Pathway to Japanese Literature

The stone at the corner of Ōaza Kanenote in Iwamurada Town, Kita-Saku District, Nagano Prefecture informs travelers and says: South from here lies the Kōshū Highway.

If one proceeded south along this road, the Minami-Saku valley spread out before one's eyes toward the foothills of the Yatsugatake mountain range.
The Chikuma River was a great river that flowed through this valley, and it was thought that the customs and dialects of the people living along its banks differed somewhat from those downstream.
As one traveled upstream along its banks, even this great river transformed into a torrential stream. Since its core tilted severely toward the right bank, the left bank revealed an elevated sandy bed where large stones swept downstream lay embedded, with thickets of poplars and reeds thriving here and there.
What could be seen on the right bank were the likes of maples, lacquer trees, birches, and oaks.
The Kōshū Highway lay in its shade.
Echigo merchants, rich in perseverance, had passed through here since ancient times.
The fact that Naoetsu’s salt products penetrated deep into this mountainous region was solely because they had ascended along this road following the Chikuma River.

Along both banks, villages such as Minamimaki, Kitamaki, and Aiki were scattered, and one could behold the towering forms of Mount Kimpu, Kokushi Peak, Kobushigatake, and Mikuniyama; furthermore, on the Yatsugatake mountain range straddling Kōshū, one could gaze upon the crimson traces of massive collapses.
At the very end of this valley lay Uminokuchi Village, with Nobeyama Field pressing close behind.
Uminokuchi Village was originally located on the riverbank, but due to flooding of the river, it was said that the villagers had relocated to rely on the foothills of the plateau.
When one saw the wood-shingled roofs weighted with stones against wind and snow, one could not help but imagine the harshness of life in these remote mountains.
The fierce Shinshu people who lived in these parts engaged in occupations such as horse herding, farming, logging, and charcoal burning—indeed, they were a people particularly devoted to horse herding.
This Nobeyama Field where these people made their livelihood while herding horses was a natural great pasture—indeed, measuring some three ri square—where shrubs and weeds suitable for fodder grew thickly, with springs flowing abundantly in the shade of trees here and there.
Even the women who gathered here had thoroughly memorized the nature of horses to such an extent.
That men were skilled in horsemanship from boyhood came as no surprise.
When it came to the locals’ passion for horse racing—why, it was just like these folks’ love of drink.

Given this local character, one could roughly imagine what kind of labor the women performed.
The customary attire when working vigorously outdoors assisting men consisted of tight trousers, leg wrappings, and checkered arm guards.
The headwear was a woven straw hat.
One might wish to call the young women beautiful, but it would be more accurate to describe them as strong—many possessed robust, vibrant features.

As evidence that Uminokuchi Village was a horse-breeding region, there was likely not a single household that didn’t keep one or two horses.

As for what constituted this group’s wealth—needless to say, it was horses.

After the Sino-French War, the military horses used by French soldiers had been purchased by the Japanese Army Ministry and transported across the sea. Thirteen of them were transferred to Shinshu as stallions. It was at this time that the hardy and robust 'Algerian' breed horses were introduced into the interior of Minami-Saku. What people today collectively refer to as mixed breeds specifically indicates this 'Algerian' breed. After that, the renowned stallion Asama-go from America was also introduced. Gradually, horse improvement began; the Nobeyama Field horse market grew more prosperous with each passing year; until rumors of this reached even His Highness’s ears.

His Highness was a cavalry colonel attached to the army and an avowed horse enthusiast; thus, when he graciously lent his beloved Arabian stallion Falarice to Minami-Saku as a stud horse, there was no question of the fervor it ignited. There came an announcement that thirty-four foals sired by Falarice had been born that year. How great must His Highness’s delight have been—at last he was graced with an imperial visit to Nobeyama Field.

I

“Old man, both you and I’ve bought horses lately.”
“How ’bout it—what’s your take on this one? Eh, that spine’s near ’bout Asama-go quality.”
“Ain’t many decent nags like this ’mong all what’s gathered at Nobeyama today.”

A horse trader hid his hand and extended his sleeve.
The man from the group laughed as he slipped his hand inside it,

“Like this.”

“Hm, that’s right.”

and nodded to the young man standing nearby holding the reins,

“Young man, you mustn’t get angry.
Let me just give this horse a little pat, would you?”

He stroked down the glossy chestnut horse’s lower back, then suddenly grabbed its tail hairs and hefted them up forcefully.

“Well, if I were to buy it, this would be the horse.”

The young man, appearing to take the horse trader’s words as lavish flattery, bore a proud smile on his thick lips.

The name of this young man was Genkichi, and in the mountain village custom, they called him by just the first character, Gen.
In Uminokuchi Village, all the young farmers had nicknames, and Gen’s was “Straw Sandals.”
This referred to the crude straw sandals handmade by mountain folk for everyday wear, signifying an “ugly man.”
Indeed, his sunburned face—from the ugliness of his flat nose to the narrowness of his eyes and the shape of his lips—called to mind dirt-caked straw sandals.
However, as Gen was in the prime of his youth, the youthful hue of his cheeks was not entirely without its appeal.
Moreover, with the sturdiness of his muscles and bones and his superior arm strength—one might even say he could wrestle a wild beast—though his features were ugly, he still appeared a robust and sturdy farmer.

Gen, driven by profound ambition, was fired with determination to face the formidable opponents gathered from villages around Nobeyama Field for that day’s horse racing event and vie for victory in a decisive showdown. Thinking of final victory and supreme glory, he had not slept a wink the previous night. To his horse he had given soybeans, potatoes, straw, rice husks, and glutinous rice; whenever a sound arose from the withered grass, he would rise multiple times during the night to inspect the stable. Yet when he ascended to Nobeyama Field and breathed the cold, crisp autumn air, it was as though he had been reborn. How pleasant was the highland’s morning breeze! Gen had swiftly shaken off his fatigue from the night before. Moreover, it was this man’s nature to indulge in grating exaggerations—if some greenhorn who couldn’t properly assess a horse’s conformation were to praise his steed while he paraded it about, blurting out something like “Well now, that’s a fine horse!”, Gen would only look down on them with contempt and swagger away. Then came the horse trader’s flattering words—that was why Gen wore his smile.

Upon hearing of His Highness’s imperial visit, over four thousand men and women gathered at Nobeyama Field.
The horses must have numbered no fewer than three hundred.
That was the first grand spectacle Gen witnessed since his birth.

The Imperial Pavilion was newly built with a flat roof; the front had purple curtains and green table covers, while white curtains were hung around the rear. Adjoining the special seating area to the north were stables, and to the south lay the racetrack.

