Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Narrowly cleft between sand dunes, their opposing skirts facing each other like two fearsome beasts crouched on the verge of the raging sea, there stood a lone fisherman’s hut by the roadside, clinging to the cliff.

The cliff, since time immemorial when waves first began to assail this world, had stood firm like an iron shield, holding back tides spanning countless fathoms—its ridges worn like crumbling snow, a testament to enduring resilience.

Though the silver grass and pampas grass that grew intermingled upon the dunes might scatter and wither completely each year, for a thousand generations to come, the cliff’s rocks remain verdant with pines, their hue unchanged even by frost.

That is why—Matsugoro.
Our brave boatman, relying on the cliff at the water’s edge, left behind O-Nami—his beautiful beloved wife—and their adorable infant each day to venture down the narrow path before that gate. There, his figure, caught between opposing beasts of cliff and sea, seemed to plunge toward the open ocean: descending sand dunes to the shore, then cleaving through raging waves until he vanished beyond even soaring gulls into unseen clouds.

In Matsugoro’s absence, the house held only the scent of seaweed carried by winds from the rocky shore—a smell that clung to rolled-up sleeves more persistently than beach lilies’ fragrance or the sky’s smoky haze. For O-Nami, this loneliness sharpened as she passed her days holding the infant, stroking cheeks, humming lullabies, mending clothes, doing needlework, even roasting dried fish over pine needles—each act a thread in the solitary fabric of her routine.

Even one so accustomed to the roar of waves would startle at a rooster’s crow—breaking from shared slumber with the child—then slide open the door to an unshadowed moon where insect songs gathered, and in that midnight hour of longing for her husband, find dew settling on nightclothes.
With hands like maple leaves pressed to her chest, passing days without seeing March’s blossoms, even to whispers of wind through young leaves she listened only for oar sounds—alas, the cuckoo she awaited did not come.
Was the ferocity of winter’s whale not a tempest—its raging sea’s fangs shattering pillows frozen with tears, shaking weeping children?

When the mother’s arms grew weary, the father labored amid rain, waves, wind, oars, clouds, and fish churning about his boat on the dark night sea.

Though fishermen everywhere made their living the same way—warm in the south, cold in the north, with even a single road split between shade and sun—the western-facing shores of Tateyama and Hōjō on the Bōsō Peninsula differed entirely from their eastern counterparts: Maebara, Kamogawa, Furukawa, Shirako, Kotō, and above all, the offshore waters of Chikura haunted by ghost ships, and the Emi-Wada coastlines. Here, nothing but white sails facing the wind blocked the Pacific’s unbroken gales—these were seas of jagged rocks, their ferocity known to all.

The solitary house stood at the water’s edge of Emi Beach—a structure built against the shore with young trees that resembled castle walls or stone fortifications. Having only recently become independent, its thatched roof still pale green, fresh straw trimming the Shimada-style eaves. Though a mother, the wife was but twenty-two or twenty-three.

Last year around this time, at autumn’s beginning, she had borne her first child—and as for O-Hama, even the sand seemed to cradle her like a single precious seed upon fine cloth.
In the blue depths of the pillow mosquito net placed in the sunlit storeroom, she slept soundly without daytime firefly glow—yet her loveliness spilled over to all surroundings: tatami mats, veranda edges, hand toys and playthings.

A papier-mâché dog lay on its side while a daruma doll sat upright on the veranda bench. With her sewing board tilted, her nursing clothes still disheveled, and her older-sister-style hairdo loosely tied, O-Nami’s sun-exposed forearms—pale from her city upbringing—moved with unsparing grace. Her hands arched as they patted scraps of red silk, their motions tracing the koto-like rhythm of the waves—a domestic scene both workaday and tender.

Around three o’clock on an autumn day—when shadows of people paled beside those of millet, and beyond a ridge where a single red dragonfly flew—a boisterous voice rang out.

“Extra edition! Extra edition!”

II

“San-chan, what’s this ‘extra edition’ about?”

The wife, still bent over her sewing, called out in a casual tone to the familiar fellow from the same fishing grounds she saw daily.

