Pathway to Japanese Literature

In seeking to render visible the concept of single-minded devotion by harnessing an invisible supernatural force and projecting it against an ethereal backdrop, I conceived this narrative approach.
The reason I did not adapt this as a Japanese story is that I believed this concept would not harmonize with my country’s customs.
Due to my shallow learning and unfamiliarity with the circumstances of ancient knights, my narrative may lack propriety and my depictions may often stray from truth; I await the readers’ guidance.

It is a tale from a distant age.

Those who styled themselves Barons built castles and encircled them with moats, returning to an ancient era of slaughtering men and defying heaven.
This is not a story of the present age.

The time remains unclear.
In an age spoken of only as the reign of King Arthur, a Breton knight once fell in love with a Breton maiden.
In those days, love could not be trifled with.
To blow passion's burning breath upon a beloved's lips required breaking one's own arm, crushing one's own neck—at times even spilling life's blood without mercy.
Thus spake the Breton woman to her lovesick suitor: "Should you wish your love fulfilled, utterly defeat the Knights of the Round Table, proclaim me peerless among beauties, capture Arthur's famed reared falcon and deliver it unto me." When the man—deeming this reasonable—swore upon the long sword at his hip, no force in heaven or earth could thwart his purpose; through a fairy queen's aid, he accomplished all the woman commanded.
When one read the parchment fastened to the slender golden chain about the falcon's leg, it proved thirty-one articles concerning love's laws.
This was called the constitution of the "Court of Love."... One must consider that the shield's tale unfolded during this constitution's zenith.

To block roads was a custom practiced among knights of that era.
They would station themselves on narrow thoroughfares and challenge passing warriors to battle.
When spear tips bent and horses’ muzzles met across saddles’ pommels—once thrown helplessly into that hollow—none passed unscathed.
Armor and helm and steed were all seized.
Samurai who blocked roads were bandits cloaked in warrior’s honor.
Thirty days they kept vigil—raising my banner among roadside trees and sounding trumpets while awaiting challengers.
Today they waited; tomorrow too; day after day without cease.
They waited until thirty days had run their course.
At times they waited with beauties plucked from their heart’s desire.
Noblewomen slipped through checkpoints hidden within guardian knights’ armored sleeves.
Guardian knights ever crossed spears with road-blockers.
Refuse combat? Then neither knight nor lady sworn through two lifetimes passed.
In fourteen hundred forty-nine lived one styled Burgundian bastard who held La Belle Jardine thirty days—a tale still told.
Regret endures—that beauty who shared those thirty days remains known only as Child of Pure Pilgrimage.
…Know then: this shield’s tale belongs to that age.

It was impossible to tell from which age this shield dated.
Nor was it akin to a Pavise—those triangular shields inverted to create full-body coverage—in size.
Nor was it of the type called Giji that hung from the shoulders via leather straps.
Nor was it of course a later model with an iron grid pierced into its upper section and a mechanism to fire firearms through a central aperture.
When it had been forged, or by whom—even William, the shield’s owner, did not know.
William hung this shield on the wall of his chamber, gazing upon it morning and evening.
When people heard of it, they called it a mysterious shield.
They called it a spirit shield.
When taking this shield into battle, they said it was one that could fulfill their wishes across past, present, and future.
If asked if it had a name, they answered it was merely the Phantom Shield.
William did not speak of other matters.

The shield’s shape was round like the moon on a full-moon night. Its surface was entirely clad in dome-shaped steel, so its radiant hue resembled the moon itself. Around its edge, rivets the size of a little fingertip were embedded at neat intervals of about five bu apart. The rivets’ color too was silver. Inside their ring lay a circle measuring roughly four sun across, carved with arabesque patterns that showcased an artisan’s utmost skill. The pattern proved too intricate; at first glance it appeared as irregular ripples—like countless wrinkles forming under a breeze too faint to stir the skin. Whether flowers, vines or leaves—the way certain areas fiercely reflected light, assaulting the gaze more intensely than elsewhere—must have been remnants of ancient inlay work. Proceeding further inward revealed a flat base of extended plates that still shone like a mirror even now, reflecting anything that struck its surface. William’s face appeared there too. The fluttering plumes of William’s helmet swaying in the wind were likewise captured. Turned toward the sun, it would blaze with solar fire and reflect even the sun’s shadow. Were one to pursue birds, even the shadow of a swift falcon flying ten leagues without returning echoes would be mirrored there. When asked whether he ever took it down from the wall to polish it, William would say no. “The spirit shield shines without being polished,” he murmured as if speaking to himself.

The shield’s center formed a circle roughly five sun in diameter that rose outward. Upon this was seamlessly cast the terrifying face of a demon. That face eternally cursed heaven, earth, and those in between. When viewed from the right, it cursed to the right; when peered at from the left, it cursed to the left; for enemies facing it head-on, it naturally fixed its gaze straight ahead as it cursed. At times, it grew so terrifying that one might think it would even curse its owner hiding behind the shield. The hair stood utterly on end as though blasted by winds from all four seasons at once. Moreover, each individual strand ended in a round, flat snake’s head, their forked crevices protruding tongues that flickered like dying flames. Every single hair was a snake—all those snakes could be seen raising heads and flicking tongues, some tangling together, others twisting about, climbing upward or crawling outward. Within the five-sun circle, barely retaining the ferocious demon’s visage, what filled every inch from forehead to cheeks to naturally form the circular outline was this hair of snakes—these snakes of hair. One might have thought this was what the Gorgon of ancient times looked like. There had been a proverb that those who beheld a Gorgon turned to stone—anyone gazing intently upon this shield would realize that saying held more than mere fancy.

The shield bore a scar.
A diagonal sword slash ran visible from its right shoulder to the left.
Half-crushing one bead-like rivet and striking the head of a snake entwined around the ear of a demon resembling Gorgon Medusa, it bore a faint elongated dent across the flat expanse of extended plate.
When asked about this scar's origin, William said nothing.
If questioned whether he didn't know, he claimed he did.
If pressed whether he knew, he answered it was difficult to say.

Beneath the shield's unutterable origin lay unutterable love's bitter resentment.
Within its unspoken history coiled a cord of hope stretched taut enough to spurn both world and gods.
The tale William's heart retold nightly was bound by profound karmic chains to this shield.
In crisis lay its purpose—to grasp this shield... therein lay hope.
Its power dragged into daylight those shadowed remnants lingering in heart's depths—echoes from forgotten past lives.
Its force returned to windless antiquity those unseen waves—born of karmic gales through porous souls—that rose only to fall and fell only to rise.
"If only this shield exists"—William gazed up at its wall-mounted form.
The demon meant to curse heaven-earth-man now seemed to his eyes graced with a heavenly maiden's faint smile.
At times he even doubted—might this not hold his beloved's portrait?
Yet bitterest regret remained—that she never emerged to speak.

The one he longed for!
The person William longed for was not here.
She resided in Crow Castle twenty miles away, beyond three hills and across one great river.
William sometimes thought Crow Castle bore an ominous name from its very syllables.
Yet to that same Crow Castle he had often gone to play as a child.
Not merely in childhood—even after reaching manhood he had visited constantly.
Were Clara present there, he could not have restrained himself from going even to the sea's abyss.
Until recently he would go to Crow Castle and spend whole days conversing with Clara.
If it bore love's name, he would journey a thousand leagues.
Twenty miles scarce merited mention.
The starlight guarding night faded of its own accord, and at the hour when the eastern sky resembled vermilion kneaded into its fabric, a lone mounted warrior appeared upon White Castle's drawbridge.
...When the evening star first glimmered at the northern corner of the main keep's turret, hoofbeats again tore through twilight's boundary as they approached White Castle from afar.
The horse stood drenched in sweat, blowing white foam, while its rider cracked his whip and whistled.
By warring states custom, William had become a man upon horseback.