Where Kawakami Road ended and opened onto the field, white smoke rose from beneath a pine tree—this was where merchants had made a nest, setting up shops selling wild grapes, persimmons, and such.
Among them were some roasting corn to sell, while others sold rice balls topped with kelp and simmered crucian carp piled high.

Gen’s ambition-driven passion burned ever fiercer in his heart as the crowd swelled.
Gen’s horse was one of the mixed breeds that had inherited Algerian blood—as it raised its head high and watched the throngs of people and horses surging before its eyes, now at last it began to reveal that warlike nature lying dormant for years.
Vigorously shaking its ears, trampling through dew-heavy autumn grass, its neigh rang with masculine vigor.
As if wishing victory upon me.
The blood of ancestors who had galloped through cannon smoke and bullet rain during the Sino-French War truly coursed through this horse’s breast.
On that day alone, even master Gen could not restrain it—groups of girls clustered under pine boughs and women shading themselves with violet silk parasols screamed and scattered wildly.

Suddenly, the sound of fireworks rang out.
It was announcing His Highness's arrival in Uminokuchi Village.
From the area around the vendors' stalls, people from the valley along the ridge came running northward.
A group of elementary school pupils from Kawakami kicked up dust as they hurriedly passed by Gen.

In front of the Imperial Pavilion’s stables were tethered two hundred and forty mares, but particularly eye-catching were the thirty-four mares and foals that had been bred with His Highness’s Arabian stock.
Spectators surrounded this stable from all sides, forming a human mountain.
Gen tied his horse at the racetrack’s tethering area and circled around to the north side of the Imperial Pavilion to look. There, the county magistrate, county clerk, and others—their frock coats crisply creased—came to the special seating area and took their seats.
The gentleman with binoculars slung over his shoulder, waving a white, supple hand, and making soft footstep sounds was the Councillor.
Suddenly, the sound of a trumpet rose from the base of the valley.
Gradually, the sound grew nearer, until at last it reverberated through the clear autumn sky.

About ten rickshaws passed silently through the hushed crowd and advanced to the front of the Imperial Pavilion.
At the forefront was a young military officer, followed by attendants, the colonel, the governor, and the Horse Expert. His Highness, in his cavalry colonel’s dress uniform, was ushered into the welcoming carriage.
The carriage—unadorned black lacquer—bore a thick blanket with crimson geometric patterns, its footrest lined with scarlet fur. Five coachmen wearing ceremonial happi coats adorned with large stitched crests flanked it front and rear.
His Highness was ushered into the Imperial Pavilion by the governor’s guidance, and each time the colonel addressed him, he deigned to let a smile escape.
The gazes of the crowd were all fixed upon His Highness.
His Highness was in the prime of youth, and his figure—adorned with a military cap—bore traces of the majestic countenance reminiscent of the nation’s sovereign.
To witness the imperial family’s authority firsthand was the first time in his life for the farmer Gen.
His Highness listened to critiques of Falarice’s foal from the colonel and the Horse Expert, then descended from the Imperial Pavilion still in his boots and graciously viewed the parent horse and foal.
Being in such a majestic state, His Highness could no longer remain composed—such was the august spectacle.
The fireworks occasionally left a mass of white smoke in the sky, and when those fragments drifted like floating clouds carried by the wind over the heads of the crowd, cheers from children arose here and there.
His Highness too was occasionally made to look up at the blue sky and was made to gaze at the smoke fading away within the boundless autumn light.

Pressed by the pain of being jostled from behind, Gen pushed through the crowd and emerged outside the curtained-off special seating area.
His Highness appeared to be earnestly observing the horses once more.
The councillor had long since grown bored and was gazing at Nishihara Pasture spread out at the foot of Mount Yatsugatake.
When Gen passed by the attendants and made his way to the shade of the fodder shed, there, amidst the crowd of men and women, were his mother, aunt, and other relatives.
Gen’s young wife—Osumi—was also spreading out grass.

“A really good horse has come.”

Genkichi stood still, as if muttering to himself.
The aunt turned around,

“That makes perfect sense.”
“But even so, ain’t it somethin’?”

“Aunt, did you get to see His Highness?”
“Well, I paid my respects by the bridge.”

Gen’s mother stared intently at his profile,

“Gen, how about a rice ball? Eat it. There’s plenty—don’t worry about leftovers.”

“Ah,” Gen replied absently, his mind wholly consumed by thoughts of the race churning ceaselessly within him.
Driven by ambition, parched and restless, he could do nothing but fidget incessantly.

“Here. Eat it.”

At her mother-in-law’s words, Osumi took a rice ball and pressed it into Gen’s hand.
Gen, in a daze, stuffed a bite into his mouth and abruptly dashed off toward the stable.

The red-faced farmer who emerged from the tea attendants in haori and hakama was Gen’s father.
Looking around,

“Hasn’t Gen come?” he asked the mother in a parched voice.

“He was here just now, but ran off somewhere.”

“That guy’s impossible.
“Today he’s acting like a madman.
“I wanted to serve His Highness some gyokuro tea and have him sample the mugi rakugan sweets—that’s why I’ve been searching since earlier.”

The aunt took over,

“I was flabbergasted at how big Gen’s gotten.”
“He’s completely transformed.”
“But he ain’t taken after you one bit.”

“He does take after me.”
“He doesn’t take after me—looks just like his late grandfather.”
“When I see him, I can’t help but remember my grandfather.”

As they were talking cheerfully—the foal of Falarice having now been thoroughly inspected—a commemorative young pine tree was planted on the northern side of the Imperial Pavilion.
The people had grown weary, and no trace remained of the officials who had been humbly gathered in the special seating area.
Without pausing to rest, His Highness had each of the four stable rows shown to him one by one, and for over two hours—with the Colonel and Horse Expert at his side—he listened to explanations about the nature, bloodlines, and genetics of two hundred horses, not permitting even a hint of fatigue to mar his august bearing.

Because the blazing hot autumn sun beat down mercilessly, the group of fair-skinned officials hid in the curtain’s shade and rubbed each other’s knees.

For Genkichi, who was impatient for glory, these two hours had been an unbearable torment.
As word spread that the horse races would finally begin, four thousand people kicked up dust in their rush toward the racetrack fence, each desperate to claim a front-row spot.
Gen inhaled the yellow grit and coughed violently.
The surging mass of bodies—men and women colliding like tidal waves, children shrieking—defied all attempts at control by the police.
“Back! Get back!” Gen shouldered through the press of bodies until he reached the watering trough, where his horse whinnied with delight and thrust its massive head against his chest.

