Pathway to Japanese Literature

First Night

I had such a dream.

As I sat with my arms folded by the pillow, the woman lying on her back said in a calm voice that she was going to die now.
The woman spread her long hair over the pillow and laid her softly contoured oval face within it.
Beneath her pure white cheeks, a warm blood color was suffused just right, and the color of her lips was unmistakably red.
She didn’t look like she was about to die at all.
However, the woman stated clearly in a quiet voice, “I am going to die now.”
I too became certain that she would indeed die.
So, leaning down to peer at her, I asked, “Is that so? You’re going to die now?”
“I will die, yes,” she said, opening her eyes wide.
With large, glistening eyes—within the enclosure of long eyelashes—there was only an expanse of pitch-black.
In the depths of those pitch-black eyes, my own figure was vividly reflected.

I gazed at the color and luster of these black eyes, so deep they seemed transparent, and thought: Can she really die like this?
So, leaning my mouth close to her pillow, I asked again, "You’re not going to die, are you? You’ll be alright, won’t you?"
Then, keeping her black eyes open sleepily, the woman said in the same calm voice, “But I am going to die after all—there’s no helping it.”

“Then, can you see my face?” I asked intently. “Can I see it? Look—it’s right there, reflected, isn’t it?” she said, smiling gently.
I remained silent and moved my face away from the pillow.
With my arms folded, I wondered if she would really die.

After a while, the woman spoke again like this.

“When I die, please bury me.
Dig a hole with a large pearl shell.
Then place a star fragment fallen from heaven as my grave marker.
Wait beside the grave.
I will come to meet you again.”

I asked, “When will you come?”

“The sun will rise.”
“Then it will set.”
“Then it will rise again, and then it will set again.”
“As the red sun falls from east to west, east to west—can you wait?”

I nodded silently.
The woman raised her quiet tone a notch higher,
“Please wait a hundred years for me,” she declared in a resolute voice.
“Please sit by my grave and wait a hundred years.”
“For I will surely come to meet you.”

I answered that I would wait.
Then, my figure, which had been vividly reflected in her black eyes, began to blur hazily.
As if quiet water had stirred and disturbed its reflected image—just as I thought it might flow away—the woman’s eyes snapped shut.
A tear fell from between her long eyelashes.—She was already dead.

Then I went down to the garden and dug a hole with a pearl shell.
The pearl shell was large, with a smooth yet sharply tapered rim.
Every time I scooped the soil, moonlight struck the shell’s underside and glimmered.
The damp earth released its scent.
After some time, the hole was dug.
I placed the woman inside it.
Then I gently covered her with soft soil from above.
Each time I layered the earth, moonlight glanced off the pearl shell’s back.

Then I picked up the fallen star fragment and lightly placed it atop the soil.
The star fragment was round.
I thought its edges must have worn smooth during the long fall through the sky.
As I lifted and set it down, my chest and hands grew faintly warm.

I sat down on the moss. While thinking that I would now be waiting like this for a hundred years, I sat with my arms folded and gazed at the round tombstone. Before long, just as the woman had said, the sun rose from the east—a massive crimson orb. Then again, as she had foretold, it soon sank westward—the scarlet sphere plunging downward in its entirety. I counted one.

After some time, another crimson sun heaved itself up into the sky only to sink away in silence once more. Again, I counted—two.

In this way, as I counted one, two, and so on, I lost track of how many red suns I had seen.
No matter how many times I counted, an endless procession of red suns passed overhead.
Even so, the hundred years had still not come.

In the end, gazing at the moss-covered round stone, I began to wonder if I had been deceived by the woman.

Then, from beneath the stone, a blue stem extended diagonally toward me. Before my eyes, it grew longer and reached just around my chest before coming to a stop. No sooner had I thought this than the slender bud that had been tilting slightly at the tip of the sleekly swaying stem plumply unfurled its petals. A pure white lily’s scent pierced through to the bone right beneath my nose. Just then, from high above, a dewdrop fell with a plop, so the flower swayed unsteadily under its own weight. I leaned my neck forward and kissed the white petal dripping cold dew. As I pulled my face away from the lily, I inadvertently looked up at the distant sky and saw a single morning star twinkling.

“The hundred years had already come,” I realized for the first time at that moment.

Second Night

I had such a dream.

When I withdrew from the monk’s chamber and returned to my room along the corridor, the lamp was dimly lit.
When I knelt one knee on the zabuton and adjusted the lamp wick, a clove resembling a flower fell with a soft clatter onto the red-lacquered stand.
At the same time, the room suddenly brightened.

The painting on the sliding door was by Buson’s brush. Black willows were painted with thick and thin strokes, light and dark, depicting depth, while a fisherman who seemed chilled tilted his straw hat as he walked along the embankment. On the alcove hung a Kaichū Monju scroll. The partially burned incense sticks were still emitting their scent in the darkness. Because it was a large temple, it was serenely silent and devoid of people. The round shadow of the paper lantern cast on the black ceiling appeared to come alive the moment I looked up.