With one hand thrust into his pocket—whatever snacks he’d scrounged up—the bag that had gulped down its contents now stuffed into his pocket.
Holding a candy stick vertically, snapping it with his front teeth while chewing, he stood bolt upright before the veranda bench, his round Fukusuke-doll head turned forward as if struck by a blowgun dart.
A speckled indigo short-sleeved kimono—who knew which granny had given it—paired with a frayed pale-yellow sash and a single-layer loincloth twisted from rope, worn with cheeky sagging at the rear.

This was Old Man Riemon—the prayer-chanting elder who never let go of his prayer beads even while mending torn nets. Peering sidelong through a small window hole in the creeping weeds at the neighboring persimmon tree, the roof behind, and the crows, he would hoist up the matchlock gun—its stock anchored heavily against his cross-legged knee where it always rested—a weapon passed down through three generations. With a sharp exhale he blew away dust that made his eyes water, yet his aim never faltered. Jet-black feathers scattered down as he barked "Suppress ’em" without so much as a glance, then returned to his handiwork murmuring Buddhist prayers.

For their evening meals, they boiled this and ate that—so much so that the grandfather’s karma came back upon his grandson thirty-three thousand three hundredfold, earning him the nickname “Little Crow Sannosuke,” a large-framed boy of thirteen by traditional count.

His drooping brows lifted and fell as he grinned broadly.

“Sister, it’s my extra edition! This mornin’, my stomach hurt from th’ extra edition—Inabamaru slacked off ’cause of th’ extra edition too—but it’d get cured right quick by another extra edition!”

“That’s quite a trouble for you. But it’s completely better now?” she said, narrowing her eyes as she adjusted a scrap of red silk with quick little tugs.

“Ah, extra edition! There ain’t nothin’ to it now.”
“But if you keep doin’ that, your belly’ll trouble you again.”

“What’re you talkin’ about? That ain’t how it works!”
“Hey, Sister,”
“Eatin’ sweets and crunchin’ ’em so hard—ain’t that too rough?”

“Hmm, this one?”

He narrowed his eyes upward and licked his lower lip with a flick.
His shoulders, shins, and pockets all rustled as he shook the bag,

“What’s this now? What is it? Um… I was plannin’ to give this to my wife—bought it from Granny’s shop ’cause it looked so good I wanted a little lick. There’s only one piece.”
“I’m givin’ all of ’em to my wife.”

He swiftly turned around to face the sewing board, propped his hand on the veranda, and peered toward the storeroom.

“Well now, sleeping away, Sister—wonder if my wife’s asleep too.”

“Ah, she just took a nap, you see.”

“You’re heartless, huh? Even though I brought all these tasty things.”

“Hey, hey, not up yet, O-Hama-ko? Huh?”

He strained his neck as if peering intently and pulled back his hips,

“She ain’t sayin’ nothin’—just flies buzzin’ around everywhere.”

“The flies are truly dreadful—even without mosquitoes during the day, if you don’t put her in the mosquito net like that, they swarm around in such a pitiful way.”
“And with starch like this around, they aren’t too bad.”
“San-chan, your place probably isn’t like this either—being a bit away from the beach, there must be fewer of them there too, I suppose.”

“They’re there alright—not just there, but way more! Swarmin’ all over the place!”
“Grabbin’ a whole handful at once, callin’ ’em Okada snails or whatnot—looks like they wanna use ’em for soup stock.”

He said with a straight-faced yet earnest expression.

III

At her age, speaking of such things—the domesticity of their daily life, the smoke from salt-burning rising in a single line alongside fellow thatched-roof houses sharing the same haze—the wife smiled faintly,

“My, San-chan, you’re saying such admirably domestic things.”

He, realizing her meaning, started to laugh,

“Hahaha, don’t go callin’ me domestic-minded, Sister.”
“Since this O-Hama-ko was born, I don’t spend my pocket money as much as I can.”
“Even when I spend a Yoshi, a Nana, or a one-sen coin, I make sure to use it wisely. I buy all sorts of things—playthings, candy, you name it—and bring ’em here.”

The wife somehow lowered her eyes into the hand towel, her voice growing subdued as she—

“San-chan, why do you act this way? At your age, when most would snatch things from children if they wanted them for themselves, here you are using every bit of pocket money you get from everyone to buy something for that child.”
“Sister, I’m truly touched... but really, San-chan—if you’d just eat it yourself, my heart aches so for you.”

He lowered his eyes happily,
“Heh heh, what? Ain’t nothin’ like that. There’s nothin’ pitiful about it at all.”
“It’s tastier when my wife eats it than when I eat it myself.”

