Pathway to Japanese Literature

During my two-year study abroad, I visited the London Tower only once.
There were days when I thought of going again, but I refrained.
There were times when people invited me, but I declined.
To destroy with a second visit the memory gained in one would be regrettable; to erase it with a third would be most unfortunate.
I believe one should visit "the Tower" but once.

I went there shortly after my arrival.
At that time, I had no proper grasp of directions and knew nothing of geography.
It felt exactly like a rabbit from Gotemba being suddenly tossed into the middle of Nihonbashi.
When I went out, I feared being swept away by the crowds; when I returned home, I worried a train might crash into my room—there was no peace of mind morning or night.
There were even moments when I came to regard Max Nordau’s theory of degeneration as a profound truth—that if I were to live for two years amidst this clamor and these crowds, the fibers of my nerves would ultimately grow as sticky and clumped as seaweed paste in a pot.

Moreover, since I—unlike other Japanese—had neither letters of introduction to facilitate connections nor any resident acquaintances to rely upon, I found myself compelled to venture out each day with trepidation, clutching a single map as my guide whether for sightseeing or practical errands.
I did not take trains; I could not ride carriages; if I tried to use any ordinary means of transport, I had no idea where they might take me.
None of the steam trains, carriages, electric railways, or steel rail lines that crisscrossed this vast London like a spider’s web could offer me any convenience.
I had no choice but to unfold my map each time I reached an intersection, jostled by passersby as I determined which direction to take.
When the map proved useless, I would ask passersby; when their answers proved unclear, I’d seek out a constable; when even the constable couldn’t guide me, I’d approach others—stopping and questioning anyone I encountered until finding someone who understood.
In this manner, I would at last reach my intended destination.

I think it was during that era when I could not venture out unless relying upon this very method that I visited "the Tower". Though "Coming without origin, departing without destination" may sound like a Zen koan, I remain uncertain through which streets I reached "the Tower," or what towns I traversed to return home. No matter how I try to recall, I cannot. But that I did visit "the Tower" remains certain. "the Tower". The sight of that place still rises vividly before my eyes. If asked about what came before, I am at a loss; if questioned about what followed, I cannot respond. Only the middle that has forgotten what came before and lost what followed is unapologetically bright. It feels as though a lightning bolt that splits the darkness strikes my brow and vanishes. The London Tower resembles the scorched focal point of karmic dreams.

The history of the London Tower is British history distilled to its essence.
That which tears through the veil shrouding the strange entity called 'the past,' reflecting a shrine's faint glow upon the twentieth century—this is the London Tower.
That which must be seen as time's flow burying all things turned backward, letting antiquity's fragments drift into modernity—this is the London Tower.
Humanity's blood, flesh, and sins crystallized and abandoned amidst horses, carriages, and steam trains—this is the London Tower.

When I beheld this London Tower from atop Tower Bridge across the Thames River, I lost all sense of self and gazed so intently that I wondered whether I was a man of the present or of antiquity.
Though it was called the beginning of winter, it was a quiet day.
The sky, colored like stirred ashen sludge, hung low and sagging heavily over the tower.
The Thames’ flow, appearing as if mixed with dissolved plaster, raised no waves, made no sound, and seemed to move against its will.
A single sailboat passed beneath the Tower.
Since they were sailing on a windless river, the irregular white triangular wings appeared forever fixed in place.
Two large barges came upstream.
A lone boatman stood at the stern rowing an oar; this too scarcely moved.
Around the railings of Tower Bridge, white shadows flitted about—likely seagulls.
As far as the eye could see, everything was still.
It appeared listless; it lay sleeping; all exuded a sense of the past.
And there within it all, standing coldly as though scorning the twentieth century, was the London Tower.
Let trains run, let trams run—it stood as though declaring, "As long as history endures, I alone shall remain thus."
I was struck with awe anew at its grandeur.
This structure is commonly called a tower, but "tower" is merely a name—in truth, it is a vast citadel composed of numerous turrets.
The row of towering turrets displayed various forms—some rounded, others angular—yet all cloaked in a gloomy gray hue that seemed to vow eternal transmission of the previous century’s memories.
I wondered—if one were to construct twenty or thirty stone replicas of Kudan’s Yūshūkan and line them up, then peer at them through a magnifying glass—might that not create something resembling this "Tower"?
I was still gazing.
I stood absently gazing in air saturated with sepia-toned moisture.
As twentieth-century London gradually faded from the depths of my mind, the silhouette of the tower before my eyes began to conjure phantom-like histories of the past within my brain.