While remaining in a half-seated position, I rolled up the zabuton with my left hand and inserted my right hand underneath. When I looked, it was exactly where I had thought it would be. Relieved to find it there, I rearranged the futon properly and settled heavily on top of it.

“You are a samurai.”
“If you are a samurai, you should be able to attain enlightenment,” said the monk.
“Judging by your failure to attain enlightenment even now, I say you are no samurai.”
“You’re human scum,” he said.
“Hah! You’re angry,” he said with a laugh.
“If it rankles so much, bring proof of your enlightenment,” he said, then turned away with a dismissive snort.
“Outrageous!”

By the time the clock in the adjacent hall strikes the next hour, I will surely attain enlightenment.
Once I attain enlightenment, I will enter his chamber again tonight.
And then I will exchange the monk’s head for enlightenment.
If I don’t attain enlightenment, I can’t take the monk’s life.
I must attain enlightenment—no matter what.
I am a samurai.

If I do not attain enlightenment, I will commit seppuku.
A samurai humiliated cannot go on living.
I will die cleanly.

As I thought this，my hand once again involuntarily slipped beneath the futon.
And then I pulled out the crimson-sheathed dagger.
Gripping the hilt tightly，I swept aside the red sheath—and in that instant，the cold blade flashed through the dark room.
It felt as though something formidable was swiftly slipping away from my grasp.
And then，everything converged at my blade’s tip，concentrated all killing intent into a single point.
I saw this sharp blade—frustratingly compressed like the head of a needle，forced to taper at nine sun and five bu—and instantly wanted to drive it through something.
Blood surged toward my right wrist; my gripped hilt squelched.
My lips trembled.

He sheathed the dagger and tucked it under his right arm, then assumed the full lotus position.—Zhaozhou said: Nothingness.
What is nothingness?
I bared my teeth at the damn monk.

He clenched his back teeth so tightly that hot breath rushed harshly from his nostrils. His temples throbbed with pain. He opened his eyes twice as wide as usual.

He could see the hanging scroll. He could see the lamp. He could see the tatami mats. He could see the monk’s shaven head as clearly as a metal pot. He could even hear the voice that had mocked him with a gaping mouth. That damn monk! I absolutely must sever that metal pot! I will attain enlightenment! Nothingness—nothingness—he repeated through gritted teeth. Even as he chanted “nothingness,” the scent of incense still lingered. What nonsense—it’s just incense!

He suddenly clenched his fist and struck his own head with such force that he could hardly bear it. He clenched his back teeth tightly. Sweat poured from both armpits. His back turned rigid as a rod. His knees suddenly began to ache. He wondered what it would matter even if his knees were to break. But it hurt. Agonizing. Nothingness would not manifest. Just when he thought it would manifest, the pain would flare up. He was furious. He was filled with bitter frustration. He was overwhelmed with bitter frustration. Tears trickled down. He wanted to hurl his body against a massive boulder all at once and shatter both bone and flesh into chaos.

Even so, he endured and sat perfectly still.
He bore something unbearably poignant swelling in his chest.
That poignant force surged upward through every muscle in his body, straining to burst from his pores—yet every passage lay sealed shut, leaving him in a state of excruciating confinement with no escape.

Gradually, his mind began to unravel.
The paper lamp, Buson’s painting, the tatami mats, and the staggered shelves all seemed both present and absent—or rather, absent yet somehow present.
Still, nothingness refused to manifest itself.
He appeared to be sitting half-heartedly.
Just then, the clock in the neighboring room abruptly chimed once.

He jolted.
He immediately placed his right hand on the dagger.
The clock struck its second chime—Chiin.

Third Night

I had such a dream.

I was carrying a six-year-old child on my back.
The child was indeed my own.
The strange thing was—without notice—his eyes had been destroyed, and he had become shaven-headed like a monk.
When I asked when your eyes were ruined, he answered, “From long ago.”
The voice was unmistakably a child’s, yet the manner of speaking was entirely adult.
Moreover, he spoke as an equal.

On both sides were green rice fields.
The road was narrow.
A heron’s shadow occasionally cut through the darkness.

“We’ve entered the rice fields, haven’t we?” said the child on my back.
“How do you know?” I asked, turning my face back as if to look.

“Because the heron’s crying, isn’t it?” he answered.

Then the heron indeed cried out twice.

Even though it was my own child, I grew slightly afraid.
If I kept carrying this thing on my back, I couldn’t tell what might become of me.
Looking ahead for somewhere to cast it off, I saw a large forest looming in the darkness.
The moment I thought, “That place would do”—on my back,

“Heh,” came a voice.

“What are you laughing at?”

The child did not respond.
Only,
“Father, is it heavy?” he asked.

“It’s not heavy,” I answered.
“It’ll get heavy soon,” he said.

I walked wordlessly onward toward the forest.
The path through the rice fields twisted irregularly, refusing to let me advance as I wished.
After some time, it split into two forks.
I stood at the base of the division and rested a moment.

“There should be a stone standing here,” said the child.