“You say things like that.”

The wife raised her face with a gentle smile,

“What a kind heart you have.”

She nodded pensively to herself,

“But that’s how any man is, I tell you.”
“Brother’d say the same thing, I tell you.”
“Even if I get soaked in a storm out on the boat, as long as Sister and O-Hama-ko ain’t gettin’ rained on in here where we don’t need no roof over our heads, I don’t feel cold at all, I tell you.”

“You’re full of lies.”

Even though her teasing partner was a child, the wife’s face involuntarily flushed with a start.

“It ain’t a lie! But then again, Sister, you’re workin’ just as hard too.”

“Hey Sister, what’s a wife even for? If I go out fishin’ and she ain’t pastin’ stuff up for me, I’d be pissed, I tell ya.”

“Oh, we’ll do it—or rather, not do it! Ohoho! San-chan, what exactly would we be pasting?”

“Huh? What’s that? That’s for later! Right now I’m just wearin’ this and got nothin’ else.”

Flustered by his own disarray, he pulled out a nearly slipping candy bag from his half-open pocket and placed it on the edge—then the matchlock bullets clattered.

“Extra edition! Extra edition!” he cried, scrambling after them in a half-crouch and swatting sideways with a smack. When one flipped over, he gave another swat from his side, spun it around, and deftly scooped it up—

“Ha,”

With a shout, he popped his lips.

“Well, that’s not much of a feast.”

Sannosuke gulped,

“Ah… extra edition,” he muttered, bewildered.

The wife flicked her wet hand lightly and stood up smoothly.

“San-chan.”

“Hmm,”

“You’ve kept this three-foot sash quite dashing, but isn’t it getting all frayed? Since I’m at it, I’ll fix up this edge here for you.”

“What’s this for?”

With that, he stepped back,

“I’ll undo this satin obi any minute now…”

He began humming a familiar melody in mid-tone while straightening up, then spun around no sooner than facing away before stomping down heavily with a thud.

“Whoa!”

A tea-colored mottled dog that had been creeping toward the sunny spot jerked back, scattering sand—no—more precisely, revealing the frantic disorder of its retreat.

IV

“Look at this state of affairs, you weakling! Who do you think I am? I’m Sannosuke the Crow!”

He laughed uproariously in triumph.

“You startled me—shouting so suddenly like that. Ah, my heart’s still pounding.”

With a start, the wife sat down on the veranda. She placed the heel of her geta on the neatly spread hem of her kimono, one hand behind her back while gazing absently at empty sky—the fatigue from having kept her head bowed throughout showed itself through repeated rubbing at her chest.

“You’re such a coward too, Sister. You’re no good ’cause you came from Tokyo draggin’ your kimono hems around some rich man’s mansion—ain’t got no backbone.”

The wife snatched the hand towel but, around her eyes faintly flushed, while stroking stray hairs that tangled against her reddened ears,

“You’re such a bothersome child—going on about hems, hems! Dragging them like that sounds improper.”

“You’re like a sister from a brocade picture, I tell ya! Can’t you see? Everyone’s draggin’ theirs around.”

“That’s how princesses of old were.”
“Even if it was Lord Inaba’s mansion—a wealthy patron’s household—I was just a maid there. Why would I have gone dragging my hems?”

“I’ll get this satin obi undone any minute now, see if I don’t!”
“I don’t give a damn ’bout princesses or maids or any o’ that—but a boatman’s wife bein’ such a weakling just won’t do! Ah, I ain’t raisin’ O-Hama like this, I tell ya!” he declared with a haughtiness that clashed with his face, his voice like a mechanical whirr echoing from a doll’s hollow belly.

The wife forced a smile as she turned to face him directly and met his gaze.

“Ohoho, if one only listens to your words, San-chan, you seem so strong—but in truth, you’re utterly spineless. What’s all that about?”

“What’s ‘that’?” he said, rolling his eyes.

“But when Genji-san, Senta-san, or Old Man Riemon come around… you’ve been called not ‘the dashing Crow’ since around May, but ‘Sannosuke the Crybaby,’ ‘Crybaby San,’ ‘Crybaby San.’”
“And then they tell you to rename yourself ‘Mullet’—isn’t it that every time you act all high and mighty, you end up getting locked in a cage?”
“Whatever it was—whether you got scared or couldn’t handle the hardship—you must’ve cried out there on the open sea.”
“This one,” she said, amused as he faced her directly, while he worked his mouth wordlessly and let his headband droop limply.

