Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Rather than reciting that Narai Station on the Kiso Highway lies 158 ri and 2 from Iidamachi, the starting point of the Chuo Line, at an elevation of 3,200 shaku, it would quicker stir the traveler’s spirit to recall Shank’s Mare. Here, as Yajirobei and Kitahachi trudged across Torii Pass with the sun already dipping toward the western mountains, women emerged from inns lining both sides of the road: “Pardon me—won’t you stay? The baths are drawn—do stay now—” Though Kitahachi protested it was still early… Yajirobei relented: “We should lodge here. Miss—you there—we’ll stay. For supper, rice or soba will do—soba’s fine. And you’ll keep it cheap now.” “Yajiro—cheaper’s better! What’s your soba price?” “Miss—the soba runs 116 sen.” Given their meager travel funds, they settled on this arrangement; upon emerging from their bath, the promised soba arrived. Kitahachi promptly dug in. “The noodles here pass muster,” he remarked about the region’s soba quality while someone apologized for the poor broth. Yajirobei quipped to the maid: “Well Miss—we’ll overlook thin broth when served by such comely hands,” draining another cup. “That concludes our soba service.” “Yajiro! What—gone already? Two bowls each? Pitiful! Can’t fill a man this way!” “This inn’s cheapness reeks of savagery!” “Two bowls won’t sustain me!” “Yajiro… Cease your damned whining! We pay coin—why no rice?… Outrage! Squeezing our last coppers only to drown us in extra noodles—enough to shrivel a man’s soul!”

That night, back in his hometown of Edo’s Tansumachi Hikidashi Yokocho, when he met that resourceful acquaintance Kanbei of Torideya and visited the mountain temple at the foothills and heard deer crying…

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than he abruptly felt the urge to stay here. He explained that it happened just as the train was about to depart from the station.

This friend of the author, Sakai Sankichi, had in fact purchased a ticket to Kamimatsu with the intention of viewing sights like the ivy-clad Kiso bridges and Nezame no Toko. It was mid-November. "...Moreover, those two bowls of soba had a most peculiar connection indeed..."

Sakai said.

He had stayed in Matsumoto the previous night. As is well known, the trains on this line branch off from Shiojiri, making it peculiar that someone traveling from Tokyo to Kamimatsu would stay overnight in Matsumoto. To be fair, had he claimed business brought him to Matsumoto, that explanation might have sufficed. But then things would become loose-ended and fail to align properly. Not that I mean to pry into particulars, but truth be told—despite limited days—it was a journey indulging in railway whimsy: from Ueno to Takasaki while viewing Mount Myogi, gazing upon Yokokawa and Kumanodaira and Asama, passing through Karuizawa and Oiwake before switching to the Shinonoi Line, peering at Obasute's terraced fields through train windows—with Matsumoto planned as that night's lodgings. In that Matsumoto existed an inn said to "have a good girl." "A close acquaintance of mine—allow me to make introductions," wrote a renowned painter in an appended letter. He should have known better—yet upon arriving at said inn last night, there indeed appeared at the front desk a woman with her hair in a bun matching that description—though naturally it was a maid who showed him to his room [...] Having presented this letter of introduction, not only did no daughter approach—it went beyond that. On this frost-ridden night, they poured but a single lukewarm cup of bitter tea from spent leaves and made no mention of supper or proper meals.

The guest room was splendid, and the table was rosewood. The brazier was large. But the fire’s warmth was a mere flicker. Clinging to the white ashes, when he asked if they could at least warm a sake bottle with what little heat remained, the cook had already taken away the fire; there was nothing to be done, declared the maid with indifference. The cold was bitter indeed—truly, the house felt as silent as if all warmth had been stripped away—but it wasn’t even eleven yet… When he asked if they might at least provide some sake, they claimed nothing could be done. “Was there no sake? There was none.” “Well then, how about beer?” “I’m afraid that’s unavailable too,” she replied. “Miss…,” Sakai pressed a bit more, “could you have it brought from somewhere nearby?” “Well, it’s already late, and the eateries have closed for the night… Though calling them ‘eateries’ might be generous.”

“Now that’s odd,” I mused. While trembling in the rickshaw from the station, hadn’t I passed through this very neighborhood just moments ago? A river flowed with a cold, rushing sound beneath a bridge, rows of brothel-like houses lined both sides, and red teahouse lanterns had flickered softly before my eyes—ah! Had I known it would come to this, I should’ve drained that two-gō flask of sake I bought in Karuizawa, though unlike Lord Jirō’s dog, I hadn’t licked it clean. With a heavy sigh, his empty stomach growled loudly as he pleaded in a pitiful voice, “Miss… So that means no sake, no beer, no snacks… What about rice?” “Well, what about tonight’s inn meal?” “I’m afraid we couldn’t prepare it in time… what with the fire already doused and all—I don’t know what grudge this stems from, but at this point, it’s gone beyond cold treatment into something downright bizarre.” Precisely because he had that letter of introduction, he couldn’t bring himself to demand a change of inns with any confrontational edge. Resigning himself to this karma from a past life, he timidly proposed whether they might at least arrange for soba or udon from somewhere nearby—whereupon she offered to inquire about the udon. “Ah, I’ll have two bowls of that.” The maid—in a half-crouched retreat with her knee wedged against the threshold—wrenched her leg free and ambled off with indolent indifference.

After waiting some time, when he looked at what had been thrust onto the tray, there was only one bowl. In his hunger-wracked misery, he had asked Miss for two servings, but... When he pressed her accusingly, she replied, “But sir, we’ve packed two portions in there as requested.” “Ah, I understand now.” There was no need to say, “Please don’t trouble yourself—take it away.” As she briskly retreated down the corridor—showing him her backside—he watched with eyes like a spurned child. Clutching the bowl, he lifted the lid to find two servings indeed crammed inside—a meager splash of broth, the udon parched and bone-white.

This inn must have collided with the very place where Mount Akiba’s Sanjaku-bō and Iizuna Gongen turned guests into sacrificial offerings—better to laugh than cry.

That... last night's two bowls of udon—he found himself comparing them to the two bowls of soba Yajiro and Kitahachi had once endured at an evening inn long ago. It may have been a bit exaggerated, but this was what they called a strange connection—he suddenly wanted to stay in Narai.

The sun too sank toward the edge of the Kiso mountains. At the inn, a sudden shower swept through.

They had made preparations for such rain. He did not hail any rickshaws at the station; enduring the gloom with a Western umbrella, he followed the rocky path along dark eaves of lintels while steeling his resolve.—Bring me two bowls of soba. Last night’s udon had been a sneak attack—tonight’s soba was what he’d set his hopes on. ——To savor travel’s pathos, he deliberately avoided glass-walled inns and peered crow-like into a worn-out lodging where mountain palanquins and dried vegetables hung from eaves while split wood burned in an earthen-floored hearth—then stepped inside in his black overcoat with a curt “Pardon me,” where an old man with cheeks wrapped in cloth tended the fire beneath that hearth. The frame stretched wide, the hearth stood large, and an eight-ken lantern hung from a sooty ceiling—exactly as ordered to contrast with mountain palanquins. In the dim front desk beneath stairs, the bald-headed clerk proved intriguing.

“Step right in.” Repeating “two bowls of soba, two bowls of soba” to steel himself, Sakai watched as someone nimbly stepped out before his resolute gaze and bowed courteously—though he couldn’t help suspecting that what he took for wheat gluten in the shippoku-style hot pot might actually have been fish cake. “A guest—Tsuru no Sanban.” The maid—her attire plain cotton but neatly aproned, young and fair-skinned—guided him up to the third floor through pines that framed windows and railings, as though climbing a height.

——A ten-mat room. ……The pillars and ceiling were sturdily constructed, the tokonoma alcove tastefully arranged without a hint of pretension—unlike establishments with grand entrances, this was a solid structure.

The cotton in the futon was warm, and a splendid bear pelt had been laid out. "Ah-ha," he thought, becoming a comical lord who recognized this bear pelt as kin to those monkey wombs, serpent livers, and beast pelts once hawked on mountain passes during the Hizakurige era. As he settled onto the pelt with mock grandeur, the maid promptly came upstairs stoking the fireplace shovel and—without hesitation—heaped a tremendous amount into the copper brazier. Blue flames enveloped the hard charcoal, blazing crimson; the mountain wind seeping through the window grew piercingly cold. The vigor of this fire on the third floor was such that even mentioning it in passing felt nearly taboo after a major earthquake.