The day's horse racing had been divided into five groups, and by lottery result, Gen found himself placed last.
All eyes anticipated this final match, with fervent bets rising as factions rallied behind their favorites.
Genkichi’s cries rang out fiercely—there went “Straw Sandals” here, “Straw Sandals” there—his swelling pride almost palpable to onlookers.
From the first race through the fourth, outcomes were decided amid erupting cheers until at last his turn arrived—Genkichi straddled a chestnut horse and rode onto the track.
At the fence’s edge north of the Imperial Pavilion where his family watched, neither his parents’ faces nor his aunt’s nor even his young wife’s entered Genkichi’s vision.
Astride his mount, he felt every gaze converge upon him alone; each breath of the parched highland air made his heart surge like crashing waves.
The fierce autumn light grazed his cheek and struck the horse’s muzzle until it seemed to blaze with fire.

Among the five riders, the one Gen feared in his heart was the man wearing Kaba. White, Purple, Red—none of these appeared particularly formidable as opponents. Gen was Blue. Kaba seemed nervous at first glance yet proved oddly composed—a young man whose gray mixed-breed horse boasted an agile build and sturdy limbs. That Kaba had truly entered the fray was evident in his gentle handling of the horse, his relaxed manner, and the searching gaze with which he measured the breathing of the other four riders. As for this man’s calm, cold demeanor—it sprang from unfathomable wariness, as though he schemed to spare his horse even a single wasted step. Gen had gravely miscalculated. His heart raged too fiercely; before even setting out, the hand gripping the reins trembled.

No sooner did they hear the starting signal than the five riders left the starting line.
The first to surge ahead was Gen’s Blue, followed by Purple, White, and Red; Kaba appeared to lag behind.
Shouts of “Blue, Blue!” arose from all sides of the fence.
His Highness stood in the shade of the purple curtain of the Imperial Pavilion and observed [the race] with keen interest.

The Colonel must have tapped the Horse Expert’s shoulder countless times.
The Governor, the District Chief, and all the attendants stood as well.
The Councillor waved his white, supple hand.
The five riders advanced in an undulating manner over a distance of about ninety meters, maintaining the same order as when they had set out.
The distance by which Gen had pulled ahead of Purple matched how far Kaba had fallen behind Red.
When Gen turned to look back through swirling yellow dust, he saw only Purple and White advancing nearly side by side as they closed in.
The fearsome gray horse’s head remained hidden within the dust.
With thunderous momentum, White left Purple behind and pressed forward with such force that it threatened to overtake even Gen at the front.
Voices shouting “Blue” and “White” erupted from every direction.
Both Gen and White whipped their horses onward.
The horse-mad Horse Expert writhed excitedly, pounding his top hat with a clenched fist like a whip while shouting “There! There!”
The Colonel scratched his thin beard.
By now Gen had advanced about a hundred ken.
Foamy sweat drenched the horse’s body, streaming down its face like scalding water into its eyes.
Its white snorts grew harsher—each labored breath betraying its waning strength.
Now Gen could no longer restrain his agitation.
His irritation sharpened into an urge to lash out wildly with his whip.
Rage made the horse frantic until its movements turned stiff instead.
Suddenly voices rose calling “Kaba! Kaba!”
Kaba should have been last.

However, now that Kaba—who had been sparingly using his whip until now—began wielding it fiercely and targeted the gap left by the weakening front-runner, it was unbearable.
In the blink of an eye, he overtook Red, then Purple.
The Horse Expert crushed his hat and swung it around like a madman.
Kaba, riding the momentum of his charge, kicked up a fierce cloud of dust.
The moment Gen realized this, the full force of his rage surged to his head.
However, Kaba was charging forth.
A horse with wings, and wings with a voice—this must be what they meant.
In an instant, he dashed past Gen’s side like a flash of lightning.

Gen's profound disappointment—he who had been anticipating certain victory—could well be imagined.
The victory flag fell into Kaba's hands.
It was a purple flag with white-reserved characters, accompanied by a commemorative prize, bestowed by the Colonel before His Highness amid the crowd's cheers.
Gen's eyes glittered with jealousy, his lips twisting into a cold sneer.
Now not a single soul turned to look back at Gen.

His Highness was in excellent spirits, graciously bestowing polite words upon the people, and had himself board the carriage.
Even to the crowds of farmers gathered on both sides of the pathway, he raised his white-gloved hand and offered individual greetings.
The attendants, Colonel, Governor, Horse Expert, and others rode in carriages; the Councillor, District Chief, District Clerk, and other officials proceeded on foot. Following them came Falarice’s thirty-four foals, two hundred forty mares, and finally a group of stallions.
The procession of over three hundred horses passing through in this manner was a spectacle enough to astonish onlookers.
What a triumphant figure Kaba must have cut, holding aloft the purple flag and returning in triumph.
The way he mounted that gray horse—putting on such airs, twisting his body ostentatiously, casting that contemptuous gaze at everyone—was so utterly irritating that Gen couldn’t bear to look at him a second time, or so he thought.
The worshipful gazes of the group of girls poured onto this young man’s profile.
Truly, Gen’s anger boiled over; he couldn’t bear to watch this man pass by.
Jealousy is a kind of pain.
Gen collapsed beside his horse and buried his shamed forehead in the grass.

By the time Gen—tormented by fatigue and disappointment—had staggered to his feet, the crowd had already dispersed.
The laborers who remained were bent over in the midst of dismantling the Imperial Pavilion.
The curtains were folded, the flags taken down, and suddenly the surroundings grew desolate.
In the pine shade where wispy white smoke rose, one could also see groups of merchants packing up their shops and heading home.
The horse had left its owner behind and, dragging its reins here and there, seemed to be foraging for hackberry leaves.
Now, everything looked down on him and laughed—even the birds sang in voices that seemed to scorn humans as they flew by, or so it seemed to Gen.
It was infuriating.
Gen, intending to vent his anger, kicked a roadside stone.
Gen’s arrogant life was honor.
If that honor were to leave his body, what would remain of Gen—what indeed?
When he thought of himself, his chest suddenly tightened, and tears streamed down his ugly face.
Eventually, as if struck by an idea, he rushed over to the horse and yanked the reins with all his strength.

“This predicament I’m in is all thanks to you.”

The pathos of a common man—Gen blamed the horse for that day’s events and vented his anger relentlessly.
Exactly like a jailer flogging a criminal, he revealed his cruel nature.
What crime had the horse committed?
However, though a beast, it was intelligent enough to seem bitterly regretful of that day’s failure, and simply hung its head in silence.
The large, double-rimmed eyes began to glisten with a purple hue.
The faintly escaping voice sounded almost like a deep sigh.
In a world where even human suffering goes unnoticed, who would consider the suffering of beasts?
To live, to toil, to be whipped—that is the fate of beasts.
The horse followed its discontented master and plodded back toward the stable.
Even when given good fodder, it would only sniff at the barley’s aroma and refused to take a bite.