Upon waking in the morning, I felt as though the wisp rising from my bitter tea trailed the tail of an unfulfilled dream. After a while, I grew suspicious that a long hand might be reaching from the opposite shore to pull me in.
I, who until then had stood motionless, suddenly desired to cross the river to the Tower.
The long hand pulled at me ever more forcefully.
I instantly changed course and began crossing Tower Bridge.
The hand yanked insistently.
Having crossed the bridge, I raced straight to the tower gate.
In moments, that great magnet of the past—spanning over thirty thousand tsubo—had wholly absorbed this fleck of iron adrift in the present world.
When I passed through the gate and turned back,

Let those who would go to the land of sorrow pass through this gate.

Let those who would face eternal reproach pass through this gate.
Let those who would consort with troublesome souls pass through this gate.
Justice moves the Exalted Lord; Divine Might, Supreme Wisdom, and Primal Love create Us.
Before Us lies only eternity; We are those who endure eternity.

Let those who would pass through this gate abandon all hope.

I wondered if those words had been carved somewhere.
By this time, I had already lost all semblance of my ordinary self.

As I crossed the stone bridge spanning the dry moat, there stood a tower ahead.
This was a round stone structure resembling an oil tank, standing like giant gateposts to either side.
I passed beneath the building connecting them and emerged on the other side.
This was the Middle Tower.
When I proceeded a little further, a bell tower stood imposingly on my left.
Steel shields and black iron armor appeared covering the field like an autumn heat haze, and when they knew enemies approached from afar, they rang the bell atop the tower.
On starless nights, when prisoners escaping—having seized a gap in the vigilance of sentinels patrolling the walls—vanished into darkness from the shadow of their inverted falling torchlight, they rang the bell atop the tower.
When arrogant citizens, decrying your misgovernance, swarmed like ants to surge beneath the tower and clamor in uproar—they also rang the bell atop the tower.
They would invariably ring the bell atop the tower whenever events occurred.
At times they would ring it twice; at others, thrice.
When ancestors came, they would ring it even if they had to kill those ancestors; when Buddha came, they would ring it even if they had to kill that Buddha.
The bell that had rang countless times through frosty mornings, snowy evenings, rainy days, and windy nights—where had it gone now? When I raised my head to gaze upon the ivy-clad turret, it lay silent, its echoes already stilled for a hundred years.

After proceeding a little further, Traitors' Gate stood to my right.
Above the gate towered Saint Thomas Tower.

Traitors’ Gate was terrifying from its very name.
Since ancient times, thousands of sinners buried alive within the Tower had all been escorted from boats to this gate.
As soon as they abandoned their boats and passed through this gate, the sun of the mundane world never shone upon them again.
The Thames was their Sanzu River—the Buddhist river of the dead—and this gate served as the entrance to the underworld.
They were rocked by waves of tears and rowed beneath the dimly lit arch resembling a cave.
As soon as they came to where a whale waited with gaping maw to swallow sardines, with a creaking sound, the thick oak door severed them from the light of the living world for eternity.
Thus did they at last become prey to the demons of fate.
Whether they would be devoured tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, or perhaps ten years hence—none but the demons of fate could know.
What must have been in the hearts of the sinners sitting in boats moored alongside this gate mid-passage?
Each time an oar creaked, droplets dripped upon the gunwale, or a rower’s hands moved—they must have felt their lives being carved away.
A person with white beard hanging down to his chest, loosely draped in a black clerical robe, staggered as he disembarked from the boat.
This was Archbishop Cranmer.
The splendid man wearing a blue hood pulled deep over his brows, with chainmail beneath sky-blue silk, must have been Wyatt.
This one leapt from the gunwale without so much as a nod.
Was this Raleigh—resplendent bird feathers adorning his hat, left hand resting on a golden sword’s hilt, the silver-clasped tips of his boots lightly shifting onto the stone steps?
I peered beneath the dark arch and craned my neck to see whether any glimmer of waves washing the stone steps might be visible on the far side.
There was no water.
Traitors' Gate and the Thames River had had no connection whatsoever since the completion of the embankment works.
Traitors' Gate, which had swallowed many criminals and disgorged countless transport ships, now lost all tidings of the rustling waves that once lapped at its base as remnants of bygone days.
On the wall of the Bloody Tower existing on the far side, only a large iron ring hung.

In times past, they would moor boats by tying their hawsers to this ring.

I turned left and entered the gate of the Bloody Tower.
Long ago during the Wars of the Roses, this tower had imprisoned countless people beyond measure.
This tower had mowed down people like grass, crushed them like chickens, and piled corpses like dried salmon.
They could not have named it more fittingly than Bloody Tower.
Under the arch stood a box resembling a police booth, with a helmeted soldier beside it holding his rifle at attention.
His face showed utmost solemnity, yet his bearing betrayed eagerness to finish duty quickly—to drink at that familiar pub and mock some affair.
The tower walls rose thickly from irregular stacked stones, their surfaces never smooth.
Ivy clung here and there.
High above showed a window.
The building’s vastness made it appear minuscule from below.
Iron bars seemed fitted within.
Beside this soldier—rigid as stone yet inwardly jesting with his mistress—I furrowed my brows, hand shielding eyes, and stood gazing up at the high window.
Faint sunlight through grillework struck ancient stained glass that cast back glimmering reflections.
Then smoke-like curtains parted to reveal fantasy’s stage in vivid clarity.
Beyond lay thick drapes leaving daylight dim within.
The opposite wall stood bare of plaster—naked stone partitioned immovably from neighboring rooms until doomsday.
Only its central six-mat space bore a tapestry of dull hues.
Indigo-gray formed its ground, pale yellow its pattern—a nude goddess statue encircled by arabesques.
Beside the stone wall stretched a great bed.