He took a bath.

Now, as for the meal—looking at the serving tray with butterfly-shaped legs, to treat it as mere soba would be shameful. Setting aside the grilled yellowtail for now, there was a thick omelet releasing wisps of smoke, served in a pure white bowl with half a portion of translucent kudzu sauce. Arranged on the plate were five thrushes—reputed to be local delicacies hereabouts—their heads positioned like sake cups, thighs plump, breasts split open, nearly whole-roasted and fragrantly seasoned. “How grateful… Truly grateful.” While the maid poured his sake with unaccustomed yet delighted gestures, Sakai—perched upon the bear pelt as though being feasted by immortals—offered his profuse thanks.

“This is quite a feast. “How truly grateful… I really must express my thanks.”

This was heartfelt. Since his sincerity showed no trace of evasion, the young maid responded without any pretense,

“Master, you’ve taken a liking to it—I’m ever so glad. Now, please have another.” “I’ll have some, Miss.” “I’ll take another helping.” “By the way, Miss—this may be asking too much, but… what do you think? Could I have these thrushes prepared separately in a pot here to simmer as I eat? —Do you still have plenty left?”

“Yes, we have three baskets full.” “They’re also hanging in bundles from the kitchen pillars.” “That’s quite extravagant.—I’d like some extra to simmer here... alright?” “Yes, as you say.” “And bring the sake decanter while you’re at it.” “With the fire this strong, it won’t cool even if you just set it nearby.” “……It must be tiresome for you to keep coming and forth.” “Bring three bottles all at once.” “……How’s that?” “It’s like something Iwami Jūtarō would order.”

“Ohoho.”

This morning in Matsumoto, when he washed his face with water from the jar, his chest had been bound in ice, leaving him unable to form a single coherent thought. As his heart warmed and thawed here... he understood—the reason for that udon mistreatment lay with the painter who had provided the letter of introduction. Though now head of a respected household, during his youthful wanderings he had traversed the Shinano roads and holed up at that very inn for over five months. They never pressed him for overdue lodging fees—even provided straw sandal money for his return journey, calling it a kindhearted establishment. But ah, of course... With the same person’s referral, they must have assumed I’d likewise let payments lapse while expecting travel funds...

“Yes, well sir—this is but a meager offering.” A man in navy-blue collar and matching broad apron—slender, with an ashen complexion that held bluish undertones, somber yet dutiful in bearing, perhaps thirty-six or thirty-seven years old with close-cropped hair—bowed deferentially by the sliding door. “Not at all… It was truly splendid.” “…Might you be the manager?” “No—I serve as cook here, though most inadequately.” “…And in such remote mountain quarters, we’ve nothing worthy of your palate.”

“Nonsense.” “Regarding that matter… Just now, you had even instructed the maids, sir, about your request to have the thrushes prepared in a pot—but as for how we might prepare them for you, well, those girls are just country folk and cannot quite grasp your meaning.” “Therefore, if you’ll pardon the intrusion, I’ve come to inquire about it directly.”

Sakai was not a little flustered. "I'm terribly obliged for that—coming all this way from afar." He blurted out without thinking... "This may seem like a frivolous whim about skewers, but it's quite the trek up to the third floor." "How shall I prepare it?" "Well, come over here—are you busy?" "No, we've already served the meal. As for guests, aside from yourself, sir, there are only about two or so other parties."

“Now, come over here.” “Come on—all the way.” “Ah, much obliged.” “I may be overstepping, but here—have a drink.” “Ah—just in time, the sake decanter’s here.” “Miss, please pour him a drink.” “Oh, no—this one is too inept.”

“Now now, have a cup.—This is vexing—I did say to prepare the thrushes in a pot, but... how should I explain it.” “Master, even at the front desk—well—they’ve been saying the same thing.” “Thrushes are finest when grilled and eaten, so they claim.” “We did serve them on your tray, but to consume them from the head—sucking out the brains smoothly in one bite—is what makes them delicious. A rather quaint country custom, if I may say.”

“Chef… I never meant to criticize your cooking… This is quite troublesome.” “Actually, at this banquet I mentioned—there was a geisha there who started talking about Kiso thrushes. Once everyone had gotten quite drunk, people began singing all sorts of songs here and there—that’s when *Kiso-bushi* came up. Since it’s such a nostalgic place for me, I only half-remember it now… something like ‘the rice shipped off to Kiso’ or whatnot…”

“Indeed.” After setting down the square sake cup with a clink, he pulled out his half-smoked pipe from the double-strapped tobacco pouch and rapped it unceremoniously against the golden brazier—tock—

“...(The surplus rice of Ina and Takato...) they say. ‘Kome’—that’s this maid’s name—Miss Okome.” “Oh, what’s that about, Mr. Isaku?” The maid glared sideways with a forced smile,

“Master—it’s because this person’s family is from Ina.” “Ah, so he shares a province with Lord Katsuyori, then.” “Well, Lord Katsuyori isn’t the kind of man this person is.”

“Of course.” The grim-faced cook, without even a wry smile, tapped his pipe with another clink. “That’s why he favors Ina, you see—though it’s different when sung in Kiso.” “—(The rice shipped to Ina and Takato is all surplus from the Kiso Road)—they say, you see.” “Well… whichever way you look at it… this story began as our pretext for going to Kiso—though we were drunk, and whether it was Nie River beyond there or past the pass in Yabuhara, Fukushima, Agematsu or wherever else, we didn’t ask for details—but that geisha told us she’d gone to Kiso with a customer to set up thrush nets.” …While it was still dark at night, they pressed onward up the mountain path. At the spot directed by their guide, they set up mist nets and raised decoys. Then before dawn, in the pale haze of mist, a flock of thrushes suddenly crossing from the ridge opposite to this mountainside swarmed in, flapping their wings, and became entangled in the mist nets. “They’d slowly and methodically pluck them, then grill them over a bonfire right away. You’d slurp up the hot, fatty parts—she said they were so delicious… and went on with her story…”

"Ah, indeed." "...Shivering from the cold, they gulped heated sake between hurried bites of thrush meat. 'Ah, delicious,' someone sighed while clinging to the bonfire—but when they suddenly stood up, two local hunters guiding them cried out. And what do you think? The geisha's mouth was covered in blood." “It was fresh, half-raw bird blood... As she told this story, the geisha absently pressed a handkerchief to her mouth... The crimson stain seemed ready to seep through, so I scrutinized her face.” “She was a young woman—slender enough to snap at a touch, willowy and graceful.” “...It sounds delectable when recounted, but how terrifying it must have been—even imagining it now in Tokyo, with all its steepness and depth, those overlapping peaks and valleys of the Kiso mountains at pale dawn... There where someone stood upright with a bonfire coiled around the dark hem of their robe—naturally higher than the peaks below one’s gaze—a beautiful neck emerged from the mist.”

“No, Sir.”

“The story may be crudely told, but there’s something uncanny about it, don’t you think? That mouth was smeared with blood.”

“Oh, indeed.” “When I said, ‘Ah, how did you escape unharmed?’ you asked, ‘Why?’” “When you asked why—it’s because those flustered huntsmen and cursed hunters took two bullets from across the ridge’s bamboo thicket… The place… the hour… They’ve always said curses cling to night watches and dawn netting—strange things happen. But this was truly a curse at work.” “But she became a startlingly beautiful demon, didn’t she?” “Well… it’s true… I am a demon… But the kind that gets eaten by others… or so I claim—yet how dreadful… it chills me to the bone.” And again, she pressed her mouth with a handkerchief.”

"Hmm," murmured the cook in a low, distant voice, as though lost in thought.

“Indeed.” “Master—ah, well—no—truly.” “Truly perilous it is.—In such cases, injuries are certain… A marvel that young miss emerged unharmed.”