“Heh, heh, heh,” he forced out with a bitter smile, looking down.

“You should see yourself, Crybaby.”

[She] involuntarily clapped her hands lightly.

"But... but... what's..."

With a look of bitter frustration on his face,

“At my age, there ain’t many who can row a tuna boat like I can.”

“The snot-nosed brats ’round here—you think they could swim out to the rocky shores? At best, they’re nettin’ killifish in some piddly dam or splashin’ ’round with crucian carp in an old river’s shallows.”

“Even if you call it the shoreline—ride one wave ridge and see. It swells up high as the heavens, with the mountain temple below your eyes. Not some mountain o’ empty boasts, but crest one wave and you’re in the valley’s belly. Can’t see beach nor Japan—stars shinin’ in the water, sun gone deep blue. Sister, that’s on a fine calm day like this, y’know.”

“But when you’re out at sea and a storm hits—total chaos in pitch darkness, can’t tell waves from waterfalls—gulp down a mix o’ fresh water and saltwater, lick the salt crust off nets easy as pie, hummin’ a tune all the while—who’d go cryin’ out there?”

He puffed up his shoulders and swung his arms grandly, straining to mimic a patrolman’s swagger.

“So why on earth—why on earth are you called Crybaby San?”

“Uh…”

In an instant, his face turned strange; with a blank expression stripped of all performative bluster, he fidgeted with his headband while—

“Nah, nah—heh heh heh—extra edition! Extra edition!”

V

“Hey—wait a moment. I’ve got business with you,” called the wife to stop him.

He leaned forward in his fleeing stance, hips pulled back.

“But I’m busy with the extra edition, see? Ah, extra edition!”

“Hey, wait a second—what’s this? You—just wait!”

When she abruptly rose to pursue him, he—having dashed out about five steps—leaped back in a single bound, crouched nimbly, and tilted his round chin and prominent forehead upward toward the apron of the wife who had stood.

“Hey,” he said.

When her path was abruptly blocked, the wife’s body lurched forward as if about to collapse, staggering.

“What on earth—you startled me again.”

“Heh heh heh, it’s just cage duty, you weakling!”

“Oh, fine then! San-chan is so strong—because you’re strong, you’re strong enough to have shed those tears—so tell me why you did it.”

“Since you’re strong, that’s why you shed those tears,” he said, as if to confirm, then blinked, his eyes looking strained.

“That won’t do—‘strong enough to shed tears’? Who ever heard of someone strong shedding tears like that?”

“Then you’re just a weakling after all?”

“But Sister—you didn’t even shed tears.”
“The ghostly fire clung to the ship all night and wouldn’t leave, you see.”
“Old Man Riemon—with that mouth of his that mocks others for crying—yet when it came down to it, he was the one chanting Buddhist prayers back then,” she glared, trying to act tough.

The wife—whether she acknowledged it or not—clutched at the secret dread in her heart and grilled him until her face turned pale.

“Well, about the ghostly fire clinging…”

“Oh—…”

As if to say just that, Sannosuke clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Hush now, hush,” he said, turning aside with a half-smile and a look of feigned surprise.

Wanting all the more to hear what was being kept secret, the wife deliberately feigned sulkiness,

“Fine then! Keep it all to yourself. After all, you’re just an outsider—not O-Hama’s husband.”

Pulling back her shoulders, tilting her body sideways, and adjusting her sleeves as if about to wrench them off, the wife turned her back.

He tapped the skylight with brisk knocks, moving as if hammering down a protruding nail—

“Damn it! Sister, it ain’t like I’m hidin’ anythin’. Brother says so too, an’ even Old Man Riemon an’ th’ crew—they told me t’ keep it hush-hush from ya. Says if we talk ’bout it, folks’ll get scared.”

“Since everyone’s keepin’ it secret, least you could do is tell me, San-chan—ain’t that all right?”

“Hmm, fine—I’ll tell ya. But even if I gab on, I can’t go blabbin’ t’ everyone else, y’know?”

“Who would say such a thing?”

“It’s a secret from O-Hama-chan too, y’know.”