Grapes deeply carved into sturdy oak—their vines and leaves—cast back light only where hands and feet had touched.
At the edge of this bed appeared two children.
One appeared to be thirteen or fourteen, and the other around ten years old.
The younger one sat on the floor, leaning half against the bedpost and letting his powerless legs dangle limply.
He thrust forward his right elbow along with his tilted face, resting it on the shoulder of the older one.
The older one opened a large book adorned with gold upon the younger one’s lap and placed his right hand on the opened page.
It was a beautiful hand, like ivory kneaded to softness.
Both wore black coats so dark they could rival a crow’s wings, but their complexions were so pale that they stood out all the more.
Their hair color, their eye color—indeed, from the shape of their brows and noses down to the hems of their garments, both looked nearly identical; it must be because they are brothers.

The older brother read from the book on his lap in a gentle, clear voice.

“Blessed are those who envision before our eyes the manner of our destined death.”
“Pray each day and night for death.”
“What have I to fear... when I shall soon go before God?”

“Amen,” said the younger brother in a voice pitiful to all the world.

Just then, a wintry gust blowing from afar shook the lofty tower, roaring with such force that the walls seemed on the verge of collapse.
The younger brother clung tightly, pressing his face against his older brother’s shoulder.
A part of the snow-white quilt billowed up unlike the rest.
The older brother resumed reading.

“Consider that if morning comes, you will die before night.”
“If night comes, do not trust that tomorrow will follow.”
“Hold fast to resolve.”
“For an unsightly death is the height of shame...”

“Amen,” said the younger brother again.
His voice trembled.
The older brother quietly closed the book and walked toward the small window, attempting to look outside.
The window was too high for him to reach.
He brought a stool and stood on tiptoe upon it.
In the depths of black mist enveloping a hundred leagues, the winter sun glimmered dimly—
as though dyed through with fresh blood from a slaughtered dog.
“Will another day end like this?” said the older brother, looking at his sibling.
“I’m cold,” replied the younger one.
“If only our lives could be spared,” muttered the elder as if to himself, “we would offer the throne to Lord Uncle.”
“I want to see Mother,” said the boy.
At that moment, the nude goddess woven into the tapestry across the room moved—once, twice—drifting weightlessly though no wind blew.

Suddenly, the stage revolved.

When I looked, there stood a woman in a black mourning dress, desolate before the tower gate. Her features were pale and haggard, yet she remained a woman of refined dignity—noble in some indefinable way. Soon came the creak of a lock; with a groan, the door opened, and from within emerged a man who bowed respectfully before the woman.

“Am I permitted to meet them?” the woman asked.

“No,” the man answered apologetically.
“Though I wish to grant you an audience, as it is a public ordinance, I must ask you to resign yourself.”
“Though selling my sympathy would be a trivial matter,” he suddenly fell silent and glanced around.
From within the moat, a grebe suddenly surfaced.

The woman removed the golden chain from her neck and handed it to the man, saying, “I ask only for a mere glimpse—a fleeting moment.”
“You are heartless to refuse a woman’s plea,” she said.

The man wound the golden chain around his fingertip and appeared to deliberate.
The grebe suddenly dove under.
After a moment, he said, “The Tower guard cannot defy the prison’s ordinances.
“The young princes remain unchanged and may they continue to pass their days in health.
“Please return home with peace of mind,” he said, pushing the golden chain back.
The woman did not so much as stir.
Only the chain fell onto the paving stones and rang out with a clang.

“Is there truly no way for me to meet them?” the woman asked.

“Regrettably,” declared the guard.

“The black tower’s shadow, the unyielding tower’s walls, the cold tower’s people,” the woman wept bitterly.

The scene changes again.

A tall black-robed figure appeared in a corner of the courtyard.
It seemed to have slipped out from moss-chilled stone walls.
He stood at the boundary between night and fog, surveying his surroundings through the haze.
After some time, another black-robed figure welled up from the shadowed depths.
Gazing up at starlight grazing the turret's edge, the tall one said, "The day has ended."
"We cannot show our faces in the world of daylight," answered the other.
"I've killed many," said the tall figure turning toward the shorter one, "but never have I woken with such unease as today."
"When I overheard those two behind the tapestry," confessed the shorter one, "I nearly gave up and went home."
"When we tightened the cord, her flower-like lips trembled violently."
"Purple veins surfaced across that translucent forehead."
"That choked groan still clings to my ears."