Sure enough, an eight-sun square stone stood about waist-high.
On its surface were written “Higakubo to the left” and “Horitawara to the right.”
Despite the darkness, the red letters remained clearly visible.
The red letters were the color of a salamander’s belly.

“Take the left path,” the child ordered.
When I looked left, the forest cast shadows of darkness from the high sky down onto our heads.
I hesitated slightly.

“There’s no need to hesitate,” the child said again.
I reluctantly started walking toward the forest.
As I followed the single path toward the forest, thinking to myself how he knew everything despite being blind, his voice came from my back: “Blindness truly is such a burden.”

“So I’m letting you carry me—isn’t that enough?”

“I’m sorry to make you carry me, but I can’t let people treat me like a fool.”
“It’s unbearable when even my own parent looks down on me.”

I grew disgusted.
Thinking to reach the forest quickly and abandon him, I hurried.

“You’ll understand once we go a little further—it was just such a night…” he muttered as if to himself against my back.

“What?” I asked in a strained voice.

“What do you mean, ‘what’? You know already, don’t you?” the child answered mockingly.
Then, somehow, I began to feel like I knew.
But I couldn’t grasp it clearly.
It just seemed like it had been a night like this.
And so it seemed that if I went just a little further, I would understand.
Because once I understood, it would be disastrous—I had to abandon him quickly while still ignorant and secure my peace of mind.
I quickened my pace even more.

The rain had been falling for some time.
The road grew gradually darker.
I was nearly in a trance.
Only, on my back clung a small boy—and that boy illuminated every aspect of my past, present, and future, shining like a mirror that spared not a single detail.
And that was my own child.
And he was blind.
I couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Here, here.”
“Right at the base of that cedar tree.”

In the rain, the child’s voice was clearly heard.
I unconsciously stopped.
Before I knew it, I had entered the forest.
The black shape a couple of yards ahead indeed appeared to be a cedar tree, just as the child had said.

“Father, that was the base of the cedar tree, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” I answered without thinking.

“It was Bunka 5, the Year of the Dragon, wasn’t it?”

I realized it indeed seemed to be Bunka 5, the Year of the Dragon.

“You killing me was exactly a hundred years ago, wasn’t it?”

The moment I heard these words, awareness suddenly arose in my mind—that I had killed a blind person at this cedar tree’s base on a dark night like this in Bunka 5, the Year of the Dragon, a century past.
The instant I realized I was a murderer, the child on my back abruptly became as heavy as a stone Jizo statue.

Fourth Night

In the center of the wide dirt-floored room was placed something like a cooling bench, with small low stools arranged around it.
The bench gleamed with a glossy black sheen.
In one corner, with a square meal tray set before him, the old man sat alone drinking sake.
The side dish appeared to be simmered vegetables.

The old man’s face was quite red from the sake.
Moreover, his entire face was glossy, with not a single wrinkle to be found anywhere.
Only because he had grown as much white beard as possible could one tell he was an old man.
Though I was just a child, I wondered how old this old man was.

Just then, Kamisan, who had drawn water into a hand bucket from the bamboo spout at the back, approached while wiping her hands on her apron,

“How old are you, Grandpa?” she asked.
The old man swallowed the simmered vegetables he had stuffed into his mouth,

“I’ve forgotten how old,” the old man replied nonchalantly.
Kamisan tucked her wiped hands into her thin obi and stood watching the old man’s face from the side.
The old man gulped down sake from a large, bowl-like vessel, then let out a long breath through his white beard.
Then Kamisan,
“Where is your house, Grandpa?” she asked.
The old man cut off his long breath midway,

“In my navel’s depth,” he said.
Kamisan kept her hands thrust into the thin obi,
“And where are you going?” she asked again.
Then the old man gulped down hot sake from a large bowl-like vessel and let out a breath just like before,

“I’m heading over there,” he said.

When Kamisan asked, “Straight ahead?” the breath he exhaled whooshed past the shoji screen, slipped beneath the willow, and went straight toward the riverbank.

The old man went outside.
I also went out after him.
A small gourd hung at the old man’s waist.
He had a square box slung from his shoulder to under his arm.
He was wearing light blue leggings and a light blue sleeveless garment.
Only his tabi socks were yellow.
Somehow, they looked like tabi socks made of leather.

The old man came straight to beneath the willow tree.
Beneath the willow tree were three or four children.
The old man, while laughing, took out a light blue hand towel from his waist.
He twisted it into a long, thin strand like a tightly braided ceremonial rope.
And placed it in the center of the ground.
Then he drew a large round circle around the hand towel.
Finally, from the box slung over his shoulder, he took out a brass candy seller’s flute.

“That hand towel’s going to turn into a snake any moment now, so watch closely.”
“Watch closely,” he repeated.

The children were intently watching the hand towel.
I was also watching.

“Watch closely, watch closely, alright?” said the old man as he began playing his flute and circling round and round atop the ring.
I was only watching the hand towel.
But the hand towel didn’t move at all.