Upstream along this Nie River, at the Mitake Entrance. “The gorge near Mino yields a better catch, but I don’t know where exactly that place is—and which part of Tokyo are these geisha from?” “Well, the Shitamachi area, you see.” “Ryōgoku…” With that, he peered as if trying to see through something and stared fixedly. “…Or perhaps that Shimbashi area…” “No, it’s more toward the middle… Near Nihonbashi, though this was all just talk at banquets.”

“If knowing her whereabouts wouldn’t cause any inconvenience, I’d like to ask about that location for reference’s sake.” "...As for these deep mountains and secluded valleys... human wisdom cannot fathom them—"

The maid too looked down with a dark expression.

Sakai leaned forward as if taking initiative where none would,

"Has anything unusual happened around here?" “Well... I wouldn’t say there’s anything particular...” "However, just as there are rapids in a river’s flow, there are deep pools in the mountains, so one must be careful." “The thrushes I just served you—these were caught over the past day or two, as there was an unusual hunt at the upper mountain pass.”

“Ah, that’s precisely it.”

Sakai once again received the sake cup, “Mr. Chef. “The way you prepared and served this dish—just looking at it makes my mouth water, so fragrant and glistening with fat—suddenly made me recall that incident with the geisha’s bloodied mouth.” “However, I am neither a monk nor vegetarian nor anything of the sort.” “You may wish all you like, but look—outside the window, with rain and maple leaves, the mist weaves through the mountains.” “Among the peaks, you can see one crowned with snow and piercing through the clouds.” “If by some chance someone were to stand up abruptly and find their mouth bloodied with their neck craning upward… Well, being a man with this face, I doubt I’d appear as terribly beautiful as that geisha—like an incarnation of the mountain deity.” “Thinking myself a leftover persimmon—that a crow from outside might peck at me—when suddenly I felt something strange.”

“Miss Okome—isn’t the electric light taking rather long for some reason?”

The cook said in a low voice.

The passing shower was clearing up as twilight pressed upon the Kiso mountains. The rapids of the Narai River echoed.

Two

"What is it? What’s happened?"

“Ah, Sir,” came from within the snowy garden on that dark night. “The heron has come and is after the fish, you see.” Immediately outside the window—close by yet sounding as though crossing the pond’s water—came the voice of the cook, that Isaku.

“Did a human fall? Or maybe an otter was running around—I was startled by the terrible noise.”

This took place in the lower guest room of the same inn on the following evening.……

Sakai stayed in Narai. The snow that had accumulated there was not because it had begun falling that morning. He hadn’t come specifically to sightsee around there either.……The previous night—after that incident—when someone had requested the thrush be prepared in a pot, saying it should be cooked like pheasant or chicken—simmered by the brazier next to the meal tray—the cook had understood perfectly, heaping the roughly chopped pieces high on a plate. He filled a mesh basket to the brim with coarsely chopped scallions, then piled soy sauce and sugar uncovered. Okome vigorously stoked the charcoal.

Though Echigo lay to the north, in the regions around Sakai’s hometown, when the season arrived, the thrush was prized beyond measure. Restaurants hung signboards beneath their eaves advertising “Thrush Cuisine,” “Jibu,” “Okonomi,” and other such specialties. Thrush udon, thrush soba—even soba shops put up signs. However, they were not cheap. No matter which bowl or plate they used, it was prepared with the discernment of an honored soup or small lid. Though they provided no more than three modest morsels rather than five, heaping them with scallions and sending steam billowing up from the pot to the ceiling was a delight.

With steaming hot sake in hand, he sat cross-legged on a bear pelt. The geisha's apparition transformed into a bandit.

At bedtime, there was something delightful about how this bear pelt lay draped over the thick quilt—enveloping sleeves, covering them, and wrapping around hems. The next day, whether snow was coming or not, undeterred by the night storm that seeped into his bones or the Kiso River’s fearsome rapids, he slept soundly on the third floor, kept warm by liquor’s fire and animal pelts in cozy warmth.

Given the circumstances, he found himself fond of even the tofu soup at breakfast—blowing on it softly before sipping.

As for the morning at the inn the day before yesterday—he wondered. ...In cold broth like ditchwater skimmed from the surface, clams floated as if in an honorable soup—the stench of half-cooked ingredients defied description....

The mountains and sky were crystal clear as if seen through ice, pine needles and dead trees glinting sharply under the blazing sun, while white flecks fluttered about—deep in the mountains, a bear stood upright amid snow that fell like needles.

Shortly after finishing breakfast, Sakai’s stomach began to ache with a dull throb. After a while, he made two or three trips to the privy. That was the curse of the udon. It was absolutely not due to overeating thrush. There was no escaping poisoning from two servings of that half-cooked udon flour packed into one’s stomach. Clutching his stomach, whenever he thought of the udon, a prickling pain would begin to throb from deep within. Still, even if needles of sunlight flew outside, even if his stomach ached a little, he could endure it—his condition wasn’t so dire that he couldn’t board the train. ……Yet, no one knew. He decided to extend his stay at this inn both for its comfort and as a pointed gesture toward something—though precisely what remained unclear.

As for the guest room—or perhaps it was his second time there—upon returning from the privy and attempting to enter his own quarters on the third floor, he happened to peer down from the railing to the second floor. Beneath the ladder-like staircase, through an open shoji door where a broom and duster stood propped, he could see into a small sitting room containing a heated table, its decorative alcove fully visible. ...On the floor lay two or so faded chartreuse cloth-wrapped bundles stacked atop a trunk, bound at the center with Sanada cord. A middle-aged man who appeared to be a traveling merchant leaned heavily against the wall, his back pressed to the floorboards. Across from him, a middle-aged maid perched slightly forward on her knees, fingertips resting in the heated table as she tilted her head back slightly, conversing with the merchant.

It appeared as though nostalgic scenes of bygone days had been unearthed from a mountain cliff and set into the inn. The guest room featured a bear pelt. Sakai suddenly felt as though he had been abandoned in the deep mountains, a longing for home settled over him. The day before yesterday in Matsumoto, he had seen the castle, climbed up to the tenshu, and stood upon that frost-covered fifth story—now he shuddered as if those cloud-wreathed mountains had come pressing against his window once more and felt their presence bear down on him. In the basket—whenever he saw the crimson of those small withered vines still clinging negligently to the moss-covered stone walls of the castle’s ruined moat, crawling like dripping thrush blood— ……A sudden loneliness. “Miss Okome—is there a guest room on the lower floor?” “—I want to get into the heated table and sleep soundly.”

Due to the frequent comings and goings of merchants in the second-floor rooms at all hours, he was led from the main house's lower-floor guest room—where he had wished to stay—across a long plank spanning the earthen floor to a detached ten-mat room separated from the main building. Outside the elbow-rest window lay the garden with its pond. Amid fluttering white snow, scarlet carp glimmered across their backs while black carp showed purple in their fins—a beautiful sight. Plum and pine trees stood arranged here and there, though most were towering oaks and zelkovas. Even a Japanese horse chestnut tree requiring two arm spans to encircle rose straight and tall. Yet all shook their leaves—needless to say, they stood arrayed like naked mountain deities.

It was probably around three in the afternoon. On branches and treetops, snow blossomed; leaning askew in the kotatsu, curled into a C-shape—he wished to meet a fine lady. When he peered through the elbow-rest window, he could see the cook standing motionless under the camellia tree across the pond, arms folded, staring intently at the water. In his usual navy-blue work sleeves with an apron hastily tied about his hips and wearing a bird-hunting cap against the snow, he hardly seemed like a cook peering at carp in the water. He looked like a great water rail stalking loaches through the marsh.

Mountains and peaks were deeply shrouded in clouds that enveloped the sky.

Sakai comprehended the mood of mountain travel.

“Mr. Chef, are you going to prepare that carp for tonight’s feast?” “Heh heh,” he smirked, raising his shadowed face. Removing his bird-hunting cap to offer a ceremonious bow, he replaced it and rustled through the trees to vanish beneath the eaves.