In a fit of irritation, Gen left the stable and made his way along the storehouse to the backyard only to find no one in the house. Beneath verdant evening glory vines entwined around an oak's dead branches hung several gourds that looked nearly two feet long, their white flowers still clinging here and there. The yellowed autumn light filtering through leaves cast deep shadows across the ground. Just then arrived Osumi—his wife—carrying a bucket of water drawn from the well. Gen suddenly doused her with scalding words.

"Why did you go back ahead without even telling me?"

"I did go back," Osumi said, setting the bucket under the evening glory trellis, "but father told me to return home, so I went back with everyone."

“You’ve got no sense of others’ feelings—there’s a limit!” Gen spat, licking his lips with contained fury. “What’s so funny? Pity’s what you oughta feel!”

“Oh, this nonsense from you—I’ve no reason to laugh at all.”

Osumi stared at her husband’s face in disbelief.
Gen’s face was red and tear-swollen, his lips quivering.
Though Osumi too sensed something amiss, her mind raced with dinner preparations—and bringing up the field matter now would only worsen his mood. Best avoid it altogether, she decided, gazing at the waning autumn light before lifting the bucket to stand.
Blind to consequences—his sight clouded by grievances—Gen swung up the nearby carrying pole. It struck Osumi square.
Chickens pecking by the fence scattered in alarm—some fluttering upward, others darting beneath—as bucket water spilled toward the leek bed.

“Hey! Quit your whining!”

He said in a scolding tone, and for a short while, Gen watched Osumi writhing in agony.
Eventually, with a foolish look on his face,

“Where does it hurt so much?”
“Let me see… Show me.”

The moment Gen’s hand grazed Osumi’s right leg, the woman let out a shriek and her face went pale.

“Quit your overacting—you fox.”

When he caught sight of his father’s figure, Gen stealthily slipped out toward the front.
With no particular destination in mind, he wandered off aimlessly. But after walking just a few blocks, suddenly—his legs refused to move forward any further.
Gen came to harbor terror.

II

“Gen, come on in. What’s with you peeking from outside the shoji?”

The one who called out was the female innkeeper of Deer Hot Spring. Gen opened the soot-covered shoji and suddenly revealed only his pale face,

“I thought there were only women here.”

“I thought there’d only be women here—how unfortunate for you.”

Then, from the hearthside, men’s laughter arose.
Genkichi also entered with a bitter smile.
“Missus, pour me a cup of sake.”

Deer Hot Spring was a solitary hot spring inn nestled in the mountains at the edge of Uminokuchi Village—a place that warmed village sake for lumberjacks and grilled dried fish for farmers.
The female innkeeper, her disheveled hair pinned up with a comb, stood working where the evening sun streamed through the bright window, clattering dishes as she moved.
By the hearth sat a customer who had settled himself before Gen with a mikoshi and was sipping his drink in small, slow draughts.
On the second floor, there appeared to be soldier guests as well.
From the large pot of loach soup suspended over the hearth, steam billowed vigorously, and its aroma drifted toward Gen’s face as he sat cross-legged there.
The red-faced girl in a short-sleeved work coat went up and down the ladder steps carrying sake, then came to the hearthside where she placed pickled vegetables and a cup on a tray with chestnut-shaped legs and lacquered chopsticks, serving soup into a bowl.

“Here you go, your sake’s been heated.”

With a cloth supporting the old-fashioned sake flask, she offered it.
Gen received into his sake cup the perfectly heated hot sake,

“When you pour it, the same sake tastes all the sweeter.”

“My, such smooth talk from Gen!”

“How about it, don’t you feel like becoming my wife?”

“Don’t just keep saying such jests.”

The guests couldn’t stay silent either.
While stroking his thick,dark overgrown beard on his cheeks,

“Seems you can’t help wanting to sidle up to young ones like her, eh?”

With shifty eyes glancing about, they began tormenting the girl.
She put on a faintly indignant look and,

“This gentleman here’s quite the scholar too, I tell ya.”

“Heh heh heh,” the guest laughed unnervingly. “What’s this ‘scholar’ business? A man can’t just work from dawn till dusk—it’s no way to live.”
“A man’s gotta have some time to do as he pleases now and then.”

“You’re teaching such meddlesome things,” the girl leaned in. “Tomorrow, why don’t you leisurely go to Okatsu-san’s place and read books together inside the hut?”

“Heh heh heh, tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“I was thinking of reading Nihon Gaishi or something.”

“Who might you be?” Gen asked.

“Me?”
“I’m from Oya—assigned here as a clerk at the registry office.”
“I’ve only just moved to Uminokuchi myself.”
“From now on I’ll need you all to go easy on me—here, let me pour you a round.”

Upstairs came incessant handclaps.
The girl scurried up the ladder steps.

Just as the surroundings suddenly brightened—the autumn day was drawing to a close.
The dim light of the three-wick lamp illuminated the soot-stained brocade pictures on the wall, and the eyeless Daruma doll on the shelf appeared hazy in the smoke.

“How about today’s commotion at Nobeyama Field?” said the Clerk as he burned oak to stoke the fire. “His Highness went so far as to greet women and children—I was flabbergasted.
“And that turnout for the horse race—that left me speechless too.
“Did you watch the entire horse race?”

Gen forced a bitter smile.
The Clerk feigned ignorance.

“Well now, strange things do happen—they say my colleague married off his daughter to a man who raced in today’s competition.”
“The daughter’s name? Osumi.”
“That girl—I knew her well back in Oya.”
“What’s more, today I ran into her unexpectedly at Nobeyama Field.”
“She’d gone and put her hair up in a proper married woman’s chignon—I nearly didn’t recognize her!”

Having been told this, Gen was rubbing his hands when the Clerk—a man who wouldn’t let others speak—

“Now do listen.”
“Let me explain.”
“While I was on my way here just now, I saw my colleague passing by looking pale, so I asked, ‘What do you intend to do?’ He said, ‘My daughter got into a marital quarrel and broke her leg—we’re heading to the doctor now.’ The doctor was already in a terrible state.”
“Poor thing—a truly unlucky girl.”

Gen, who had been listening, suddenly changed complexion, became slightly flustered, and spilled the sake from the cup he was holding.
The Clerk remained completely oblivious—seeming to know nothing at all—so Gen felt somewhat relieved.
Though this frank talk had enlivened the mood, it was all just on the surface of the sake—the depths of his heart remained bitter.

“Clerk, could someone die from having their leg broken?”

he asked with a feigned blank look.
The Clerk was the sort of man who treated complaints like drinking snacks—unable to resist airing them even to strangers—so he paid no heed to Gen’s words and offered an irrelevant reply.
“This marks my third year working at the registry office.
“Shōkō of Maryū joined before me, yet we’re paid the same—he’s been seething over it.”
“Just the other day, when I went to Maryū, I stopped by Shōkō’s place and asked, ‘Did you manage to get a bit of a raise?’ He looked troubled and lamented, ‘I thought I’d get fifty sen more this month, but with how things are looking, it’s going to fall through.’”

