Pathway to Japanese Literature

I.

“Janitor... Jaaanitor.”

Before long... he hurried down the hallway—though with due consideration for classes in session—quietly arriving before the wooden door of the faculty lounge, his bearded face (though not one neatly trimmed about the chin and cheeks) appearing over the threshold.
Since he neglected using a razor, it had grown wild and black.
The one with salt-and-pepper hair and thick eyebrows set in a dull brown face was Nigurushimushi the Old-Timer—a man of ill repute yet good nature.

“Yes, sir.”

Having just said that, he curtly closed his mouth and stood perfectly straight.

“Ah, Gensuke.”

The teacher leaning against the chair across from the large desk at the center of the faculty room wore a striped padded kimono and Kogura hakama trousers, his haori coat—its sleeves bearing chalk smudges—tossed over the back wall with its chintz lining twisted askew.

Beneath a skylight whose sparse frame resembled thinning hair lay teapots, bowls, an undone furoshiki bundle, and scattered staff belongings amidst the clutter—yet only the space before him remained orderly. Pulling an inkstone box to his right and intently scrutinizing what appeared to be a memorandum was Zassho, the assistant principal acting headmaster, who now raised his face: broad forehead receding at the temples, straight prominent nose clean-shaven, slender chin framed by sharply defined eyebrows.

With an unsettled look,

“Come in here.”

Puffed out his chest and placed his hands properly on his hakama-clad knees.

He assumed a posture heavy with implication.
Since it didn’t seem he was being ordered to wash bowls or pour water into the teapot, the janitor too adopted that demeanor as he approached the corner of the desk, his thick eyebrows twitching bushily.

“Official business?”

“What about San’emon?” he asked.

This was an exceptionally tall man—considerably younger than Gensuke though such distinctions mattered little—with a head shaved clean as though taking monastic vows, a greenhorn ascetic of perpetually smiling countenance and comical air who likewise served at the school as its other janitor.

“My colleague (as we ever say—though whether this signifies ‘samurai’s culmination’ or ‘comrades ascended’ remains obscure) stands watch presently, drawing water into the storage jug even now.”

“Drawing water into the storage jug... Hmm, with this wind.”

he said.
The shuttered glass windows rattled violently as a ferocious wind blew—saturated with ash-gray against the blue sky—churning from above as if to bring everything to a boil.

As a shadow swiftly stirring up sand and dust fell across the cheek turned toward the window, Zassho furrowed his brows.

"This wind... Something about... The wind's so fierce—fire precautions?"

he abruptly uttered an odd remark.
However, indeed, given how the wind was, the listener did not find it particularly strange either.

"No, you have long instructed us on such matters, and I remain ever vigilant, but the immediate concern isn't fire prevention... Soon..."

With his usual grim expression, he glared intently at the grandfather clock hanging on the side pillar.
Tock—eleven... exactly half-past.
From the janitor's perspective, it felt as though more time had passed, so he peered at it, wondering if it hadn't stopped.
Amidst the wind, the sound of the clock's hands could not be heard at all.

Come to think of it, throughout the entire school—second floor, first floor, every classroom—not a single voice or half a cough echoed forth. All day long, and especially in this hour approaching noon, such desolation was unheard of.
That was because the children waited single-mindedly for lunchtime without so much as blinking an eye, refraining from any unnecessary fidgeting.
The silence grew so profound that individual voices from each classroom became as tangible as if one could reach out and touch them—and yet despite the wide faculty room’s clock normally ticking loud enough to be heard even from the janitor’s quarters while seated within them—now when observed, its hands made not a sound.
The Roman numerals too appeared to undulate like waves through the violent trembling of wind-shaken glass panes.
Yet only the pendulum weight maintained its rhythm with steady thuds—the clock had not stopped.

“It’s nearly lunchtime now, sir—the students’ll come clamoring in to drink water any moment.”
“We’ve boiled the water proper-like, but... well, these young’uns get so parched and hasty-like. If we don’t serve ’em careful-like, they’ll gulp it down scalding hot and burn theirselves right quick.”

“Burns... Hmm.”

He tilted his long face.

II.

“We have already consulted with my colleague on the matter.”

His words were so earnest that even the rather elderly teacher sitting across appeared younger by comparison.

“We have been adjusting and serving it at a moderate temperature.”
“Your esteemed self, having momentarily forgotten about the water, this humble one has been drawing in as much as possible, but might there be some particular task for San’emon? I fear being unable to meet your needs...”