Since last spring, the shadows of warriors vanished from White Castle’s drawbridge at dawn.
The sound of hooves at dusk, perhaps swallowed by the encroaching darkness of the fields, faded into silence.
From that time onward, William appeared to be drawing himself into himself, burrowing ever deeper inward.
He turned his eyes away from flowers and spring; until he exhausted whatever was stored within his heart, it appeared he would by no means divert his attention to the outside world.
A warrior’s life lies in women, wine, and war.
In emulation of those who declared *“for my beloved”* with every lift and lower of their chopsticks, there was nothing he did not declare *“for my Clara”*—yet when those words passed his throat, it was as though he forced apart constricted vocal cords.
Among those who poured wine as red as blood into skull-shaped goblets—not letting a single drop escape past the rim, drinking it down until their beards dripped—he would often press his forehead and blow diagonal streams of foam.
There were times when, wielding his favored knife over mounded venison, he neither glanced left nor looked right, but simply stared at the plate set before him until finished.
Rarely did piled chunks of meat fail to remain upon the plate.
If a warrior’s life were divided into three parts occupied by women, wine, and war, then two-thirds of William’s life was already as good as dead.
The remaining one-third?
War had not yet come.

William stood six feet one inch tall—a lean man whose every muscle appeared hammered onto his skeletal frame. Four years ago in battle, he had discarded his helmet, stripped off his armor to become completely naked, and manned a catapult set up behind the castle wall. Those who saw his condition after the battle said an iron lump had formed on William’s arm. His eyes and hair were as black as coal. His hair coiled in whirls that sparkled each time he shook his head. Within the depths of his eyes lay another pair of eyes, their light and depth overlapping visibly. He who had lost his life to wine’s allure and was losing it still to unresolved love—would he too surrender his life on the coming battlefield? He was a man who never wearied of riding through fields day and night. He could labor from dawn till dusk without eating a crust of bread or drinking a drop of water. He was twenty-six years old. Could such a man not wage war? If one could not fight thus, better never be born into a warrior’s house. William himself believed this. William thought that if he could ever fight wielding the Phantom Shield...

Rufus "The Wolf," Lord of White Castle, and the Lord of Crow Castle had maintained such intimate terms for twenty years that even their lowest retainers rarely failed to visit one another.
The conflict had arisen from the beginning of last spring.
As for the root cause, some claimed it was the result of political disputes unrelated to myself; others asserted it stemmed from a quarrel over game upon returning from a falconry hunt; and still others spread word that it originated from a conflict concerning the Lord of Crow Castle’s beloved daughter Clara.

At a banquet days past, when the wine upon the tables had run dry and the tongues of those seated there grew loose in their incoherence, none failed to hear the voices of two men occupying the seats of honor side by side as they loudly hurled invectives over some matter.
“A wolf that howls at the moon… spouting nonsense,” declared the Lord of Crow Castle as he threw his cup to the ground and rose to his feet.
The crimson wine remaining at the cup’s bottom stained the floor in splotches—yet unsatisfied—as shattered goblet fragments leapt up as far as Rufus’s chest.
“If I sever the black wings of this Night-stray Crow, hell’s darkness shall descend,” declared Rufus, his hand gripping the heavy sword suspended from leather as he smoothly drew it four or five inches from its sheath.
The gazes of the entire gathering converged upon the two men.
The two black figures—backlit by sunset streaming through high windows in a scene seemingly not of this world—stood frozen as only the half-drawn sword emitted a cold gleam.
At this moment, William—occupying the seat next to Rufus—declared, “Though your epithet be ‘Wolf,’ do you feel no shame before these words engraved upon your sword?” and extended his right hand to point near Rufus’s waist.
Beneath the wide blade’s guard was carved an inscription reading pro gloriaetpatria.
In silence thick as still water, only the rasp of steel echoed loudly as Rufus returned his half-drawn sword to its sheath.

From this point onward, relations between the two houses were long severed, and William’s well-ridden chestnut horse appeared slightly fatter.

Lately, even rumors of war had become incessant.
The grudges of glaring eyes might be cloaked in laughter’s deceitful guise, yet the heart’s inextricable turmoil rustled even at the sound of wind blowing through the void.
The edge honed ceaselessly night and day sharpened a blade of grudge to slaughter men.
It stemmed from hearts that—under the beautiful pretense of acting for their lord and country—sought to repay a thousand-league grudge over a hair’s-breadth dispute.
Justice and humanity were but characters fit to be dyed upon flags that fluttered in morning gales, while flames of wrath seared themselves onto the tips of leveled spears.
It was unknown how the Wolf had obtained his pretext to wage war against the Crow.
It remained unclear what the Crow had cried out to slander the Wolf.
It was indeed true that Rufus had sworn to St. George that the resentment staining his chest—from wine droplets appearing as spurting blood out of season—must be avenged.
Let noble inscriptions be carved upon swords; it was also fact that the Lord of Crow Castle had fervently prayed to each and every saint to smite the wolf that howled afar behind drawn light’s gleam.
A war between the two houses was ultimately unavoidable.
The only question was when.

To draw his bow against Clara’s house—having sworn to do so until the end of days and what remains beyond—was not to William’s liking.
On days when trouble arose for Rufus’s house—the very house that had rescued his wounded father on death’s brink and helpless self from enemies—to sit motionless with folded arms remained not to William’s liking either.
In this feudal age’s customs, for one who called himself a vassal to avoid peril and be mocked as cowardly was what he found most detestable.
I’ll don my helmet, mend my armor, sharpen my spear—when the time comes, I’ll charge ahead first… But what of Clara?
If defeated, I’ll be struck dead.
I won’t meet Clara again.
If victorious, Clara might die.
William involuntarily made the sign of the cross toward the sky.
Should I disguise myself now and flee north with Clara?
What would my comrades say after deserting?
Rufus would call me a monster.
He took from his inner pocket a lock of hair Clara had given him and gazed at it.
Long, pale strands hung loose from William’s hand, undulating like flax softened on a fulling block.
William vacantly shifted his gaze from the hair.
It fell mechanically onto the wall.
On the wall hung a shield where Clara’s gentle face smiled at its center.
Her face showed not the slightest difference from when they had parted last year.
The hair encircling her face… William stared at the shield like one accursed, eyes fixed as stone yet gazing a thousand leagues distant.
Perhaps due to the light’s angle, everything appeared deep blue… The hair around her face rustled and moved as if submerged in flowing water from the start.
What were not hairs but countless snakes’ tongues vibrated ceaselessly, swirling in a five-inch ring—upon the silver field, flames thin as silk thread appeared and vanished, coiled into whirlpools, and formed waves.