When the black shadow was once more engulfed by the black night, the sound of the clock atop the turret boomed resoundingly.

Fantasy shattered along with the sound of the clock. The sentry, who had been standing like a stone statue, walked across the paving stones with his rifle shouldered, boots clattering. As he walked, he dreamed of strolling arm in arm with someone.

Passing under the Bloody Tower and emerging ahead lay a beautiful square.
Its center stood slightly elevated.
Upon that elevation rose the White Tower.
The White Tower was the oldest among all towers, the original keep of yore.
Twenty ken tall, eighteen ken wide, fifteen ken high, with walls five shaku thick; corner turrets rose at each compass point, here and there even Norman-era arrow slits still visible.
It was within this tower that in 1399 the people enumerated thirty-three articles of malfeasance and forced Richard II to abdicate.
It was within this tower that he stood before clergy, nobles, warriors, and jurists to proclaim his abdication to the realm.
At this moment Henry who had received the abdication rose up, traced a cross upon his brow and breast, and declared: "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, we Henry do hereby assume this crown of Great Britain and its sovereign reign through our rightful blood, by God's grace, with aid from beloved friends."
Yet none knew what became of the former king.
When his corpse was conveyed from Pontefract Castle to St Paul's Cathedral, twenty thousand thronged about his remains marveling at their gaunt visage.
Some say when eight assassins surrounded Richard he wrested an axe from one man's grip slew one and felled two.
Yet through Exton's blow struck from behind he perished at last swallowing bitterness.
One gazes heavenward declaring: "Nay nay!
"Richard fasted till life's root was severed," he said.
Neither outcome brings comfort.
The history of emperors is a history of misery.

The history of emperors is a history of misery.

It is said that one of the lower rooms was where Walter Raleigh had drafted his universal history during his imprisonment.
I imagined him there - right leg in Elizabethan breeches crossed over left, silk stockings fastened at the knee, goose-quill pen poised against paper, head slightly tilted in thought.
Yet I could not see that room.

Entering from the southern entrance and ascending the spiral staircase brought one to this spot where lay the famous armory. They appeared to be polished frequently, for they all gleamed brightly. How delightful it was that matters I could never properly grasp when in Japan—matters I only encountered in histories and novels—now each became clear before my eyes. However, that delight proved fleeting, and since I had now utterly forgotten it, it amounted to the same thing in the end. What still remained in my memory was the armor. Among them, what I thought truly splendid was indeed, I recalled, the armor worn by Henry VI. The entire piece had been crafted from steel with inlays adorning certain sections. What surprised me most was its sheer magnitude. Whoever wore such armor must have been a giant of at least seven shaku in height. As I stood admiring this armor with deep interest, clattering footsteps approached my side.

When I turned to look, it was a Beefeater. Though "Beefeater" might conjure images of someone perpetually dining on beef, such was not the case—he served as guardian of the Tower of London. He wore a hat resembling a crushed silk cap and clothes like those of an art school student, having tied the ends of his thick sleeves with a sash around his waist. His garments bore patterns too—nothing more than simple straight lines arranged into square shapes, like those found on Ainu half-coats. He sometimes carried a spear as well—one with a short blade and tassels hanging from the shaft's end, reminiscent of weapons from Romance of the Three Kingdoms.

One such Beefeater had stopped behind me.

He was a Beefeater—not very tall, plump, with a thick white beard.
“You are Japanese, are you not?” he asked with a smile.
I did not feel as though I were speaking with a contemporary Briton.
It felt as though he had emerged momentarily from three or four hundred years ago—or perhaps I had abruptly peered into an ancient past of three or four hundred years.
I remained silent and nodded lightly.
When he said “Come here,” I followed along.
He pointed to old Japanese-made armor with his finger and gave me a look that practically said “Have you seen it?”
I remained silent and nodded again.
The Beefeater explained that this had been presented to Charles II from the Mongol.
I nodded a third time.

We exited the White Tower and proceeded to Beauchamp Tower. Along the path stood captured cannons arrayed in rows. The area before them was partially enclosed by iron railings, with a sign hanging from a section of chain. Upon closer inspection, it read "Site of the Execution Ground." The reason two or three years felt interminable was that those confined for decades in sunless underground cells would be abruptly hauled aboveground only to be deposited in this place more dreadful than their subterranean prison. No sooner had one glimpsed the azure sky after endless darkness—no sooner formed the thought "At last, joy!"—than their vision blurred before colors could properly register, as a white axe blade sliced through three shaku of empty air. The blood now flowing must have chilled within living veins long before its spilling. A raven alighted nearby. Tucking its wings and sharpening its black beak, it stared at the onlookers. It felt as though centuries of cobalt blood's rancor had coalesced into this avian form to eternally guard this cursed ground. The elm tree swayed and rustled in the wind. Another raven perched on its branch. Moments later came a third flying in from unknown quarters. Beside me stood a young woman with a boy of about seven, both gazing at the ravens. Her Grecian nose, eyes like molten pearls, and the undulating curve of her snow-white neck stirred my heart profoundly. The child looked up at her and exclaimed, "The ravens! The ravens!" Then he entreated, "They look cold—I want to feed them bread!" The woman replied calmly, "Those ravens have no desire to eat anything." The child persisted, "Why?"