Stealthily rising, he peered once more into the closet’s mosquito net from the veranda.

“What would an infant know?”

“Even so, she might see it in dreams and be haunted.”

“Is it really such a frightening thing?” The wife clutched the veranda pillar.

“Well, what—it’s just that I shed some tears and Old Man Riemon chanted prayers, y’know.”
“Look, Sister—back in May, during that three-day bonito run, we’d stayed out at sea two nights, see?”
“Midnight of the middle night it was.”

In a hazy sea where we couldn't tell field from mountain, after we'd eaten dinner in the evening.

The misty rain that had been falling since daytime began drizzling steadily; we'd all taken shelter in the hull's compartment—and right then, Brother made Sen-tan row.

“So cold, so cold! Ended up catchin’ a cold and lazin’ about,” he said. “‘Ain’t there someone to take over?’ he shouted, then jumped down from the stern with a thud.”

“The boat was rockin’ all unsteady-like, but them waves weren’t the kind to stop. Splash-splash, row-row—whether we were a hundred ri or fifty from shore, couldn’t tell direction nor nothin’.”

The wife nodded, her collar looking desolate, and pressed a hand to her milk-swollen chest.

VI

“He’d overdone it with the salt in the evening meal’s side dish.”
“Well, might as well drink the drizzle,” and then Old Man Riemon stepped in and made ’em row.

“Ugh, creepy Sen-tan—you saw somethin’ weird ’n’ ran off!” Old Man Riemon called from the stern, but Sen-tan just snapped back, “Quit yer nonsense! I’m freezin’ for real!” then tumbled down from the skylight like a Daruma doll, his wadded robe pulled over his head.

“Hoy... ah... hoy...” voices faintly called out amidst the waves, y’know.

I couldn’t tell where it was coming from—it sounded close at times, yet distant at others, y’know.

“They’re here, they’re here! I knew this felt ominous!”
“I’d started gettin’ colic pains too.”
“Come on, someone take over! If ya don’t squat down even a bit, there’s no bendin’ in the knees!” And within half an hour, Old Man Riemon dove back in again.

With everyone making bitter faces—“I’ll row, my head hurts!” “You row, my beriberi’s actin’ up!”—there was no one to take over.

“Sittin’ cross-legged and peerin’ at the compass for a bit, the boss of this house said, ‘Hey you, row!’ So without a second thought—‘Only me’s fit to handle the boat! Leave it to me!’” With that, he mimed gripping an oar, his headband loop stretched wide across his forearm.

“When he suddenly rushed out to the stern, the ship spanned over the waves like a bridge—slippery from the rain.”

With a “Heave-ho!”, he planted his stance firmly—but the massive oar, one that could uproot a zelkova tree great as any ancient giant, responded with such solid heft that he pulled with a deep groan.
The rain drizzled steadily into their headbands until they couldn’t tell sky from sea.
Ah, it felt as if they were walking lightly over distant mountains seen during daylight, while the depths below roared and churned violently.

“Ah… hoy… hoy… ahoy,” came strange voices echoing from some corner of the pitch-black sea where even darkness had its edges.

No matter which way I turned—west or south—the voices seemed to come from wherever I faced.
They rose and fell with the undulating waves, now distant, now near.

Then a dim fire began to burn.
From the boat, out into the blackness some fourteen or fifteen *cho* away, it flared up like a great bubble swelling with a blup-blup.

“Whoa! The fire flared up on its own—I hollered in shock… Sister.”

“Oh…” The wife’s voice altered.

“Quiet, quiet,” Old Man Riemon urged from under the matting in the hull’s compartment.

"And Sen-tan—get this—that was a land spirit too! They say if you don't see one by fifteen, you'll never meet one your whole life—but he stumbled on it at thirteen! 'Lucky bastard,' I blurted out."

"When I heard that, a chill crept up from my wrists where they gripped the oar."

“Well, isn’t that dreadful… So you ended up shedding tears. Can’t blame you—how terrifying.”

Letting her stray hairs flutter in the wind, the wife shuddered.
His complexion—red dragonflies, millet ears in the setting sun.

“A-Ain’t I s’posed t’be O-Hama’s groom? Ain’t no way someone like that’d go snivelin’!”

“They call it flame, but this strange fire was burning fierce-like, lookin’ to come our way—so I pushed the oar to row clear.