“How about it, Clerk? Even with that woman getting her leg broken…”

“However，humans just can’t do without trust，you know.”
“Even someone like me—a poor，incapable man—thankfully has everyone looking out for me.”
“Just the other day when I met Secretary Saitō，he asked me，‘How much do you make now？’ So when I said it’s nine yen now，he goes，‘Nine yen？’”
“‘You make nine yen？’ he said，sounding genuinely impressed．‘Well，nine yen should be enough，’ he added．”
“‘Well now，if it were just me alone，things’d be easy enough—but with this big family to manage，it’s quite a struggle，’ I said，and he goes，‘There there—I’ll work my bones off to get you that raise within the current framework．’”

“What do you think, Clerk? Even that woman...”

“Alas.”
“Nothing pains like poverty.”
“Poverty, poverty—seven children to feed, my wife gone... And on top of that, all my brats are worthless...”
“Hey you—poor as I am, I just can’t quit the drink.”
“It’s this very pleasure that keeps me breathing.”
“You must see—if I don’t drink, how else could I endure!”

“What’s your thought, Clerk...”

“When it comes to district courts, they truly are something different.
“You should see their table—big enough to cover a whole tatami mat! It’s draped with blue fabric, has proper elbow rests, and the chairs have these air cushion-like attachments. When the director was away, I tried sitting in one—puffy and springy, I tell you, unbelievably comfortable!”
“You, and there are even three court attendants there.”
“So with this call bell—when you give it a crisp *chirrin* ring—well, based on whether it goes *chirr*, *chirr*, *chirrin*, they can apparently tell who’s summoning them, and that person comes right over.”
“It’s truly something.”

The conversation lapsed for a moment.

Outside the moonlit window, crickets chirped.
A large moth fluttered into the house, circling the dim lamp before tumbling to the hearth and beating its wings.
The Clerk pinned the insect with his kiseru’s bowl and buried it alive in the hearth’s ashes.

“Clerk,” said Gen, staring at the shifting ashes like a man in a daze, “in your earlier story—could someone die from having their leg broken?”

“There certainly are cases.”
“A leg wound like that isn’t something to take lightly.”
“Actually, my nephew was one such case—it seems the injury was in a bad spot, so he passed away right away.”
“Human life is fragile… Look, just like this insect.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” Gen laughed with a foolish look, his laughter tinged with loneliness. “If that woman were to die, Clerk—what would happen to him?”

“Why, that’s common knowledge, you know.”
“Of course he won’t be arrested.”
“There’s no logic in killing someone and being the only one to walk away unscathed.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha”

Gen leaned back and laughed.
Humans sometimes perform actions contrary to their hearts—Gen’s laughter was precisely that.
The talk-loving Clerk grew animated,

“There’s truly a pitiful story about that child, you know.”
“Whenever I see Osumi-san, I can’t help but think of a cracked tea bowl.”
“Well now, do listen to this.”

After this preface, he began his story as follows.

During the time when Osumi’s father worked as a clerk colleague of this man at the Ōya registry office—Osumi too had come to Ōya and entered service at a certain household.
She was a woman hardworking by nature, taking on everything from childcare to kitchen duties—working herself to the bone until her very body turned to dust. Soon enough, she became the talk of the neighborhood.
There was not a single person who saw Osumi toiling back and forth carrying water from the distant well who did not praise her.
The master’s house stood in a somewhat remote area, such that one could not go to town for shopping without passing through the railway crossing.
Osumi often carried the master’s child on her back, going back and forth through that railway crossing.
At that very spot, a railway guard stood keeping watch and would speak to Osumi each time she passed.
In time, it came to be that he would wait in anticipation of catching sight of Osumi.
One day, when the railway guard stood before his house on leave, Osumi passed by carrying the child on her back.
She was forcibly pulled inside—the railway guard being a man of formidable strength—and after being relentlessly threatened and coerced, when she regained her senses, her body had somehow ended up in his arms.
The child, perhaps thinking they were fighting, cried out violently—or so it was said.

Before long, Osumi had someone convey to her father that she wished to become this railway guard’s wife.

That Osumi had wavered and been afraid became evident when, not long after, she came weeping to her father to cancel the marriage promise.
Osumi was a little bird.
When that little bird went to the railway guard’s house—where he had set a net and lay in wait—to break off their prior arrangement, the man, starved as he was with animal desire, could not restrain himself. Once again, Osumi was violated.
The railway guard boasted triumphantly. Well, around the station it became the talk of the town—even the groups of laborers couldn’t help but laugh.

Finally, Osumi left a letter for her father, slipped away under the cover of night, and fled Ōya.

They said the letter the father had shown this Clerk was filled with boundless sorrow.
The characters, scrawled in crude nail-like strokes, were each marked by tear stains—the emotion so overwhelming that the flow of words became indiscernible.
It spoke of how she could never apologize enough to her master, how pitiful it was to imagine the master’s child who clung to her morning and night surely pining for her later, and included phrases like “This too is rust from my own body—please forgive me, Father. From Sumi”—or so it was said.
They said the father read his uneducated daughter’s letter and shed hot tears upon it.

“And so,” said the Clerk, draining his now-cold sake, “but my colleague’s such a softhearted fool—what’d you do? He just had to choke it down. Me, I went snooping to get a look at that railway guard myself.”
“It was when the Naoetsu No. 2 came chugging up—there he stood at the crossing in his bowl-shaped hat, waving a green flag.”
“So—what sorta man you figure he was?”
“Young buck at least?”
“Heh heh heh, wrong as winter melons in July.”
“Didn’t shock me none—turns out he’s a geezer same age as my colleague!”

Gen turned pale and stared fixedly at the burning oak fire in the hearth.

“And then about a month later,” the Clerk said, shuddering as if remembering, “I happened to meet that girl once—and Osumi-san at that time—goodness me, she’d completely transformed.”
She had a purple headache plaster stuck to her temples, her eyes glistening with moisture, her expression lost in thought—not a trace remained of her maidenly self.”
“When I said seeing that girl makes me think of a cracked tea bowl—this is why.”
“You must want to see that guard’s face too?”
“Why not stop by Ōya Station yourself?”
“Even now he stands at the northern crossing…green flag in hand…heh heh heh.”

“Clerk, that’s enough!”

Gen threw down the silver coins there and rushed out of Deer Hot Springs.