He cut him off mid-sentence and shook his head, still tilted.

“No, it’s better without San’emon—that one’s too frivolous.”
“…Gensuke. Truth is, I noticed you—being the elder—and have a matter to discuss.”

Given how the matter was broached, Gensuke grew doubly tense.

The teacher too grew somewhat tense,

“Won’t you come closer?”

He clattered his chair.
Taking position at the corner of the desk, tilting his body diagonally, he swayed his hakama as he spread his legs and settled his hips.
Before him, the janitor lumbered forward.

“Even across the desk, the conversation proves difficult to discern through this sand-scattered whistling wind,” he said, coughing as he stuffed tobacco into his pipe and pressed the mouthpiece against his cheek with a tap.

“What a terrible wind.”

“Yes, the roof gives us concern too… Though ’tis been two or three years now since last attended to, who can say what may come of it.”
“Mid-May though we name it, never in ten years past have I known such fierce north winds.”
“Even in snow country—your esteemed self knows we’ve leapt from quilted robes to summer silks—yet today finds us layering underclothes like maids draping rags over old trunks when leaving service. Do but step outside and see.”
“Noses and ears near torn clean off—’tis past enduring if I may speak plain.”

“San’emon too has made the tip of his nose bright red—quite the Sarutahiko, if I may say.”
“Haha.”

Gensuke offered an ordinary polite smile.
Yet even as he spoke, his own nose glowed red—and lo, crimson now tinged Mr. Zassho’s nostrils too.

“It truly is severe.”

The teacher’s ashen-gray shirt sleeve—still clutching the pipe—trembled violently over the long-exposed brazier on the desk. Gritting his teeth, he yanked it up as if pulling taut some invisible cord and slammed the brazier onto the floorboards. Planting his feet firmly, he swung both arms vigorously—

“Pardon my bluntness—no time for manners or etiquette! Hesitation’s out of place!”
“Gensuke, stoke it.”

“Yes, having consulted with my colleague as well, we intended to block it just yesterday—circumstances have arisen where the furnace in the room (referring to the janitors’ room) seems about to bite again,” he said half-crouching, using fire tongs to spread charcoal, adjusted the trivet, and brushed his hairy knuckles over the surface of the tilted copper kettle.

“I’ll pour a full batch of what’s been boiled—it will soon be lunchtime.”
“Is your esteemed group taking your break at this hour?”

“Gensuke—that matter.”

“Yes.”
He pulled back his lion-like grimace and fixed his eyes.

Zassho leaned forward, bowing his head as he blew off the ash from his smoked tobacco with a “fuff,” turned the pipe’s bowl around, and carefully stubbed the residue into the ashes.

“Even shut tight, this wind rattles through—can’t keep a single ash from blowing away.”
“Dangerous on a day like this.”

He poured another heap of ashes.
Turning his gaze, he stared at the blackened wall and corridor beyond.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t blow through too much from that side.”

“But your esteemed self’s [room] has become quite like an open plain. The paths where the children have walked are completely covered in footprints.”

“Hmm... exactly like an open plain...”

With a gloomy expression, he straightened up and peered through,

“Gensuke—by the way—what was it—I had some business earlier and sent a child to your janitors’ room. Is… is he there?”

“He’s there, all dejected-like.”
“Yes… Ah, it must be regarding the Missy-Young Master—he is indeed in the room.”

III

“Missy-Young Master.”

The teacher repeated it under his breath briefly but nodded upon immediately grasping its meaning.
A nine-year-old boy—the most comely in the school—named Miyahama Namikichi, whose very name carried gentleness.
With his fair complexion and beautiful locks—Gensuke and the others likely called him "Missy-Young Master"...

"He's moping in the janitors' room."
"He's moping... in the janitors' room."

"He wandered into the room at an odd hour absentmindedly, and when I inquired if his stomach pained him, he merely stated that Master Zassho had instructed him to go to the janitors' quarters—now he sits utterly crestfallen."
"Now this is peculiar—were it any other child, 'twouldn't be remarkable at all."
"But this lad of all—one who'd never act up enough to be expelled during lessons—what could ail him?... Thinking 'You must be chilled—come warm yourself,' I seated him by the hearth's edge while this humble one sat cross-legged, prodding the embers and pressing for details. Yet he remained mute, sinking into a dazed stupor—that plump white chin nestled against his adorably arranged collar—persistently peering into his pocket until, staring fixedly as his pale blue underrobe gaped open, I espied spilling forth such glossy droplets—vermillion orbs like molten lacquer beads—nigh overflowing, your esteemed self."