The old man piped on his flute.
And circled around the ring many times.
He circled as if digging in his straw sandals, stepping as though tiptoeing, wary of the hand towel.
He looked almost fearful.
It also looked intriguing.

Eventually, the old man abruptly stopped playing his flute.
And then, he opened the mouth of the box slung over his shoulder, pinched the towel’s collar, and flung it inside.

“If I leave it like this, it’ll turn into a snake inside the box.”
“I’ll show you soon enough.”
“I’ll show you soon enough,” said the old man as he began walking straight ahead.
He passed under the willow and went straight down the narrow path.
I followed the narrow path endlessly because I wanted to see the snake.
The old man walked on, occasionally muttering things like “It’s about to happen” or “It’ll turn into a snake.”
Eventually,

“It’s about to happen, it’ll turn into a snake,
it’ll surely happen, the flute will sound,”

Singing this, he finally reached the riverbank.
Since there was no bridge or boat, I thought he would rest here and show us the snake in the box, but then the old man began wading into the river with a splash.
The water was about knee-deep at first, but as he waded further, it gradually rose from his waist to his chest until he disappeared from view.
Even so, the old man—

“Deeper it grows, night draws near,
Straight it goes”

Singing all the while, he walked straight ahead endlessly.
And then his beard, face, head, and hood all vanished completely from sight.

I thought the old man would show me the snake when he reached the opposite bank, so I stood where the reeds rustled and waited there alone, endlessly.
But the old man never resurfaced.

Fifth Night

I had such a dream.

It must have been an exceedingly ancient time, close to the Age of the Gods. But because I had led an army and met with ill fortune in defeat, I was captured alive and brought before the enemy general.

People of that era were all tall.
And they all grew long beards.
They fastened leather belts about their waists and hung stick-like swords from them.
Their bows appeared made from thick wisteria vines left in their natural state.
They bore neither lacquer nor polish.
They were things of utmost simplicity.

The enemy general gripped the middle of his bow with his right hand, thrust it into the grass, and sat atop what resembled an overturned sake jar. When I looked at his face, his left and right eyebrows were thickly joined above his nose. At that time, there were no razors, of course.

Since I was a prisoner, I couldn’t sit down properly. I sat cross-legged on the grass. On my feet were large straw sandals. The straw sandals of that era were deep—when standing, they reached up to my knees. Their edges were left partly unbraided, with straw tassels hanging down that fluttered loosely when walking, serving as decoration.

The general gazed at his reflection in the bonfire and asked whether I would choose death or life. This was the custom of those times—every prisoner would first hear this question. To answer “life” meant surrender; to say “die” meant defiance. I answered simply: “I will die.” The general flung aside the bow planted in the grass and smoothly began drawing his sword-like stick from his waist. The bonfire, whipped by wind, lashed at him sideways. I spread my right hand like a maple leaf, palm turned toward the general, raising it above my eyes—a gesture signaling “Wait.” With a clang, the general sheathed his thick sword.

Even in those times, love existed.
"I want to see the woman I long for one last time before I die," I said.
"I'll wait until dawn when the rooster crows," replied the general.
I had to summon her here before cockcrow.
If she didn't come by then, I would be killed without meeting her.

The general stayed seated gazing at the bonfire.
I kept waiting on the grass with my straw sandals pressed together.
The night grew deeper still.

Occasionally came the sound of the bonfire collapsing.
Each time it collapsed, flames surged toward the general like panicked creatures.
Under jet-black brows, the general’s eyes glinted sharp and bright.
Then someone approached, tossing fresh branches into the blaze.
Soon the fire crackled and snapped—
a valiant sound pushing back against the dark.

At that moment, the woman led out the white horse tethered to an oak behind.
Three times she stroked its mane before leaping lightly onto its high back.
No saddle graced it, no stirrups—a bare mount.
With her long white legs, she kicked its barrel belly; the horse charged forth.
Someone had stoked the bonfire anew, faintly brightening the distant sky.
The horse flew through darkness toward that glow,
twin pillars of fiery breath streaming from its nostrils.
Still she drove it onward—slender legs ceaselessly striking its flanks.
So swift it flew that hoofbeats echoed midair,
her hair streaming through blackness like a banner.
Yet still she hadn’t reached the fire’s place.

Then, beside the pitch-dark road, a rooster suddenly crowed "cock-a-doodle-doo!"
The woman leaned back as if into empty space and pulled hard on the reins she gripped in both hands.
The horse’s front hooves carved into the hard rock with a sharp crack.

The rooster crowed "cock-a-doodle-doo" once more.

The woman uttered "Ah!" and loosened the tightened reins all at once.
The horse buckled at the knees.
Together with its rider, it pitched headlong forward.
Under the rock lay a deep abyss.

The hoof marks still remain on the rock.
The one who imitated the rooster’s crow was Ameno Sagume.
As long as these hoof marks remain carved into the rock, Ameno Sagume is my enemy.