参

Even Gen’s mother could no longer endure her anxiety.
When she searched all the way to the outskirts of Uminokuchi Village, she happened upon Gen just as he was returning from Deer Hot Springs—the two met at the bridge’s edge.
The mother gazed at Gen’s face through the moonlight,

“You—where have you been?”
“You’ve no idea how worried Father’s been.”
“I walked everywhere searching—every place I asked, they’d just say ‘Gen hadn’t come.’”
“Now come home with me.”

It was a quiet night of vertiginous length.
Autumn in Okuyama brought cold that bit sharper than daylight hours.
Mountain air descended like an assailant, shuddering spines.
Moonlight leaked through arboreal veils to cascade down bark-rivers into earthly pools.
All lay hushed—submerged, stilled—as if the world held its breath.
Insect hymns from dew-drenched grasses hummed sleepward lullabies.
Mother and son wove through ochre-lit patches and leaf-shadowed voids along their stony path homeward.

“Even so, you foolish child,” his mother said wearily as they walked, “you—Osumi’s father came rushing over, they called a doctor, had someone receive a blessing from Lord Suitengu—what a commotion! And with Osumi’s pain having subsided somewhat, he only just now returned home.”
“A woman’s body—goodness, you can’t afford to be careless with it.”
“If women’s ailments were to arise from that, just see what would happen if something goes wrong.”
“If this were to reach the constable’s ears—what exactly do you think you’d do?—you fool.”

“Have you forgotten? You had a fiancée named Oume—when Father said he wouldn’t let Osumi into the house, you kept insisting it had to be that girl no matter what! I begged Father with tears until you two finally became husband and wife! Who was it that said you’d die if you couldn’t have Osumi?”

“I can’t bear your wretched nature! The thing I keep telling you is right here! You were raised an only child to be as selfish as you please—never learning fear—thinking others don’t matter if you’re fine! That’s your great mistake—don’t I keep saying it?”

“Your father was just like you in his youth—not treating people as people! He ended up unable to stay in the village! When he nearly died in the wilds—after finally waking up and changing his ways—goodness, people praised him like he’d become another man!”

“But being his father’s son—they point fingers at Gen too! I can’t tell you how mortifying that is!”

And as she spoke, the mother looked up and sniffled.

For a while, they walked on in silence, trudging along, until they came alongside the buckwheat field.
It was Genkichi’s mother, Gen, and Osumi—the three of them—who had sown it during the summer.
When she saw the sight of moonlight settling over the unharvested buckwheat stalks left to wither, happy memories could not help but come and go within the mother’s heart.
The mother gazed as if in a dream and let out several deep sighs.

“Gen,” said the mother, wiping [※] with the sleeve of her underrobe, “won’t you just think about it? I’m aging like this, growing weaker—if I were to compare myself, I’d be like a withered gourd. And that gourd clings to your branch, hanging by this thin vine of life. If you break, what will become of me? You’re my strength—there’s no one else but you.”

The tears of old age streamed ceaselessly down the mother’s face.
Every time she stopped and looked up while shaking her head, her heart surged all the more.
The crickets at their feet abruptly ceased their song.

Genkichi remained silent.

“According to Father, just showing her to that quack doctor isn’t enough to feel at ease.”
“Since there’s a renowned bone-setter in Hirasawa, you must send Osumi there tomorrow without fail.”
“Hey—get up while it’s still dark tomorrow morning, put Osumi on the horse, and set out before the village wakes.”

After this exchange, they returned home to find Osumi seemingly asleep.
The mother let Genkichi rest while preparing rice balls by the hearth.
The father stayed up late making straw sandals for their ill-fated child to wear tomorrow, both parents keeping vigil through the night.
Overwhelmed by exhaustion yet unable to sleep properly, Genkichi lay tense—even the skittering of mice across tatami near his pillow filled him with dread. Each time he raised his head, blazing oak flames cast their glow on soot-blackened walls.
Though mentally drained, his eyes remained fixed in wakeful stare—what little sleep came brought only terrifying dreams that seized him anew.

In the middle of the night, there was a brief shower.

Genkichi was roused before dawn and went to prepare at the stable, but the horse had not forgotten yesterday’s cruel ordeal. The animal kept hesitating toward the dark corner where mosquitoes buzzed, showing none of its usual vigor as it resisted coming out; Genkichi forcibly dragged the creature outside. He placed Osumi’s withered body on the saddle and securely tied her legs to the horse’s torso to prevent movement. The mother held out an oil lamp—Osumi wore a woven hat; Gen had his cheeks covered. They were seen off by his father up to the base of the slope and departed.

The night had not yet broken into dawn.
The sound of chickens crowing back and forth could be heard in the near and far mist.
When they crossed the slope and emerged onto Nobeyama Field, banks of mist gathered ahead, and the ground beneath their feet grew dim.
The temporary palace that remained un-demolished also lay hidden, the stable was concealed, and the pine tree right before their noses sank like a distant shadow.
It had only been a day since yesterday, yet the state of Nobeyama Field—though one could not quite see it—became more a seed of memory than what was visible.
The path the couple advanced along was a single road through the field—the old highway leading to Kōshū.
The two of them, as if still ensnared in lingering dreams, trudged through the damp mist.

The small villages that led desolate lives atop the plateau lined the old highway, existing about every four kilometers.
Before long, as they approached Itabashi Village, the road grew brighter, and here and there glimpses of a gray-purple sky became visible.

Leading the horse by the reins and walking like this was an unspeakable pain to Gen.
Gen was not a man entirely devoid of compassion.
Indeed, he had once helped a friend who had fallen into great destitution, and there were instances where he had given alms to travelers in dire straits.
If some other woman were injured in an accident and needed to be sent to Hirasawa to survive, and someone were to ask, “Isn’t there anyone who can lead a horse there?”—then Gen would be the first to leap forward, ready to roll up his sleeves and help.
If people were to shower him with praise, Gen would leap into fire just to prove himself.
And yet, when it came to setting out with his own wife—worn down by suffering—mounted on the horse, all he felt was pain as if bearing a heavy burden.
He grew more and more furious.

That was the kind of man he was.
In the sorrow of his prideful heart, he did not want to think, “I was wrong.”
He did not want to regret even if he died.
He could not bow his head before his wife and apologize for his transgressions—that remained impossible.
He wanted to find some excuse to erase the fear in his heart. Tormented by this thought, he no longer understood why he had struck Osumi.
“Fool!” Gen scolded himself. “True—I struck her. But a wife’s life belongs to her husband; a wife’s body is her husband’s property.”
“There’s nothing strange about striking my own property.”
He tried to justify himself.
His thoughts, in disarray, took various forms.
Genkichi’s heart brightened at times and darkened at others.