“Hmm, I see.”

As if thinking through the matter, Zassho nodded again.

“This humble one, with my slight nearsightedness that you know of.”
“And then, with it appearing all misty-like—wrapped in thin, beautiful paper—this humble one thought it might be some kind of dried sweet.”

“Japanese pepper berries,” declared Zassho, straightening up.
He had been waiting with a composed demeanor for the conversation to reach precisely this point.

“Ah, indeed it is.”
“Berries that awaken one’s senses—or rather—it’s only natural children become enthralled by them.” Gensuke remarked with evident admiration.

In the season when green plums still tasted bitter and plums had yet to ripen—when hearing "strawberry" would make one imagine yellow fruits sold with withered blue leaves bundled like baby turnips—in such snow country beneath azure skies where white sunlight steamed Japanese pepper berries until their branches bent low, even adults found their clusters blazing as conspicuously as flames.

“Did he bring them from home?”
“What was he doing coming out to the classroom? No doubt that’s why Master Zassho scolded him.”
“Well, I told him to behave himself—though truth be told, I’m not sure what exactly… I was waiting for the right moment to have the child apologize when… well, you summoned me… yes.”
“He is but a child.”
“Given his usual conduct—being a child of good reputation who has never caused any trouble—for today’s matter, Gensuke, I humbly request that you intercede on that child’s behalf.”
“Yes, being so timid that he can’t even speak, just sitting there dazed—poor thing, he looks like he might fall ill,” he said, wringing his hands.

“How about that, this wind. It’s awful.”

Alongside the window, he trembled his shoulders and discarded his pipe onto the desk.

“Gensuke.”

he turned once more,

“If you just make the child put that pocket fruit into their sleeve, that should suffice.”

“There’s something strange that’s been weighing on me—it’s not just the child, but I fear even we adults might become dazed.”

“I had a dream yesterday.”

and gulped down the cold tea remaining in the bowl he had poured earlier,

“Yesterday… I shouldn’t say last night.”
“But I didn’t see it during a nap.”
“It was a mountain path growing dark here and there as dusk approached.”

“A dream of a mountain path, then.”

“No, I actually walked through the mountains.”
“That was Sunday—yesterday was—Gensuke, you already know this.”
“I may be buried in books, but medicinal herbs are my passion—as you know.”
“And yesterday, I ventured a bit deeper into the mountains.”
“I ended up drifting aimlessly and being drawn deeper into the valleys.”

He worried it might grow dark before he reached his destination—the sunlight had taken on an ominous quality that made the mountain shadows seem foreboding.
“Then I hurried back.”

IV

“Since it wasn't the season for mountain travel, I didn't encounter a single soul. Even mushroom hunters don’t go that deep into the mountains. I ended up passing through places that weren’t even proper paths. When I had descended into about three valleys and climbed back up each time, I grew somewhat uneasy. Last night, I thought I might have to camp out! But unlike autumn, since sunset came late, well, it turned out manageable. I finally circled back to the old road at last.”

Unlike today’s deceptively clear sky—where such wind held no medicinal appeal—having ventured out thinly clad left him chilled by evening. Even so, walking briskly in gaiters until sweat broke out, the castle came dimly into view. Toward the castle, clouds of an ominous color had gathered—this must have been what brought on this wind.

In time, the tip of the Monomi Pine’s crown caught his eye. “Once I crossed the peak before my eyes, I would reach that overlook hill... Then, in one long slide like an avalanche, I’d come slipping down into my home in the samurai district—I breathed a sigh. But again, as you know, that stretch of town—with a valley on one side and a thicket of mixed trees draped over the other—isn’t it strangely dim even at high noon? An eerie place.”

“A notorious haunted place, without doubt.”

“I can’t fathom what it was.”

He stroked his chin with both hands, his complexion turning cadaverously pale.

“It felt like plunging through a cavern tunnel—until then I’d glimpsed flickers of the castle town through gaps, seen the Ōkawa’s wispy mist and Ōhashi Bridge’s tiny lights. Now all vanished.”

A ceaseless rustling sound arose—not tree branches—but from halfway up the cliffside to our right, where crimson forms swelled forth over dwarf bamboo. First countless, then fifty or sixty strong... all monkeys, their numbers multiplying beneath a sunset that cast an ominous haze across the terrain.

In that hill's overgrown corner stood Sannō Shrine. Though monkeys sometimes descend from deep mountains there, their sheer multitude startled me—not their simian nature nor reddened faces should surprise us, Gensuke.