The woman gazed at the ravens with eyes that shimmered within her long lashes and said, “There are five ravens,” but did not answer the child’s question. She appeared so serene that one might think she was lost in solitary contemplation. I wondered whether there might be some strange connection between this woman and these ravens. She spoke of the ravens’ moods as if they were her own and insisted there were five ravens where only three could be seen. Leaving the mysterious woman behind, I entered Beauchamp Tower alone.

The history of the London Tower was the history of Beauchamp Tower, and the history of Beauchamp Tower was a history of sorrow.
Those who entered this three-story tower—erected in the latter half of the fourteenth century under Edward III—would perceive, in the very moment they stepped into its first-floor chamber, countless memorials crystallizing the lingering resentments of a hundred generations upon every surrounding wall.
All resentments, all indignations, all sorrows and griefs—together with the solace born from the extremes of this resentment, this indignation, this sorrow and grief—had crystallized into ninety-one varieties of inscriptions that still chilled the hearts of those who beheld them.
Those who had carved unfeeling walls with icy chisels, engraving their misfortunes and karmic fate between heaven and earth, were buried in the bottomless pit called the past—only their hollow characters forever beheld the light of this world.
Could it not be said that they were willfully mocking themselves?—one could not help but wonder.
There existed what was known as irony in this world.
To say 'white' meant black; to utter 'small' conjured thoughts of vastness.
Among all forms of irony, none could rival in intensity those unwittingly bequeathed to posterity.
Be it grave markers, memorials, medals, or decorations—so long as these existed, they were nothing more than tools to make hollow materials evoke memories of bygone eras.
I depart, and those who would convey me remain—this belief was surely the utterance of one who had forgotten that it was not my own self that endured, but rather these intermediaries left behind to mourn the departing me.
I thought it was the act of people who conveyed irony to future generations while mocking their own ephemeral selves.
I would compose no death poem when my time came.
After death, I would have no tombstone erected.
I would go to the unnecessary trouble of having my flesh burned and bones ground into powder to be scattered toward the vast sky on a day when the west wind blew fiercely.

The calligraphy styles of the inscriptions were by no means uniform.
Some employed meticulous regular script at their leisure; others were hurriedly scrawled onto the walls through frantic scratching, whether in haste or vexation.
Some carved their family crests into the stonework, preserving elegant characters within them; others etched shield shapes containing barely legible phrases.
Just as the calligraphy varied, so too did the languages never achieve uniformity.
There was English of course, along with Italian and Latin.
On the left side appeared the inscription "My hope is in Christ"—the words of a monk named Pasyuryu.
This Pasyuryu had been beheaded in 1537.
Beside it lay a signature reading JOHAN DECKER.
Who this Decker might be remained unclear.
As I ascended the stairs, I found initials marked T.C. at a doorway.
These too were mere initials whose owner I couldn't discern.
A short distance away lay an exceptionally elaborate carving.
First at the right edge they'd drawn a cross adorned with a heart, flanked by a skull and coat of arms.
Moving further along, my eyes caught these lines inscribed within a shield:
"Fate compels me in vain to plead with this heartless wind.
Crush time as well!
May my star grieve yet not pursue me."
Next came:
"Honor all people.
Show compassion to all beings.
Fear God.

“Honor the king” was written.

I tried to imagine what state of mind the person who wrote such things must have been in.
In all the world, there was no anguish more profound than that of purposeless existence.
There was no suffering greater than that of an unchanging mind.
There was no suffering greater than a capable body bound by invisible ropes, rendered immobile.
To live is to be active; yet being alive while having that activity suppressed was tantamount to being stripped of life’s very meaning—and merely being conscious of this deprivation inflicted greater agony than death itself.
All those who covered these walls to such an extent had endured pain more bitter than death itself.
They must have fought against this pain as long as they could endure it—only when they could no longer bear it, whether sitting or standing, did they finally use broken nails or sharpened claws to seek purpose in tranquility, voice discontent beneath peace, and carve turbulence upon flat ground.
Each stroke they carved was likely the result of being compelled by an instinctual demand that remained unsatisfied even after exhausting all natural means to vent their anguish—wailing, tears, and every other method nature permits.

