “Ah, he was a good man, wasn’t he?” “He truly was a good man, wasn’t he,” Chiematsu Tarō echoed with a deep sigh.

“He truly was a good man, wasn’t he,” Chiematsu echoed, letting out a deep sigh. Yagorō, who claimed to have seen the woman making nightly visits to the ancient burial mound, had his throat torn out by something and died. The old potter who had told Chiematsu about it also died on the same night as Miura’s granddaughter. Putting all these together, he was seized by a kind of intense terror. Centered around the woman called Tamamo, various sorrows and fears once again placed a heavy stone upon Chiematsu Tarō’s chest. He placed a bundle of wildflowers at the old man's grave and returned.

It was the beginning of the following month.

An urgent report arrived in the capital via swift horse from Nasu Hachirō Muneshige, a resident of Nasu in Yashū. From mid-September onward, a White-faced Golden Nine-tailed Fox had appeared in Nasu's Shinohara plains, routinely preying on passing travelers while terrorizing nearby homes—slaughtering every human and animal in sight indiscriminately. Muneshige promptly gathered his forces and conducted several fox hunts, but the supernatural beast with its divine powers manifested unpredictably there, now hiding, now reappearing, proving utterly beyond their control. In the end, he resolved to report this matter directly to the throne. Yorinaga immediately summoned Yasuchika and had him perform a divination, whereupon it was determined that the golden nine-tailed monstrous beast was indeed Tamamo's form. Tamamo had flown off to the eastern provinces and made Nasu Moorland her hideout.

“It is likely beyond Muneshige’s sole capabilities,” Yasuchika proposed. “While I remain in the capital to attempt another demon subjugation, may your lordship arrange to dispatch suitable warriors from both Minamoto and Taira clans to the eastern provinces, that they might join forces with Muneshige to exterminate the monstrous beast.” Since Tamamo’s true form had been revealed, Regent Tadamichi had lost face before society. Dainagon Moromichi too resigned from his government post, claiming illness. Particularly as Regent Tadamichi—having been beguiled by a demonic being—had recommended her for appointment as a court lady, his responsibility grew all the more grave. He too relinquished his position as Regent and withdrew into seclusion at a mountain villa in Katsura Village.

Consequently, the court at that time was under Yorinaga’s control. Yorinaga, having accepted Yasuchika’s counsel, was endeavoring to select suitable warriors from among the Minamoto and Taira clans. When word of this leaked out, the first to come forward with a request was Miura no Suke Yoshimitsu.

Miura was born in the eastern provinces. Though advanced in years, he was highly skilled in archery. Above all, he had lost his most beloved granddaughter to the demon’s hand. Taking all these circumstances into account, the court’s deliberations unanimously settled on selecting him. Yorinaga had intended to assign him alone; however, given that the Minamoto and Taira clans stood as equals, the argument that selecting one worthy warrior from the Taira to counterbalance the Minamoto’s Miura was necessary to preserve equilibrium prevailed, leading to Kazusa no Suke Hirotsune being chosen from the Taira. Hirotsune was still twenty-nine years old and was also born in the eastern provinces.

Miura and Kazusa no Suke immediately made their preparations and hurried down to the eastern provinces. Yasuchika once again prepared a demon subjugation altar within the mansion. Yasutada and the other disciples also took their places upon the altar. Chiematsu Tarō was naturally included among them, yet he found his spirit strangely unmoored, unable to muster the same tense resolve as before. He had grown weary of the daily solemn prayers.

It was a day in late October.

In the capital, this year's winter had descended as if rushing in—days of sunless, bone-chilling cold had persisted—and just when this morning had shown the rare sight of a clear blue sky, shower clouds suddenly gathered from somewhere, and large hailstones came pattering down. Chiematsu Tarō wondered from afar whether such hail was also scattering upon the armored sleeves of Miura and Kazusa, who had been hunting day after day in Nasu's Shinohara plains. And he contemplated the fate of Tamamo, who would soon be destined to be pierced by their arrowheads. While he was thus distracted by these thoughts, his ritual prayers naturally became neglected. This negligence was immediately noticed by his master.

“Chiematsu Tarō.” “Today is a crucial day.” “You shall not falter.” “Withdraw!” Yasuchika harshly scolded him and expelled him from the prayer platform. And he had another disciple named Yasufuji take his place. That day at the Hour of the Sheep (2:00 PM). Yasuchika gathered the blue,yellow red,and black ritual streamers from his four disciples,bundled them together with his white streamer,and descended from the altar to stand at veranda’s edge. Amidst clattering hail now falling he gazed eastward and cast up all five-colored streamers at once.Four danced through air before falling back into garden,but one white streamer raced endlessly across high heavens like white bird in flight.

Yasuchika leapt up and watched its path.