Sixth Night

Having heard the rumor that Unkei was carving Nio statues at Gokoku-ji’s main gate, I went to see while out for a walk, only to find a large crowd had already gathered before me, eagerly discussing their impressions.

About five or six ken in front of the main gate stood a large red pine tree, its trunk slanting to hide the gate’s roof tiles as it stretched up toward the distant blue sky.
The green of the pine and the vermilion-lacquered gate reflected each other resplendently.
Moreover, the pine tree’s positioning was excellent.
The way they had diagonally trimmed it from the left edge of the gate to avoid obstructing the view—widening as it ascended and protruding all the way to the roof—gave it a vaguely antiquated air.
It seemed reminiscent of the Kamakura period.

However, those watching were all people of the Meiji era, just like myself.
Among them, the rikisha men were the most numerous.
They must have been standing there out of boredom while waiting at intersections.

"That's enormous!" they said.

"It must take far more effort than crafting humans," someone else remarked.

“Huh, Nio statues? So they still carve those these days?”
“Huh, really?”
“I figured all Nio statues were just old relics,” said one man.

“He looks mighty strong.”
“They say there’s none stronger!”
“Since ancient times, they say no man’s ever matched the Nio’s strength.”
“Why, they say he’s even mightier than Yamato Takeru!” added another man.
This man had his kimono hitched up at the waist and wore no hat.
He seemed a thoroughly uneducated fellow.

Unkei kept moving his chisel and hammer, utterly unconcerned with the spectators’ comments.
He never once turned around.
Perched high up, he worked vigorously to carve out the area around the Nio’s face.

Unkei wore something resembling a small eboshi cap on his head, his large sleeves—whether part of a suō robe or something else I couldn’t discern—tied back behind him.
His entire appearance looked thoroughly antiquated.
He seemed completely mismatched with the boisterous crowd.
I found myself wondering how Unkei could still be alive in this day and age.
As I stood there contemplating these strange mysteries, I kept watching all the same.

However, Unkei himself carved with all his might, without showing the slightest hint of finding it strange or peculiar. A young man who had been looking up and watching this demeanor turned toward me and,

“Truly, that’s Unkei for you.”
“He doesn’t even notice us.”
“It’s the demeanor of one who declares, ‘Under heaven, the only true heroes are the Nio and myself.’”
“Bravo!” he exclaimed, beginning to praise.

I found these words intriguing.
So when I glanced toward the young man, the young man immediately,

“Look at how he wields the chisel and hammer. He has reached the sublime realm of great mastery,” he said.

Unkei carved out the thick eyebrow horizontally at a height of about an inch, then immediately turned the chisel’s blade vertically and brought the hammer down diagonally from above. With each strike into the hard wood, thick wood chips flew at the hammer’s command until suddenly the flaring nostrils’ angry profile emerged from the surface. His blade work showed not an ounce of hesitation. He appeared utterly free from doubt.

“To think he can wield the chisel so freely and still shape perfect brows and nostrils,” I muttered in awe, half to myself.
Then the young man from earlier turned toward me.

“No, he isn’t creating eyebrows and noses with a chisel,” said the young man. “He’s using the chisel and hammer to unearth the very eyebrows and nose already hidden within the wood. It’s no different from digging a stone out of the earth—there’s no room for error.”

At that moment, I finally understood what sculpture truly was. If this were true, I thought, anyone could do it. Suddenly seized by the urge to carve a Nio myself, I stopped watching and hurried home.

I took a chisel and hammer from the toolbox and went out back to find a large pile of suitable oak logs that had been cut by a woodcutter for firewood after they were felled in a recent storm.

I selected the largest log and began carving vigorously, but unfortunately found no trace of a Nio. Unluckily, I failed to unearth one from the next log either. The third log contained no Nio at all. I carved into every single piece of stacked firewood, yet none harbored a Nio within. At last I realized there were simply no Nio buried in Meiji wood. Thus I came to understand why Unkei had survived into this present age.

Seventh Night

I was aboard a large ship.

Day and night without pause, the ship plowed through the waves, belching black smoke as it advanced.
It was a deafening noise.
But I didn’t know where it was headed.
Just then, the sun rose from beneath the waves like a red-hot poker.
No sooner had it reached directly above the tall mast and hovered there a while than, before I knew it, it overtook the great ship and raced ahead.
And finally, with a sizzle like a red-hot poker, it sank back down into the waves’ depths.
Each time, blue waves in the distant beyond seethed into suō-dye crimson.
Then the ship would let out a dreadful roar and chase after its wake.
But it never caught up.

One time, I caught a crewman and tried asking him.

“Is this ship heading west?”

The crewman made a puzzled face, stared at me for a while, and then—
“Why?” he countered.

“Because it seems to be chasing the setting sun.”

The crewman barked a dry laugh.
And then he walked off toward the other side.

“The sun that goes west—does its end lie in the east?”
“Is that its true nature?”
“The sun that rises east—is its birthplace west?”
“Is that too its true nature?”
“Body upon the waves.”
“Pillows submerged.”
“Let it flow, let it flow!” they chanted.
When I went to the bow to look, many sailors had gathered and were hauling a thick sail rope.