Again, I imagined.
Once born, one must live.
They did not claim to fear death—they simply had to live.
This imperative to live was a path that had existed before Jesus and Confucius, and remained one after them.
No logic intervened—one had to live simply because one wanted to live.
All people must live.
Those bound in this prison too had to live according to this great truth.
Yet simultaneously, they faced death's fate before their eyes.
"How might we survive?" became the question haunting their hearts each moment.
Those who entered this chamber would surely die.
Only one in a thousand ever again saw sunlight.
They had to die sooner or later.
Yet the eternal truth spanning all ages taught them: Live—live utterly.
They had no choice but to hone their claws.
With sharpened claw-tips, they carved 'one' into unyielding walls.
Even after carving 'one,' the truth whispered as of old: Live—live utterly.
They waited for torn claws to heal before carving 'two.'
Anticipating tomorrow's axe-blade scattering flesh and shattering bones, they wished only to persist as ones and twos, lines and characters on cold stone.
The vertical and horizontal scars remaining on walls were souls of life-clinging obsession.
When I had drawn my imagination's thread this far, a chill from the room seemed to rush through every pore into my core, making me shudder involuntarily.

As I thought this and looked closer, the wall seemed somehow damp.
When I ran my fingertip over it, it slipped slick with dew.
When I looked at my fingertip, it was bright red.
From the corner of the wall, dewdrops fell with a drip-drip sound.
When I looked at the floor, the traces of drips formed irregular crimson patterns.
I thought sixteenth-century blood had seeped out.
Even a groan could be heard from deep within the wall.
As the groaning sound gradually drew near, it transformed into a terrifying song that pierced through the night.
Here was an underground cellar leading beneath the earth, and within it were two people.
A wind rising from demonic realms passed through cracks in the stone walls and stirred the small lantern, making the already dim room’s ceiling and corners appear to swirl with sooty smoke from the oil lamp.
The faint song echoing through the cellar was unmistakably coming from one of them.
The singer had rolled his sleeves high and was grinding a large axe against a rotating whetstone with fierce concentration.
Beside him lay another axe whose white blade glinted intermittently when caught by errant gusts.
The other man stood watching the grindstone spin, arms crossed tight.
A face emerged from within a beard, half illuminated by the lantern’s glow—the lit portion resembled a carrot smeared with mud.

“With prisoners arriving by boat daily like this,” said the bearded one, “we executioners must be thriving.”

“Damn right,” replied the grinder without pausing his work. “Just keeping these axes sharp wears a man to bone.”

This was a short man with sunken eyes and skin like coal dust.

“Yesterday’s was a beauty,” the bearded executioner remarked wistfully.

“Well, her face was beautiful, but that woman had neck bones that were damn tough.
“Thanks to that, it’s chipped about a tenth of an inch,” he snarled, violently spinning the grindstone with a whirr—as sparks sputtered from the whirring wheel.
The grinder raised his voice and began to sing.

“A woman’s neck won’t be cut—the blade breaks from love’s grudge.”

Apart from the whirring sound, there was nothing else to hear.
The lantern’s light, buffeted by the wind, illuminated the axe-grinder’s right cheek.
It was as if vermilion had been poured over soot.
“Whose turn is it tomorrow, I wonder?” asked the bearded one with a slight chuckle.
“Tomorrow’s the old madam’s turn,” he replied flatly.

Infidelity dyes sprouting white hairs; slice through bone and blood will dye.

He sang in a shrill voice.
The grindstone spun with a shu-shu-shu whir; sparks went pi-chi-pi-chi.
"Ahahaha! That should do," he said, brandishing his axe to inspect the blade in the lamplight.
"Just the old madam? No one else?" asked the bearded one again.
"And then the usual one gets done in."
"Poor thing—so they're doing it already? What a pitiful sight," he said. "A pity, but there's no helping it," sneered the other, gazing up at the pitch-black ceiling.

Instantly, the cellar, the executioners, and the lantern all vanished at once, and I stood dumbfounded in the very center of Beauchamp Tower. When I suddenly came to my senses and looked around, the boy who had earlier said he wanted to feed bread to the ravens was standing beside me. The mysterious woman remained there as before. The boy looked at the wall and exclaimed in surprise, “There’s a dog drawn over there!” The woman replied in her usual tone—as unwavering as the very incarnation of the past—“It is not a dog. On the left is a bear, on the right a lion—this is the Dudley family crest.” To tell the truth, I too had thought it was a dog or a pig; now hearing this woman’s explanation, I found her all the more mysterious. Now that you mention it, when she said “Dudley” just now, her words carried an unexpected force—as though she were proclaiming her own family name. I held my breath and stared intently at both of them. The woman continued her explanation. “The person who carved this crest is John Dudley.” Her tone suggested John might have been her own brother. “John had four brothers, and those brothers can be clearly discerned by the flowers carved around the bear and lion.” When I looked closer, sure enough carved around the bear and lion were four varieties of what might be flowers or leaves arranged like an oil painting’s frame. “Here are Acorns, and this represents Ambrose. This here is the Rose, representing Robert. You’ll find honeysuckle depicted below.” “Honeysuckle corresponds to Henry.” “The one clustered above on the left is Geranium, which stands for G……” she said, then fell silent. When I looked, her coral-like lips were trembling so violently it seemed as though electricity had been applied to them—like a viper’s tongue poised before a mouse.