“Every last one—look! Their fur was vermilion red from head to tail.

And their numbers—having reached fifty or sixty there—were just the beginning.
They kept swarming backward endlessly, trailing over the back mountain’s peak like a crimson waterfall cascading from some dizzying height—plunging through rocks only to surge again, their spreading multitude visible below in uncountable droves.
Even at the farthest edges where their ranks thinned to ones and twos, there seemed no end—hundreds—no, thousands must have been there.”

And after all, it was as if looking through a magnifying glass at a procession of red ants scattered across the mountain. Not one made a sound; they fell utterly silent, moving briskly—only the dwarf bamboo rustled.

A dream—it must be a dream. But it wasn’t.
“Thinking it was a dream—Gensuke, listen… Though in truth, it wasn’t a dream—but even if I say I saw it now, it can’t truly be real.”

When Gensuke heard this, he grew even more sullen, the hairs of his beard bristling sharply.

“Yes, sir.”

while drawing in his breath,

“It truly does exist there, sir.”
“The nature of the place accounts for it, sir.”
“Master Zassho, this humble one would never presume to doubt.”

“I don’t doubt it; I truly believe it.”
“Now then, Gensuke—there’s one more thing I need you to properly do.”

There, from the dark path behind me, something came swiftly up and drew alongside me—then in an instant, with great strides, overtook me.
……

During the mountain outing season, both women and palanquins pass through.
The path wasn't narrow enough for shoulders to brush against others, yet their footsteps aligned vividly - then abruptly, as I stood frozen in place, they slipped by.

In the twilight gloom—though only a brief stretch—the swarming red monkeys made me long for human company.

When I peered through, everything became perfectly clear.

"That too might be a dream—Gensuke—even though it's dark.—"

“A large monk wearing a red raincoat over his naked body.”

“Yes, sir,” Gensuke replied tersely.

"Exposing a jet-black circular pate—no, having moved away from my ear—he stiffened the red raincoat's sleeves like shachi fins, bent his massive arms into hook shapes, brandished a short-handled crimson flag repeatedly, poised himself erect, and marched steadily past......

The crimson flag lashed through midair.

Though I thought it impossible—especially given this loneliness as I had described, and my guard being somewhat lowered toward the monk's figure—

(Monk, monk.
)

I called out twice from behind."

Five

"The dread stood before me too.
Now then--I couldn't tell if my own voice--the one I'd meant to shout--had actually left my mouth or not--but without hesitation,the moment I thought I'd called out,I spun around."

He couldn't recall the face,but both chin and forehead seemed red.

(Whereto?)

he immediately asked.

In a voice like splitting bamboo—

"I come to burn down the castle town," he said.
He darted out—and five or six monkeys reached his feet.
"It was like a red cloud had been swept aside, Gensuke."

“…………”
The janitor did not speak.

“At that moment, he thrust up the flag,

‘(Observe from the lookout.)’ he said—then flipped that raised flag sideways with sudden motion. No sooner had he pointed than the flag’s flamelike fire leapt swiftly to pine treetops on the opposing ridge across the valley, igniting in a burst like hurled torches.
His entire face became a sheet of crimson flame—yet seen from afar as small flickering points—only to perceive what still appeared as a clove-shaped form swaying at the lookout pine’s crown. When composure returned, neither monk nor monkeys nor shadows remained.
The red flag too vanished like falling fireworks.”

It was like a child falling down and crying—how utterly trivial. Now that it had come to this, suddenly, even I myself let out a voice trembling with fear unlike any in this world—"Agh!" I cried out, and seemingly flew through the air a distance of three tan toward the mountain path to make my escape. I felt as if I had finally awakened from a dream. It was cold now—this time. Clattering my teeth yet unnoticed by others where I thought the monk stood perched on tiptoe—then scrambling up the front peak as if clawing at it... wildly sliding back down—when I reached the viewpoint—what do you think? The night seemed to brighten into vastness—from the cliff's edge at a high vantage point leaned outward, the lookout pine that solitary observed the castle town with moonlit clarity—exactly where the red flag had leapt—now revealed a five-day-old moon emerging in pallid light, the pine tree before me resembling a giant crab crawling up the mountain draped in seaweed clusters, damply glistening as mist entwined its form. Far below—though in what I believe to be my neighborhood—the voice of a tofu seller making late rounds in the outskirts seemed faintly audible.