I was filled with dread.
I didn’t know when I’d be able to go ashore.
And I didn’t know where it was headed.
The only thing certain was that it belched black smoke and plowed through the waves.
The waves were exceedingly vast.
They appeared endlessly blue.
At times, they turned purple.
Yet around where the ship moved, the water always churned with pure white foam.
I was terribly uneasy.
I thought perhaps I should just throw myself overboard and die rather than stay on this ship.

There were many passengers.
Most seemed to be foreigners.
Yet they all had different faces.
When the sky clouded over and the ship rocked, a woman leaned against the railing and wept without pause.
The handkerchief she used to wipe her eyes looked white.
But she wore a Western-style dress patterned like chintz.
Seeing her, I realized sadness wasn’t mine alone.

One evening, when I went out on deck and was gazing at the stars alone, a foreigner approached and asked, “Do you know astronomy?”
I was so listless I even considered dying.
There was no need for me to know astronomy or such things.
I kept silent.
Then the foreigner began narrating to me about the Seven Stars at the apex of Taurus.
He went on: “Both the stars and the sea were all created by God.”
Finally, he asked if I believed in God.
I stared at the sky and said nothing.

One time when I entered the salon, a young woman in gaudy clothes sat facing away, playing a Western piano. Beside her stood a tall, imposing man singing a school song. His mouth looked extraordinarily large. Yet the two seemed utterly indifferent to anything beyond themselves. They even appeared to have forgotten they were aboard a ship.

I grew increasingly bored. I finally resolved to die. So one evening when no one was about, I steeled myself and leapt into the sea. But—the instant my foot left the deck and my tie to the ship was severed—I suddenly clung desperately to life. From the depths of my heart, I wished I hadn't done it. But it was already too late. Like it or not, I had to enter the sea. Evidently built exceedingly high, though my body had left the ship, my feet wouldn't readily touch water. With nothing to grasp, I gradually drew closer to it however much I pulled my legs up toward me—closer still—closer—until at last I saw: the water's color was black.

Before long, the ship belched black smoke as usual and passed by.
Even a ship whose destination I did not know—I realized for the first time that it would have been better to remain aboard—yet unable to make use of this realization, I sank quietly toward the black waves, clinging to infinite regret and terror.

Eighth Night

When I stepped over the barbershop’s threshold, three or four people in white garments clustered together all at once said, “Welcome!”

Standing in the center and looking around revealed a square room.
Windows stood open on two sides, with mirrors hung on the remaining walls.
When I counted them, there were six mirrors.

I went to one and sat down.
The seat gave a soft creak.
It proved to be an exceptionally comfortable chair.
My face appeared clearly reflected in the mirror.
Behind it lay a window.
Then came a view of the cashier’s lattice at an angle.
No one occupied the lattice.
Through the window, passersby’s upper bodies were plainly visible.

Shōtarō passed by leading a woman.
Shōtarō had somehow bought a Panama hat and was wearing it.
The woman too had prepared something—though I couldn’t tell what.
Both of them seemed pleased with themselves.
As I tried to get a proper look at her face, they walked past.

A tofu seller went by blowing a horn.
His cheeks bulged like bee stings from pressing the mouthpiece to his lips.
Seeing him pass like that left me unbearably uneasy.
I feel as if I’ve spent my whole life being stung by bees.

A geisha appeared.
She had not yet applied her makeup.
The base of her Shimada hairstyle had loosened, leaving her head somehow lacking tautness.
Her face looked drowsy.
Her complexion was pitifully sallow.
Then she bowed politely and said something like "Thank you very much," but whoever she addressed refused to emerge from within the mirror.

Then a large man in white garments came behind me and, holding scissors and a comb, began examining my head.
Twisting my thin mustache, I wondered aloud, "Will this turn out well?"
The white-clad man answered nothing, only lightly tapping his own head with the amber comb in his hand.

“Well, as for the head… What do you think? Will it turn out well?” I asked the white-clad man.
The white-clad man still gave no answer and began snipping the scissors with a crisp snip-snip.

I had resolved to keep my eyes wide open to catch every reflection in the mirror, but each snip of the scissors sent black hairs flying toward me. Terrified, I soon shut my eyes.
Then the white-clad man said:

“Did you see the goldfish seller outside, sir?”

I said I hadn’t seen it.
The white-clad man left it at that and kept snipping the scissors busily.
Then suddenly, there was a loud voice shouting “Danger!”
When I opened my eyes with a start, beneath the white-clad man’s sleeve, I saw the wheel of a bicycle.
I could see the rickshaw’s shaft.
No sooner had I thought this than the white-clad man pressed down on my head with both hands and forcefully turned it sideways.
The bicycle and rickshaw had completely vanished from sight.
The scissors went snip-snip.