It was like the tip of a viper’s tongue poised to strike a mouse.
After a while, the woman cheerfully recited the inscription written beneath this crest.

Yow that thebeasts do wel behold and se,

May deme with easewherefore here made they be

Withe borders wherein ……………………………………

4 brothers' names wholist to serche the grovnd.

The woman finished reciting this verse in a tone suggesting she had repeated it daily since the day she was born.
To tell the truth, the characters on the wall were exceedingly difficult to make out.
Even someone like me could not decipher a single character no matter how much I strained my eyes.
I grew increasingly suspicious of this woman.

Because I was feeling unsettled, I passed through and moved ahead. When I emerged from the corner with embrasures, amidst a chaotic jumble of what might have been patterns or indecipherable script, there was the name "Jane" written small in proper characters. I found myself involuntarily stopping before it. Among those who have read British history, there can be none who do not know the name Jane Grey. Nor can there be any who would not shed sympathetic tears for her tragic fate and cruel end. Jane—innocent and without hesitation—had sacrificed eighteen springs and autumns at the execution ground for the ambitions of her father-in-law and husband. From the trampled rose stamens rises an enduring fragrance, distant yet undiminished, that to this day entices those who delve into history. The anecdote of Ascham—that great scholar of his age who could read Greek and Plato yet found himself astonished by her intellect—serves as prime material for envisioning this poetic figure and remains preserved in the minds of many. I stood rooted before Jane’s name, unable to move. Rather than choosing not to move, it was that I could not move.

The curtain of imagination was already drawn.

At first my eyes clouded over until nothing remained visible.
Then a flame abruptly kindled at one point in the darkness.
This fire gradually swelled larger until I sensed movement within its depths.
Next it steadily brightened until coming into sharp focus like binoculars being adjusted.
The vision then expanded progressively as if approaching from some distant plane.
When awareness returned I saw a young woman seated at center stage; at right periphery stood what appeared to be a man.
While pondering their vague familiarity they suddenly lurched forward halting five or six ken away - about nine meters.
The man proved identical to that sunken-eyed soot-hued runt who'd been singing behind the cellar earlier.
He stood braced with whetted axe gripped left-handed while an eight-sun dagger dangled from his waist.
My breath caught involuntarily.
The woman groped blindly with both hands seeking an execution block beneath her white kerchief blindfold.
This headrest matched Japanese log-splitting blocks in size bearing an iron ring at front.
Straw scattered before it suggested precaution against bloodflow.
Against rear walls two or three women slumped weeping - likely maidservants.
A priest trailing fur-lined cassock guided her hands blockward with downcast mien.
Her snow-pale robes framed golden tresses cascading past shoulders like wind-stirred clouds.
Abrupt recognition shocked me when glimpsing her face.
Though eyes stayed veiled every contour from arched brows through slender neck mirrored precisely that woman from before.
Instinct drove me forward yet legs rebelled frozen mid-stride.

The woman finally managed to find the execution block and placed both hands upon it.
Her lips twitched restlessly.
It was exactly as when she had explained the Dudley crest to the boy earlier.
She tilted her head slightly and asked, “Has my husband Guildford Dudley already gone to the kingdom of God?”
A handful of hair spilling over her shoulders rippled softly.
The priest replied, “I know not,” and inquired, “Have you still no mind to enter the true path?”
“The true path is none other than that which I and my husband believe in,” she declared steadfastly.
“Your path is one of delusion, a path of error,” she replied.
The priest said nothing.
The woman continued in a calmer tone, “If my husband has gone before me, I will catch up. If he remains behind, I will lead him onward.
“To God’s righteous kingdom we go, treading the righteous path,” she declared, throwing her head upon the block as though collapsing.
The sunken-eyed, soot-colored, short-statured executioner hefted his axe once more heavily.
No sooner had I thought that two or three drops of blood had spattered onto the knees of my Western-style trousers than all the visions vanished abruptly.

When I looked around, not even a shadow remained of the woman who had been with the boy. With a face as though bewitched by a fox, I exited the tower in a daze.

On my way back, when I passed beneath the bell tower again, Guy Fawkes briefly thrust out a lightning-like face from a high window.
"If only I had been an hour earlier..."
I even heard a voice say, "It is truly regrettable that these three matches proved useless."
Though even I thought my mind had grown somewhat strange, I hastily exited the tower.