The front desk was distant; beyond that, the snow had grown somewhat thicker. At the same time, the soft, continuous rustling of flowing water echoed audibly. “Someone’s left the washroom faucet open again.” This was now the second time. ……Earlier that morning, before moving to this third-floor guest room—though it was a bit far—the maid had guided him to this washroom near the detached quarters, claiming it was cleaner for washing up. But when he arrived and tried turning all three faucets, none produced water. Though it didn’t seem cold enough for freezing, he wondered if the pipes had iced over. Clapping his hands sharply to summon the maid, she called out, “Oh! I’ll prime the pump,” and dashed off. Soon after, water flowed smoothly.――Later, after changing rooms, when he went to relieve himself and found no other washbasin available, he turned one faucet in the washroom. This time, it only dribbled faintly, barely enough to serve his needs.

After a while, water began flowing incessantly from the washroom area. Sliding out from the kotatsu, he descended to the earthen floor and peered from the bridge approach to find all three faucets gushing streams of water in unison - flowing wastefully. Though it seemed profligate, he meticulously closed each faucet before returning to his room. Yet even then, the cook stood motionless at the pond's edge in that same spot. Repetitive though it sounded, this marked the cook's second vigil by the pond... The first had likely been around ten that morning. When the cook withdrew this time, soon afterward the washroom water roared loudly once more.

Once again, all three faucets were left wide open, flowing freely. It was the same thing—wasteful water. Thinking that when he would try to wash his hands later, they would surely run dry, he tightened the faucets once more—

Now, around three in the afternoon, once again, the sound of water began to flow.

Outside the garden, a small stream flowed. The rapids of the Narai River resounded. Coming to Kiso, he found that worrying about the sound of water was like trying not to watch the waves while aboard a ship. Though he welcomed it and neither disliked nor avoided it, he found himself strangely preoccupied with the washroom faucet being left open.

Sakai stepped out into the corridor again. Sure enough, all three faucets were aligned—trickling steadily. “Sir, are you going to take a bath?” Seeing him holding a hand towel, Okome—who had come to tend the fire with a metal ash shovel—called out. “No—but is it ready yet?” “It will be ready soon. “…Today it’s the one in the new annex that’s being filled, you see.”

Sure enough, amid the swirling snow, the faint scent of hot water drifted through the air. The Western-style door beside the washroom appeared to lead to the bathhouse. This too could be seen from the window. Newly erected pillar frames stood exposed here and there, alongside coarsely woven straw mats, sections of scaffolding, and a shed piled with lumber. The old residence—now resembling a dilapidated stable buried under fallen leaves in what might once have been called a secondary honjin compound—had thrived during that gilded age of nouveaux riches when mulberry fields and silkworms must have prospered in these parts. Riding this wave of prosperity, they had begun expanding with ambitions of creating hot springs—invoking legends of how the Niekawa River once boiled with thermal waters—only to abandon the project after completing this single guest room and bathhouse, as he later discovered. "Is it you leaving these faucets running, Miss?" Seeing the maid methodically reopening each tap he'd just closed, he couldn't help but chide her—though through this exchange he finally grasped the situation. ……The pond drew water through pipes laid beneath tree roots from a back river, though once or twice yearly it would dry nearly empty. When carp and crucian carp clustered together gasping at the surface, they pumped well water from the kitchen's great buckets all the way to this washroom, channeled it beneath the bridge approach, and poured it back into the pond—or so they explained.

Sakai plunged into the kotatsu—its edge scattered with two or three new editions about the Kiso Highway—and began, “Miss Okome… I’ve something important to ask of you.” But when he saw her shyly lower her gaze, he suddenly recalled Kitahachi and laughed alone. “Ha ha ha, there’s nothing to worry about. Thanks to that, my stomach’s settled quite nicely… Since I skipped lunch, I plan to make up for it tonight by eating my fill and drinking heartily. But just now, Mr. Isaku went off glaring at the pond with a sour look on his face.” “Seems he was appraising how plump the carp have grown… Bound to be tonight’s feast, I reckon. —Not that it’s like last night’s thrush, but still—by some twist of fate, I’ve moved here by the pond and become neighbors with these carp. To see them hauled up right before my eyes and sliced into rounds on a chopping block… that’s just cruel. …The cook must have his reasons, and I’m not one to make selfish demands. …”

"I refuse live preparation, but I’d actually welcome carp soup. But couldn’t you arrange with a fishmonger or something to use other carp?—Though it’s presumptuous of me, if one or two would suffice, I’d be willing to buy the ingredients needed for tonight myself, however many guests there are.” "No, sir, we never use the ones from this pond for cooking. Our master and mistress release crucian carp, carp, and such into this pond on Oshi’s memorial days, you see.” “Mr. Chef as well... And the cook treasures and dotes on the ones in this pond. Perhaps because of that, whenever he gets a spare moment, he slips out into the garden like that to gaze into the pond.” “That’s quite considerate of you all.” “Thank you,” Sakai said with a brief word of thanks.

When an electric light came on in the evening guest room like a star descended from a snowy peak, the maid came to announce the bath.

After calling out “The meal right away,” he rushed toward the long-awaited bathhouse—when he opened the door beyond that familiar washroom area， what appeared to be an entrance space stood pitch dark. But no—a single lantern glowed faintly， casting pallid light. There stood another door， shut tight. The bathhouse must lie beyond that. “They said renovations were half-done，” he reasoned， “so no electric lights yet.” Ah—a two-tomoe crest. “Whether Ōboshi or Yuranosuke，” he reflected， “even this cloying， oppressive crest—seen here—evokes Lord Kiso’s patronage， lending refined dignity.”

As he began to untie his sash—splash—there came vigorous sounds of someone using the bathwater inside. At that moment, the washroom’s water noise abruptly ceased.

Sakai hesitated.

But it didn’t matter when… He had already requested to be informed when others had finished and the bath was free. No one else was inside, he supposed. In any case, clutching the half-undone sash, he dashed closer and pressed his cheek flush against the door above the lantern to peer inside. Near the sleeve area, it darkened smoothly—then the candle flared up again. The shadow turned bruise-like as the tomoe crest seeped gloomily onto one cheek—when suddenly—splash—the water stirred at the inner edge. From some unseen gap wafted a scent of plum blossoms—or rather, white powder’s fragrance as if melted by warmth.

“A woman!” After all, in this dim light, even a male guest would find it too dark when entering the same space—unable to avoid brushing shoulders or hands. He might end up grazing against breasts. And so, clattering his sandals, he turned back. “Have you already finished?” she said. The walk was too far. Intending to warm it here, Okome had brought only the sake decanter ahead of time. “No, I’ll leave it for later.” “My, are you that hungry already?”

"I am hungry, but there's another guest using it." "Well... this bathhouse here hadn't been used in quite some time—if I may say so—we've only just prepared it for you, Master, after cleaning and such... Even if you were to use it later... ah... there's still no one else there now." "I don't mind. I can take my time, but there seemed to be a lady guest." "Yes."

As she made a comically pouting face, the sake decanter in her hand clattered repeatedly against the kettle—then she stepped backward, abruptly stood up, and exited into the hallway. No sooner had her footsteps faded into silence than she made a clamorous thud and dashed out, clattering across the wooden planks of the earthen floor. Sakai stood bewildered,

“What the... was that…”

The one who appeared carrying the meal tray was… not Okome, but had been replaced by an older woman. “Ah, Madam of the mezzanine.” This was the one who had been cozy with the peddler at the kotatsu.

“What does the master intend to do?” "I don’t know." "I would very much like to hear it." Half in jest, he lowered his voice forcefully, “Is she coming out… or something… to the bathhouse… truly?” “Well now, Master, it’s most amusing. “I did inform you no one was present, but when you insisted a lady was there, Miss Okome—being terribly timid, you see— “...As this bathhouse hasn’t been used in ages, the mistress inside thought it prudent—”

“Ah, right... I thought she might step out briefly.” “She won’t appear in the bathhouse, rest assured. But in exchange, there’s something like this in the guest room... you.” “No, that’s unnecessary.” Pouring his own sake let him drink more liberally.

The night was long; the snow began to fall silently. After laying out the bedding, he would have another drink and then sleep soundly, riding on that momentum. The evening meal was haphazardly finished, and the tray was cleared away.

Footsteps mingled chaotically. As they clattered down the hallway, they seemed to converge near the washroom. The trickling sound of water began to echo again. Men’s voices could also be heard intermingling. When the noise subsided, Okome popped her round face out from behind the sliding door, “Please proceed to the bath.” “Is it safe?” “Ohoho.”