Before long, the white-clad man moved around to my side and began trimming around my ears.
Because the hair no longer flew forward, I opened my eyes in relief.
A voice called out right there: "Millet cakes! Cakes here! Cakes!"
They were deliberately striking the small mallet against the mortar, keeping time while pounding the rice cakes.
Since I last saw a millet cake vendor as a child, I wanted to get a glimpse of what they were like now.
However, the millet cake vendor never appeared in the mirror.
Only the sound of pounding rice cakes persisted.

I peered into the corner of the mirror with all my eyesight could muster.
Then inside the cashier’s lattice, a woman had appeared before one knew it.
She was a large-framed woman with dusky skin and thick eyebrows, her hair tied in a ginkgo-leaf bun, wearing an unlined summer kimono fastened with a black satin half-collar as she counted bills in a half-kneeling position.
The bills appeared to be ten-yen notes.
The woman kept her long eyelashes lowered and thin lips pressed tight while counting with intense focus—her method astonishingly swift.
Moreover, no matter how far she counted, their number showed no sign of diminishing.
Though no more than a hundred bills lay upon her lap, those hundred remained a hundred however long she tallied them.

I stared in a daze at this woman’s face and the ten-yen bills.
Then right by my ear, the white-clad man said loudly, “Let’s wash it.”
Seizing this perfect chance, I turned to look back at the cashier’s lattice the moment I stood from the chair.
Yet within that latticework—no woman, no bills—nothing at all could be seen.

After paying and stepping outside, to the left of the entrance were lined up around five oval-shaped buckets containing many goldfish—red ones, mottled ones, skinny ones, plump ones.
And behind them stood the goldfish seller.
The goldfish seller remained motionless, propping his cheek with a hand while staring at the goldfish arranged before him.
He paid almost no heed to the bustling street activity.
I stood watching this goldfish seller for some time.
Yet throughout my observation, the goldfish seller never moved at all.

Ninth Night

The world somehow began to grow restless.
It looked as though war could break out at any moment.
It felt as though a scorched-out naked horse was rampaging around the mansion day and night, while day and night foot soldiers swarmed in pursuit.
Inside the house, it was quiet as a forest.

In the house lived a young mother and a three-year-old child.
The father had gone somewhere.
The time when Father went somewhere was a moonless midnight.
On the floor, he put on straw sandals, donned a black hood, and left through the back entrance.
At that moment, the light from the paper lantern Mother held shone slender and long into the dark void, illuminating the old cypress before the hedge.

Father never returned after that.
Mother asks the three-year-old child every day, “Where is Father?”
The child said nothing.
After some time, the child began to answer, “Over there.”
Even when Mother asked, “When will he return?” the child would still answer “Over there” and laugh.
At that time, Mother also laughed.
And then she taught the child the words “He will return soon” over and over again.
However, the child only remembered “soon.”
Sometimes, when asked “Where is Father?” the child would answer “Soon.”

When night fell and the surroundings grew quiet, Mother retightened her obi, inserted the dagger in its sharkskin sheath into her sash, secured the child to her back with a narrow cloth sash, and slipped out through the side entrance.
Mother always wore straw sandals.
There were times when the child would fall asleep on Mother’s back while listening to the sound of the straw sandals.

Heading west through the estate town lined with earthen walls and descending the long slope brought one to a large ginkgo tree. If you turned right at this ginkgo tree as your landmark, about a block further in stood a stone torii. On one side lay rice fields, on the other a path through thick bamboo grass leading to the torii; passing through it, she entered a dark cedar grove. Then, after following the paving stones for about twenty ken and reaching the end, she emerged at the base of the old hall of worship’s stairs. On top of the offering box, washed out to a mousy gray, hung a large bell rope; looking at it by daylight revealed a plaque inscribed “Hachiman-gū” beside the bell. The character “八” was amusingly rendered in a font resembling two doves facing each other. There were also various other plaques. Most displayed golden targets pierced by members of the household, each bearing its shooter’s name. Occasionally there were ones where tachi had been enshrined.

When passing through the torii, an owl would always hoot in the cedar treetops.
And then came the squelching of straw sandals.
When that ceased before the hall, Mother first rang the bell, then immediately crouched and clapped her hands.
Usually at this point, the owl would abruptly cease its hooting.
Then Mother prayed with single-minded devotion for her husband’s safety.
In Mother’s reasoning, since her husband was a samurai, if she offered this prayer born of dire necessity to Hachiman—the god of bow and arrow—there could be no reason it would go unheard; she clung to this conviction with desperate resolve.

The child would often wake to the sound of this bell and, upon seeing the utter darkness around him, suddenly burst into tears on her back.
At such times, Mother would try to soothe him by shaking her back while murmuring a prayer under her breath.
At such times, the child would quiet down.
There were also times when the child would wail even more violently.
In any case, Mother would not readily rise.

When she finished praying for her husband’s well-being, she untied the narrow sash and—shifting the child from her back to her front as if sliding them down—cradled them in both arms while ascending the hall of worship. She pressed her cheek firmly against the child’s and said, “Be good now and wait here a little while.” Then she lengthened the narrow sash, tied the child, and fastened one end to the hall’s railing. After that, she descended the steps and walked back and forth along the twenty-ken stretch of paving stones to perform the hundred-prayer circuit.

