Pathway to Japanese Literature

I Rather than reciting that Narai Station on the Kiso Kaidō lies 158.2 miles from Iidamachi, the starting point of the Chūō Line, at an elevation of 3,200 shaku, thinking of Shank's Mare more readily evokes the mood of travel. There at Torii Pass, Yajirobei and Kitahachi trudged across, and as the sun dipped toward the western mountains, women emerged from inns lining both sides of the road: "Psst! Won't you stay? Our baths are drawn! Stay now, do stay—" Kitahachi protested, "It's still a bit early though..." Yajiro countered, "Might as well lodge here, eh Miss?" The women pressed on: "Do stay! Supper can be rice or soba—soba's fine, aye? We'll make it cheap for you!" “Yaji! Scam or not—cheaper’s better. How much for soba?” The woman replied, “Yes, if it’s soba, that’d be 116 sen.”

The two men, constrained by their meager travel funds, resigned themselves to lodging there. Upon emerging from the bath, the promised soba was served. They immediately dug in, but Kitahachi found himself apologizing—while the soba here was decent enough, its preparation left much to be desired. “Yaji! Makes up for it havin’ pretty servers though, eh Miss?” he quipped. “Gimme another bowl.” “That’s all the soba we have.” “Yajiro! What? It’s already gone? We only had two measly bowls each! This sucks—can’t even get full on this!” “Kitahachi! The inn’s cheapness is downright appalling!” “How’re we supposed to survive on just two bowls?!” “Yaji… Don’t be daft! I’ll pay up, so give us more grub!… Damnation—forced to squander my last coins on extra soba portions, left stewing in misery.”

That night, back in his hometown of Edo's Odansumachi Hikidashiyokochō, he met Kanbei of Totedoya—a resourceful acquaintance—and visited a mountain temple at the foothills where he heard deer crying...

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than he suddenly wanted to stay there. It was said that at the station, it had been just moments before the train’s departure.

This friend of the author, Sakai Sankichi, in fact held a ticket to Kamimatsu with plans to view sights such as the ivy-clad Kiso bridges and Nezame no Toko. It was mid-November. “...Moreover, those two servings of soba had a most peculiar karmic link...” Sakai said.

Last night, he stayed in Matsumoto. As you know, trains on this line branch off at Shiojiri, making it peculiar that someone bound from Tokyo to Kamimatsu would lodge in Matsumoto. Of course, had he claimed business in Matsumoto, that would have sufficed as explanation. But such pretense left narrative threads dangling. This was no investigation but rather a steam-powered indulgence—the route wound from Ueno to Takasaki past Myōgi Mountain, through Yokokawa and Kumanodaira beneath Asama's gaze, beyond Karuizawa and Oiwake onto the Shinano Line where Obasute's terraced fields flashed past train windows, all culminating in Matsumoto lodgings. "There's an inn there with a lovely girl," came the renowned painter's appended note. "Being acquainted, I'll make introductions." ...Fool that he was—upon arriving last night, a bob-haired woman did grace the front desk, but of course a mere maid showed him to his room... Even after presenting the letter, not only did no daughter appear... On this frost-etched night, they poured but a single tepid cup of spent-leaf tea, never mentioning supper. The guest room stood resplendent with its rosewood table. The charcoal brazier loomed large. Yet its warmth proved meager. Clutching at pallid ashes, when he ventured, "At least bring sake to warm me," the chef extinguished the coals entirely—"Nothing can be done," came the maid's chill reply. Cold bit deep—the house now truly fire-stripped and desolate, though not yet eleven... "Then just sake," he pressed. "No sake remains." "Beer then?" "That too would prove unfortunate." "Miss..." Sankichi stiffened slightly. "Couldn't we procure some nearby?" "Too late by far—all eateries sleep... When I say all, I mean all." How strange—shivering by rickshaw from the station, he'd passed through this very neighborhood: river murmuring cold beneath its bridge, brothel-like houses flanking the way, red teahouse lanterns drifting moth-like through mist... Ah! Had he known, he'd have lapped dry that two-gō cask from Karuizawa like Jirō's hound!

With a great sigh that made his empty stomach growl audibly, he pleaded in a pitiful voice, “Miss… So there’s no sake, no beer, no snacks… What about rice?” “Then… What of tonight’s inn meal?” “Well now, we couldn’t prepare it in time… what with having doused the fire already——” Though he knew not what grudge they bore him, this treatment had now surpassed mere coldness to become truly bizarre. Precisely because he possessed that letter of introduction, he couldn’t bring himself to demand different lodging with a confrontational air. Having resigned himself to karmic retribution from some past life, he timidly ventured whether they might at least procure soba or udon from nearby—to which she replied they would inquire about udon. “Ah! Two servings of that then, please.” The maid—half-retreated already—smoothly withdrew the knee she’d wedged in the threshold and shuffled out with palpable reluctance.

After waiting some time, when he looked at what was thrust out on the tray, there was just a single bowl. In his hunger-driven distress, he had asked Miss for two servings. When he pressed her reproachfully, she replied, “Indeed, we have precisely portioned two servings here.” “Ah, I quite understand.”

There was no need for her to say “Please don’t trouble yourself” or “I’ll take my leave”—she turned her back in a flash and strode briskly down the corridor. Watching her with eyes like those of a spurned foster child, he clutched the bowl as he lifted the lid, only to find that indeed, with just two servings heaped inside, there was but a mere trickle of broth, the udon noodles white and parched.

This inn must have conspired with Akibayama Sanjaku-bō and Izuna Gongen to make guests their playthings—one could only laugh rather than weep.

He... compared last night's two servings of udon to how Yajiro and Kitahachi of old had once measured their evening inn's two servings of soba. Though somewhat exaggerated, this was precisely what they meant by a strange karmic thread—he suddenly found himself wanting to lodge at Narai.

The sun dipped toward the Kiso mountain ridges. A sudden rain shower briefly swept through the inn.

He was prepared for a little rain. Without rickshaws at the station entrance, I made do forlornly with a Western umbrella, tracing the rocky path along dark doorframe eaves—my resolve now steeled. Bring it on—two servings of soba. Last night’s udon had been a sneak attack—tonight’s soba was precisely what I’d been hoping for.

—Intent on savoring travel's melancholy beauty, he deliberately bypassed several glass-fronted inns and peered crow-like into a shabby establishment where mountain palanquins and dried vegetables dangled from eaves, its earthen-floored kitchen hearth crackling with split wood—then entered in his black overcoat with a curt greeting to find an old man with cloth-wrapped cheeks tending the fire beneath that hearth. The threshold stretched extravagantly wide, the hearth yawned generously large, and from the soot-blackened ceiling hung an eight-ken lantern—all precisely arranged to complement the mountain palanquin as commissioned. In the shadowed front desk beneath the stairs, the bald-headed manager made an intriguing figure.

“Welcome.” As Sakai steeled himself with thoughts of “two servings of soba, two servings of soba,” someone nimbly emerged before his resolute gaze and bowed with practiced courtesy—though he couldn’t shake the suspicion that what should have been yaki fu in this shippoku-style dish had been replaced by kamaboko. “We have a guest—Crane No. 3.” The maid—her cotton attire simple but tidy with an apron, young and fair-skinned—guided him through pines that framed windows and railings, climbing as though ascending to the third floor. —A ten-tatami-mat room. The pillars and ceiling were sturdily constructed, the alcove arrangement showed not a hint of pretentiousness—it bore no resemblance to an entrance-equipped structure, this solid framework.

The cotton in the bedding was warm, and a splendid bear pelt had been laid out. "Aha," he thought, adopting the air of a comical lord as he settled onto the bear pelt—this must be what they sold on mountain passes during the Hizakurige era: monkey wombs, serpent livers, animal pelts. No sooner had he taken his seat than the maid came upstairs with a charcoal scuttle lit ablaze and poured its contents without reservation into the massive copper brazier—an extravagant amount indeed. Blue flames gripped the hard charcoal, burning crimson red, while the mountain wind seeping through the window turned piercingly cold. The vigor of this fire on the third floor was such that even mentioning it would feel somewhat improper after a major earthquake.