This is absurd.
One who presumes to take charge of children and assist in their education—here I was, feeling as though possessed by a fox... I couldn't even speak of it to my own wife.

I returned home, took a bath, and went to bed—though I was exhausted as if made of cotton, somehow I still couldn't sleep comfortably. At times I'd hear sounds like urgent temple bells ringing, startle awake drenched in cold sweat, all of it half-dreamt.

“This wind has been blowing since dawn.”

“It has been blowing since the Hour of the Tiger—burst forth all at once like a storm surge—or so this humble one believes.” Gensuke delivered this statement as if reciting a formal report. “There’s something—an air thick with dread.”

“When dawn comes, this sandstorm.”
Yet for us humans, it felt as if clouds and mist had been swept away.
No trace of the red-raincoated monk flickered through my mind.
Before long I dismissed it—eight, nine, ten o’clock passed without incident as classes concluded—and this eleven o’clock hour was meant for textbook reading.

“Hey, Gensuke.”

When I began teaching and started reading, the section was strange. There was an explanation of fire extinguishers—various fire prevention equipment. But paying it no further mind, I began the lesson—and just when I thought about ten minutes had passed, the entrance door opened and that child came falteringly in.

“Here, Missy-Young Master.”

“Right.”
“It was Miyahama.”
Oh? I thought.
That child stood out like snow in an inkstone.
...He’d properly attended both morning classes in his seat—the one along the glass windows by the playground... though it was the inner seat of a pair.
I hadn’t noticed at all.
...Indeed, that seat had become a hollow space.

Moreover, it was strange that none of those who’d typically erupt over a fallen chopstick had remarked on one missing member.

When he wandered in from the corridor during an unexpected class hour, they inevitably burst into commotion, but even that clamor was swept away by the wind outside, carried all at once into the distance as if dashed against the mountains.
Only their mouths and eyes moved disjointedly as they clamored, the children's voices faintly echoing.……

Six

"I too was caught off guard, feeling strangely disarmed as I blankly gazed at that lovely, beautiful child,"

stealthily approaching the chair's side with a sweet, gentle smile,

"Teacher... Sister says..."

he said.
"Sister came and said fire will burn today—there'll be a great fire and it's dangerous, so please dismiss us early and let everyone go home."
"She told me to ask you... Please let me go home," he pleaded.
Being a shy boy, he spoke in the faintest voice.

This was the wind.

It was fortunate they hadn’t heard.
If even a hint of this were to reach the students' ears, it would cause a commotion loud enough to break through walls.
Hearing "fire" now—it reverberated from his head down to his chest with a roiling intensity.

Maintaining a composed expression, he informed everyone that Miyahama had suddenly fallen ill and that he was now going to attend to him.
Having instructed them to remain quiet as previously told, he calmed himself as much as possible and first brought that child to this waiting room.

Now then, he tried to calm himself, but all the while, this wind would intermittently flare crimson or turn inky black.
“Well, Gensuke. What do you make of this?”

Just as he said this, his words were cut off.
Both of them stared fixedly ahead as the wind suddenly roared, tearing at roofs as if to rip them off and crush them.

"I can't keep calm."

Zassho firmly crossed his arms, pressed his back against the chair's armrest, and maintained a rigid posture,

“When I asked Miyahama about it, even he couldn’t make sense of it—this ‘sister’ being a complete stranger, not meaning his actual sister at all.”

“I asked if it was their first meeting, but he said it wasn’t.”
“It was about seven days ago, he said.”

When classes ended and it was time to go home, they would form a large line and proceed out to the gate.
Having them align their steps, I sent them out with a count of ‘One, two…’

Then behind the pillar of that recently repainted blue gate, she stood pressing her sleeve cuff to her mouth - though I knew nothing of the child's form. Her locks of hair hung in clusters, those beautiful crystal-like eyes cast downward yet staring with such clarity, as if determined not to let a single child in the line escape her notice.

The lookout pine could be seen from here as well... The sky held nothing but cloud-like wisps—it had reportedly been a remarkably clear, warm day... This fine weather had persisted for fourteen or fifteen days now.

"I too lead everyone outside the gate daily," I said, "but neither seven days ago nor two days prior did I ever glimpse such a woman."
"Moreover—you understand—they say that woman kept beckoning him by fluttering her white fingers like bashful plover gestures until he carelessly slipped from the line and approached her side."
"I knew nothing of this."

(Miyahama’s Nami-chan, eh?)

It wasn’t from this country—the kind of thing you’d read about in books, he thought.
When the boy nodded,

“I’ll give you something nice, so come with me. Come along now—don’t mind the others.”