With a flustered laugh, she retreated into the hallway—and Sakai followed closely behind, towel in hand, emerging after her. At the descent of the bridge approach, the bald-headed clerk who had been at the front desk last night, an elderly woman who seemed to be either the head maid or perhaps the wife, and another maid—their faces arranged in such a formation—had gathered as a group and were looking this way. There, Okome’s figure—her tabi socks visible—scurried across the bridge approach, and the three huddled together as she leapt into their midst.

“Thank you for your trouble.” Thinking they had inspected the bath with this many overseers for his sake, he called out to them—whereupon they all bowed in unison and proceeded across the stepping boards laid over the long earthen floor beneath the thatched roof. The reason the four figures—clumped like a stew’s contents—had darkened halfway across the earthen floor was that, one by one, the electric lights turned faintly red as if gasping for breath, then those at both the bridge approach and washroom were snuffed out all at once.

When he let out a deep breath, the rustling flow split into three streams... coursing in order until beneath the water striking the washstand, the earlier lantern glowed faintly—half-darkened—casting a single tomoe crest in a shape resembling flames drawn in ink or perhaps a leaping catfish.

The electric lights would come on at any moment. As Sakai—intending to enter the bathhouse entrance with this in hand—crouched slightly and reached out, the lantern went out with a puff and vanished from sight. It hadn’t vanished. Indeed, this was lit at the bathhouse entrance just as before. This must have trickled down naturally, the wetness on the floorboards below likely being a shadow cast from across the way—a trick of the eyes. It was not that the lantern had been here from the start. Sakai’s actions mirrored trying to grasp the moon’s reflection in water—shadowed diagonally—with bare hands.

Groping cautiously toward the familiar entrance… and just to be safe, when he approached the doorway, amidst a suffocating silence, there was a splash. A shuddering cold. It wasn’t that steam was condensing into droplets from the ceiling and dripping down, but rather that it had the force of snow melting off the roof and cascading down.

Splash... A faint ripple stirred the water. Then once more came an alluring yet cold presence—fragrant like mist wrapped in face powder—its human-like touch coiling around his shoulders to caress his neck. Adjusting the collar he should have removed, “Miss Okome?”

“No.” After a pause, what was heard from within the bathhouse was surely his own heart echoing in his ears. ――It went without saying that it was not Okome. The sound of water from the washroom came to an abrupt halt.

He instinctively froze and looked around. Steeling himself,

"I’m coming in, pardon me." "You mustn’t."

As the air cleared, a voice soaked in steam rang out distinctly. "Do as you please!" By the time he regained awareness of having spoken those words, he was already back in the guest room.

The electric light was bright. The Tomoe-patterned lantern was extinguished by this light. But the water ran on in three streams, now rustling even more distinctly.

“You’re mocking me!”

Rather than eerie or terrifying, a sense of being mocked welled up into resentment, and he flipped over onto his back atop the heated table.

Some time later, the reason Sakai sat bolt upright as if leaping to his feet was that he had just heard the clamorous sound of the pond water being churned outside the window—splash, splish-splash-splosh, splat, plop.

“What could that be?”

Splish-splash-splosh, plop.

Then, a rustling sound echoed around the pond and drew near. The reason he thought—for some inexplicable reason—that the approaching person must be the cook stemmed from having heard that this man cherished the pond’s fish.…

“What’s this? What’s happened?” He slid open the storm shutters and called out toward where the snow’s whiteness had thinned slightly. That pond, too, had so little water that it appeared white.

III

“Which is it—a white heron or a night heron?” “Well—it’s both, sir. I think it must be both, sir, but...”

Isaku the cook came over, crossed his arms firmly at the window’s edge, stood facing away, and spoke.

“They come down from the large forest at the mountain pass over there, sir.” Even in speech, it became apparent—the snow had stopped falling, and on one side of those clouds, the forest stood black as lacquer. “It’s not an everyday occurrence, but… sir, they target the spots where the pond water is drying up. The carp and crucian carp have half their fins exposed, so they can’t struggle, you see.” “Clever devils.” “Foolish humans are such a nuisance—what with the poor fish suffering so… But even so, I can’t stand guard all night long. Master, you must be cold. Please do close it. Since it’s about time for your orders here and there, I’ll prepare something humble for you, if you’d like.”

“If it’s convenient, won’t you come have a drink and keep me company for a while? —I don’t mind staying up late. If we drink together here… we’d make decent scarecrows…” “—That would be most agreeable. …The kitchen’s already been tidied up—I’ll join you shortly. …Those blasted rascals.”

With that, muttering complaints under his breath and glaring at the sky, he passed through the branches with a rustling sound. Sakai, however, did not close the window behind him. Of course, he had pulled it shut to a narrow crack. In truth, the sight of several herons hunting fish at this snow-covered pond struck him as resembling a picture from a fairy tale one might view while nestled under a kotatsu. If someone were to startle or drive them away—though such intervention would depend on the situation—...but above all, his mind was so unsettled that he even fancied the sound of bathwater reaching him twice must have been herons slipping in through some crack with the snow to bathe.

As he continued peering intently through the dimness, a Tomoe-patterned lantern flickered alight beside Isaku's sleeve while he crunched through the snow with heavy footsteps. Ah—it now appeared he hadn't been holding a lantern beneath the window at all.—Moreover, he had already moved so far away that one might think he was about to cross the garden and enter either the damp veranda or doorway. At first distant and small, then after a moment seemingly turning back—growing slightly larger—it retraced its path along the thatched roof's eaves outside the doma corridor, gradually drawing nearer until, whether through trick of perception or reality, it had entered inside to kindle light within the corridor's gloom. ...the bridge approach to one side, the washroom opposite, the bathhouse at the far end—only when he jolted with a startled "Huh?" did he realize he'd been leaning out the window toward the garden, watching that approaching lantern's glow without once turning back toward the guest room.

It vanished with a metallic clang.—A chill ran down his spine from the crown of his head. When he jerked his neck around stiffly, there in the guest room, the nape and legs of a woman’s retreating figure—so white they might have been a heron—glimmered abruptly. By the staggered shelves in the southeast corner of the ten-mat room stood a figure facing a full-length mirror—her back turned.… Clad in an indigo-gray striped kimono that clung damply to her form, as if a camellia wilted by steam, she wore an obi sash crisply patterned in ibis-pink and white Ichimatsu checks cinched taut beneath her breasts. Her waist so fragile it seemed on the verge of vanishing swayed lightly as the hem’s design fluttered, one knee slightly lifted while the Tomozome-dyed hem overflowed its folds in a faint blush. Upon the marumage coiffure, glistening as if dew might drip, a bellflower-colored hairband gleamed ghostly pale. With her ghostly pale hands—alluringly entwined beneath the pale blue-green underrobe—she applied her makeup gently with a brush, peering into the mirror with a slight stoop.

Sakai found himself frozen, unable to rise or sit still, his breath caught in his throat. Ah—the robe she wore resembled crimson maple leaves beneath snow, or rather her snowy skin seemed to envelop those crimson leaves instead. She smoothly adjusted the deeply loosened collar with a practiced motion, then took the pocket tissue clinging stickily near her knee. Twisting it into a tight roll, she wiped her palm and let it fall—white powder scattering across the tatami like spilled secrets. When the rustle of her garments stilled, a fragrance arose—mingling with skin still warm from the bathhouse steam—and as she leaned slightly askew, she placed a tobacco pipe between her lips. The mouthpiece gleamed white; the pipe itself glistened black.

With a metallic clang, the sound of the ash-blower rang out. She turned sharply and looked at Sakai—her melon-seed-shaped face with plump eye sockets, a straight nose bridge, and a complexion of striking pallor. —She hid both gentle eyebrows, heavy with emotion, beneath a kaishi tissue and gazed intently with large eyes, “……Does it suit me?”

With a faint smile, her teeth were black. Then, still smiling, she adjusted her hem and rose smoothly. Her face reached the lintel as her height stretched upward. Sakai’s chest jumped; his hips floated up; his shoulders levitated into empty air. He thought he was being lifted gently by the woman’s sleeve—but no, he was caught sideways in her mouth and hauled upward above the tatami.