“Sister—then that fire, y’see—it took the shape o’ waves! Rose higher’n the skylight one moment, sank like a cliff formin’ beneath the ship’s hull the next. Bloated-like, it rolled ’n’ writhed up to the hull—clinging there like a sea serpent thrashin’ its way closer.”

“………………”

“And then—those awful lingering calls went ‘Ah… hoy… hoy… ahoy,’ y’see? When the fire floated up, they sank down below; when the fire sank down, they floated up above—crystal clear above ’n’ below—while the distant ones clung to your ears ’n’ wouldn’t let go.”

VII

“Anyway, well… someone’s rowin’ that fire over here, same as me, y’know.”

“If it gets too close—bad news,” he thought, notchin’ marks into the oar handle while rowin’ frantic-like—but… no good.

The thing sped up too, floatin’ light as thistledown.

"This ain't workin'—no use at all! So I just quit trying, stood there braced and trembling while I kept watch..."
"Even still, it came floatin' up—light as a bird—landin' on the bow clear o' the water's edge."
"Caught a gust o' wind, it bubbled up and stretched out toward t'other side."
The fire warped into a lopsided circle, castin' a dim yellow shadow through the haze.
The big ship had turned half-yellow from bow to midships.
"That woman—she spread her kimono hem wide, raised her knees like she was fixin' to leap!"
"Thing was huge—when the oar rose up, looked like it'd weigh heavy on t'other end—but turned out lighter'n a feather!"

“I... I...” I said, and let go of the oar.

That’s when—“My face’s gone deathly pale! And yours there’s turned yellow!”—Old Man Riemon barked from under the matting.
“The will-o’-the-wisp passed through.”

“Shut up ’n’ row! Ain’t nothin’ to be done!” the boss of this house hollered—what was I s’posed to do?
“I bent down ’n’ stared right close at that fire.”

“In them murky yellow depths, somethin’ squirmed ’n’ wriggled about.”

“Wh-what? What is it, Sannosuke?” the wife asked hurriedly from under the eaves’ shelter.

Even the one in Hyūga, in the yellowing light of the autumn day approaching dusk, was tinged with a murky darkness.

“I can’t make heads or tails of it, but it was all squirming like someone yanked out a red-eyed abalone’s guts and slammed ’em down.”

Deep red ones and pale blue ones seemed to cling stubbornly to the bow’s planks.

They cleanly detached and fell into the sea, spun round and round—then with a great swell rushing fiercely, a single wave carried them far away, somewhere fish eyes seemed to glimmer.

My shoulders lightened, and the boat glided out smoothly.
In the hull’s midsection, it was silent, and faint snores were audible.
“The night had grown terrifyingly late, but since the waves had calmed, I finally let out a breath.”

Damn thing—what made him let out a breath?

“Ahoy, ahoy,” was called again beside his ear.

“Row quietly,” they told me, and I didn’t let out a single sob—but inside, I thought I might scream.

It was so awful—I tried not to listen by shaking my head and distracting my ears, but damn it all, the fire being summoned onto the ship!

The waves were calm, but it was no use.
“That damn fire floated lightly without any trouble, then came swimming toward the oar I was rowing with—bubbling up—but suddenly it blurred and spread out like a badger’s testicles sprawled across an eight-tatami room!”

The entire expanse of waves glowed yellow.

In their midst, ah, a slender, slimy black island floated into view.

Regarding will-o’-the-wisps—on such nights, they say sharks transform… or so Old Man Riemon later declared.

“Come to think of it—eyes.
“Two crimson fires faced the sky, glaring at the tips o’ their own backs—but after a while…
“The damn demon shark—like it’d been ground to dust—its huge form vanished clean away. Hundreds or even thousands—couldn’t count ’em—all sorts o’ fish came glidin’ smooth-like over them yellow waves. But that demon shark—it showed itself in all kinds o’ twisted forms.
“Couldn’t tell if it was the China Sea, India, or Holland—some damn midnight out there—but I’d’ve never cried over that,” he declared in one breath, then trailed off and glanced around.

At the base of the sand dune before them, the beast-like form facing them stood black against silver grass leaves; the sea’s sky blurred yellow at the wave tips into crimson.