Just when it seemed all would move at once, swirling around the face, a section ceased its faint motion, only for the adjacent part to stir. At times, a ripple-like motion spread from one part to the next before one’s eyes. Each movement produced faint sounds—like hissing tongues rubbing together. Though barely audible, these were not a single voice—countless noises intermingled within that fragile quiet. The more one focused on a single sound reaching the ear, the clearer it became—a mass formed by clustered whispers. As numerous as the shield’s shifting forms were its sounds; yet like those elusive movements, the noises remained faint and indistinct……William waved Clara’s golden hair thrice toward the shield and cried: “Shield! My last hope lies in the Phantom Shield!”

War approached gradually like a tidal bore rising.
The sound of iron being struck, the clang of steel being forged, the pounding of hammers, and the rasping of files were ceaselessly heard in a corner of the courtyard.
William too, not to be outdone by others, made preparations for deployment—yet at times covered his ears from the clamor of war, climbed the high corner turret, and gazed afar toward Crow Castle.
In this land of deep mists, even with no obstruction to the eye, twenty miles ahead remained unseen on clear days.
Across the wilderness—spread like spilled tea dregs—undulating in waves that never crested, a silver-white streak cut vividly through; this must have been the river they forded daily on horseback at its shallows.
As the white stream stood out conspicuously, drawing his eye, he surmised Crow Castle must lie in that direction and continued gazing.
The castle-like form remained sealed within the haze’s depths, unseen by his eyes—yet the flowing silver fanned out and thinned until one might doubt it had transformed into smoke merging with the sky-cloud boundary. From beneath his raised gauntlet, it gathered distantly in both eyes.
That space between sky and cloud became a sea; upon cliffs gnawed by waves rose a monolith carved as if birthed from earth—this was Crow Castle, William imagined what his eyes could not see.
Were a single figure drawn behind that gloom-shrouded, sea-wind-battered corner window, the dead dragon would instantly quicken and soar heavenward.
Who could rival such grandeur? William knew well without asking.

Due to the dizzyingly hectic preparations, during the day there were moments of scattered focus and restless energy; but when he returned to his chamber past nightfall and cast his six-foot-one frame upon the cold bedstead, the thoughts would come.
When I first met Clara, she had been a twelve- or thirteen-year-old child so shy she wouldn’t speak to strangers.
Only her hair had been golden as it was now…… William once again took out Clara’s hair from his inner pocket and gazed at it.
Clara had teased William by calling him “child with black eyes, child with black eyes.”
According to Clara’s theory, children with black eyes were mean-spirited and ill-natured; unless one was Jewish or Gypsy, those with black eyes did not exist.
William had gotten angry and declared he would never come to Crow Castle again—whereupon Clara burst into tears and begged for forgiveness… There had also been times when they went out to the castle garden to pick flowers.
Red flowers, yellow flowers, purple flowers—I don’t remember their names—with these varied blossoms adorning Clara’s head, chest, and sleeves, when he knelt before her proclaiming “Queen! Queen!”, Clara laughed that one without a spear was no knight… Now he had the spear, now he was a knight—yet there would likely be no more chances to kneel before Clara.
At times they would go out into the fields and compete to blow dandelion fluff.
After the petals scattered and what remained was a transparent sphere resembling bundled fluff, they would take it and blow on it with a puff.
They would divine their fortunes by the number of seeds left.
While wondering aloud whether her wish would come true, Clara blew once; as the number of seeds fell one short, the fortune-telling at the crossroads declared her wish would not be granted.
Then Clara suddenly lost her vigor and looked down.
When he asked what she had been thinking when she blew, she replied “Whatever” in an uncharacteristically curt manner.
That day, she barely spoke a word and remained withdrawn.
“Even if I plucked every last dandelion in the spring fields and blew until my breath gave out,” William declared as if in anger, “the desired fortune-telling at the crossroads would never emerge.”
But he added—as if to negate it—that there was still hope in the shield… This had been after they both came of age.

There had been a time when they sat amidst summer-blooming rose thickets beneath a sapphire-like blue sky, talking until it turned ashen gray. It was then that William taught Clara about the four stages of a knight’s love—this scene now rose vividly before his eyes.
“The first is called the Period of Hesitation—a name for when the woman agonizes over whether to reject or accept this love.” As he said this while looking toward Clara, she lowered her face and let escape a faint smile near her cheek.
“During this period, the man is not permitted to utter even a single word hinting at love.
“Through affection that overflows the eyes and sighs that escape the breath, by day he remains at the woman’s side and by night does not leave the vicinity of her dwelling—thus, through unwavering devotion, he conveys his heart’s intent without words.”
Clara was intently watching the marble statue placed across the pool at this moment.
“The second is called the Period of Prayer.”
“The man prostrates himself before the woman and earnestly prays, ‘Grant that my love be fulfilled.’”
Clara turned her face away and blew on a crimson rose.
A single petal flew and floated upon the shore of a waveless pond.
A single petal struck the stone railing—arranged in a plum-blossom pattern around the pond—and fell onto the paving stones.
“Third comes the Period of Acceptance.”
“To further confirm the sincerity she has discerned in the man’s heart, the woman imposes upon him various trials.”
“It goes without saying that these are matters to be accomplished through the power of sword and spear.”
Clara turned her large eyes that pierced through me and asked about the fourth.
“The fourth period is called *Druerie*.”
“As a warrior swears before you, ‘I shall never waver,’ the man kneels at the woman’s feet, joins his hands, and places them between hers.”
“The woman, like a noblewoman, returns the ritual of love and kisses the man.”
“To which stage does your love belong?” asks Clara in a voice as though addressing someone from a distant age.
“If only he could obtain even a kiss from the one he loved—” William leaned his face toward Clara.
Clara’s cheeks flushed crimson as she threw the rose she held in her hand near my ear.

Petals mingled with snow as a cluster of elegant fragrance scattered beneath their feet.
……Realizing the period of *Druerie* could no longer be hoped for, William heaved his six-foot-one frame and thudded over in bed.
Walls had been cut through where space allowed; from a high-bored narrow window leaked a dim dawn light, and amidst the indistinct hues of objects, only the Phantom Shield glowed like the eye of a great spider suspended in darkness.
“There’s the shield—there’s still shield,” William told himself as he gripped raven-feather-like smooth hair and jerked upright.
From a corner of the courtyard came the sound of iron being struck, the clang of steel being forged, the pounding of hammers, and the rasping of files.
The battle drew nearer with each passing day.

On that evening, when the castle’s populace had gathered in the high-ceilinged dining hall and taken their seats at the supper tables, the time of battle was at last proclaimed from the lips of General Wolf.
He first enumerated the Lord of Crow Castle’s crimes against bushido, then—to preserve his clan’s honor—set the night seven days hence as the time to slaughter the castle in one fell swoop, roaring his command.
The voice was so immense that it seemed to circle the hall’s four walls and collide against the high, domed ceiling.
The battle was drawing ever nearer.
William spent this day and night steeling himself for the approaching battle.
Yet when he now heard Rufus proclaim “after seven days,” even that hardened resolve vanished like foam on a crab’s claw—a wisp of life unable to cling to reed roots, disappearing into nothingness.
When one persisted in treating reality as a dream yet could not sustain the illusion, they might reluctantly resign themselves to the truth.
Yet until events abrupt enough to confirm that fact as fact materialized before one’s eyes, it was the way of the world to live out those days believing it a dream.
For to think it a dream brought joy, while not thinking so brought anguish.
The resolve that the battle was an undeniable reality had not been forged merely yesterday or today.
Perhaps because the battle one had determined to be undeniably real did not occur despite being on the verge of occurring, the dream-like wish that “let it be so” conversely served to suppress the thought that “it will become fact.”
A year was three hundred sixty-five days; its passing was but an instant.
Seven days did not even amount to one-fiftieth of a year.
Raise the right hand and add two fingers from the left—it immediately became seven.
When attacked by a nameless demon and forcing oneself to believe *"Since it has no name, it cannot be a demon,"* only to suddenly discover its true form and bitterly regret not having misjudged its nature even now—there could be no difference in feeling.
William turned deathly pale.
Sivald, sitting next to him, asked if he was ill.
He answered “No” and brought the cup to his lips.
The unfilled wine, swayed by some force, overflowed the rim and spilled across the table.
At that moment, Rufus rose once more and—raising his cup to eyebrow level—hurled it falcon-like onto the floor as he roared, “Cast Crow Castle into the sea, along with every rock clinging to its foundations!”