He took a bath.

Now, as for the meal—when he looked at the butterfly-legged stand before him, it would have been mortifying to treat this as mere soba. Setting aside the amberjack teriyaki for now, there was a thick omelet steaming with wisps of smoke, and a bowl of pure white kudzu sauce over half a fillet. On the plate were thrushes—reputed local delicacies—prepared with their heads nestled in cups, thighs plumply splayed, breasts split open; five birds nearly whole-roasted and fragrantly arranged. “Grateful… Truly grateful.” Sankichi—while being poured drinks by the maid whose unpracticed motions held their own charm—sat upon the bear pelt and offered courtly thanks as though partaking of an immortal’s feast.

“This is quite the feast. “Truly grateful… I really must express my thanks.” This was heartfelt. Since there showed no sign of evasion, the young maid proceeded without negotiation, “Master, I’m ever so glad it pleases you.” “Please, have another.”

“I’ll take it.” “And 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 many thrushes left?” “Yes, we’ve three baskets full.” “They’re still hanging in bundles from the kitchen pillars too.” “That’s generous.—I’d like some extra to simmer here… All right?”

“Yes, as you wish.” “While you’re at it—the sake bottles. Since the fire’s strong, they won’t cool even left nearby. ……Must be quite the walk for you. Bring three bottles all at once. ……How’s that? That’s how Iwami Shōtarō would’ve placed his orders.”

“Ohoho.”

This morning in Matsumoto, along with the water from the jar he washed his face with, his chest had been chained in ice, leaving him unable to form a single thought. Here, as his heart thawed warmly... he understood—the reason they’d mistreated him with udon—the painter who’d provided the letter of introduction, though now established as a household name, had in his younger wandering days traversed the Shinshū road and been confined over five months at that very inn. They never pressed for overdue lodging fees," he reflected, "and even thoughtfully provided straw sandal money for the return journey—truly a considerate establishment. But ah, that was it…… They must have thought that since it was the same person’s introduction, he would delay paying the lodging fees and receive straw sandal money in return……

“Yes, this is but a humble offering, sir.”

A man in a navy-blue kosode with an equally wide apron—thin, with an ashen complexion, gloomy yet earnest-looking, still around thirty-six or thirty-seven years old, his hair cropped short—respectfully seated himself by the sliding door. “Not at all… Truly, it was a splendid feast. ...Are you the clerk?” “No, I am but the chef of our establishment, thoroughly incompetent at that.” "...Moreover, in such a remote mountain inn, there is nothing whatsoever that might please your palate."

“Nonsense.” “Regarding that matter… Just now, even the maids received your instruction about preparing thrushes in a pot for your consumption, but how precisely we should arrange this—well, those girls too are but country folk, you see, and struggle to fully grasp your request.” “I must apologize for the impertinence, but I have come humbly to inquire.” Sankichi was not a little flustered.

“I’m terribly obliged—you coming all this way.” He inadvertently said.…… “This may sound like a skewer jest—truly, all the way up to the third floor.” “Not at all.” “Well, over here—are you busy?” “No, we’ve already presented your meal. “As for guests, aside from you, sir, there are no more than about two parties.”

“Well then, over here—come now, all the way.” “Ah, much obliged.”

“I might be rude in saying so, but here—have a drink.” “Ah—the sake bottle’s just arrived.” “Miss, please pour for him.”

“Oh, no—this humble one is unworthy.” “Now now, have a cup.—This is troublesome, really—asking for thrushes in a pot... that... what’s the word.” “Master, well, at the front desk too, they’re saying that as well.” “Thrushes are best when grilled and eaten, they say.” “We’ve served them properly on trays too, but they say it’s best to bite right through the head—slurp up the brains in one smooth gulp. Quite the rustic custom, if I may say.”

“Chef… I never meant to criticize your cooking… This is quite troublesome. You see—at this banquet I attended, there was a geisha who told stories about Kiso thrushes—when the drinking grew rather rowdy, people started singing various folk songs here and there, and that’s when the Kiso-bushi emerged—since Kiso’s such a nostalgic place to me, I remember it vaguely—something about ‘rice shipped to Kiso’...”

“Indeed it is.”

Having placed the square sake cup down with precision, he retrieved his half-smoked pipe from his two-compartment tobacco pouch and—this being a golden charcoal brazier—tapped it unceremoniously with a clink, “...(Ina and Takatō’s surplus rice)... as the saying goes—Kome, this maid’s name is O-kome.”

"Oh, what’s that, Mr. Isaku?" The maid smiled with a sidelong glance and glared, "Master—this man’s home is in Ina, you see."

“Ah, so he shares a province with Lord Katsuyori, I see.” “Well now, Lord Katsuyori wasn’t such a man as this.” “Naturally.” The sullen chef neither forced a bitter smile nor offered any reaction; he simply tapped his pipe again with another clink. “That’s why I show favoritism toward Ina—though singing it in Kiso would be out of place.” “—The rice shipped to Ina and Takatō is all surplus from Kiso Road—they say.” “Well... whichever way you look at it... this story began with a trip to Kiso—to Kiso—so we were quite drunk ourselves, and though I didn’t properly ask whether it was beyond Nie River or past the mountain pass in Yabuhara, Fukushima, Uematsu or somewhere around there, that geisha told us how she went to Kiso with a customer to set thrush nets.” ...While it was still dark at night, they steadily climbed up the mountain path, stretched mist nets and raised decoys at the spot directed by their guides, when—just before dawn in the pale haze—a flock of thrushes crossing from the opposite ridge suddenly came swarming over to this mountainside, flapping their wings into the nets. “They’d slowly secure them, immediately grill them over a bonfire, then suck up the hot fat with a tsk—how delicious it was, she said… telling the story like that…”

“Ah… Truly.” “...Shivering from the cold, they drank heated sake in gulps between hurried bites of thrush meat. When someone clinging to the bonfire suddenly stood up, the two local hunter guides cried out—the geisha’s mouth was smeared with blood, you see.” “Raw blood from the half-cooked bird... As she told this story, the geisha pressed a handkerchief to her mouth like she’d forgotten herself... That crimson stain looked ready to seep through—I couldn’t help staring at her face.” A young woman—slender and willowy enough to bend at a touch. “...Mouthwatering to hear about, but terrifying in reality. Even imagining it from Tokyo—that pale dawn in Kiso’s mountains where jagged peaks and deep valleys overlap... A bonfire wrapped in darkness’ hem, rising unnaturally high above the ridges below one’s gaze... And from the mist emerged a beautiful neck.”

“No—master.” “The story may be clumsily told, but there’s an uncanny quality to it. That mouth was smeared with blood.” “Ah—indeed.” “Ah, you came through safely,” I remarked. “Why do you say that?” When she asked this, those flustered gun hunters and others—they wound up taking two bullets from bewitched hunters firing across ridges through bamboo thickets... The location... The timing... Since olden times, they say night vigils and dawn netting attract hauntings—this was truly a case of spectral possession. “After all, she transformed into such an eerily beautiful demon.” “...Well, that’s how it goes... I’m a demon.—But the kind that gets eaten by people... or so I claim.” Her voice sank to a murmur. “Still—how dreadful... It makes one shudder.” “And there she was again,” I concluded, “pressing that handkerchief to her mouth.”

“Hmm,” the chef murmured in a somber voice, lost in thought, “Well. Master—ah, well—no, truly. It truly was dangerous.—In such situations, one is bound to get injured… Yet that young lady emerged unscathed.” Upstream of this Nie River, at Mitakeguchi. "The gorge near Mino yields even more, but I don’t know where exactly that place is—which part of Tokyo are these geisha from?”

“Well, it’s from the downtown area.”

“Ryōgoku...”

Having said that, he peered intently and stared fixedly. “…Or perhaps they said Shinbashi…” “No—right in the middle… Though it’s near Nihonbashi, it’s just something people talk about at banquets.” “If it wouldn’t be presumptuous to ask about the location, I should very much like to learn of that place for future reference.” “…These matters of deep mountains and hidden valleys lie beyond human wisdom—”

The maid also looked down with a dark expression.