“The malevolent spirit has surely been sealed where that streamer fell.” It was precisely on this day and at this hour. Miura and Kazusa hunted through the hail in Nasu’s Shinohara plains and shot down the golden-haired fox. Miura's black arrow pierced the fox's neck. Kazusa's white arrow pierced the fox's flank. The report was conveyed to the capital by swift horse merely five days later. Harima no Kami Yasuchika once again regained his honor. However, due to accumulated mental strain, he was bedridden for about ten days thereafter. One evening during that time, Chiematsu Tarō slipped away from the sickbed and his whereabouts became unknown. After recovering from his illness and learning of it, Yasuchika sighed deeply and admonished his disciples.

“He has likely wandered off to Nasu Moorland. After all, the mark of the supernatural upon his face will not fade. Even if one tries to save him, he will not be saved. This too is an inescapable karmic fate.”

The disciples no longer attempted to search for his whereabouts.

Three

"The fox had a face white as snow, its torso and four limbs' fur gleaming like gold, and its tail split into nine parts—so they say." A traveler in his forties furrowed his brow and spoke fearfully. The young traveler who was silently listening to this was Chiematsu Tarō.

The traveler speaking of this was a gold merchant who had returned from Mutsu. The great waters of the Tone River had thinned with winter's approach, and endless riverbed stones glistened white beneath the blue sky. The two travelers seated themselves on those stones, basking in the warm midday shade at their backs as they sat side by side.

“If it were such a fox... It wouldn’t be easily hunted down,” Chiematsu Tarō murmured as if to himself. “For over seven days, they couldn’t find its hiding place,” the gold merchant continued. “But then, on an afternoon when the sky kept darkening intermittently from morning and large hailstones began to fall…” “Out of nowhere, a single white ritual streamer came flying through the air, and no sooner had it fallen deep into the thicket of pampas grass than a terrifying wind—capable of knocking down both people and horses—burst forth with a roar, and from within that thicket emerged the fox.” “Miura and Kazusa no Suke both gave chase and shot it down like hounds pursuing prey—or so they say—but its lingering grudge was terrifying.” “No sooner had it been shot down by their bows than the fox’s form instantly turned into a large stone—so they say.”

“Turned to stone,” Chiematsu Tarō exclaimed, his eyes widening. “Oh, it turned into a stone of most peculiar shape,” the gold merchant nodded. “No, that’s not all. Those who approach that stone’s edge are instantly struck with dizziness and collapse. Even beasts perish immediately. Even birds flying through the sky—if they pass over it—die and fall.”

“Is that certain? Is it true?” “Why would I lie? I passed through that land and heard all the details from the locals. The stone is feared as Sesshōseki (Killing Stone)—so much so that none dare approach it. Around it lie human corpses, animal bones, and bird wings piled mountain-high; it’s said to look exactly like a terrifying graveyard. If you too are journeying to Mutsu, take care when passing through Nasu Moorland. Even if you forget everything else, you must not approach the vicinity of that Sesshōseki (Killing Stone).”

“Such a terrifying tale—this is the first time I’ve heard anything like it,” said Chiematsu Tarō Yasukiyo, sinking into deep thought. “So… does a soul remain within that stone?” “A terrifying grudge dwells within it,” replied the gold merchant. “Everyone says so. Even someone as seasoned in travel as I had my hair stand on end when hearing that tale—I ran through without so much as a sideways glance. You’re young and might approach that Sesshōseki out of curiosity, but that’s something only those with two lives to spare would do. Never forget my warning!”

As if the kind advice fell on deaf ears, Chiematsu Tarō gazed at the sky across the river with wide, shining eyes. Just as his master Yasuchika had foreseen, he had slipped out of the capital’s mansion and wandered all the way down to these eastern provinces. Why had he come all the way here? He knew well that Tamamo was a witch. He had no room left to doubt it. The golden-haired nine-tailed beast that had flown over from a foreign land—having borrowed the body of a maiden named Algae to bring calamity upon the world—had been prayed down by Master Yasuchika and shot dead by Miura and Kazusa. Yet despite knowing all this, he still longed for the Algae of old. He yearned for the Tamamo of now.

Even a witch would do. Even a monstrous beast would do. At the very least, he wanted to visit her place of death just once.—Unable to endure these thoughts any longer, he finally strayed from his master’s house. The days of his lonely journey had piled up, and after traversing the villages of Musashi where plume grass grew thick, when he finally reached the banks of the Tone River, he encountered a gold merchant returning from Mutsu and was told the eerie tale of Nasu Moorland. However, rather than being shocked by its strangeness, his heart was instead dominated by a certain sense of resolve. Even if Tamamo had perished in vain, her soul dwelled within the stone, remaining as though alive. Given that this was fact, he need not wander the endless Nasu Moorland and walk about searching for Tamamo’s death place, whose location was unknown. The location of her soul had indeed been ascertained to be there. Chiematsu Tarō felt happy, as if his deliberate visit had been worthwhile.

“I am most humbly grateful for your many considerations.”

He parted there with the merchant returning to the capital. And then he hurried northward once more. Several days later, when he set foot in Nasu and asked the locals, he found that the rumors of Sesshōseki were true. He deliberately chose the dead of night to steal away into the depths of Nasu Moorland.