The horse made its way along the road while swatting away swarming horseflies with its tail, but would occasionally stop with moistened eyes.
Being a creature of keen sensitivity, its longing for and fear of its master appeared equally intense; whenever even a hint of cruelty surfaced in the master's demeanor, it would hump its back and refuse to advance.
"You damn beast!"

Gen, filled with rage, violently yanked the reins.
“You’re stubborn and slow—that’s why you’re a beast!”
“There, you ox!”

The horse, revealing its stubborn nature, balked even more at moving forward.

“Don’t you dare mess around!”
“This horse is one hell of a nag (an inferior horse), I tell ya.”
“There’s no damn beast as useless as this!”

He adjusted the long reins to a manageable length and struck the horse’s right flank.

“C’mon, c’mon, there you go, old nag.”

The horse reluctantly set out.

How beautiful was the view of the mist clearing over the plateau!
As Yatsugatake—whose lower slopes had become faintly visible—gradually revealed its rugged, rocky bones, and when at last its peak tinged with crimson light came into view, shadows were cast from mountain to mountain.
The colors of the mountain range spanning Kōshū changed countless times; one could not tell how many.
Now, a yellow tinged with purple.
Now, a yellow tinged with gray.
Suddenly, the sun broke through, beginning to illuminate the path the couple traveled.
When one looked up, tattered cotton-like clouds floated about, and before anyone knew it, the sky turned blue.

Ah—morning came.

Mountains such as Otokoyama, Kimpusen, Onnayama, and Kobushigatake fully emerged.
Far in between them flowed the source of the Chikuma River.
Faintly visible were the upstream villages.
The Chikuma River, bathed in the morning sun, shone white.

Osumi, mounted on the horse, had been hanging her head, but upon inhaling the crisp morning air, she suddenly straightened her posture and began gazing at the surrounding scenery,

“I’m beggin’ you, please turn back home from here.”

When told this, Genkichi looked up at Osumi’s face in exasperation.

“We’ve come all this way—what fool would talk of turning back now?”

“I just can’t bring myself to go to Hirasawa… My conscience won’t allow it.”

“You’re out of your mind.”
“What’s the point of turning back now?”
“Don’t you even care about your own body?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t mind dying.”

“What? You wouldn’t mind dying?” Gen shrank his neck back and snickered hoarsely through his nose.“Hmph—quit spoutin' such fool talk.”
“Even on this here plain where buckwheat won't grow proper—look!—there's folks livin' all right.”
“Men blackened head-to-toe by charcoal smoke deep in them mountains—still workin' their bones raw—what d'ya reckon keeps 'em goin'?”
“'Cause ever'body wants t'live—that's why.”
“Ain't there nothin' more precious'n your own life in this whole world?”

As he spoke these words through clenched teeth like stones grinding together underfoot—each syllable heavy enough t'bruise earth itself—Gen turned his gaze upward toward Itabashi Village where blue-gray smoke rose thin from farmhouse chimneys.
Osumi stared back at him through eyes gone hard and dark like river stones worn smooth by years of rushing water.

“You hold your own life so dear, yet care nothing for others’?”
“If you want to live, then I want to live too.”

“I just don’t get it. Why’re women so damn impossible to figure out? That’s why I’m the one who gets up before dawn, throws away a whole day’s work, puts you on this horse and drags you there, ain’t I? If you don’t care ’bout living, who’d go through this hell hauling you all the way to Hirasawa?” Gen snapped, shifting tone. “Quit your nonsense—if you don’t pull through, neither will I.”

“You may say that, but I’m not some stranger—if we’re to die together, wouldn’t that be just as well?”

Osumi peered furtively down at Gen’s figure, and a faint smile floated to her pale lips.
Gen stamped his feet,

“Truly, you’ve lost your mind.”
“Haven’t I been sayin’ this all along?”
“Just think you’re saving me and go along in good spirits.”
“Look, I’m beggin’ you—this is a lifelong favor I’m askin’.”

Osumi fell silent.
Gen muttered to himself as he led the horse onward.

Farmers in short-sleeved half-coats, traditional trousers, straw sandals, and cheek-covering hoods passed by the couple’s side in several groups.
There were men shouldering hoes as they went, men carrying manure buckets with their hips twisted, and a child tagging along with an old man’s tobacco pouch dangling at his waist.
Against climate, weeds, devastation, barren soil, and more, the intense labor of an autumn day had now already begun.

There were already farm women at work.
As they proceeded along a jet-black Noppei field—the local name for this soil—a rough-looking man was striking the earth, dripping with sweat and paying no heed to passersby.
Plunging a large hoe into the ground, he leaned sideways as if about to collapse while heaving up clods of soil.
The dizzying stench of black soil hung thickly in the air, assailing their nostrils.
The couple gazed at the others working as if in a dream, sank into blank thought, and passed by.
After leaving Itabashi Village, they encountered a group of travelers.

The plateau's autumn had now arrived.

Looking out, clusters of trees stood scattered here and there.
Every branch stretched southward, betraying the fierce winds that would come with winter.
White birches stood tall against the sky after shedding most of their leaves, while slender poplars crouched low as if hiding.
When winds bearing autumn's light swept fiercely across the land, the grass surged in yellow waves—swaying and bending—as oak leaves flipped their pale undersides upward.

Here and there, the autumn sun shone upon large rocks, evoking a sense of loneliness.
Here were drooping leaves and yellow flowers.

The scattering of chinquapin fruits across the road also occurs here.

Here too，wild birds dwelled in hiding.
The larks that built nests in the shade of bamboo grass leaves had aged and lacked their springtime vigor.
Startled by sounds of people passing，quails would occasionally fly up from the grass.
Whenever he heard their whistling cries，even Gen stopped in his tracks.
When observed，they would spread awkward short wings as if to take flight，only to suddenly drop back into hiding among the grass.

Amidst the yellowed, withered outer trees, some places still retained greenish shade.
It marked the presence of flowing water for travelers.
There, miscellaneous trees grew thickly, their branches draped along the spring, their roots deeply soaked in the waters.
Gen led the horse to drink and passed through.

Now, farmers from the villages were also occupied with autumn labor, and few let horses graze on this plateau.
Only the farmers from Yamanashi living at the southern foothills of the Yatsugatake Mountain Range—due to a lack of winter fodder—would lead their horses all the way here to cut and gather grass.

The sun gradually rose higher; the air grew drier. Exhausted from thirst, the couple searched for a place to rest, but Sangenya consisted solely of farmhouses—no shops serving buckwheat cakes for travelers, no signs advertising meals or drinks could be seen from here to Hirasawa.
Without recourse, the couple chose to rest under a white birch tree in its beautiful leaf shade.
Even after traveling all this way together, they remained unable to open up to each other.
For Gen, looking at Osumi was painful; for Osumi, looking at Gen was equally painful.
Since yesterday’s incident, Gen had grown strangely awkward and could no longer meet her gaze for long.
If one were to see the young wife wilted on horseback with her legs bound, pity would naturally arise—such was human compassion.
Yet when he recalled the clerk’s story from last night, the railway guard sprang vividly to mind, and an indescribable jealousy welled up.
Gen was such an ugly man that he was called “Straw Sandals”—no ordinary jealous type.
The more he looked at Osumi’s profile bathed in autumn light filtering through her woven hat, the more his jealousy grew stronger than pity.