When I crossed Tower Bridge and looked back—perhaps as is customary in northern countries—this day too had imperceptibly turned to rain.
The rain—as fine as bran grains spilling through the eye of a needle—dissolved all the city's red dust and soot into a thickly veiling haze that locked heaven and earth; there, like a shadow from hell, abruptly loomed the London Tower.

In a daze, I arrived at my lodgings and told my landlord I had visited the Tower that day, whereupon he said, "There were five ravens, weren't there?"
"Good heavens—could this landlord be related to that woman?" I thought in astonishment, when he chuckled and explained: "Those are consecrated ravens.
They've been kept there since ancient times—if even one goes missing, they replace it straightaway. That's why there's always exactly five." With this casual remark, half my fantasies lay shattered that very day of seeing the London Tower.
When I told him about the wall inscriptions too, he remarked offhandedly: "Ah, those scribblings? Nonsense—ruining a perfectly fine spot like that. All that talk of prisoners' graffiti has no basis. Plenty are forgeries too."
When I finally described meeting that beautiful woman—how she'd fluently read things beyond our knowledge—he scoffed scornfully: "That's nothing special! Everyone reads guidebooks before visiting—knowing such trifles ain't worth marveling at. What's so grand about her being a beauty?
Mark this—London's full of beauties. Best watch yourself, or you'll land in hot water."
Thus the latter half of my fantasies crumbled away.

The landlord was a twentieth-century Londoner.

From then on, I resolved not to speak with people about the London Tower.
I also resolved never to go sightseeing there again.

This work may flow like factual narrative, but in truth its pages are half-imagined; I entreat readers to peruse them with this awareness. Regarding the Tower's history, I endeavored to weave together theatrically compelling episodes plucked from its annals, though my execution fell short—traces of artifice remain unavoidably visible here and there.

The scene where Elizabeth (consort of Edward IV) comes to visit the two princes in their confinement, and that where their assassin recounts his deeds—these too exist within Shakespeare's historical play Richard III.

The Bard employs bold brushstrokes when depicting Clarence's murder within the Tower walls, yet uses subtler tints to suggest the princes' strangulation—sketching that horror obliquely through the assassin's own account.

When first I read this play long ago, that passage struck me as masterful; thus have I now borrowed its very technique.

Yet the dialogues' substance and surrounding details spring wholly from my fancy—they share no thread with Shakespeare's creation.

As for the executioner's song while whetting his axe—this device I stole outright from Ainsworth's novel *The Tower of London*, nor dare I claim even a grain of originality therein.

Ainsworth recounts the chipped axe-blade as though it bore witness to the Countess of Salisbury's execution.

When I read his work, that brief scene—scarce spanning two pages—of the headsman honing his blunted tool on the execution site's stone gripped me powerfully.

More arresting still—how he casually sang some bawdy tune while grinding steel, though this occupied but fifteen minutes at most—here pulsed such vital drama that it might quicken an entire volume's blood; thus enthralled, I've lifted this conceit entire.

Yet the song's meaning and verses, the jailers' exchanges, the vault's gloom—all beyond that borrowed notion—are phantoms of my own making.

Since opportunity serves, I'll set down here the ditty Ainsworth gave his executioner to sing.

The axe was sharp, and heavy as lead,

As it touched the neck, off went the head!

Whir―whir―whir―whir!

Queen Anne laid her white throat upon the block,

Quietly waiting the fatal shock;

The axe it severed it right in twain,

And so quick―so true―that she felt no pain.

Whir―whir―whir―whir!

Salisbury's countess, she would not die

As a proud dame should―decorously.

Lifting my axe, I split her skull,

And the edge since then has been notched and dull.

Whir―whir―whir―whir!

Queen Catherine Howard gave me a fee, ―

A chain of gold―to dieeasily:

And her costly present she did not rue,
For I touched her head, and away it flew!
Whir―whir―whir―whir!

I had intended to translate this entire chapter, but found I could not proceed as I wished; moreover, fearing it would become too long, I gave up.

Regarding the scenes of the two princes’ imprisonment and Jane’s execution, I must offer a word of gratitude, for the renowned Delaroche paintings had greatly aided my imagination.

Among the prisoners ascending from the boat, the one called Wyatt is the son of a famous poet who raised troops for Jane; as father and son share the same name, I note this here to avoid confusion.

I was aware that depicting the scenic features surrounding the Tower in slightly greater detail would serve as a necessary condition to naturally evoke in readers both an introduction to the Tower itself and a sense of treading upon its grounds; however, I had not toured there for the purpose of composing such a text, and moreover, as considerable time had passed, distinct scenery inevitably proved difficult to manifest clearly before my eyes.
Consequently, there was a tendency for subjective expressions to become redundant, and I feared they might at times risk imparting an unpleasant sensation to readers; but given these circumstances, it could not be helped.
(December 20, 1904)