In the depth of a mid-November night, an endless frost as deep as snow had settled over Nasu Moorland. The winter moon, terrifyingly high and piercingly clear, made the frost-buried withered pampas grasses glitter like countless broken swords—there was no sound of birds singing. No shadow of wandering beasts could be seen. The great plain stretching from Noshū to Mutsu lay quietly asleep at the bottom of the vast night, like a graveyard.

In fact, that place was a terrifying graveyard. Just as the gold merchant had described, deep in the moorland lay a large, bizarre stone, and around it countless bones and feathers lay piled in heaps. Chiematsu Tarō swam through the withered pampas grass so tall they hid even his hat’s brim, clambered over the towering mountains of skeletons scattered about, and at long last stood facing the stone. It was a windless night, and neither the pampas grass nor plume grass surrounding him so much as rustled. The stone did not move.

Chiematsu Tarō gazed at the stone harboring Tamamo's soul in the moonlight for a time. He had not thought to pray for Tamamo's afterlife. He had not even thought to urge the beast to awaken bodhicitta. He simply longed for the witch who had united Algae and Tamamo into one. Tears spilled forth uncontrollably from his eyes fixed intently on the stone, and unable to bear it, he called out to the stone.

“Algae! Tamamo! It’s Chiematsu Tarō.” Whether it was his imagination or not, the stone began to sway gently, as if responding. He continued calling out.

“Algae! “Tamamo…” “Chiematsu Tarō has come to see you!”

The stone swayed gently again. And then, the standing figure of a single resplendent court lady emerged like a phantom. Wearing a willow-patterned five-layered robe and crimson hakama trousers, her figure layered with a Chinese-style jacket was the familiar Tamamo.

“Lord Chiematsu Tarō, how gracious of you to have come.” “In delight at your devotion, I shall show my former guise once more.”

Illuminated by the winter moon, she shone as brightly as she had in days of old. As Chiematsu Tarō, in his dreamlike state, tried to run closer, she blocked him as if sweeping him away with her cypress fan.

“If you truly bore such devotion, why did you repay my kindness with enmity all this time and side with your master? You even turned your heart toward Miura’s daughter for but a moment! That I loathe—that I resent! However deeply you may now claim to love me, a great divide has been forged between us. Should you seek to approach, you shall find yourself barred.”

“That was my fault. Please forgive me,” Chiematsu Tarō cried, throwing himself onto the frost-covered dead grass. “To have doubted you until now was my mistake. To have feared you was an even greater error. Even were you witch or demoness or beast—had I found you dear, I should never have doubted; had I longed for you, I should never have feared. Not only did I waste days and months doubting and fearing thus, but in siding with my master to curse you as foe—this stands as Chiematsu Tarō’s lifelong failing. This I offer as apology. Show me mercy.”

He now belatedly regretted not having allied himself with the demon sooner. To have loved the demon, become her ally, and perished together with her—that would have been his true desire. Clawing at the withered grass spread over his knees, he choked on tears of endless remorse. Tamamo gazed fixedly at the glistening beads of his hot tears, then said in a gentle voice.

“Are you so deeply in love with me? Would you cast aside your humanity to dwell with me?” “Oh, if there is a place where we can dwell together, I will surely go—be it the demonic path or hell itself!” he declared, his eyes blazing with unbearable passion. Tamamo smiled beautifully. She quietly raised her fan and beckoned the man kneeling before her.

A young traveler was discovered several days later having collapsed with Sesshōseki—the Killing Stone—as his pillow. The traveler appeared to have entered a long, peaceful slumber with a faint smile. Yet as none dared enter that dreadful graveyard to retrieve and tend to his remains, he was left abandoned there for eternity.

Before long, the cold winter pressed in from the north of Mutsu, and Nasu Moorland was buried beneath a blanket of snow.

When spring came the following year, the Sesshōseki (Killing Stone) gradually revealed its bizarre form from beneath the snow once more, but the traveler’s figure was nowhere to be seen. He might have vanished along with the melting snow.

Within less than ten years, two great calamities befell the capital, and it was burned. A great number of people were cut down as if scything grass. These were the Hōgen and Heiji Rebellions. Moreover, historians of old seem to have overlooked how the witch’s curse clung to the dark shadows of these two great rebellions. Yorinaga, who had destroyed Tamamo, became the instigator of the Hōgen Rebellion and was struck by a stray arrow of unknown origin. Shinzei Nyūdō persisted in his cunning ways, escaping unscathed through the earlier rebellion, but in the subsequent Heiji Rebellion, he was marked as the primary enemy. Perceiving his inescapable fate, he buried himself alive in the earth, only to be dug out once more by his enemies, who then displayed his elderly monk’s head upon the prison gate.

Tamamo's enemies were thus all gruesomely destroyed. Tadamichi secluded himself at Hosshō-ji Temple and shaved his head. Yasuchika alone emerged unscathed, his lineage flourishing.

It is said that it was a hundred years later that the Sesshōseki (Killing Stone) of Nasu Moorland was shattered by Monk Gen'ō's shout.