Sakai, finding himself in a situation where no one else would speak up, leaned forward and asked, "Has anything unusual occurred in these parts?"

“There’s nothing particular to speak of… well…” “However, just as there are rapids in a river’s flow, there are deep pools in the mountains—one must take care.” “The thrush we served just now—this has been caught continuously over the past day or two, as there was an unusual hunt at the upper mountain pass.” “Now, that’s precisely it.” Sakai accepted the sake cup once more, “Chef.” “The dish you skillfully arranged on the tray looked so delicious—fragrant and glistening with fat—that it suddenly reminded me of that incident with the geisha’s bloodied mouth.” “However, I am neither a monk nor one who abstains from meat—I am nothing of the sort.” “Even if you wish for it, that’s fine—but look. Beyond the window: rain and maple leaves, the mist weaves through the mountains.” “Among the peaks, I can see one crowned with snow, piercing through the clouds and towering.” “—If someone were to suddenly stand up with bloodied mouth and elongated neck... Well, being a man with this face of mine, I doubt I’d appear as terribly beautiful as that geisha—like some incarnation of a mountain deity.” “Thinking it was just a persimmon left on the tree—though crows might come pecking at it from outside the window—when suddenly I had this strange thought.”

“Miss O-kome—the electric light seems delayed somehow, wouldn’t you say?” The chef said in a somber voice.

The passing shower cleared as dusk approached the Kiso mountains. The rapids of the Narai River resounded.

Two

“What’s that? What happened?”

“Ah, Master,” came the voice from the snowy garden of the dark night. “A heron has come and is aiming for the fish.”

Just outside the window, close at hand—the chef, as if wading through pond water—Isaku’s voice sounded.

“I thought maybe someone had fallen in or an otter was darting about—it gave me quite a start with that tremendous noise.”

This occurred on the evening of the following day in the lower guest room of the same inn.……

Sakai had taken lodgings at Narai Post Town. The snow that had accumulated here was not because it had begun falling that morning. He hadn’t particularly come to sightsee around here either……Last night—after that incident—when he had requested the thrush be prepared in a hotpot, saying it should be cooked like shamo gamecock or kashiwa chicken by simply simmering it over the brazier beside the meal tray, the chef had understood perfectly, piling the roughly chopped pieces high on a plate. He filled a bamboo sieve to the brim with roughly chopped green onions and carried up the soy sauce and sugar uncovered. O-kome vigorously fed charcoal into the brazier.

Though in the Echigo region, around Sankichi's hometown, when the season came, valuing these thrushes was no simple matter. Restaurants hung tall signboards under their eaves proclaiming "Thrush Cuisine," "Local Specialties," and "Custom Dishes." Thrush udon, thrush soba—even soba shops posted notices. Yet these were never cheap. Whether served in any bowl or plate, each preparation showed the discernment reserved for esteemed soups and delicate lidded dishes. Though offering a mere three morsels rather than five, piling them high with green onions and sending steam billowing—overflowing from pots up to the ceiling—brought pure delight.

They even served piping-hot sake, and he sat cross-legged on the bear pelt.

The geisha’s apparition had transformed into a mountain bandit. When it came time to sleep, it was rather delightful how this bear pelt lay over the thick quilt, wrapping around sleeves, covering, and enveloping the hem. The next day—whether it would snow or not—he paid no mind to the night storm that seeped into his bones or the Kiso River's fearsome rapids. Warm with sake's heat and wrapped in beast fur, he slept soundly on the third floor. Given these circumstances, he found himself taking a liking even to the morning’s tofu soup—the kind one blows on softly before sipping.

How had the morning at that inn been two days prior?...In broth cold as ditchwater's oily film, shijimi clams floated like ceremonial offerings—their half-cooked stench defied description.... Mountains and sky stood clear as ice; pine needles and dead wood flashed under the blazing sun while pale flakes danced—a snowstorm in the deep ranges where bears reared upright, spitting needles of frost. Shortly after finishing breakfast, Sakai felt his stomach twinge with dull pain.—Before long, he found himself visiting the privy two or three times.

That was the udon's curse. It was absolutely not due to overeating thrush. There was no escaping poisoning from two servings' worth of uncooked udon flour crammed into those noodles. Clutching his stomach, whenever he thought of the udon, a prickling ache began to throb upward from deep within—after all, even if needles of sunlight danced outside, even with this minor stomach pain, his condition hardly warranted being unable to endure boarding the train. ……However, no one knew. The comfort of this inn being what it was—and perhaps as a form of spiteful retaliation—he found himself resolved to extend his stay.

Now regarding the guest room—was this the second time? Returning from the privy and about to enter my quarters, I happened to peer down from the third-floor railing toward the second level. Beneath the staircase, through open shoji doors where a broom and duster stood propped, a kotatsu could be seen in the small parlor within, allowing a clear view of the tokonoma alcove. ...On the floor lay two or three faded pale green furoshiki-wrapped bundles secured with Sanada cords at their centers. A middle-aged man who appeared to be an itinerant merchant sat firmly against the wall with his back to the floorboards. Facing him, a matronly maid knelt slightly upright, her fingertips resting in the kotatsu as she leaned back slightly to converse with him.

It appeared as though nostalgic scenes of the floating world had been unearthed from a mountain cliff and set into the inn.

The guest room had a bear pelt.

Sakai suddenly felt homesick, as though he'd been cast away into the deep mountains. The day before yesterday in Matsumoto, he had seen the castle, climbed to the topmost fifth story of its keep, stood upon that frost-laden height where clouds clung to the peaks—and now those same mountains pressed close again at the window, their looming presence palpable against his very skin. Every time he saw those crimson ivy leaves—withered yet clinging tenaciously to moss-covered stone walls along ruined castle moats; their red like thrush's blood dripping into baskets— ……he suddenly felt lonesome. “Miss O-kome, I don’t suppose there’s a guest room downstairs—I want to get into the kotatsu and sleep soundly.”

Due to merchants coming and going at irregular hours in the second-floor rooms, he was led from his desired lower guest room in the main building across a long earthen-floored passageway via wooden planks to what resembled a detached ten-mat room. Outside the bay window lay an immediate garden with a pond. Amidst swirling white snow, the scarlet backs of koi and purple fins of black carp made a beautiful sight. Plum and pine trees had been artfully arranged, but most were towering oaks and zelkovas. Even magnolias requiring two arm spans to encircle stood tall and straight. Needless to say, all stood shaking their leaves like naked mountain deities.

It was probably around three in the afternoon. On branches and treetops，snow blossomed; he lay curled askew in the kotatsu into a 'ku' shape—he wished to present it as 'a fine woman.' When he peered through the bay window，he saw the chef standing motionless beneath the camellia tree across the pond，arms crossed as he stared fixedly at the water. Clad in his usual dark blue straight-sleeved jacket with an apron bundled up from his hips and wearing a hunting cap against the snow，it hardly seemed the chef was peering at the carp in the water. It had the form of a large waterhen stalking a loach in the marsh.

Mountains and peaks, shrouded in deep clouds, encircled the sky. Sakai comprehended the mountain journey's melancholy. “Chef, will you be serving that carp for tonight’s feast?” “Heh heh.” Isaku raised his shadowed face with a sly grin. Removing his hunting cap to offer a ceremonial bow, he tugged it back on before rustling through the trees to vanish beneath the eaves. The front desk lay distant; thereafter, the snow grew denser. Simultaneously came the ceaseless susurration of flowing water. “Someone’s left the washroom faucets open again.” This marked the second occurrence. Earlier that morning—before switching to this third-floor room—the maid had guided him to a supposedly cleaner washroom near the detached quarters despite its distance. Upon reaching it, none of its three faucets yielded water however he twisted them. Though temperatures seemed above freezing, he wondered if pipes had iced over. When he clapped sharply—an echo-like summons—the maid cried “Oh! I’ll fetch some!” and scurried off. Soon water flowed freely.—After changing rooms, finding no other basin when nature called, he turned a faucet to mere dribbles barely sufficient for his needs.