The assembled crowd shouted "Hurah!" and gulped down wine as red as blood.
William also shouted “Hurah!” and gulped down wine as red as blood.
Sivald also shouted “Hurah!” and gulped down wine as red as blood while glancing sidelong at William.

William stood up alone, returned to his chamber, and fastened it from the inside so no one could enter.

“The shield! At last the shield!” William shouted as he paced about the room.
The shield still hung on the wall.
The face—worthy of comparison to Gorgon Medusa—cursed heaven, earth, and mankind as was its custom; cursed across past, present, and future; cursed not only those who approached or touched it, but even unseen grasses and trees, showing no sign of ceasing until all lay utterly cursed.
“Must I use this shield at last?” William wondered as he stopped beneath it and gazed up at the wall.
He sensed something like a knock on the chamber door.
When he strained his ears to listen, there was no sound at all.
William once again drew Clara’s hair from his inner pocket.
No sooner had he placed it on his palm to gaze at it than he carefully set it down upon the three-legged round table pushed into a corner of the room.
William reached again into his inner pocket and pulled out something resembling a document from behind the chest’s hidden compartment.
He went to the room’s doorway and shook the horizontally inserted iron bar to check its security.
The lock held firm.
William leaned against the round table and slowly unfolded the document he had taken out.
It was unclear whether it was paper or parchment, but judging from its faded hue, it was no recent creation.
When there’s no wind yet the paper’s surface stirs—is it the paper moving of its own accord, or the hand holding it that trembles?
At the document’s beginning was written “The Origin of the Phantom Shield.”
Whether worn or faded, only faint traces of the characters remained.
“Thy ancestor William did obtain this shield from a giant of the Northern Land...”
“The William written here is my fourth-generation ancestor,” William muttered to himself.
“The day came to cross the land of black clouds.”
The giants of the Northern Land advanced like demons cast down from within the clouds.

Brandishing an iron club studded with fist-like knobs in one hand, they struck to shatter bones—horses fell, men collapsed, earth-treading clouds soaked in blood, sparks flashing within the roaring wind.
"This was no battle of mere slaying—it was a fierce struggle to smash skulls, crush torsos, not ceasing until human form itself lay annihilated......"
William frowned at "O fierce ones" and clicked his tongue.
"The foe I crossed blades with was a giant among giants.
Within a face like a copper plate coated with sand, eyes fixed intently shot forth lightning.
When he saw me, [he] brought down that iron club from overhead, roaring 'Die like a southern cur with your tail between your legs!'
With a sound rending the unobstructed sky in two, the iron club grazed my right shoulder.
The joined steel plates covering the shoulder—the outermost layer split in two and pierced into flesh.
'The tip of my blade struck the giant’s shield at an angle with a clang—nothing more......'"
William suddenly turned his eyes toward the shield.
The sword mark his fourth-generation ancestor had struck remained clearly visible.
William resumed reading.
"I struck the giant thrice; upon the third blow, my blade shattered into three pieces from the guard’s base—and I beheld how the crown of his helmet warped inward."
When the giant’s hammer struck down four times—upon the fourth blow, his legs kicked up blood-mingled mud and lay thunderously sprawled amidst swaying thistle flowers like a winter gale felling a tengu’s cedar, as if to shame lightning itself.
"Behold the gleam of my dagger swiftly thrust through the interval as he lay fallen!"
"A feat unparalleled even by myself......"
William muttered "Bravo" in a low voice.
"The giant spoke—spoke in a voice like an old ox bellowing at sunset."
"I grant the Phantom Shield to you Southern youth—guard and cherish it."
"I raised the shield demanding its origin, yet it remained silent."

When pressed further, he raised both hands toward the northern sky and declared:
"Near Odin's throne in Valhalla's realm, black iron that no flame could melt was cast in white fires cold as ice—this is the Phantom Shield.……"

At that moment, near the doorway, there came a sound of footsteps trampling the hallway floor harder than stone. William stood up once more and pressed his ear against the door to listen. The footsteps passed by the room’s front, and from below as they gradually receded, only the echo reflected by the walls could be heard clearly. It seemed someone had descended into the dark cellar.

"When I asked the giant, 'What virtue lies in this shield?' he replied: 'Wish upon the shield—no wish unheard—only that one’s self may be destroyed. Do not speak of this to others—when spoken of, the shield’s spirit departs... Shouldst thou take up the shield and face battle, the surrounding demons shall curse thee. After being cursed, thou shalt meet with all-encompassing ecstasy.'"

"Only to those who inherit the shield is this secret permitted."

"When the southern man, disliking this ill-omened implement, tried to abandon the shield and leave, the giant waved his hand and said: 'I now return to the pure land of Valhalla; I have no need for the Phantom Shield. A hundred years hence, there shall be a crimson-robed beauty in the southern lands.'"

"'When the song touches this shield’s surface, thy descendants shall embrace it and leap for joy...'"

William doubted: "Could thy descendants not be my own matter?"

Outside, footsteps sounded and seemed to halt before the room’s door.

"The giant lies fallen among thistles; what remains among thistles is this shield." As William finished reading and looked up at the shield on the wall, the serpent hair began to sway once more.

There were times when he suspected they might burrow ever downward through the seamlessly tangled mass and emerge from the shield’s reverse side; other times when he thought they might struggle upward until only a five-sun circular outline floated free from the shield.

Whether burrowing downward or writhing upward, they emitted the same sound as clear water winding through smooth stones.

Yet the way these sounds—each strand of hair resounding—coalesced into a single bundled noise reaching his ears remained unchanged from before.

It seemed that anything that moves must make noise, and since all the serpent hairs were in motion, there should be as many sounds as there were hairs—yet they were exceedingly faint.

The whispers seemed transmitted from a previous world through dreams rising from the abyss's depths. William listened vacantly to this faint sound. He forgot the battle, forgot the shield, forgot even himself—forgetting too that someone had halted at the doorway. A methodical knocking sounded at the door. William wore a face like one possessed and made no move to stir. The knock came again with measured persistence. Still cradling paper fragments in both hands, William rose from his chair. As if sleepwalking, he turned and took three unsteady steps toward the doorway. Though his eyes stared at the door's center, what registered behind his pupils was surely not woodgrain patterns. Outside grew impatience—fists now hammered the thick oak door without courtesy, their blows reverberating through night's stillness. When the third knock shattered the silent dark in all directions, William—statue-like until now—jerked awake as though an ice sheet had exploded midair. He hastily stuffed the papers into his breast pocket. The knocking intensified into ceaseless urgency. A voice now pierced through: "Won't you open up?"