“Osumi, what’re you thinkin’ so hard about?”

“I ain’t thinkin’ nothin’.”

“You must be holdin’ a grudge against me.”
“If I gotta say, there’s times I resent you myself.”

“What reason could I ever give you to resent me?”

When she fired back like that, Gen was already seething.
He stumbled over actually sayin’ it out loud, lips quiverin’ some. Then he plopped down on a rock and started spillin’ every last detail he’d heard from the Clerk while fixin’ his straw sandal ties.
Him layin’ out that criminal’s old sins so blunt-like—Osumi couldn’t keep her cool no more.
Right before his eyes, her face changed color. When he hit the bullseye with “Railway Guard,” she turned red clear from her earlobes down to her collar.
This being Gen—the kinda guy who’d been eyein’ her with suspicion thick enough to cut—he saw that flush plain as day. Jealousy near ’bout choked him.

For a time, the two remained silent.

“You’re being unreasonable.”

Osumi said in a tearful voice.
Gen retorted in a sharp, angry tone,

“What’s unreasonable about it?”

“But isn’t this too much?”
“Whoever you heard it from—I don’t know—but bringing that up now to blame me…” Osumi said with a look of utter desolation, heaving a deep sigh, “Was it because of that grudge you beat me so cruelly?”

“Damn right!”

Osumi turned her face away and sobbed.
The chest wound that had nearly healed tore open again, bleeding violently—this was the feeling.
The cruel memories of a lifetime came coiling back like serpents.
From tightly shut eyelids, scalding tears streamed without pause, coursing down cheeks before falling.

The horse, still tethered, had been eating bamboo grass leaves at the base of the white birch when it suddenly raised its head and pricked up its ears.
From the direction of the oak grove across the way—the government-owned land where Yamanashi farmers were cutting fodder—came the sound of a mare neighing.
Gen’s horse shuddered, twitched its nose, and let out a spirited neigh.
The mare’s voice returned with an added layer of coquetry.
Gen’s horse frantically neighed back.
The abuse it had endured from its master since yesterday was extraordinary—whether humanity’s cruel scolding or the mare’s amorous call sounded sweeter to this horse’s ears needed no explanation.
The mare let out another inviting whinny—as if declaring this her only chance to be useful—revealing her plump gray form as she called.
Having already gazed longingly at just her voice’s echo, Gen’s horse could barely withstand seeing her lovely shape.
With large purple eyes gleaming and chest heaving like waves, it shook its tail relentlessly.
Its breathing turned ragged, white vapor billowing over Gen’s face.

“Stop it, damn beast!”

Gen wiped his face and struck the horse’s nose with that hand.
The horse was now sheer madness incarnate.
Blinded by its longing for the mare, it had completely forgotten Osumi rode its back.
With one powerful shake of its head, the reins tied to the white birch trunk snapped with a pop.
Yellowed leaves scattered and fell.

In that instant, it charged toward the mare in a headlong dash.
Gen panicked, gave chase, and seized the long reins dragging through the grass.

Even Gen’s monstrous strength—which he had proudly boasted of to others—could not match love’s power.
Gen seemed to have poured his very blood into rage, but whether he cursed or scolded, it held no effect on the crazed horse’s ears.
It might be said that the floodwaters of lingering early summer rains—having grown murkier still—surged forth with a roar, breaching embankments to overflow.
When it shook its long mane wildly from side to side, danced madly with the mare, and neighed into the wind—the beast had returned to its unadorned nature.
Gen—utterly stunned—kept a death grip on the reins as he dashed through noisily rustling bamboo grass alongside the charging horse.
A yellow-winged butterfly—blown by the wind—flew past like a leaf.
Farmers cutting grass in the shade heard the commotion and emerged from east and west alike—but all did was scream and scatter.
None dared approach the rampaging horse.
At last Gen too snapped through his straw sandals—his leggings tore, blood streaming from his leg—and before he knew it, he was shouting as he released the reins.

Pity, fear, a thousand thoughts—all flashed through Gen’s chest like lightning.
The horse left its master—who had spent his vigor—behind and ran wild across the field with the mare.
This beast—born to be driven into labor—now free from human hands, breathed the air in unfettered freedom and neighed with every ounce of voice it could muster.
At times they could be seen rearing up on their hind legs like the mare, raising their forelegs high; at others, pressing their faces together as if cherishing each other.
At times, the mare would show an indignant demeanor and kick Gen’s horse with her hind legs.
Then Gen’s horse swung its long tail and collapsed as if pressing down upon the mare’s legs.
Eventually drawing near to whisper into her ear, Gen’s horse watched as she bit into his mane, shook it vigorously, and after thoroughly tormenting him, let out a neigh brimming with delight.
The two horses leaped at each other, bit each other, and showered each other with sand.
The love of beasts is but a game.

Suddenly, the two horses dashed off together toward the north.
In the blink of an eye, they raced away into the distance until Osumi’s face and form—sprawled backward on the horse’s back—became indistinguishable.

This was the end of the unfortunate woman.
Before long, the horses' forms too disappeared from view, hidden within the yellow cloud of earth and dust.

＊ ＊ ＊

By the time Genkichi, pursuing the horse, reached the outskirts of Itabashi Village, it was around noon.

There, a crowd of farmers had gathered like a black mountain and were looking at Osumi’s corpse cradled in her mother’s arms.
Gen had just exchanged glances with his father; they could not exchange a single word.
When the policeman from Uminokuchi Village pushed through the crowd and advanced before Gen, the gazes of the multitude poured upon this young farmer.
Gen pointed to his pale lips and made it known he couldn't speak.

A conjecture spread from mouth to mouth among the crowd—that some grudge-bearing entity from a past life had taken form as a horse, been reborn, and exacted vengeance upon this world.
The policeman listened to the full details from the father and nodded repeatedly.
When it had been confirmed that Gen bore no fault in the matter, his parents could only watch the policeman’s retreating back as he left, then exchanged looks and let out sighs of relief that seemed to breathe life back into them.

When the crowd had scattered in all directions, leaving only relatives behind, the father rubbed his chest as if a stone had fallen from it,

“Gen, Osumi saved your life.”
“Now come here and give her plenty of thanks.”

Gen stood before his wife’s corpse and silently bowed his head.