After a while, water rushed insistently from the washroom direction. Sliding out from the kotatsu, he descended to the earthen-floored area and peered from the bridge approach—all three faucets were spewing streams that flowed uselessly away. Though it seemed wasteful, he meticulously turned each one off before returning to his room. Yet even then, the chef remained hunched at the pond's edge in that same spot, pacing restlessly. Repetitive though it sounded—this marked the chef's second vigil by the water. The morning instance had likely been around ten o'clock... Thud—when the chef finally withdrew, the washroom's torrent soon roared anew.

Yet again, all three faucets were left wide open and flowing. The same situation—wasteful water. Thinking that when I tried to wash my hands later, it would surely run dry, I tightened the faucet again—

Now, around three in the afternoon—this time as well—the sound of water began to flow once more. Outside the garden, a stream also flowed. The rapids of the Naraigawa River resounded. Coming to Kiso and fretting over the sound of water was akin to boarding a ship while trying not to look at the waves. Though he might have wished for it and neither disliked nor avoided it, he found himself strangely preoccupied with the washroom faucets being left open.

Sakai stepped out into the hallway again. Sure enough, all three faucets were indeed—trickling away. “Sir, are you going to take a bath?” Seeing that he was holding a hand towel, O-kome—who had come to tend the fire here with a charcoal shovel in hand—called out. “Well—but is it ready yet?” “It will be ready shortly, sir.” “...Today it’s drawn from the new annex.”

Indeed, amidst the heavily falling snow, the faint scent of hot water drifted through the air. The Western-style door beside the washroom appeared to lead to the bathhouse. It could also be seen from this window. Newly erected pillar frameworks stood exposed in places where matting had been sparsely laid over scaffolding, alongside a storage shed piled with lumber. The dilapidated former estate—resembling a ruined stable buried under fallen leaves—might have once qualified as a secondary honjin. During that era of nouveau riche prosperity when mulberry fields and silkworm farms likely thrived here too, riding this wave of ambition they had expanded new annexes befitting Niekawa—a place once called "Boiling River" for its ancient hot springs—only to abandon the project with just this single guest room and bathhouse completed, as I later learned. "Is it you letting that water flow, Miss Maid?" He couldn't help blurting out reproachfully when he saw the maid—still standing—open each faucet he had just closed one by one. Through this exchange, he came to understand the situation: The pond drew water from a back river via pipes laid beneath tree roots, but suffered droughts once or twice yearly that nearly drained it dry. When carp and crucian carp would cluster together gasping at the surface, they would draw well water into kitchen buckets, send it through this washroom, channel it beneath the bridge approach, and pour it into the pond.

Having scattered two or three new editions about traveling the Kiso Kaidō near his pillow, Sakai burrowed deep into the kotatsu and began, "Miss O-kome... I have something important to ask you." When he saw her freshly bashful face lower slightly, he suddenly recalled Kitahachi and chuckled quietly to himself. “Ha ha, nothing to worry about. Thanks to you, my stomach’s settled quite well... Since I skipped lunch, I plan to feast on whatever’s available and drink heartily tonight. But just now, Mr. Isaku went glaring at the pond with that sour look of his. “Seems he was sizing up how plump the carp have grown... I’m certain they’re meant for tonight’s feast. Not that last night’s thrush was any different, but—having moved here by the pond through some twist of fate and become neighbors with these fish, seeing them hauled up before my eyes to be sliced into rounds on the cutting board feels rather cruel... Not that I mean to question the chef’s methods or make selfish demands.…”

“I’ll pass on the live preparation, but I’d heartily welcome carp soup.” “However, couldn’t we arrange with a fishmonger or such to use different carp?—This may be forward of me, but if one or two would suffice for tonight’s needs—however many guests there are—I could purchase the ingredients myself.” “No, sir. We never use those from this pond for cooking.” “Our master and mistress release crucian carp and carp...into this pond each year on O-shi’s memorial day.” “The chef does likewise...He cares for them so tenderly—dotes on them even—that whenever he finds a spare moment, he slips out to the garden just so to gaze at the pond.” “That’s most thoughtful.” “I’m grateful.” Sakai simply thanked her.

As if a single star had descended from the snowy peak, when the electric light was lit in the evening guest room, the maid came to announce that the bath was ready.

“Have the meal ready soon,” he called out before dashing toward the waiting bathhouse—but upon opening the door beyond the familiar washroom to what should have been an entrance area, he found it pitch-dark. No—rather, a single lantern glowed dimly with a pale light. There was another door there, closed. The inside seemed to be the bathhouse.

They said it was still under construction—that must be why the electric light wasn’t working yet. Ah, a two-tomoe crest. Whether Ōboshi or Yuranosuke in design, even this pungent, oppressive tomoe crest—when seen here—evoked memories of Lord Kiso’s favor, lending an air of refinement. As he began to untie his obi—there came a splashing sound—he sensed someone was using the bath. At that moment, the sound of water from the washroom abruptly ceased. Sakai hesitated.

But it didn't matter when—he had already instructed them to notify him when others had finished and the bath became available. No one else would be inside. Clutching the half-undone obi, he edged closer and pressed his cheek flush against the door above the lantern to listen. Near the sleeve panel, the candle—which had dimmed with a whoosh—suddenly flared up again. The shadow congealed into bruise-like darkness, the tomoe pattern imprinting gloomily across one cheek—then came a splash... movement rippled through the water at the bath's inner edge. From some unseen gap came a sudden plum fragrance—the scent of face powder softened by warmth.

"A woman!" After all, with this dim light, even were male guests to enter together, they'd find it too dark to avoid brushing shoulders or hands. They might even collide with breasts. With that thought, he clattered back in his hastily donned sandals.

“Have you already finished bathing?” she asked. She kept her distance. Intending to warm it when ready, O-kome had brought only the sake pitcher ahead.

“No—I’ll go later.”

"Oh my, are you that hungry already?" "I am hungry, but there's another guest using it." “Well... This bath here hasn’t been used in quite some time—not that I mean any disrespect—but since we’ve freshly cleaned and prepared it for your use, Master... Even if you were to bathe later... That is... There’s truly no one else using it now.”

“Never mind that. “I can take my time, but there seemed to be a lady guest in there.” “Yes, sir.” As she made a comically pouting face, the sake pitcher in her hand clattered clatter clatter against the kettle, then she shuffled backward and abruptly stood up to exit into the hallway. No sooner had her footsteps faded into silence than she suddenly stomped down with a clamorous noise, clattering across the dirt-floored entryway as she broke into a run.

Sakai stared blankly,

“What on earth was that…”

Before long, the one who appeared carrying the meal tray... was not O-kome, but had been replaced by an older woman.

“Ah, Madam of the mezzanine.” This was she who had been intimate with the itinerant merchant at the kotatsu.

“What does the proprietor wish to do?”

“I don’t know.” “I would very much like to oblige, you see.” Half in jest, she lowered her voice sharply,

“Are you going out… somewhere… to the bathhouse… truly?” “You see, Master—it’s quite laughable. "...I had informed you believing no one was present, but when you mentioned a lady being inside, Miss O-kome here—being terribly timid—..." "...As this bathhouse hadn’t been used in ages, the mistress insisted on inspecting it thoroughly as a precaution—" “Ah, I see... I thought you meant you were stepping out again momentarily.”

“It’s all right—we won’t go to the bathhouse, but instead, there’s this in the guest room, you see, Master.” “No, that’s quite all right.” This one poured better—it went down smoother.

The night stretched long; the snow began to fall steadily. After laying out the bedding, I’ll have another drink and ride that momentum into a sound sleep. The evening meal was cleared away with little ceremony.

Footsteps mingled in disarray. They clattered down the hallway before apparently converging near the wash area. The trickling sound of water began echoing anew. Male voices now blended into the auditory fray. When these noises subsided, O-kome poked her round face out from the sliding door,

“Please proceed to the bath.”