“Who knocks?” he demanded, unlatching the iron bolt with a clatter. Beneath diagonally hanging russet hair that framed a cliff-like brow, two keenly gleaming eyes advanced unhesitatingly into the room.

“’Tis me,” declared Sivald, plopping his rear onto the armrest before fully entering. He hoisted one leg aloft, settling it atop his other knee. “Came to see why you looked like death at supper.”

“It’s nothing,” William said, blinking and turning his face away.

“Before we hear Crow Castle’s wingbeats, have you no mind to visit a flower-rich land?” Sivald asked with pointed meaning.

“What ‘flower-rich land’?”

“The south—where Troubadour songs fill the air.”

“Does our lord mean to go?”

“I’ll not be going—that’s plain enough.
Six more sunrises, and our duty’s to kick Crow Castle root and all into the sea.
‘Tis kindness makes me say it—our lord’s humor might sweeten were you gone to that land of lingering days.”
“Bwahaha!” Sivald laughed with unbridled audacity.

“Until Crow Castle falls silent and sinks into darkness…” Sivald thumped his armored chest, his six-foot-one frame straining forward.

“So you won’t leave this mist-shrouded land? With that golden-haired lady by your side, I suppose you don’t entirely mind staying,” he said while pointing at the round table.

On the table lay Clara’s hair, just as before.
He had forgotten to store it in his inner pocket.
William stretched his body and trailed off.

“Don’t you want to save the white dove among crows?” he struck at the serpent-threaded thicket again.

“If seven days pass from now...” The snake in the thicket, startled unwillingly, began raising its head.

“Are you asking to kill the crows and spare only the dove?… That’s pushing reason.”
“But not beyond possibility.”
“There’s a ship that comes from the south and returns south.”
“Wait,” he said, counting on his fingers.
“Right—it should arrive by sixth night.”
“Reroute to the castle’s eastern dock—we’ll board that golden-haired lady.”
“They normally fly a white pennant atop the mast—once she’s aboard, we’ll make them switch to red.”
“The battle commences past noon on day seven—once we encircle the castle, you’ll see the port.”
“Spot red on that masthead—peace reigns...”

“If white is seen…” William glared at the Phantom Shield.
The demon’s hair did not stir, made no sound.
A face that seemed to be Clara appeared briefly before reverting to the original demon.

“Oh well, fine then. Don’t worry—it’ll work out. Rather than that, let’s have an interesting story about the southern lands,” said Sivald as he casually scratched his auburn beard, perhaps shifting topics to comfort the young man.

“Cross one sea beyond this one and you’ll find abundant sunlight—it’s warm.”
“And the wine’s sweet with gold scattered about.”
“For every measure of earth, a measure of gold… It’s no lie—it’s Honma’s tale.”
“Are you saying it’s not even worth hearing if I wave it off?”
“There likely won’t be another chance to sit down and talk calmly.”
“Think of this as Sivald’s parting lecture and listen.”
“Don’t get so gloomy about it.”
Whether the alcohol from the evening hadn’t yet worn off or not, he blew a gah-like stench into William’s face.
“Ah, how rude of me… What was I about to say?”
“That’s it! Beyond the sea where wine flows forth from soil mingled with gold—” Sivald peered at William.

“Are you saying our lord was doted on by a woman?”

“Bwahaha! Our lord’s had plenty of women flocking to him, but that’s not what I meant. It’s that he witnessed the Council of Bocille.”

“The Council of Bocille?”

“Don’t you know? When you live in this murky island country, it’s only natural you wouldn’t know. The peace meeting between the Count of Provinsal and the Count of Toulouse—there’s not a soul over there who hasn’t heard of it!”

“Hmm. That being?” William replied with a sullen expression.

“Horses wear silver horseshoes, dogs sport pearl collars…”

“Eating golden apples, bathing in moon’s dew…” With an air of incredulity toward these southern customs, William mockingly severed the thread of conversation.

“Just listen without pointing at the water,” he said. “Even a lie can be entertaining,” he mended the severed thread.

“When they hold tournaments,” William recounted with mock grandeur, “the Governor of Siminian drives twenty-four white oxen to painstakingly smooth every inch of the tournament grounds.” He leaned forward, his voice dripping with theatrical awe. “Once leveled, he scatters thirty thousand gold pieces across the earth like seedcorn.” A sardonic chuckle escaped him before continuing: “Then up strides the Governor of Agu—‘I’ll handle victors’ prizes!’—tossing down a hundred thousand more.” William’s hands mimicked coins cascading through air. “And Martello? Oh, he plays feast-master—delicacies simmered over candle flames!” His fingers danced like flickering wicks. “Silver plates and bowls for parting gifts—as if anyone could carry such loot through a warzone.”

“That’s enough already,” William said with a laugh.

“One more tale.”
“Finally, Raymond declares he’ll stage an unprecedented game and first plants thirty stakes within the tournament grounds.”
“And tethers thirty prized horses to them.”
“Not bare horses—saddles and stirrups attached, even the bridle reins’ delicacy perfected.”
“You see?”
“And in the very center of that, he arrayed armor and swords—also enough for thirty men—along with helmets, naturally including forearm and shin guards.”
“Converted to coin, it’d take up more space than Martello’s feast.”
“Then they piled firewood like mountains around it, set fire to it, and burned all the horses and armor to cinders.”
“What extravagant spectacles those southerners put on!” he finished, laughing with a dry, satisfied chuckle.

“To insist our lord should go see such a country—he must be exceptionally stubborn,” he once again cast a probing stone into the depths of William’s heart.

“A man with black eyes and black hair has no use in such a country,” William said, as if mocking himself.

“Seems you still long for where that golden-haired lady dwells.”

“Needless to say,” William said stiffly and looked at the Phantom Shield.

From the courtyard’s corner came the sound of iron being struck, the clang of steel being forged, the thud of hammers, and the rasp of files.
Night surrendered unnoticed to the faint light of dawn.

The battle looming on the seventh day shortened each day’s lifespan, leaving now but six remaining.

William wrote a letter to Clara as Sivald advised.
With his heart racing and the commotion around him, he could not write even a fraction of what he wished.
“Your tresses still lie within my bosom. Flee with this envoy alone—doubt invites demons aplenty.” With that, he set down his brush.
He knew not who—or from where—would receive this letter and deliver it to Clara.
He would disguise himself as a minstrel popular at that time, sneak into Crow Castle, snatch Clara out on the eve before battle should commence, and set her aboard a boat.
If the plan went awry, he would achieve his objective even by exploiting an opening to set fire to the castle.
This much he had heard from Sivald; the rest... only the Phantom Shield knew.

To meet is joy; to not meet is sorrow.
From the wellspring of sorrow and joy, tears that mock pearls welled forth.
Were one to ask why they flow from this pure one, it would answer "I know not."
Does "I know not" signify nature itself?
When William—who had been kneeling in fervent prayer before Maria's statue—rose to his feet, his long eyelashes seemed heavier than usual, though he himself knew not why they weighed so.
Truth, though aware of itself, knows naught else.
That night in dream he saw Maria riding a five-colored cloud.
What appeared as Maria was Clara in enshrined form; Clara must be Maria dwelling upon earth.
Though the god who receives prayers and the person who receives prayers differ, in the heart of the supplicant both are but shadow figures of the same desire.
The enshrined Madonna exists for the beloved's sake; the beloved kneels for the Madonna's sake.
It could be called Maria; it could be called Clara.
Two things did not dwell within William’s heart.
If room remained to dwell, this love would be false love.