VIII

“While that was goin’ on, O-Saru came back—shrunk down like a crouchin’ human—and just as the whole place went dark in a flash, that damn will-o’-the-wisp swayed over, bubbles foamin’ at its hem, took a breath and surged forward—then tangled itself around the rudder at my feet, fluttering and burnin’ away.”

“I covered my eyes, but my nose was sharp.”
“It took a form that seemed to crawl up to the stern—then one side of it flared up and stretched out. When it looked about to grab the oar I was holding, my hands turned yellow down to the nails, and my eyeballs too got dyed that same color, y’see.”
“The waves slapping sloppily against the gunwale and the ship itself—everything was yellow.”
“So, y’see, sis—if it turned golden and shiny, a golden ship’d be safe enough—but since it’s a phantom, that ain’t how it went.”

“Sometimes it’d turn all smoky-like,and the ship’s shape would vanish,y’know.The waves surged jet-black—and each time,the damn monster’d draw breath and blaze up again.”

“I rowed like mad with the oar to drive it off,but that damn fire tangled itself up around the rudder—ah! Looked like a woman’s kimono hem coiled round it one moment,’r like some old man’s waist clingin’ on t’next.Even saw a big anglerfish swallowin’ a white paper lantern whole!”

“‘Damn beast! Damn beast!’Old Man Riemon cursed,slammin’his foot down,‘Someone man th’helm?!’”

“‘Aye—got stuck ’n’ lit up proper,’he growled back.”

“‘Can’t...Just gotta...handle ’t...’”Matsugoro muttered,soundin’right defeated.

"That one."

"Agh!"

"Look into that eerie fire—terrible ghosts are there! A glimpse o’ hell itself!" Sentaro-don declared.

"It’s a child—quit your nonsense," barked the boss of this house.

"I couldn’t take it anymore—snifflin’ an’ sobbin’ in terror, I just started wailin’."

The account was heard as such, but the wife said nothing, her lips having lost their color.

"They raised the thatch cover—it glowed faintly—and then the boss's figure got driven out into pitch darkness."

“Lend it here. Put that bastard to sleep.”
“No wonder it’s clinging so stubbornly—” He gasped sharply and blew breath into his palms.

“A squall’s coming! Don’t panic!” he barked, seizing the steering oar to stare straight at the sky. I automatically lifted the skylight too—and saw everything had turned a deep murky red.
The waves looked like pitch-black Sea Monks—small hills piled upon each other in slumber.

I tumbled into the hull’s midsection.
There too，eight or nine people were sprawled about，shrinking and cowering.

“Out there in some godforsaken stretch o’ sea—nothin’ but our lone boat surrounded by monsters right ’fore our eyes，a storm ’bout to hit any moment—the thought that only Boss here was still breathin’ ’n’ workin’… chilled me clean through. But Boss ain’t just any man—he’s your true boatman when times turn foul.”

The wife was drawn in,

“Oh, dear...” was all she managed, letting out a deep breath.

He cockily leaned over and cupped his ear with a small hand,

“Rumble——it just kept roaring on and on, like they’d muffled Nagaeji Temple’s great bell under a skylight for half the day, sis.”

“I drowsily fell asleep right there.
Thought I’d been wrestlin’ and got thrown flat on my back—but when I opened my eyes, the boat was flooded.
‘Bail out the bilge! It’s an emergency!’—ship and everyone spinnin’ in chaos, y’see.”

“The thatch and everything else were blown away; we heard nothing but terrifying sounds—it didn’t even feel like rain was falling—water poured through the skylight, and pitch-black Sea Monks surrounded the ship front and back, right and left, fifty here and thirty there. They stood shoulder to shoulder, bold as brass—hands clasped, rigid as posts—and when they raised their arms, water gushed from their sleeves; when they opened their mouths, torrents surged from their throats—pure-white pillars crashing down onto the boat! ‘Ahoy! Hoy!’ Voices being called out from who-knows-where—they clung to my ears here and there, I tell ya.”

IX

“Right then, the boat turned into an eight-oared one—but those voices callin’ out weren’t ours.”

Still in the same place where it had clung to the rudder, in the glow of that eerie fire, the shadow-like ship's form—faintly hazy and ashen-gray, smoke billowing up only to vanish—shot off and glided away smoothly.

“We’re saved! I see an island! Land her! Land her!” Sentaro bellowed.
“Other boats from who-knows-where have rowed in—the island’s right there!” Old Man Riemon declared.
“Right there, the shape of a mountain rapidly appeared; large tree branches thrust through the darkness, swaying amidst scattered spray—then stood upright like masts and swam atop the waves.”