“Is everything all right?” "Hohohoho."

Withdrawing into the hallway as she laughed in a flustered manner, Sakai followed right behind her, hand towel in tow. At the bridge approach's descending entrance, the bald-headed clerk who had been at the front desk the previous night, an aged woman who might be the head maid or perhaps the wife, and another maid had arranged themselves face-to-face, forming a group that gazed this way. Thereupon came O-kome's figure—her tabi socks visible as she scurried across the bridge approach—clustering together as though leaping into the trio's midst.

“Thank you for your trouble.” Thinking they had inspected the bath with this many overseers for my sake, I called out to them, whereupon they all bowed in unison. Then I proceeded across the wooden walkway laid in the long earthen-floored space beneath the thatched roof. The reason those four clustered figures—resembling a lump of stew—darkened halfway across the earthen-floored space was that on the corrugated iron, one by one the electric lights dimmed red as if gasping their last breath before extinguishing all at once—both those at the bridge approach and those in the wash area.

When he exhaled sharply, the water trickled down in three distinct streams... flowing in sequence until beneath the washbasin's striking flow, the earlier lantern glimmered faintly—half-obscured—illuminating a single tomoe pattern that resembled ink-drawn flames or perhaps the leaping form of a catfish. The electric lights would come back on at any moment. As Sakai hunched over and reached to take the lantern into the bathhouse entrance, it suddenly went out and vanished from sight.

It hadn't vanished. As expected, it was lit at the bathhouse entrance just as before. This must have dripped naturally—through some trick of vision casting its shadow from across onto the wet wooden flooring below. The lantern had never been here to begin with. Sakai resembled one trying to grasp the moon reflected in water, its surface bearing a slanting shadow.

Groping his way toward the usual entranceway... As a precaution he approached the doorway where—amidst a silence so profound it seemed to stifle breath—a loud plop echoed. He shuddered from the cold. It wasn't steam dripping from the ceiling as droplets; rather it carried the force of snow melting and falling from the roof.

Plop... A faint ripple stirred the water. Then came a presence both alluring and cold—fragrant like mist veiled in face powder—its human-skin warmth slithering around my shoulders to caress my neck. Tightening the collar he should have removed, "Miss O-kome?"

“No.”

After a breath’s pause, what had been heard from within the bathhouse must have been my own heart echoing in my ears. That it wasn’t O-kome went without saying. The washbasin’s water sounds ceased abruptly. I froze involuntarily and scanned my surroundings. Steeling myself,

"I’m coming in. Excuse me." "You mustn’t." As the steam cleared, a voice drenched in moisture rang out distinctly. "Do as you like!" By the time he regained awareness of having spoken those words, he had already withdrawn to the guest room.

The electric light was bright. The tomoe-patterned lantern was extinguished by this light. However, the water continued to flow in three distinct trickling streams.

“Making a fool of me.”

More than eerie or terrifying—it was a feeling of being toyed with that stirred resentment within him, and he flipped over onto his back into the kotatsu. Some time later, Sakai sat bolt upright as if leaping to his feet when he heard—right outside the window—the clamorous sounds of pond water being churned up: a splash, splish-splash-splash, splish, splat!

"What could that be?" Splish-splash-splash—splat! Thereupon came a rustling that circled the pond—echoing through the frozen air.

The reason he thought—for some reason—that the approaching person must be the chef was because he had heard that [the chef] cherished the fish in this pond.……

“What is it? What’s happened?”

He opened the storm shutters and called out toward where the snow's color had faded slightly. The pond too had turned so white that its water was scarce.

III “Which is it? A white heron or a night heron?” “Well… It’s both, Master. "I believe it must be both.” Chef Isaku came and stood firmly with his arms crossed at the window’s edge, facing away as he spoke. “They come down from the Ōbayashi forest at the mountain pass.” Even as he spoke, the snowfall had ceased; on one side where clouds hung black as lacquer, the forest stood dark. “It’s not an everyday occurrence, but… Master, they target where the pond water has dried up. “The carp and crucian carp have half their fins exposed—they can’t even struggle.”

“Clever creatures, aren’t they?” “Foolish humans are such a nuisance—it pains me to see the fish suffer so... But even so, I can’t stand watch here all night long. Master, it’s quite cold. Please close it, sir. Since it must be about time for your orders here and there, I shall humbly put together something—even if hastily prepared—for you.”

“If it suits your schedule, could you join me for a drink? I don’t mind keeping late hours. If we drink together here… we might make decent scarecrows…” “That would be most agreeable… The kitchen’s already put to rights—I’ll come directly… Meddlesome little brats.” With these trailing grumbles, he glared skyward and rustled through the branches as he departed. Sakai, however, did not close the window behind him—though he had drawn it nearly shut. In truth, he had thought the sight of herons hunting fish at this snowbound pond resembled nothing so much as an illustration from a fairy tale book viewed through the cozy frame of a kotatsu.

Had he meant to chase them away or startle them, that would have been one thing... But above all, his restless mind had even come to think—so much so—that perhaps herons had twice bathed in the bathhouse’s hot water through some gap in the snow. As he continued peering intently, a tomoe-patterned lantern flickered to life beside Isaku’s sleeve as he trudged through the dimly lit snow with crunching steps. Ah—now it seemed no one had been holding a lantern beneath the window. And moreover, it had drawn near enough that one might think it was about to cross the garden and enter either the engawa or doorway. Appearing small even from afar, then after a while—seeming to suddenly retreat backward—it grew slightly larger, gradually drawing back toward this side while skimming beneath the thatched roof outside the earthen corridor. Whether this repeated retreat was mere imagination or not, before one knew it, the lantern had entered inside, casting light in the doma’s darkness. ...Near the bridge approach—one side being the washroom, the far end the bathhouse—it was only when he went "Huh?" with a start that he realized: he had been watching that glowing lantern approach not by turning toward the guest room, but rather by leaning out from the window toward the garden.

It vanished with a clang.—A chill ran down his spine from head to toe. When he jerked his head around to look, there in the guest room—the nape of a woman’s retreating figure, white as a heron’s—glistened stark white in a swift motion. There by the staggered shelves, in the ten-mat room’s southeastern corner where the full-length mirror stood, was a figure facing away... Clad in an indigo-gray striped fine-patterned kimono that clung damply to her form—as if wilted camellias had been steamed into the fabric—the crimson-and-white decorative obi cinched sharply beneath her breasts emphasized her vanishingly slender waist. The hem pattern fluttered lightly as she slightly lifted one knee, the tomeshio-dyed hem spilling forth like faintly tinted water. On the marumage hairstyle that seemed ready to drip dew, a bellflower-colored hand towel lay pale against it. With white hands that alluringly emerged from beneath a pale blue underkimono, she gently wielded a brush while peering into the full-length mirror with a slight forward lean, applying makeup.

Sakai froze between standing and sitting, his breath caught. Ah—the kimono she wore resembled pale crimson maple leaves beneath snow, the snow-white skin seeming instead to envelop those leaves. When she smoothly pulled and adjusted the deeply loosened collar, took the soft kaishi paper that had lain near a knee, rolled it deftly between palms then wiped and let it fall—white powder scattered across the tatami like spilled moonlight. When the rustle of silk smoothed out, a fragrance reminiscent of human skin steeped in bathhouse steam wafted up; leaning back slightly at an angle, she placed a tobacco pipe between lips. The mouthpiece was white; the pipe itself gleamed jet-black.

A resonant ton echoed—the ash-blower’s sound reverberating through the stillness. She turned sharply toward Sakai, her oval face framed by plump eyelids and a straight nose bridge, her pallor so intense it seemed unearthly. Pressing kaishi paper firmly over both gentle eyebrows steeped in melancholy, she gazed at him with large, unblinking eyes—

“...Does it suit me?” Black teeth glinted through her smile. Still smiling, she adjusted her kimono’s trailing hem and rose. Her face reached the lintel as her stature stretched upward without pause.