The mountain turned pitch black. No—when my vision was blocked by the garden’s whiteness, I darted out the window. My limbs had turned into tail fins; I flapped frantically, while the woman’s figure floated ethereally like a celestial being in the transom, passing sideways beneath the eaves. The white forests and white houses below my eyes swiftly... When I felt myself flying skimming past Matsumoto Castle’s keep high in the sky, there came a splash of water—and as I somersaulted into the pond, I simultaneously snapped back to awareness at the kotatsu.

A tremendous flapping sound came from the pond. How could a mere scarecrow ever chase them away?

Every time he saw the blood on the basket’s ivy, he gasped for breath and collapsed limply. In the corridor came the soft, damp sound of someone approaching. When he stood up with a sharp intake of breath, the cook came bearing a tray with a sake bottle. “Ah, Mr. Isaku.” “Ah, Master.”

IV

“It was exactly this time last year.”

The cook drew close, hunching his shoulders firmly as he began to speak. "This year it started snowing from this morning, but as for that occasion—I will never forget—it had snowed the day before." "The snowfall had accumulated much more heavily.—Around two o’clock, a most striking lady guest arrived—all by herself.—Though I say ‘striking,’ she was not gaudy in the least." “Graceful yet tinged with an air of loneliness, she appeared to be about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, her hair arranged in an elegant marumage coiffure.” “—Her appearance was striking—slender of build, impeccable in presentation—yet to call her a proper lady would be stretching it, for there was an excess of coquetry about her.” “Even in the countryside here, we have seen our share of guests, so I soon took her for a seasoned traveler—though it was only later that I learned she was none other than Minokichi neesan from Yanagibashi.” "The name in the guest register was Otsuyu-sama."

"That lady—Master—we guided her from the front desk to this guest room." "She was fond of baths...though I suppose few would dislike them—she visited that bath twice upon arrival and once more late at night. Due to circumstances, we had refrained from building the new annex, but our stone-laid bath—a point of pride for hot spring enthusiasts—though a bit distant for guests on the old second and third floors, we had encouraged its use... However, strange occurrences began happening here from time to time, so we left this guest room unused as well. We consulted that if a refined gentleman like yourself were to stay here, such oddities might naturally cease—though it may be presumptuous to say—and so today, after a long interval, we prepared both the heating and bath for use."

“Now, regarding Otsuyu-sama—that lady—after she took a bath during the day, she asked about the guardian deity’s shrine and went to pay her respects.” “It stands on a hill overlooking Niekawa Highway.” “—At Lord Sannō’s shrine, where they say human sacrifices were once offered long ago.” “A shrine deep in the woods, desolate and lonely.” “…Though there are other village shrines, when she inquired about the guardian deity shrine, we explained matters at the front desk… She asked directions and climbed up there alone.” “Her eyes seemed troubled—she claimed the glittering snow pained them—so in this rustic place, she had someone fetch ready-made black spectacles, put them on, and set out using a Western parasol as a cane.” “—This visit to Lord Sannō’s shrine appeared to be her formal courtesy toward all Narai Post Town.”

After returning safely, she first took a single bite from her meal tray at dinner. “Though it’s before you now, Master—she had bestowed a generous gratuity upon the cook with utmost courtesy—so when I… stepped out briefly to pay my respects, she posed this inquiry: ‘I purchased dried persimmons and toothpicks as offerings for the shrine… According to the old woman at that little shop below the stone steps, beyond Lord Sannō’s shrine lies a deep forest, and within that forest lies Kikyōga Plain—and in that plain, there’s said to be Kikyō Pond where a most beautiful lady resides. Is this true?’—”

“It is indeed true,” I declared without waiting for others’ assent. “Proof over arguments—I can’t say whether it was right or wrong to speak of it, but I saw it with my own eyes once.”

“…………” “When we speak of Kikyōga Plain—though autumn flowers bloom beautifully there—it isn’t solely bellflowers.” “It’s simply that the water of that great pond holds the blue of true bellflowers.” “As for bellflowers themselves, contrarywise, it’s those with white blossoms that bloom most splendidly, I should note.” “……”

Four years later, at high noon no less, a fire broke out in Yabuhara Post Town beyond this pass. As they say in any province—when a noon-hour fire grows large—it was indeed a complete conflagration.

“When you ascend Lord Sannō’s hill, it becomes visible at a glance. The flames rose even to Shichijo, and the crackling and popping sounds of the fire could be heard as clearly as if right beside you. That was a mountain waterfall—no, I would say it was more like the rush of water from a pump. With the force of this great south wind, the fire raged so fiercely that we feared it might become a mountain blaze and soon surge right to where we stood. Those who could rush to help did so; those who could only panic panicked. As for someone like me, I was merely among the spectators, while the shrine precincts were packed with that same teeming crowd.”

As it was just before the stormy 210th day, during the lingering summer heat’s fiercest hour, I gradually ventured into the shrine’s forest while watching the fire—though normally this was strictly forbidden territory. But with the fire’s fervor and the crowd’s swelling excitement, what seemed deep proved no more than half a chō from where people gathered. “It’s safe,” I assured myself. Now, being a gloomy sort who rarely mingled with young folk, I had no one to invite along. So I wandered alone through those dense cedar and cypress woods—though they weren’t nearly as deep as I’d imagined—until I came upon a field of wildflowers… And there it was: an azure pond as vast as a hundred-mat hall, edged with white bellflowers. At its shore, no more than two… three… ten *ken* away… sat the most exquisite noble lady, her mirror stand before her, applying her makeup at an angle.

“Her hair somehow, her garments somehow—I caught a glimpse, and the sheer terror of that moment defies description.” “Even now when I recall it, the sake turns to ice that pierces my chest.” “It makes me shudder… Yet I cannot forget her beauty.” “It may seem irreverent, but having no household altar of my own, I’ve enshrined her likeness there instead. Each day I come to gaze upon this pond’s waters and dwell on her visage—I cannot help myself. But at that moment—heedless of all else—I fled through the forest like a bird with broken wings plummeting from the sky, racing headlong down those steep stone steps.” “They say I showed neither pallor in my face nor any trace of fear.” ……The crowd watching the fire before the shrine fled downward like an avalanche. From the forest’s depths came a wind so cold it could snuff flames—like some great serpent lunging forth—and I, in my flight, must have looked like a hare tumbling through the air, or so they tell it.

“And this essence—when speaking to Lady Otsuyu, that noblewoman—why do they call such a one not a goddess nor a princess, but simply ‘the lady’?” “Aye, that’s just it.” “Though my eyes went dark in that moment, from what others who chanced glances upward say—the figure at Kikyō Pond is said to have cast off her eyebrows…” Sakai Sankichi shuddered and instead thrust the heated table away.

"Without knowing whose wife she might be, we simply came to call her that over time... Master." “When I told Lady Otsuyu this—she listened intently—then asked, ‘Has anyone else seen that lady’s form?’—Well yes, along moonlit mountain ridges, flower-strewn foothill paths, beneath firefly-lit shadows, by lanterns in autumn rains, and snowbound riverbanks… even here in the village, many have caught fleeting glimpses.” Upon hearing this, Lady Otsuyu set down her sake cup and, for some reason, dejectedly lowered her head. ——

“By the way, Master… that noblewoman had particular business bringing her alone to this mountain house in Kiso.”

V "Yes—at that time, in this very village—there occurred an utterly bizarre scandalous affair... a strange case of adultery."

In a place called Yanmagai at the village entrance lived someone known as Daikanbaba—while “the village headman’s old woman” might sound modest enough, she was called Daikanbaba. ...so domineering that her nickname alone made it plain—she’d flaunt her family lineage, declaring by her second sentence, “My family were magistrates in days of yore!”—growing ever more overbearing. Given that disposition, though she became a widow in middle age, she single-handedly raised her son splendidly and made him into a scholar in Tokyo. "...So for a time she resided in Tokyo, but then—intent on reopening her family of modest means in her hometown to make the whole village take notice—she purchased this bankrupt old house. For two or three years now, she’d been living there in seclusion with her scholar son’s daughter-in-law—what we’d call a young wife these days." "...Vegetables like daikon radishes and eggplants require soy sauce in their preparation, so in her frugality, she had planted onions, leeks, garlic, and rakkyo—what are called the five pungent varieties—throughout the vacant lot, making do with salt instead." “...Even from afar, the house reeks pungently.”