“To dismiss us so utterly—how cruel! Don’t you agree, Gensuke?”

Then, as she took his hand, he followed—apparently not far from the school grounds.
Though overgrown, she led him through the rear gate into a sprawling back area, bringing him into what looked like a grove of Japanese pepper trees.
“The place was so warm it reddened the rims of her eyes,” he’d said.
“She took some herself, made the boy take some too—then said the strangest thing.”

“(Eat plenty now. Everyone will have beautiful blood like your mother’s.)”

She had said this.
“She even gave them as souvenirs.”
“When he returns home and asks his father, ‘Who gave these?’—”

“(I am a friend of your deceased mother.)”

“Though that’s what she claimed.”
“That child’s mother should have passed away.”

“But at least up to this point, we’re safe, Gensuke.”

“That woman came to the school again this morning—or so he says.”

Gensuke started and recoiled.

“This time, the schoolyard.
“And it was during recess after the ten o’clock arithmetic class had ended.
“Though battered by the wind, all the children rushed out—but being that sort of child, he stayed alone, still at play... As he drew Sister’s face on his slate like this, through the glass door... that beautiful countenance unforgettable even in dreams... appeared and signaled with her eyes for him to come outside... Though they’d met but once, when the child saw that face, their hearts already understood each other—so they say.”

Seven

“Miyahama says today that woman was wearing a hairpin with red berries—probably Japanese pepper ones—but who’d wear fruit as decoration? Then again, a child’s eyes might mistake them for coral.”

But that matter was neither here nor there.

Immediately he joyfully took a detour from the corridor—right outside his seat's window.
When he reached where the woman waited, there amidst being violently scattered by wind, numerous children were likely staggering unsteadily.

"Gensuke—recently at school—what with summer heat approaching—the moss grew too thick and stone walls crumbled—so when replacing well curbs—there was this large stone wheel inside gate that children mischievously rolled into garden."
"—That one."

Adults might manage, but given that it’s round and slippery, three or five children couldn’t budge it even a little. But when the woman led that child swiftly past it, the wheel appeared to throb like a pulse before rolling diagonally across the lawn.

“Hey, the well curb’s flying in the wind!” or something—raising a war cry, all the children chased after it, forming a dark cluster as they rushed out. Meanwhile on the opposite side, unnoticed by anyone, she calmly slipped away—they say. How about that? Isn’t this strange too?

[She] entered the shade of that palm tree by the side earthen wall where leaves rustled noisily, then wordlessly stroked his back.

It was there he reportedly received his instructions.

"There will soon be a fire," she said. "Tell your teacher you must return home quickly.
"But the schoolteacher might dismiss it with 'How could such a thing happen?'"
"You must hurry straight home without a word."
"Injuries aren't worth enduring."
"Still, to avoid being scolded later, do try to get what permission you can first."

“I believe we still have sufficient time—but should your return become delayed through these circumstances and anything occur along your path—consume this.”
“Then you shan’t find yourself swallowed by smoke.”

Having said that... Then she took out a paper-wrapped package from her sleeve, placed it into his breast pocket, pressed it down, held it close like this, and adjusted his collar—those were the Japanese pepper berries.

“I wish I could stay with you, but Sister has an important day today.”

Even as she spoke, the raging wind whipped through her jet-black hair, billowing wildly until it nearly concealed her face like a storm cloud—then fluttered apart to reveal a pale cheek glowing like the moon, it’s said...

But when it came to speaking of an unseen fire existing, such things were too dreadful to tell the teacher—it was said Miyahama shook his head.

“Now then, Namikichi-chan—between what the teacher says and what I say, which do you think is true?—”

The child apparently couldn’t answer that—and well… no wonder, Gensuke.

“The Teacher’s words hold no falsehood.
But what I say is true… This fire too bends to my will.
If I yield myself to that existence, the flames will not burn.
For that being—frustrated in its desires—I, from my very core, make houses and people vanish through spiteful retaliation.”

“Well now,” she continued with measured intensity beneath rustling palm fronds,
“were you to consult your teacher about this matter,
he would declare that sacrificing one’s very flesh constitutes
the righteous path—that preserving homes and lives demands such forfeiture,
regardless what becomes of his own body.”

“I cannot account for men’s lives, but a woman’s virtue cannot be traded for people or houses.”
“…That is what I believe.”
“Since this is my conviction, there must be a fire.”
“As I said—they will burn it all to spite me.”