Sakai’s chest leaped, his hips lifted, and his shoulders rose into the air. He thought he had been gently lifted by the woman’s sleeve—but no—he had been seized sideways by the mouth and hoisted into the air from the tatami.

The mountain turned pitch black. No—when the garden’s whiteness filled my vision, I swiftly exited through the window. My limbs transformed into tail fins, and as I flopped and splashed about, the woman’s figure drifted past the eaves, floating ethereally like a celestial being in the transom. The white forests and white houses below his eyes vanished in an instant... As he felt himself flying high in the sky—skimming past Matsumoto Castle’s keep—a splash of water sounded; he tumbled headlong into the pond and simultaneously jolted back to his senses at the kotatsu.

A tremendous flapping sound could be heard from the pond.

As if this scarecrow could ever chase them away.

Every time he saw the blood on the ivy in the basket, he gasped with blue-tinged breaths and slumped down. In the corridor came the soft patter of footsteps. When he jerked upright with a sharp inhale, the chef appeared carrying a meal tray with a sake decanter.

“Ah, Mr. Isaku.”

“Oh, Master.”

IV “It was exactly this time last year.”

The chef pressed his body close, hunched his shoulders, and began to speak.

“This year’s snow began this morning, but as for that occasion—I’ll never forget—it had snowed the day before.” “The accumulation had been far greater.—Around two o’clock arrived a lady guest of such arresting presence—entirely alone.—Though I say ‘arresting,’ there was nothing garish about her.” “Graceful yet touched by melancholy, she appeared twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, her hair done in an exquisite marumage style.” “—A fine figure, willowy stature, flawless bearing—yet to call her a proper madam, there lingered something overly alluring.” “Though ours is a country establishment, having seen many guests pass through, we quickly recognized her as someone accustomed to such places—only later did we learn this was Minokichi-san of Yanagibashi.” “The name entered in the register was Madam O-tsuyu.”

“That lady—Master—we showed her to this guest room from the front desk.” “She was fond of baths... Of course, I doubt there’s anyone who dislikes them—she visited those springs twice upon arrival and once more late at night. Due to circumstances, we’ve postponed constructing the new wing—though our stone-laid bath crafted for hot spring enthusiasts remains our pride—we used to request even guests from the old second and third floors to use it despite the slight distance—truth be told, strange occurrences would sometimes happen here too, so we left this guest room unused for a time—but after discussing that if a gentleman like yourself were to try it, such oddities might naturally cease—though I hesitate to mention it—today marks the first time in ages we’ve both heated and put it to use.”

“Now then regarding Madam O-tsuyu—the lady in question—after taking her first bath of the day, she inquired ‘Where is the tutelary shrine?’ and paid her respects.” “It stands on the hill overlooking Niekawa Kaidō.” “—At the shrine of the Sannō deity, they say human sacrifices were once offered there long ago.” “A thickly wooded and desolate shrine.” “...There are other village shrines, but when she specifically asked about the tutelary shrine and we explained matters at the front desk... she requested directions and went up there alone.” “Her eyes seemed somewhat troubled—she said the glittering snow pained them—so in this rural place, she had someone procure ready-made black glasses, put them on, and went out using a Western umbrella as a walking stick.” “—This visit to the tutelary shrine appears to have been meant as a courtesy to all of Narai post town.”

After returning safely without incident, she first partook from the meal tray at dinner. “In your presence—though this may seem forward—when she graciously gave gratuities to both the chef and myself… I stepped out briefly to offer my respects, this was her inquiry: ‘I bought dried persimmons and toothpicks as shrine offerings… The old woman at that little shop below the stone steps said that beyond the Sannō deity’s shrine lies a deep forest, and within that forest is Bellflower Plain—and in that plain there’s Bellflower Pond where a beautiful lady resides. Is this true?’—”

“It’s absolutely true,” I stated without waiting for others to confirm. “I said so myself. “Proof speaks louder than words—though I can’t say whether it was proper to mention—the fact remains I saw her with my own eyes.” ……… “When we speak of Bellflower Plain—autumn grasses bloom beautifully there, but it’s not solely bellflowers that grow.” “The water of that great pond holds the genuine bellflower’s blue hue.” “In fact, it’s the white-flowered ones that bloom most splendidly.” “...”

Four years later, though it was noon, a fire broke out in Yabuhara-shuku beyond this pass. "When a noon fire grows large—as they say in many provinces—it was indeed a great conflagration." "When I ascended Sannō-sama’s hill, it became visible at a glance." "The flames rose in seven directions, and the crackling and popping sounds of the fire could be heard as clearly as if one could reach out and touch them." “……That might have been a mountain waterfall—no—rather, it was as if pump water were rushing through.” “With the force of that great south wind fueling it, we feared the blaze might become a mountain fire and come surging right here—such was its ferocity. Those who could rush did rush, and those who could make a commotion did make a commotion.” “As for myself, I was among the spectators, and the shrine front was filled with the same throng.”

“It being the turbulent days before the 210th marker with lingering summer heat still fierce, I gradually entered the shrine’s forest while watching the fire—though this was normally a place one ought not venture—for from this blaze-stirred spot where human energies swelled, its depth measured no more than fifty meters even at its deepest.” “It’s safe,” I assured myself. “Now then, being of a gloomy disposition and not one to keep company with young folk, I thought to invite no one as I walked through those dense cedar and cypress woods—though they proved not nearly as deep as imagined—until reaching a field of wildflowers… And there lay a pond of deepest blue, its edges bordered by white bellflowers and spanning an area of a hundred tatami mats. When I looked closer, along its shore—two… three… ten ken—no more than eighteen meters away—a lady of indescribable beauty sat before a mirror stand, applying her makeup at an angle.”

“Her hair, her attire—I caught but a glimpse—yet that moment’s terror defies description. Even now when I recall it, sake turns to ice in my chest. It makes me shudder… yet I cannot forget her beauty. Presumptuous though it may be—I envision her form enshrined on an altar for those without homes. Each day I gaze at this pond’s waters and must recall her face. Then—in that instant—like a wing-broken bird falling from heaven, I fled through the woods and dashed headlong down the stone steps. They say neither my pallor nor bearing showed fear. The shrine’s fire-watchers became an avalanche fleeing downward. A wind cold enough to quench flames rushed from the forest depths like a pursuing serpent—they say this fleeing man looked like a hare tumbling through air.”

“To this atmosphere—when speaking of that lady, Madam O-tsuyu—why do they refer to such a person not as a goddess or princess, but as ‘Madam’?” “Well, that’s how it is.” “I simply had my vision go dark, but they say—those who happened to glance upward long ago—that the figure at Bellflower Pond has her eyebrows slightly lowered…”

Sakai Sankichi shuddered but pushed the kotatsu further away.

“Without knowing whose wife she might be, we gradually came to call her so over time… Master.” “When telling this to Madam O-tsuyu—you listened intently—then asked, ‘Have others seen this Madam’s form?’—Well yes—by moonlit ridges, blossom-edged mountain paths, in firefly shadows beneath rainy lanterns, along snow-clad riverbanks… villagers have glimpsed her here and there.” Madam O-tsuyu heard this, set down her sake cup, and—for reasons unknown—bowed her head dejectedly.

——

“By the way, Master… That Madam went to the trouble of journeying alone to this mountain dwelling in Kiso—there was a purpose to it.”