The Garlic Mansion’s Daikanbaba. …… However, the young wife—this daughter-in-law—was the daughter of a merchant family in Fukushima who had graduated from school, yet remained gentle and kind in a way that seemed out of step with the times, almost too reserved for her own good. “Of course, without such temperament, she could never have shared a household with Daikanbaba.” “…Unaccustomed to garlic as she was, she was driven by the old woman to handle hoes, spades, and peddler’s packboards, enduring it all with such pitiable patience.”

In mid-November, an unexpected guest arrived at the Garlic Mansion from Tokyo. A friend of Scholar Sensei’s—this gentleman wasn’t employed anywhere, though being a painter by trade, he likely had no fixed occupation to begin with. “As for Scholar Sensei, he serves as an esteemed principal at a certain middle school in Tokyo, however—” Now, that painter had suddenly arrived at Garlic Mansion after fleeing Tokyo without even proper travel funds, or so it was said. “To put it plainly—though he had a wife—he’d become deeply involved elsewhere.” “...Because of this, everything—both outcomes and social obligations—was in shambles, and in her desperation, his wife admonished him. How dare he!” “He said this and slapped his own cheek, but it was he who deserved to be struck by the memorial tablets of his ancestors and parents. Unable to remain in his home with its family altar, he ran out through the gate—though having fled, with acquaintances and friends alike now at the point of admonishing him over his wife’s plight, he found himself with nowhere to go. Thus did he flee into this Kiso Valley as a temporary refuge for one night—oh how he fled!... Moreover, this wife had originally been his lover, and it was Scholar Sensei who had gone to great lengths to help them properly wed—thanks to which their wishes were fulfilled, or so the story goes.” “...It was a place of last resort for him to flee to.”

“Now then—that ‘deep entanglement’ of our troubled painter’s… if you’ll believe it—was none other than Lady Otsuyu herself… that noblewoman who once stayed alone at our humble inn.” “I should clarify—she hadn’t come braving through snowdrifts seeking after that painter.” “That interval spanned roughly half a month.” “And during that time… well… that adultery scandal I mentioned earlier came to pass.”

The cook paused to catch his breath. “So... Daikanbaba also had this strange habit, you see.” “More an illness than a habit—or so I’ve heard from those in the know, who called it ‘litigation mania.’ If the onions withered, it was off to the village office; if a child glared, straight to the police box.” “…Whether it’s the police box or the courts—she’d drag anything before the higher authorities, convinced she alone was in the right—precisely because she’s Daikanbaba, that distinguished guest.” At Yanmagai near the Garlic Mansion—where this highway meets Bōhana crossroads—there’s a cave-like hollow where a hunter named Ishimatsu lives holed up with his brood of children. “Now a forty-year-old man—when he was a young apprentice, before he’d even begun earning meager wages—both he and his wife had served as menservants and maids in that old woman’s household, or so it’s said.” “…Though Daikanbaba treats him thoroughly like a servant, Hunter Ishimatsu—being a rigid old man—remains exceedingly devoted to his master, so…”

The evening rain turned to snow, and the year’s first snowfall accumulated unexpectedly through the midnight hours. The mountain’s wild boars and rabbits were thrown into a panic. When it came to hunting in such conditions, he lumbered out of bed in the dead of night, checked his gun, gulped down tea-soaked rice by the hearth, and pulled on his homemade monkey-fur hood. At the straw-mat doorway stood Daikanbaba—sixty-nine years old, barefoot in the snow—her white hair disheveled, wearing a buckwheat-colored loincloth and a faded garment of thinning safflower-dyed cloth with its hem tucked up. “There’s a monster inside—come quick!” she panted, gesturing wildly with ashen face... At times like these, a gun proved its worth. Ishimatsu loaded live ammunition with a decisive click. Since his former mistress stood barefoot, Ishimatsu too removed his footwear. They briskly crossed the highway through fields of leeks, garlic chives, and onions—moving quietly to confirm the monster’s presence—then entered through the storeroom entrance Daikanbaba had emerged from earlier. Sneaking into the earthen-floored area, they peered through a knothole in the wooden door where she pointed—and there behind a six-panel folding screen with pillows neatly arranged lay no one sleeping at all. The young wife, in her scarlet underrobe with the collar of her sleeping garment slipping off one shoulder, had leaned forward to place her pale hand on the painter’s knee while he stroked her back—or so it was told. This was the same young wife who usually wore work trousers and a cotton jacket about her duties. Ishimatsu must have been more shocked than if he’d seen an actual monster. “You vile adulterer… beast of a man!” Daikanbaba barged in like an earth spider. “Hey!… Don’t move! If you so much as twitch that compromising pose—it’s the gun for you! The bullet for you!” From the edge of the partially slid-open screen thrust the muzzle of a gun, wart-covered Ishimatsu—resembling a hairy toad—aiming with gleaming eyes.

Given both their menacing physiognomies and the situation—with them poised to fire at any moment—the painter must have been utterly flustered. “Divine punishment shall be meted out on this very spot! I’ll have you exposed as a four-legged, four-handed, two-faced monstrosity!” With this declaration, Daikanbaba went pounding on four nearby village households with her own feet, parading the scene of Ishimatsu still aiming his gun. By dawn’s light, in her derangement, she had even compelled the local constable and family temple priest to bear witness. At this juncture, Scholar Sensei’s young wife and that dashing painter—their crimson-spotted sashes now as worthless as straw mats—lay blanched by snow like painted sea slugs, utterly limp.

“As for the man, they bound his hands behind him regardless, but when they tried to restrain the daughter-in-law properly with thin cord, the policeman scolded them. Yet being scolded only made her roar fiercer still—immediately declaring she’d file adultery charges with every authority at once: courthouse, village office, police station even town council—working herself into such frenzy their confinement became practically absolute. They decided to withdraw temporarily to family temple but she stubbornly insisted this ‘living evidence’ must remain exposed—refusing let daughter-in-law put proper clothes—so policeman draped snow-dusted overcoat about shoulders And thus proceeded temple—trailed straggling crowd village women children—if imagine.”

As he listened, Sakai did nothing but sigh repeatedly.

“—They must have let him escape.” The painter vanished from the temple that very night. “This was only proper.” “Now, from what I’ve heard—since he was her son’s dear friend, a guest like family—she treated him as her own child.” “...Having kept lonely vigil over the household for more than half a year, she told the bride and you—‘Consider yourselves my sons—speak your pent-up thoughts freely’—then had you prepare for bed, even change into nightclothes, and when time came to sleep, made you lie side by side while smiling brightly—so the tale goes.” “...The young wife might well have wished to cling weeping to this trusted junior’s knee, and a painter who’d failed even as a geisha-house artist would hardly balk at rubbing her back... I suppose.”

“I trust you can well imagine how enraged Daikanbaba must have been,” Isaku continued. “Scholar Sensei was summoned by telegram. No matter how they tried to appease her, she would not relent. ‘You must file an adultery lawsuit without fail!’ ‘Nonsense! When one speaks of magistrates, they wear swords! For a samurai to punish adulterers is rather an honor—but when matters are misunderstood to this degree, it becomes troublesome.’ ‘If we don’t settle this in court, I cannot go on living! A bullet through the throat? A sickle to the gut? Do you not know the depths of Naraigawa’s pools?’ ‘I’ll sink you into Kikyo Pond—y-you... you hag! How dare you speak such nonsense! You think Kikyo Pond would accept your suicide? The pond itself would cast you out!’”

With that, the cook gave a wry smile.

“Moreover—being one of those rare scholars nowadays who both researches ethics and morals and teaches moral training at schools—Scholar Sensei showed exemplary filial devotion.” “He’s long been respected by all accounts—though some might say his care for his daughter-in-law appears almost too lenient through others’ eyes—and now at his wit’s end with neither justification nor honor left... he simply wants you to visit this place once.” “Everything depends on that.” “That’s what they say—a direct request from Scholar Sensei to Mr. Painter.”

Now, this was more dreadful than a challenge to a duel. ...Of course, in the village too, many were making a great commotion—hurling spit and stones at the adulterer’s face while declaring it all for the sake of human morality. "...With what face could the painter ever show himself in Narai again, sir?"