“At your age, you still cannot fathom our feminine hearts—no doubt you think it only proper to cast oneself aside to save others, just as the teacher preaches.”

“No, that’s not it… I cannot account for men’s lives.)

repeating,

"(A woman’s chastity.)" she repeated, staring intently at his face,

A woman’s chastity cannot be exchanged for people or houses—don’t you ever forget that, Namikichi-chan.
“You’ll understand soon… For a child with beautifully pure blood who eats plenty of red berries, instead, the fire sparks will simply fall like cherry blossom dew—beautifully.”
“Come now, quickly.”
“Be careful—for today is an important day for my body as well.)”

Even as she spoke—gripping both hem and sleeves—her hair seemed ready to be swept skyward, they say.

“This is it, Gensuke—the window glass undulating like waves. Look at that!”

VIII

Mr. Zassho let out a breath,

"When I questioned him, that Miyahama—being a motherless child with a notably good memory—answered me. It seems the kind woman’s words had soaked deep into his being, for he reported them to me here as if reciting verbatim from dictation."
But each time, he shuddered with goosebumps rising on his skin.
"But I can’t make sense of the woman’s mysterious words."

"I don't understand that part, but ultimately there will be a fire—that much is certain."

(It doesn’t exactly feel like a lie, yet it can’t be entirely true—regardless, go wait in the janitors’ room and calm yourself. You’re running a slight fever.)

When I felt his forehead and found it hot, I sent that child over there.

“Well, what concerns me is last night’s incident on the mountain path... Red monkeys, a red flag—the monk wearing the red raincoat.”

“He wore a crimson priest’s robe—not a red raincoat.”
“A d-demon person, sir,” he said, his entire body rattling as if delivering a stern lesson.

“Well, I can’t quite grasp it, but that voice—like bamboo snapping under snow—what did it say…”

(I have come to burn the town.)

“Gensuke—after sending Miyahama away, when I clutched the skylight and sank into thought to forget the wind’s roar—suddenly, like flint striking steel, what blazed crimson before my eyes was this.”

As he took the edge of the ledger in both hands and tilted it to show him, the finely written characters in standard script—glowing as though luminous—cast a vermilion glare across Gensuke’s face leaning forward, the entire page densely covered in vermilion text.

“Yes.”

“Well—what began this I cannot say—but for exactly one week now I’ve been writing this school diary of mine in vermilion ink on sudden impulse.”

“Yesterday was Sunday, so it’s missing.”
“One week.”

With a rustle, he flipped the paper, its edges fluttering repeatedly—then in the whirlwind outside, a fragment of red cloud surged as if to leap over the desk.

“Even during the previous period, I wrote (storm), erased it, then wrote (gale) and erased that too before settling on (hurricane)—all in vermilion again. Look…”

“And strangely enough—in my panic—I left only a sheet and a half of ruled paper, setting tomorrow’s portion there as this: (Tuesday).”

The pointing finger—stiff as dried fish—twitched.

“The textbook’s fire chapter... Gensuke, what’s your take?”
“All the other teachers outrank me, true enough—but they’re younger.”
“The principal’s considerably junior too.”

Such matters required consulting seasoned elders—that’s why I’d summoned him.
What was I to do?
Should calamity strike, Miyahama wouldn’t be the only one at risk.
...Every last child here—I’d stamp out the school’s very forge if needed to send them home immediately over this lapse.
Yet what seemed trivial masked grave urgency.
A school entrusted by parents with their children’s education couldn’t possibly close temporarily over mere concerns involving women, children, or Japanese pepper berries.

It couldn't be resolved by my own foolishness alone.

First and foremost, such superstitions must be something we ought to take responsibility for breaking and discarding.
Well then—if such a thing were indeed to occur—the most terrifying element would be this wind.
Clang! Just imagine—the entire city's roof tiles were few enough to count, wooden shingle roofs illuminating even the half-moon above like kindling.
In our town on the high ground, wasn't this precisely the situation where we were conducting untimely water rationing?
It would scorch through to the very roots of the earth.
For the children to return home safely, not even one in ten would manage it.

Gensuke was at a loss.
What truly unsettled me was this—if time’s delay portended some cataclysm, then the instruction to “suck on red berries” felt woefully inadequate… We were racing against half past eleven.
“If something unexpected were to occur—what do you think—what do you think, Gensuke? What’s your considered judgment?”

“This is no ordinary matter—no ordinary matter at all!” he declared, slamming his fist onto the desk.