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

At a place called Murairi no Karimata resided someone known as the Magistrate’s Widow—to call her “the village headman’s old woman” might sound more demure, but Magistrate’s Widow she was. ...A nickname that laid bare her terrifying authority—flaunting her family lineage, she’d escalate by the second utterance to declaring, ‘My house were magistrates of old!’— Through that very resolve—though becoming a widow in middle age—she single-handedly first... raised her son splendidly and fashioned him into an Academic in Tokyo. ...There came a time when they had resided in Tokyo for a spell, but after some matter involving a household that once held minor office, she threw open their ancestral home in their hometown—declaring they would show their face to the entire village—purchased an old house with worthless bonds, and from two or three years prior had been living in seclusion with their son’s wife—the young Madam as she’s called nowadays. ...Turnips and eggplants required soy sauce in cooking, so in thrift’s name she had planted the five pungent varieties—green onions, chives, garlic, and rakkyo—throughout every vacant lot, managing with salt alone. ……From afar already the house reeked pungently. The Magistrate’s Widow of Garlic Manor. ……

However, the young wife—the daughter-in-law—was the daughter of a Fukushima merchant family and an educated woman, yet possessed a meekness and gentleness ill-suited to the times—almost excessively domestic. After all, without this meekness, the Magistrate’s Widow and she could not have maintained their shared residence. ...she—one unaccustomed to garlic’s reek—was driven by the old mistress to labor with hoes, spades, and measuring rods, enduring it all with heartbreaking fortitude.

In the latter half of November, an unexpected guest arrived from Tokyo at Garlic Manor. A friend of the Academic—this man was employed nowhere, though being a painter, steady work would not have been his lot to begin with. The Academic himself served as the proper principal of a certain middle school in Tokyo. As for that painter, he had reportedly come rushing into Garlic Manor—having fled Tokyo without proper travel funds. To put it plainly—though married—he had formed a deep involvement elsewhere. Because of this, both decorum and social obligations lay in ruins—and in her desperation, his wife voiced reproach. What insolence! Though slapping his own cheek served some purpose, he who deserved blows before his ancestors’ mortuary tablets could not endure remaining in the household with its family altar; having fled through the gate from that scene—with matters deteriorated to where even acquaintances and friends reproached him—he found nowhere to go, and so as temporary refuge for a night, fled all the way to this Kiso Valley—fled indeed! Moreover, that wife of his had originally been his lover, and it was through this Academic’s considerable efforts that they had formally wed—such being the circumstance through which his wishes were realized. ……A hiding place born of utter desperation.

Now then—the troubled painter's deep connection… if I may say… was with none other than Madam O-tsuyu—that very lady who stayed alone as a guest at our humble establishment. I should clarify—she hadn't come chasing through the snow after the painter. That interval spanned roughly half a month. "During that time, the adultery scandal I mentioned earlier took place."

The chef paused for breath. “Now then… the Magistrate’s Widow had this strange quirk—” “More illness than habit—from what I’ve heard by those in the know, they call it litigation mania. If the onions withered, she’d storm to the village office; if a child glared, she’d march to the police box.” “……Whether it’s the police box or the courts—if she drags anything before higher authorities, she alone becomes convinced of her own righteousness in the matter, esteemed guest—that Magistrate’s Widow does.”

At the Karimata fork of Garlic Manor—along this highway at Bōhana crossroads—there withdrew into a hollow like a rocky cave a hunter named Ishizaki, holed up with a large brood of children. Now a forty-year-old man, it’s said that during his days as a servant boy—before he had even held a minor post—both he had served as a manservant and his wife as a maid at that old woman’s place. …Though the Magistrate’s Widow treated him like a lowly vassal, Hunter Ishizaki—being an unbending man of principle—served his mistress with utmost devotion…

The evening rain turned to snow, and that year’s first snowfall—unexpectedly heavy—accumulated through the midnight hours. In the mountains, wild boars and rabbits panicked. When hunting called for times like these, he lumbered out of bed late at night, checked his gun, wolfed down tea-soaked rice by the hearth, and pulled on his homemade monkey-fur hood. At the straw-mat entrance stood the sixty-nine-year-old Magistrate’s Widow—her white hair disheveled, wearing a soba-colored loincloth… no—rather, a faded threadbare one of dull hue—her kimono hitched up, barefoot in the snow. “There’s a monster inside! Come quick!” she panted through pallid lips and frantic gestures. [...] “Guns show their worth at times like these,” he muttered, click-clacking live ammunition into place. Since her ladyship—the former master’s widow—was barefoot, Ishizaki too went without footwear.

They briskly crossed the highway through leek, rakkyo, and onion fields—intent on confirming the monster’s presence while maintaining silence—then entered through the storeroom entrance from which the Magistrate’s Widow had emerged. Stealthily making their way to the earthen-floored area, they peered through a knothole in the plank door no sooner than she pointed. And there—behind a six-panel folding screen—lay pillows arranged side by side, though none lay sleeping upon them. The Young Wife, in a scarlet underrobe with her sleeping kimono slipping off her shoulders to bare half her body, had leaned forward with her pale hand resting on the painter’s knee—a man stroking her back. The Young Wife, who usually wore work trousers and a cotton-padded jacket, now appeared in that state—and in such a manner. Hunter Ishizaki was undoubtedly more shocked than any monster could have been. “You vile adulterer… Beast of a woman!” The Magistrate’s Widow lumbered in like a ground spider. “Hey… Don’t move! If you so much as twitch that pose—I’ll shoot! Bullets, I tell you!” From the edge of the six-panel folding screen that had been slid aside thrust a gun barrel—Ishizaki, resembling a hairy toad, glared intently while taking aim.

Given both his menacing appearance and the circumstances—with every indication he might fire that gun with a bang—the painter must have been thoroughly taken aback. “Divine punishment strikes where you stand! I’ll expose you as freaks—four legs, four arms, two faces!” With this declaration, the Magistrate’s Widow went rousing four neighboring households that very night, publicly displaying the scene of Ishizaki keeping his gun trained on them. By dawn’s light, in her maddened state, she had even summoned the local police officer and the family temple’s priest to witness the spectacle. The Academic’s young wife and the dashing painter—reduced to this state—found their scarlet-dappled sashes slipping like straw ropes, their complexions blanched by snow as they lay collapsed like dyed sea cucumbers.

“As for the man—well—but when they tried binding the wife’s hands behind her back and produced thin cord, the policeman reprimanded them. Yet being scolded only made her roar all the louder, and in an instant she was clamoring to file adultery charges with every authority—courts, village office, police station and town council all at once. The situation took on the air of confinement with nowhere to go, so they decided to retreat temporarily to the family temple. However, the Widow insisted on preserving ‘living evidence,’ refusing to let the wife dress. The policeman draped a snow-dusted coat over her shoulders—and thus with a trailing procession of village women and children in tow—they made their way to the temple.”

Sakai listened while sighing repeatedly.

"He must have been allowed to escape." The painter vanished from the temple that very night. This was as it should be. "Now then, as it was heard—since he was her son’s close friend, a guest like a brother—she treated him as her own." "...Having kept house alone for over half a year in lonely solitude, she declared, 'Since you too are like my son—Young Wife and you—share your accumulated conversations,' then had them prepare for bed—even making them change clothes—and when sleeping time came, arranged their bedding side by side while beaming with smiles—so it is told." "...The Young Wife likely had moments where she wanted to cling to her brother-like junior’s knees and weep, and given that he was a painter who had failed even with geishas—he would hardly have hesitated to rub her back... one supposes."

"I trust you can imagine the Magistrate’s Widow’s fury," the chef continued. "The Academic was summoned by telegram. 'No matter how they tried to reason with her, she wouldn’t yield! "You must file adultery charges!" "Shame be damned—a magistrate wears his sword! "A samurai honors himself by punishing adulterers!" Her delusions made everything worse. "If this doesn’t go to court, I’ll die here! "A bullet through the throat! A sickle to the gut! Don’t you know Narai River’s depths?" "...Sink me in Bellflower Pond? Th-this old crone? Absurd! If I tried drowning myself, that pond would spit me out!’"

With that, the chef gave a wry smile.

"Moreover, in this day and age—a rare thing indeed—the Academic both researches and teaches ethics, morals, and moral training at school, embodying the utmost filial devotion." "He had long been well-regarded, but in others' eyes his care for his wife appeared almost excessively lenient. Thus finding themselves at such a loss—with neither excuse nor honor to their name—they wished for him to come to this place at least once." "Everything depends on that." "That’s what they say—the honorable request from the Academic to the painter."