In the continuation of the dream, from the courtyard’s corner came the sound of iron being struck, the clang of steel being forged, the thud of hammers, the rasp of files—and as ever, night gave way to dawn.
The battle drew ever nearer.

The transition from the fifth day to the fourth seemed but the span required to turn a palm face-down; the advance from fourth to third appeared as swift as returning that overturned hand. Yet when passing from three days to two brought them to battle's very eve, it felt as though assault came before one could even move a finger.

“Gallop,” Sivald said, glancing at William.
From between the aligned bits came explosive snorts as two helmets reflected the autumn sun like moonlit scales dancing across water.
“Gallop,” Sivald barked, driving his heel into his mount’s barrel-like flank.
The snow-white plumes atop their helmets caught the gale-force wind, fluttering wildly until they seemed ready to tear free.
Having galloped to a low rise while keeping Crow Castle’s walls in his peripheral vision, Sivald raised a shielding hand to survey the harbor.
“Is the mast’s flag red or white?” William shouted from behind.
“White or red? Red or white?” he pressed relentlessly.
Sivald—perched precariously on his saddle’s pommel—dismounted and wheeled his horse toward the castle gate in one fluid motion.
“Keep moving! Keep moving!” he roared at William.
“Red or white?” William bellowed.
“Fool! Into the moat ditch, not up that hill!” Sivald urged his horse single-mindedly toward the gatehouse.
At the harbor mouth where waves gnawed at stone quays, tall-hulled ships swayed like anxious ghosts.
Haunted by nightmares that denied them restful sleep.

With low masts flanking both sides and a single tall one rising at the center—"White!" William muttered through clenched teeth, biting his lip with his front teeth.
Meanwhile, the clamor of battle shook Crow Castle and resounded over the desolate sea.

The castle walls stood four jō high; the round turret doubled this height, piercing through the walls at intervals. What appeared like a heavenly pillar fallen and thrust into its very center must have been the main keep. It stood nineteen jō high with walls three jō four shaku thick, divided into four stories that had windows pierced only in the uppermost layer. There ran a well-like path descending straight from top to bottom—the so-called dungeon constructed in the lowest and darkest place, separated from hell by but a single wall. The two turrets set apart to the left and right of the main keep were connected by a roofed bridge extending from its second floor, providing passage for entry and exit. Scattered around the turrets were buildings that included stables. There were soldiers' residences too. Places existed where peasants of the territory hid to avoid turmoil. Behind them rose steep cliffs where they heard the sea roar and saw gulls dance down upon crumbling wave crests only to soar back up again. Before them stood a cow-swallowing arch from shadowed heights; lowering its stone-resonating door and retracting the drawbridge with iron chains created an impassable moat.

“Cross the moat and we break the gate! Break the gate and we take the main keep! Where will finds a path—march where paths lead!” With these words, Rufus thrust his wolf-like face—sheathed in black steel—through the shattered door’s gap without so much as a nod.
When one soldier obeyed the command to follow, another pressed forward with orders to pursue their rear.
After one or two men followed, the rest poured in chaotically, each vying to be first.
In the bubbling spring water, fine sand floated up and rippled all at once, appearing to undulate in unison.
From atop the walls, they readied every bow they had, while the assailants gathered hooked and curved arrowheads at their forefront like a bristling thicket.
With each long arrow flying through the sky resounding, thousands of resonances merged into a single mass, harmonizing with the clamor of swarming black shadows upon the ground—startling seagulls offshore with untimely noise.
Not only birds were frenzied.
Beneath the autumn sunset they dove and surfaced—the waves of helmed and armored soldiers surged only to crumble, crumbled only to retreat.
When retreating, from atop the wall’s upper turret they raised a battle cry so thunderous it seemed to tremble the sinking sun down into the sea’s depths.
When advancing, from amidst waves of helmets and waves of armor rose a voice mighty enough to momentarily halt the breath of raging gales.
Amidst retreating waves and advancing waves, William and Sivald abruptly encountered each other.
“Still alive?” Sivald gestured with his sword; “Just about to die!” William raised his shield high.
An arrow flying from the round turret towering to the right grazed the demon’s forehead with a sharp clang and fell beneath William’s feet.
At that moment, a surging wave of soldiers abruptly separated them—even fluttering white plumes adorning their helmets soon swallowed into swirling vortexes.
The battle had begun over two hours past noon, yet even between five and six o’clock remained undecided.
The attackers—once fierce enough to slaughter even the main keep—now daunted by unseen cause were expelled through castle gates in cascades alongside ashen night hues.
Had clashing sounds ceased only momentarily?
The clamor subsided momentarily.

The sun fully set, and as black night enveloped men and horses without a single gap, the sound of crashing waves suddenly rose loud. What suddenly resounded was not the sea’s first roar; it was merely that my clamor had briefly ceased, leaving an emptiness within my heart to receive it. Where did this wave sound—born leagues offshore—crash upon these distant rocks? When I pondered it, its resonance felt ancient. Resounding through countless ages, it echoed into an unknowable future. Unceasingly, day and night, the truth that repeated ceaselessly conveyed an eternal, infinite resonance—mocking the clashing of swords and laughing at the twanging of bows. The ephemeral, pitiable cries of hundreds—no, thousands—of people were heard being mocked. Though their own cries had barely ceased, neither those defending the castle nor those attacking it felt shame when they inadvertently heard this deep resonance. William gazed at the congealed bloodstains on his shield and struck the demon’s visage thrice with his sword, demanding, “Do you curse even me?” Rufus snarled, “If they’re crows, let them hide in darkness—cut them down where moonlight won’t expose their corpses!” Sivald alone released his twin eyes—as if embedded deep in his forehead—and stared fixedly up at the main keep without uttering a word.

The wind shifted from blowing seaward to blowing landward, adding a new resonance between heaven and earth amidst the crashing waves.
As the sounds encircling the tower and striking the walls swelled, a sudden clamor of men arose within the castle.
It grew steadily more intense.
When one realized the quake surging from a thousand leagues deep—its seconds and minutes ticking relentlessly—a roar reverberated as though it had detonated directly beneath Crow Castle.
Sivald’s eyebrows arched sharply, as though he had crushed a caterpillar.

――Black smoke billowed from the turret’s window.
Within the night, smoke blacker than night itself billowed forth.
Perhaps due to the struggle for the narrow exit, the volume of smoke increased rapidly before their eyes—the front was pushed back, the rear pressed forward, those alongside refusing to concede an inch—until it all seemed to burst forth simultaneously.
The raging storm wind shattered the smoke head-on, attempting to force the swirling, surging jet back into the window from whence it came.
The vortex, seized by the wind, cascaded all at once and poured into the sky.
After a while, sparks began to mingle within the billowing smoke.
They swiftly multiplied.
The multiplied sparks, swept up along with the smoke by the wind, swirled upward into the vast sky.
A portion of the sky veiling the castle drew a great red circle centered on the turret, and the circle began moving irregularly toward the sea.
Within the moving circle—resembling lacquerwork with sparks scattered upon a pear-skin ground—not a single point remained still, each instant flickering out or blazing forth without pause.

“Got them!” Sivald clapped his hands and leapt with glee.