The child tied to the hall of worship crawled around the wide veranda in the darkness, as far as the length of the narrow sash allowed. At such times, it was a considerably easy night for Mother. However, when the tied child wailed, Mother was beside herself. Her steps during the hundred-prayer circuit quickened considerably. She was terribly out of breath. When there was no other way, she would climb back up to the hall midway, try various ways to soothe the child, and then resume the hundred-prayer circuit.

In this manner, night after night, as Mother fretted and worried without sleep, Father had long since been killed by ronin.

I heard this sad story from Mother in a dream.

Tenth Night

On the seventh night after Shōtarō was abducted by a woman, he suddenly returned home, developed a high fever, and collapsed into bed—so Ken-san came to inform us.

Shōtarō was the most handsome man in the neighborhood and an extremely kind and honest person.
He had one indulgence.
He would put on a Panama hat, sit down at the front of the fruit shop come evening, and watch the faces of women passing by.
And he kept admiring them with great interest.
Apart from that, he had no notable characteristics.

When not many women passed by, he would look at the fruit instead of watching the street.
There are all sorts of fruit.
Honey peaches, apples, loquats, and bananas were beautifully arranged in baskets, lined up in two rows so they could be immediately taken as gifts.
Shōtarō would look at these baskets and say they were beautiful.
Shōtarō would say that if you’re going to run a business, a fruit shop is the way to go.
Yet he himself idly loafed about wearing a Panama hat.

He would say "This color is nice" and appraise summer oranges and such.
However, he never spent money to buy fruit.
Of course, he wouldn’t eat without paying.
He did nothing but praise the colors.

One evening, a woman suddenly stood in front of the shop.
She appeared to be a person of status, wearing splendid clothing.
The color of that kimono greatly pleased Shōtarō.
On top of that, Shōtarō was deeply impressed by the woman’s face.
So he took off his important Panama hat and politely greeted her, whereupon the woman pointed to the largest basket of fruit and said, "I’ll take this," so Shōtarō promptly took that basket and handed it over.
Then the woman lifted it briefly and said it was very heavy.

Shōtarō, being an idle man by nature and one of considerable chivalry, said he would carry it to her home and left the fruit shop with the woman. After that, he never returned.

Even Shōtarō was far too carefree.
As relatives and friends began making a fuss, saying it couldn’t be nothing, on the seventh night he nonchalantly returned.
When a crowd gathered around and asked, “Shō-san, where have you been?” Shōtarō answered that he had taken a train to the mountains.

It must have been an exceedingly long train. According to Shōtarō’s account, upon disembarking, he immediately emerged onto a plain.
It was an exceedingly vast plain; wherever one looked, nothing but blue grass grew.
As they walked with the woman across the grass, they suddenly reached the cliff’s edge.
At that moment, the woman said to Shōtarオウ, “Why don’t you jump from here?”
When he peered down, the cliff face was visible, but the bottom could not be seen.
Shオウtaro once again removed his Panama hat and repeatedly declined.
Then the woman asked, “If you don’t jump decisively, you’ll be licked by pigs—would that please you?”
Shオウtaro hated pigs and Unmoemon.
However, thinking life couldn’t be exchanged, he still refrained from jumping.
Just then, a pig came snorting along.
Shオウtaro, having no choice, struck the pig’s snout with the slender betel palm cane he held.
The pig let out a grunt, flipped over backward, and fell off the cliff.
Shオウtaro sighed in relief when another pig came rubbing its large snout against him.
Shオウtaro had no choice but to raise the cane again.
The pig grunted and tumbled headlong into the pit’s depths.
Then another one appeared.
At this moment, Shオウtaro suddenly noticed something—looking ahead, from where the distant blue grassland ended, countless pigs beyond numbering came snorting in a straight-line swarm toward Shオウtaro standing atop this cliff.
Shオウtaro was utterly daunted.
But with no alternative, he carefully struck each approaching pig’s snout one by one with the betel palm cane.
Strangely enough, the moment the cane touched a snout, the pig would tumble down into the valley’s depths.

Peering down, he saw pigs falling upside down in an endless procession down the bottomless cliff.
When he thought of how many pigs he himself had sent tumbling into the valley, Shōtarō grew frightened of himself.
But the pigs kept coming.
They came snorting endlessly with the force of a black cloud sprouting legs and parting the blue grass.

Shōtarō summoned desperate courage and struck the pigs' snouts for seven days and six nights.
But in the end, his strength was completely spent; his hands grew weak as konjac jelly, and finally he was licked by the pigs.
And then he collapsed onto the cliff's edge.

Ken-san told Shōtarō’s story up to this point and said, “So you see, looking at women too much isn’t good.”
I too thought this was quite reasonable.
However, Ken-san had said he wanted Shōtarō’s Panama hat.

Shōtarō would not survive.
The Panama hat would be Ken-san’s now.