“Now this was more dreadful than any duel challenge,” for even in the village center stood many who clamored about upholding human morality—spitting and hurling stones at adulterers’ faces— “…With what face could that painter expose himself twice in Narai now, Master?” “No matter their demands, he’d never return.” “Yet bound by social duty to the Academic—he cannot refuse.” “Where then do you suppose that painter hid himself?” “…Shamed by that disgraceful business—the Young Wife’s struck cheek—he cowered behind ancestral tablets offering his parents no solace, trembling from buttocks to toes beneath sleeve-shadows—truly pitiable.” “……‘I shall bring her without fail’—having sworn this oath to the Magistrate’s Widow—the Academic departed for Tokyo.”

During his trip to Tokyo. "It was during that interval—Sister Minogichi of Yanagibashi... Lady O-tsuyu... came to lodge here..."

VI “Whatever affairs required her attention—when Lady O-tsuyu wished to call upon the Magistrate’s Widow late at night after the neighborhood had fallen silent—having received word of this, we could not possibly permit her to go out alone. “Though she said she merely needed directions, since directly accompanying her would have been improper, I resolved to lurk by the hedges or back entrance and discreetly guard her as we proceeded… The front desk held discussions and selected none other than this inept fool here for the duty.……”

“Once preparations were complete... I... came to this guest room with the lantern...” “Ah, the one with the twin tomoe crest,” Sankichi said, as if drawn to comment. “Yes, sir.” Isaku responded with a throaty murmur that seemed to swallow the words, “You recognize it well.” “I know it was lit twice in the bathhouse.” “Sir... We’d never light lanterns in the bathing area... Though perhaps—yes, sir.”

Given how things stood, he probably couldn't bring himself to mention that when passing through the garden moments earlier, a lantern had moved alongside this chef. Sakai urged him to continue.

“And then...” “I feel rather peculiar though. “Well now—having finished my preparations in haste after that second bath, I applied light makeup. Before the mirror I stood—the indigo-gray of my underrobe turning lavender in the shadow of my face—so pale was my complexion...”

It goes without saying that Sakai involuntarily turned around. "With its golden mouthpiece and crow-black lacquered metal, it appeared to have slightly stained your teeth." "Placing a kaishi against your eyebrows, you gazed at me intently—"

“—Does it suit me?—” “Mmm, mm,” Sakai’s voice caught in his throat as though stuffed with ice. The edge of the tatami appeared white with bellflowers. Hearing someone say “Yes—it suits you so well it’s almost wasteful,” when he moved aside the kaishi paper, the freshly shaved traces of his eyebrows now stood out vividly blue. (The Lady of Bellflower Pond?)—(Sisters... no—twice as beautiful)—may lightning strike me, but he could not help uttering those words.

“Pray listen carefully to this part.”…… (Lady O-tsuyu, what should I do?) “Through sleet-mingled snowfall came the painter’s wife—though one could hardly call her a mistress who stole another’s man—clutching a torn snake-eye umbrella, wrapped in a shabby workman’s coat, her spirit utterly broken. Given Lady O-tsuyu’s standing as the lawful wife, keeping even a mistress would prove difficult in such circumstances.” “Afflicted by eye trouble, she had secluded herself in a second-floor rental no better than a storage shed at her parents’ home—eking out a living through piecework and teaching nagauta ballads to women and children—until desperation drove her to pay that visit.”

(O-tsuyu, this is what I believe.) If I possessed beauty like yours, I would declare to that crone shrieking about adultery: "What manner of husband would seek companionship with some Kiso Highway harlot when he already has a wife like this?" (Yes—absolutely.) Better still—beyond that—I should display myself while proclaiming, "Even a mere mistress meets this standard," thereby creating layered depth with a "wife" existing above. "In addition to your wife, you keep one of my beauty. Would you truly cling to such obstinacy in this rustic place?" That's what I ought to tell that old hag. (For that young wife's sake as well.)——

“Afterward—in Lady O-tsuyu’s writings and memoranda—this situation came to be recorded, and we somehow found ourselves having reached that point.” "...Given this... what need had we for Kiso's mountain apes?" However, under pretext of observing local women’s customs as precaution, one might consider that Sannō-sama pilgrimage concealed ulterior motives. ...Now then—having heard tell of Bellflower Pond’s fearsome beauty—and since she occasionally appeared before mortal eyes—it naturally drew the Magistrate’s Widow’s attention. When her own charms proved inferior, she resolved victory through beauty was impossible—though she even kept a Western straight razor for such occasions. “——Should that fail—‘cut down meddlesome crones as favors to mankind’——that too stood recorded.”

Along the snowy path to Ganmata, I planted my walking stick and proceeded along the bluish-white embankment of a Narai River tributary. The ice-like moon shone with crystalline clarity as the mountain air congealed into enveloping mist. “The rocky, bone-dry stream of Hosotani River, parched by the cold, trickled faintly... Ah yes—precisely that sound... The very sound from the washroom.”

"Why don't you go stop that water inlet? It seems to seep into every fiber of my body." "Precisely so... Yes, but I must say..."

“Can’t I go alone?”

“And you, sir?” “No—nothing—what happened then?” “Between the rocks stood an earthen bridge, and beyond it rose a large enkianthus tree, withered.” When that appeared perilously swaying in the moonlight as if by water’s motion, with a sizzle, the candle in the lantern I carried melted away, its light growing dim. "(When darkness falls, the tomoe patterns merge into one, and what looks like a black will-o’-the-wisp goes walking.)" At Lady O-tsuyu's words—I jolted and peered inside, but whether from carelessness or being distracted by her beauty, the replacement candle had diminished, and no new one had been inserted. “We’ve provided you with one—the moon’s bright enough that you shouldn’t have trouble seeing your way—but our crest-marked lantern does carry some weight in these parts.” “Thinking it was for your sake, I ran back in one go, though the path was still less than half a block away.” “This was my mistake.”

Voices and words alike ceased for a time. “From behind the earthen wall toward the kitchen entrance... Before I had even entered, there came a boom like a falling meteor.” “It echoed back with a boom.” “It was a gunshot.”

………… “When I rushed out to the embankment in surprise, her figure—pale as silver—was nowhere to be seen along the riverside.” “Abandoning the lantern and everything else, when I dashed over with a cry, her position had shifted slightly—with a thud, her obi-clad waist lay collapsed against the stream’s rocks, the snow on the embankment’s slope serving as her pillow.” “It’s cold,” she murmured like one present in the flesh, then uttered “Ah, how cold”—and from her lips hung three thread-like strands of blood.

—How utterly, unspeakably tragic—the disheveled hem of her Tomoshibi-patterned kimono, its colors preserved perfectly, had frozen to the rocks like frosted autumn grasses. "When those present tried to lift her, the crepe silk crackled sharply with ice—like peeling a brocade picture from an old sliding door—and I felt as though her very flesh were being torn asunder." The blood pooled in her chest flowed warm, yet—

—— The one who fired was Ishizaki. “—The old man, driven by dire straits, resolved to catch game tonight no matter what—praying to the mountain deity with shitoji rice cakes before setting out.” “He coats them with tamamiso paste, skewers and grills them to carry along—they say those rice balls ward off evil spirits.” When he approached the earthen bridge called *Gari-Gari Bridge*, Lady O-tsuyu—trying to avoid the approaching person—found herself placing one foot on a river rock due to the shallow water. The mysterious Lady of Bellflower Pond, seeing her move sideways across the water, in a flash took prone aim. “I subdued the demon, for the village’s sake.” “Saying that, he remains mad to this day.—”

“Master! Master! Master! The lantern—over there—ah—that one—from Yudono Bridge… Ah—ah—Master! From beyond comes myself approaching—a man just like myself!” “Ah! And walking beside him—Lady O-tsuyu!” Sankichi gritted his teeth, “Steady now... Nothing dreadful here... She bears no grudge against me.” The electric bulb swirled into tomoe patterns before floating upward like black smoke—then hung dimly over the kotatsu as a paper lantern. “Does it suit me?”

The tatami room appeared as a sheet of water, the snow's aura scattered across the mats like white bellflowers blooming along a shore.