"No matter what they say, he likely won't come now." "Yet considering his obligations to Scholar Sensei, he can't very well refuse to come." "By the way, where do you suppose Mr. Painter was at that time?" "...Given the circumstances—with his wife who'd been struck on the cheek for her impropriety—there he was hiding his head behind his parents' mortuary tablets in the shadow of her sleeve, his buttocks and legs trembling uncontrollably. A truly pitiful state." "...'I will bring him back without fail—' Having sworn this promise to Daikanbaba, Scholar Sensei departed for Tokyo."

During that trip to the capital. "It was during that time—Minokichi neesan of Yanagibashi… Lady Otsuyu… came to stay here…"

Six “Even if Her Ladyship Otsuyu had pressing business requiring her to call upon Daikanbaba’s residence late at night after the neighborhood quieted down, we could never permit her to venture out alone.” “Though she claimed to need only directions, should directly accompanying her prove improper, we resolved to conceal ourselves by fences or back entrances and discreetly safeguard her passage… The front desk deliberated, and for this duty they selected none other than this unworthy self of mine.……”

“Once her preparations were complete… I would come to this—to this guest room… bringing a lantern…” “Ah, the two-comma crest,” Sakai said, as if compelled to speak.

“Yes, sir.”

he sucked in a response with his chin—darkly, as if holding something back.

“You know it well, sir.” “It was lit twice in the bathhouse—I know that.” “Yes, sir—in the bathhouse… in the bathhouse, we don’t do things like lighting lanterns—though… heh… yes, sir.”

Given how things stood, he could not bring himself to mention that when passing through the garden moments earlier, a lantern had moved alongside this cook.

Sakai urged him to continue. “Then.” “I feel rather peculiar, but...” “Yes—she’d finished her preparations roughly, and after emerging from her second bath, applied light makeup—the indigo-gray of her underrobe appearing wisteria-hued in the shadows cast by her face, her complexion so pale it defied description—there before the full-length mirror...”

Needless to say, Sakai involuntarily turned around.

“With a gold mouthpiece and inlaid with raven-black metal, the smoking pipe made her teeth look slightly stained. She pressed a tissue to her eyebrows and regarded me at length,”

“Does it suit me?”

Sakai’s “Hmm, hmm” lodged in his throat like mouthfuls of ice. “The tatami’s edge looked white with bellflowers.” When she heard me say (“Yes…too precious for words”), she laid aside the kaishi paper—the shaved traces of her eyebrows now freshly indigo. ...(The Lady of Kikyo Pond?—A sister?...No, twice as beautiful)—curse me, I couldn’t stop myself from saying it.

“Please listen to this part.”……

(Otsuyu-san… what should we do?) Through snow flurries mingled with rain walked the painter’s wife—her spirit broken beneath a tattered snake-eye umbrella and shabby workman’s coat. Neither labeled the mistress who stole another’s husband nor acknowledged as Lady Otsuyu—the lawful wife—in her wretched state, even maintaining mistresshood would have overtaxed her means. "Plagued by failing eyesight, she’d retreated temporarily to her parents’ home—shut away in a second-floor hovel scarcely better than a toolshed—ekeing out survival through piecework and teaching nagauta ballads to local women and children. It was there that desperation drove her to call."

(Lady Otsuyu, this is what I believe. "If I were as beautiful as you," I’d tell that hag, "he has such a wife. What husband would turn to some Kiso Highway woman?" That’d make her understand quickest.) (Yes, nothing would settle it faster. Better yet—if I showed myself while declaring, "Even a mistress meets this standard," it would add more depth, with "the wife" standing above me. "Besides his wife, there’s someone like me with such allure. Would you cling to your spiteful ways out here in the countryside?" Let me tell that hag just that. (For that young bride’s sake as well.)——

“Afterward, it came to pass that this scene appeared in Lady Otsuyu’s composed writings and memoranda—truly, I cannot quite explain how.” “……Given these circumstances… She’s no mere mountain monkey of Kiso.” “However, I believe her pilgrimage to Sannō-sama may have been her true motive—under the pretext of observing the local women’s customs as a precaution.” “……But then—having heard about the fearsomely beautiful woman of Kikyo Pond, whose presence occasionally drew public notice—it naturally caught Daikanbaba’s eye as well. When faced with her own fading charms, [Otsuyu] resolved that she could not prevail through beauty alone—though she did possess a Western razor.” “If that didn’t work, she’d cut down every meddlesome old crone in the world to do people a favor—that too was recorded in her notes.”

We went along the snow-covered path to Karimata, prodding the ground with a pole’s tip, until reaching the bluish-white embankment of a branch stream of the Narai River. The icy moon shone with piercing clarity as the mountain air condensed into mist that enveloped everything. “The rocky streambed lay parched from the cold, its pebbles rustling... Ah, that very sound... The sound from the washroom.”

“Can’t you go stop that water inlet? It feels like it’s seeping into every muscle of my body.” “The same goes for me, sir… Yes, but still…”

“Can’t I go alone?” “And you, sir?” “No—it’s nothing. What’s the matter? Then…”

“Between the rocks stood an earthen bridge, and beyond it rose a large withered Japanese pagoda tree.” When that precarious moonlit reflection seemed to sway like water, the candle in my lantern sizzled as it melted, its light growing dim and hazy. (“When darkness deepens, the tomoe merge into one—like some dark will-o’-the-wisp walking.”) At Lady Otsuyu’s words—I started and peered closer, but whether from carelessness or sheer distraction at her beauty, the candleholder stood empty with no spare candle inserted. “Though I was attending you—and with this moonlight, there’d be no trouble underfoot—the lantern bearing our inn’s crest carries weight in these parts.” “Thinking it for your sake—with the path still less than fifty meters ahead—I turned and dashed back in one breath.” “This was my mistake.”

Both voices and words ceased for a time.

“From the earthen wall toward the kitchen entrance… Just before entering, there came a thunderous boom like the Tengu star crashing down.” “It echoed back with a thunderous boom.” “That was a gunshot.” “……” “Startled, I rushed out to the embankment—but the figure that had shimmered like pale silver was nowhere to be seen along the riverside.” Abandoning the lantern and everything else, I rushed over with a cry—only to find her position had shifted slightly, and there she lay collapsed heavily, her obi-clad waist against a rock in the stream, her head pillowed on the snow of the embankment. “‘It’s cold,’ she murmured as if present, and when she uttered, ‘Ah, how freezing,’ three strands of blood, threadlike, dripped from her lips.”

What a pitiful, utterly pitiful sight—as I tried to gather her hem, the disordered hem of her formal kimono froze fast to the rock, its colors preserved intact like autumn grasses brushed by frost. “People gathered to help lift her up, but the crepe silk crackled against the ice like peeling a brocade painting from an old sliding door—and I felt as though my own body were being torn apart.” Yet the blood that had pooled in her chest flowed warm. —— The one who shot was Ishimatsu. “The old man—driven by hardship in making ends meet—had prayed to the mountain deity with ritual rice cakes and set out tonight determined to bag game at any cost.” “They coat them with sweet miso paste, skewer and grill them to carry along—it’s said that demons won’t approach those rice balls.” When they came to Garigari Bridge—that earthen bridge—Lady Otsuyu, trying to avoid the approaching people and because the water was low, ended up placing one foot on a rock in the river. When they saw the mysterious Lady of Kikyo Pond moving sideways across the water’s surface, they snapped into a prone firing position and took aim. “I’ve slain the demon—for the village’s sake.” Saying that—and he remains mad to this day.—

“Master! Master! Master! The lantern—over there—ah—that—from the bathhouse bridge… Ah—ah—ah! Master! From over there—I’m coming—a man just like me approaches!” “Ah! There’s Lady Otsuyu beside him!” Sakai gritted his teeth,

“Pull yourself together. Nothing dreadful here. Nothing dreadful... No cause for resentment.” The electric light bulb swirled into tomoe patterns, floating upward like blackened smoke, before a lantern materialized dimly above the kotatsu. “Does it become me?”

The guest room appeared as an expanse of water, the mist from the snow scattered across the tatami like white bellflowers blooming along a shore.