“It must be that the houses of the castle town have reached their end—this cannot be contested, cannot be contested.”

Half-closing his eyes like a blind man, he fixed his neck with milky-white eyes and stared fearfully at the ceiling while continuing,

“There exists a certain matter... My former master from the old domain days came upon it during night studies.
“Long ago on the main avenue of that Tang capital—there was an occasion when, well now—a suspicious Taoist priest combed his hair and tore open his gaunt blue chest with violent ripping sounds down the middle, then carved open the flesh to write ‘person, person’ characters before dashing through the crowds.”
“I once told my colleague about this affair too, but its meaning escapes me.”
“When even in the Tang capital all marveled at it, on the third day thereafter broke out a great fire—of such scale it finds no parallel in the chronicles.”

“Gensuke, Gensuke.”

With that, Zassho grew intensely agitated,

“What is that? The one who wrote the character for ‘person’ on his chest—” But just as he posed this question, he himself seemed reluctant to ponder it further.

“Well now—though ’tis but a trifling matter, best we make haste.”
“Please write the character for ‘person’ here.”

Amidst the wind's frenzy—even within that tumult—Gensuke, wishing to blossom conversation through the earnestness of his questioned heart with none other than Assistant Principal Zassho as his interlocutor, unfastened the buttons of his soiled undershirt and exposed his quivering chest.

Zassho too, in urgent haste, took up the vermilion brush that lay ready without uttering a word, and between the nipples drew a crimson "person" character. Clack-clack went something—teeth gritting in endurance—but as the thrusting brush's vermilion splattered, its momentum suddenly caught on chest hair, making the hairs writhe like flames being dragged.

“Hot! So hot!”

[He] suddenly leapt up, landed squarely on his buttocks, and wrenched out a blood-curdling cry—

“Fire! Colleague San’emon, fire!” he shouted.

“What?”

Zassho too stood rooted to the spot, but then began acting frantically—

“Why are you throwing those?”
“Why are you throwing Japanese pepper berries?”
“Miyahama!”

He raised his voice.
What Namikichi saw as he flung the berries toward the crimson-scattered objects flying through the corridor were fire sparks reflecting off the windowpanes like loosed arrows.

The moment the clock struck twelve, temple bells resounded dully through the wind—then from twelve locations at once erupted the clangor of alarm bells, their rapid tolling synchronized.

Smoke had already filled the corridor, and peering through the darkness at the fiery sky beyond revealed the school's blue gate transformed into a terrifying deep purple.

The great fire of that day was a mysterious blaze that erupted from beneath the main hall of the grand branch temple of Honganji, located in the highland field of the city facing the Lookout Pine, and within three hours burned nearly the entire city.

Smoke outpaced the wind; flames flew swifter than birds.

Casualties among people and livestock were considerable.

Amidst the fires, Mr. Zassho cut a striking figure with his hakama's crotch strap hitched high—wearing no haori... one sleeve of his cotton robe torn away, tabi socks on bare feet—staggering through the avenue where fire and smoke raced like a fixed-eyed indigo mask.

Time and again as he pressed forward, he saw crimson monkeys tumbling in zigzag patterns—from roof to roof, from treetops to upper floors swaying beneath black smoke.

At his feet lay people and carts fallen.

When he reached a certain crossroads, he encountered last night's monk—popping out sideways before slipping diagonally around the corner.
Clad again in nothing but that red raincoat, his steps now trod firm as if trampling wind itself beneath his feet.

But waving a red flag and cradling it against his sleeve, he seemed to hesitate slightly,

"This burns too fiercely—far too fiercely."

He had scarcely muttered these words beneath his breath when he disappeared.
Had Zassho glimpsed his face, he would have turned to ash.

There were no traces of fences or partitions, but there lay a large toppled stone lantern. When he entered what appeared to be the garden of some estate, driven by the smoke, he saw Namikichi's unharmed form sitting sideways with small legs stretched out beneath a great tree—its trunk and branches aflame like a withered tree under sunset glow. The school had formed evacuation groups as a practical measure, but they all ended up scattered.

When he looked, tilting up his beautiful entranced face, he caught the scattering fire sparks falling from the branches with his beautiful sleeve as if scooping handfuls of hail,

“Teacher, there are plenty of Japanese pepper berries.”

With that, he smiled with a serenity beyond his years.

Zassho bent both knees and exhaled beside him as though collapsing.
But there already, the fire sparks vanished like snow—even when they clung to sleeves, brushing them away left no moisture.

Meiji 44 (1911), January