Belching out black smoke and spewing its last, thick flames became rods that rose with winds chasing heat—shooting through the night world with stray arrows’ swiftness.
It could be likened to boiling syrup pouring into the great sky from a four-to barrel-sized pump.
From where seething flames vanish futilely into darkness surge new seething flames upward.
The voice of fire—boiling over as if to scorch deep night—spreads across heaven’s expanse while mocking groundlings’ screams as petty nuisances.
Amidst roaring clamor shatter flames into particles that dance seaward—rising-falling sparks scattering wide.
Murky waves’ furious hues grow faintly visible through their own din till turret surroundings appear brighter than soot-pierced daylight.
A sheet of flame encircles turret walls ring-like before crawling sideways to grip battlement edges.
Flames inch leftward measure by measure till sudden wind-sweep flips fiery tongues upward instead.
Whirlwind gusts sometimes strike unawares from behind.
When stroking flames sequentially racing through heat-tides upward turns chase departed winds.
Molten tongues stretch left-leftward—lengthening-broadening within eyeblinks till here forms flame-sheet there forms flame-sheet.
Black shadows pace back-forth across fire-wrapped battlements.
Occasionally they vanish from dark heights into brightness below never returning.

The charred high turret—as if its time had come—leaned momentarily with the raging flames against the blowing wind, yet refusing to plunge into the abyss, left two-thirds of itself clinging to the rock as it began to crumble in collapse.
When the encircling flames blazed forth to scorch heaven and earth in an instant, there upon the battlement stood a woman with hair like flame whipping wildly about her.
“Clara!” William shouted—and in that instant, the woman’s shadow vanished.
Two horses, driven out by fire, came flying through the air still saddled.

The swiftly racing tail was seized and yanked out from its base with a sharp jerk. The leading horse halted abruptly before William. Its front legs, driven by excessive force, sank their rigid claws halfway into the earth at an angle.
The muzzle striking the shield blew fiery breath onto the demon’s visage from two inches away.
“Has even the four-legged one been cursed?” William muttered involuntarily as he gripped the mane and nimbly vaulted onto the high back.
The stirrups, not stepped into, leapt into the air, idly striking their broad bellies.
At this moment, some unseen force raised a rigid, iron-clad hand and struck the horse’s hindquarters mightily, shouting—“To the southern lands!”
“Cursed,” William rode through the sky with the horse.

It was neither William’s horse in pursuit nor the horse pursuing William—it was the curse that ran. Cutting through the wind, splitting the night, carving the sound of frantic galloping across the earth—it ran until the curse was spent. When it finished running through the fields, it ran to the hills; when it raced down the hills, it plunged into the valley. Was it dawn? Was the sun high? Dusk approaching? Rain? Hail? Autumn storm? Winter wind?—he knew not. The curse knew only to plunge ever forward. Whatever stood in its way—even a parent—it showed no mercy; hooves striking stones rang out with sparks. Whatever blocked its path—even a lord—it struck down; behold the snorting gale that scattered darkness. A tremendous sound—tremendous shadows of people and horses—engulfed all, passing by in the blink of an eye. Do not mistake it for person or horse, form or shadow—consider it naught but the curse itself roaring madly toward its desired destination.

William did not know how many ri he had been flung through. He sat down on the saddle of the horse he had ridden to death, pressing his forehead with his right hand as he strove to formulate some thought. When a dead person revives—he mused—the former self and present self may seem like different individuals or the same person; the chain binding them pitifully breaks, yet one remains perplexed, sensing some lingering connection. Not even for half a moment do shadows of joy, anger, sorrow or pleasure dwell within a dead person’s brain. When my empty heart suddenly returns and I recall the past—he thought—those moments gather like billowing clouds. The more space exists to accommodate them, the more rapidly these gathered things race through the brain.

Just as William’s mind upon regaining consciousness had been cool as water, now these recollections—so numerous they left no time for welcoming or parting—tangled like thread and tormented his head. He tried arranging them in order: deployment, mast flags, battle… They could only be facts.

“Next,” he probed his mind’s depths—and a fluttering yellow flame appeared.

“Fire!” William shouted involuntarily.

I don’t care about fires—yet within these flames envisioned by my mind’s eye, Clara’s hair ripples.

“Why didn’t I jump into those flames and die there?” William clicked his tongue in frustration.

“The shield’s doing,” he muttered under his breath.

Looking over, he saw the shield lying about three shaku to the right of the horse’s head, its face turned skyward.

“Is this love’s end? Even if the curse lifts, my love remains.” William pressed his forehead again, sinking himself into a sea of torment.
When his feet touched the seafloor and he sank into thoughts estranged from the world, from somewhere came a faint sound like a thread being brushed by a horse’s tail.
The sleeping William opened his eyes and looked around.
Though he couldn’t discern where he was, as far as his eyes could see stretched a sea of trees.
Though it was called a forest, there were no towering trees—none with trunks one or two arm spans in girth—whose intertwined branches might block the high sun.
The trees stood at a density of about one per three square meters, each no more than six or seven sun in diameter.
Strangely enough, they were all the same kind of tree.
The branches grew upward from a point roughly six feet above where the trunk met its roots, tracing supple lines.
The clustered branches swelled at their centers and tapered at their tops, taking shapes akin to balustrade finials or brush tips soaked in water.
Every branch was densely adorned with round yellow leaves, leaving no gaps; thus, the overlapping brush-tip clusters became elongated grape-like orbs shifting in hue, and the forest’s form—with its massed clusters—took on the appearance of countless hanging grape bunches.
When looking up from below, little by little, the sky too appeared blue.
At the distant horizon where one’s gaze was cast, amidst tree trunks drawing near and receding in dark array, the clear autumn sky shone like a mirror—a soul-satisfying sight.
At times, even the way gauzy veils swept across the mirror’s surface could be glimpsed from the side.
The ground was a carpet of moss—some patches slightly yellowed by autumn’s touch, others tinged light brown and withered at the edges. Yet with no footprints to disturb it, the yellow remained yellow, the light brown stayed light brown, preserving moss in its pristine, ancient form.
Here and there, clusters of ferns broke through the flat surface, adding a touch of melancholy.
No birds sang; no wind stirred.
Serenely depicting the primordial past everywhere, yet with the trees being low and the autumn sun piercing through, the stillness carried less terror than its profound quiet might suggest.
That autumn day was an exceedingly bright one.
Light rays shining down from directly overhead bathed all those countless round yellow leaves at once, leaving the forest interior unexpectedly bright.
Since the leaves faced in no uniform direction, each reflected the sunlight in a wholly different manner.

Though all shared the same yellow hue, they were crafted in varying styles—transparent, translucent, dark, and light. Scattered, mingled, and layered, they illuminated the moss below, making those within the forest feel encircled by amber panels bathing in sunlight filtered through a golden veil. William remained awake yet agitated, his appearance suggesting gradual surrender to dreaming. The string's resonance reached ears that had begun to calm. This time he turned his gaze toward the mysterious sound. Peering through trunks toward the sky-visible opposite direction—whether west or east remained unclear—he found where densely overlapping trees cast one se of distinctive dimness upon the ground: there lay a pond. Not large, it stretched through shade with narrow breadth like a misshapen gourd. This too was an ancient pond holding primordial waters—blue enough to chill bones. Small yellow leaves floated upon its surface, their falling-time unknown. Here too winds evidently blew across creation's face, gathering floating leaves into clusters while countless others strayed beyond counting. Thrice the string's sound resounded. Like a rubber wheel slowly ascending a smooth slope, the tone shifted naturally from low to high before ceasing abruptly.

William's waist left the saddle. Keeping his eyes fixed on the pond, he slowly shifted his steps toward the source of the sound. The moss's surface—thick and soft where it crumbled away in patches—left the forest quiet as a sanctuary even when walked upon, as silent as if one sat motionless. Though aware of his own movement through footsteps yet forgetting motion in the absence of sound, William—not thinking he walked—merely drifted toward the pond's edge. Where the pond's width narrowed slightly, a rock large enough to mistake for a reclining cow squatted halfway along the opposite bank, leaving scarcely more than ten feet between William and the stone. Upon that rock sat a woman clad in a crimson robe so radiant it seemed dazzling, plucking an instrument unknown to this world as if absentmindedly. Within the cold emerald-tinged hue that seeped into his flesh, the woman's shadow dipped inverted into the water. Her outstretched legs—even their ends concealed by her long robe—were clearly mirrored. The water naturally remained still; unless the woman moved, neither would her shadow. Only her right hand gliding along the bowstring swayed gently. The pearl ornament crowning her head—threaded on a string—cast light like the morning star in the depths of that tranquil water. She was a woman with black eyes and black hair. She bore no resemblance to Clara. The woman soon began to sing.

“Is my truth upon the rock? Or in the water’s shadow?”

It was a pure, desolate voice.
From windless treetops, yellow leaves fluttered onto the crimson robe and fell upon the pond’s surface.
The quiet shadow shifted slightly, then returned to its original state.
William stood blankly, motionless.

“Truth is but the shadow of a brooding heart.
They call the heart’s shadow a lie—but that itself is false.”

The woman quietly ceased her song and turned her gaze toward William.
William did not so much as blink as he kept his gaze fixed on the woman's face.

“Of love’s vexing fate, inquire of the shield—the Phantom Shield.”

William turned like a stag leaping from a cliff, pivoted on his heel, and retrieved the shield.
“Gaze intently upon the shield’s surface,” said the woman.
William sat wordless at the pond’s edge, clutching the shield.
Beneath boundless skies, behind desolate woods, over icy waters—no sound worthy of being called sound could be heard.
Only the inner ring of the shield under William’s fixed stare began its habitual rotation—and with it came that faint primordial voice assailing his ears.

“What do you see within the shield?” inquired the woman from across the water.
“I see the movement of every single serpent hair,” William answered without taking his eyes off it.
“What of sounds?”
“It is like a quill pen racing across paper.”

“Lost you wander, lost you stray—a heart ceaselessly astir. Seek not sounds in silence, seek them not,” the woman sang half in melody, half in speech, waving her hand toward William like a wave across the shore.
The writhing hairs gradually stilled, and the ringing sound faded of its own accord.
He wondered if the shield’s patterns were blurring—then a black curtain descended over its surface.
Though I look, I cannot see; though I listen, I cannot hear. I who dwell in this eternal darkness find myself strange and mutter, “Dark… so dark.”
My own cry is too faint even for my ears to catch.

“If you lament not seeing crows in the dark, and yearn to hear even a voiceless cry—discard both body and soul into the dark, let the dark gather both body and soul—would that not bring joy?” sang the woman’s voice, leaking through a hundred-foot wall from the spider’s-den narrow passageway.
The song ceased for a time. From afar where bow-scraping sounds lured the wind—now high, now low—they blew boundless coolness into William’s ears.

At that moment, in the darkness, a single white-jade light was kindled.
It grew larger as he watched.
Whether darkness receded or light advanced, as far as William’s eyes could reach, the void opened like myriad leagues of layered ice erected across all directions.
There was no sky to cover his head, no ground to set his feet—he stood alone in the cold crystalline void.

“Where do you now dwell?” came the woman’s voice from afar.

“Am I in nothingness, existence, or a glass bottle?” William answered like a person revived.
His eyes still did not leave the shield.

The woman began to sing.
“Italia’s, Italia’s sea purples at dawn.”

“The vast sea faintly brightened,… an orange sun emerged from the waves,” William said.
His eyes kept staring at the shield.
In his heart existed neither self nor world.
Only the shield remained.
From hair tips to toenails—every internal organ, every sense and orifice—he became entirely the Phantom Shield.
His entire body had completely transformed into the shield.
The shield was William, and William was the shield.
When the two merged flawlessly into a realm of pure unity—Italia’s sky dawned of its own accord, and Italia’s sun rose of its own will.

The woman sang again.
“When sails unfurl, ships shall course... Upon the mast, what shall be raised...”

“Red!” William shouted toward the shield.
White sails cut across the mountain’s shadow, drawing near to shore.
“I don’t know what’s to the left or right of the three masts—but there in the center, billowing under the spring wind—red! Red! It’s Clara’s ship!”… The vessel glided across an oil-smooth sea, effortlessly drawing near to shore.
Needless to say, the figure standing tall at the bow—golden hair tousled in the sunlight—was Clara.

Here in this southern land, deep indigo flowed through the sky, deep indigo flowed through the sea, and even the distant mountains lying within them held deep indigo in their embrace.
Only the edge where spring waves gently lapped against the shore appeared as an endlessly long strip of white cloth.
On the hill, olive trees bathed their deep green leaves in the warm day’s light, while beneath those leaves lurked countless birds.
In the garden, yellow flowers, red flowers, purple flowers, crimson flowers—every spring blossom, having exhausted all hues—bloomed only to riot, rioted only to scatter, scattered only to bloom again, flaunting their splendor beneath a sky untouched by winter.

On the warm grass sat the two of them, both gazing at the sea’s surface far below—as if blue silk had been spread out.
Both leaned against the mottled marble balustrade and stretched their legs out before them.
From above their heads, an apple branch extended diagonally from the balustrade, forming a canopy of blossoms.
When the petals scattered, at times they alighted upon Clara’s hair; at others, they landed on William’s.
At other times, they cascaded down all at once upon both their heads and sleeves.
From a branch, inside a hanging cage, a parrot occasionally emitted a shrill sound.

"Before the southern sun's dew vanished," William pressed his hot lips to Clara's lips.
A single apple blossom petal lay caught between their lips, still damp.

“Springs in this country are long,” Clara said reproachfully.
With a delighted voice, William called out “*Druerie!*”
“*Druerie!*” Clara echoed in kind.
The parrot within its cage raised a shrill *Druerie!*
The spring sea far below answered with *Druerie*.
The distant mountains beyond the sea returned *Druerie*.
All the olive trees blanketing the hills, the yellow flowers, red flowers, purple flowers, crimson flowers blooming in the garden—every spring blossom and every spring thing chorused *Druerie* in unison.—This was the world within the shield.

And William is the shield.

A century of life was both blessed and cursed.
Yet it proved rather tedious.
Pleasures might abound, but sorrows stretched longer still.
Better to taste a half-drop of tongue-searing spirits than daily bathe in watery ale—less bother by far.
Divide a century by ten, a decade by a hundred; multiply the leftover half-hour by a hundred years’ joys and sorrows—it equaled living a full century regardless.
Mount Tai could hide behind a camera; hydrogen turned liquid when chilled.
If one could compress lifelong affection into minutes and desperate sweetness into droplets—but could ordinary folk achieve such alchemy?
—Across all ages past and present, William alone had savored this ferocious experience.

(February 18)