“Have these fools lost their minds? Even Old Man Riemon’s spouting nonsense! There’s not a single rock where islands or mountains rise from the sea.”
“It’s a ghost ship luring toward reefs and summoning others.”
“Keep your wits about you! Don’t let out a single whimper!” roared Boss, yet they were being swept toward uncharted seas right before his eyes. “I don’t care if it’s hell’s own soil—just let me set foot on land and breathe!” Some cried for rescue ships—pathetic whimpers escaping them—as they thrashed about wildly. Boss stood rigid as a post, shuddered violently, then suddenly stood stark naked.

“My husband…,” the wife started to say, then swallowed hard.

“Boss… Hey.”

The eerie fire still clung stubbornly to the rudder. Through the skylight, its yellow-glowing underside—Boss coiled a tuna rope around it, round and round, tied one end to the crossbeam in the hull’s midsection. “Now to dispel this curse—I’ll see whether we end up in the mortal world or hell,” he declared. And here—ah—this Boss was the one they nicknamed “Sea Sparrow.”
He fluttered like a bird, leaping into the sea—no, diving—toward a great mountain of pure white waves piling up and up, crumbling down—and scrambled up it.

The tuna rope—bundled up to a hundred fathoms and towering above the gunwale—snapped taut in one swift motion! Into that blockade of pitch-black Sea Monks—looming ten and fifteen jō tall with arched backs peering down from above, glaring with bared teeth to intimidate—the boat was tossed by waves. Inside they gripped the rope hand over hand while Old Man Riemon chanted Buddhist prayers at that moment.

At last, after time had passed, he returned.
He grabbed the gunwale, revealed a god-like face, and barked: "Nothing here but reefs being struck by waves from all directions—don’t falter!"

“O-Boatman! Thank you for your hard work! Thank you!” they all saluted with clenched fists.

The Sea Monks, the island, and the ship’s shadow vanished without a trace.
All that remained were mountainous waves.

Suddenly—that thing—again all around them: the sky, the ship, people’s faces, even the waves—the enormous sea’s surface was half-divided and turned pale yellow, don’t you see?

“Hey! What’re you doin’, you damn monsters?! They’re spreadin’ out again!” everyone hollered, cursing them to burn in hell.
“No—the sun rose in the eastern sky, but even there, sis, the sky and waves split apart above and below.”
“Last night, when that thing spread out like a demon shark’s back—all yellow with a faint black haze over it—the mountain’s shrine hall appeared at the edge of our sight, I tell ya.”

The wife’s face took on a relieved expression,

“That’s a relief. So you were near the shore after all.”

“We weren’t swept as far as I’d feared. Still, we were about thirty ri out in the open sea.”

“Thirty ri…”

she looked shocked again.

“What’s the big deal, sis? Thirty ri ain’t nothin’.”

“And then, when dawn broke, in that space between the yellow-rimmed, translucent water and sky—amidst the dim light—all sorts of ’em drifted by: one-armed half-bodied things; headless beings; toad-like creatures puffin’ their breath; dogs with flames lashin’ their backs; cows and horses… grotesque shapes floatin’ like shadow puppets in a lantern show, just driftin’ aimless before dartin’ off somewhere, I tell ya.”

X

“Afterwards—yes—Old Man Riemon said it too: in all his years till last night, he’d never had such a stubborn haunting cling to ’em.”

“Sis.”

“I’m tellin’ ya—when dawn broke, those sea monsters skittered off slick as eels! But even with daylight brightenin’ around us, everyone’s faces turned clay-gray. The oar went bone-white, and that damned rudder—still clamped on tight, wouldn’t give an inch.”

The sun’s sheltering grace.
The color gradually turned bluer, bit by bit solidifying as if being scooped up; then swelled bubbling at its hem along the water’s edge—like a damn leech engorged—before dropping onto the nearby waves. With a crackling brightness, the dark blue sea thrust defiantly under the sun and leapt high.

“Well, how auspicious,” everyone exchanged glances—but auspiciousness wasn’t limited to that; you also got a new garment from that season’s bonito catch—the biggest haul of the year.

“The boss was standing at the bow fishing—silver bonito rained down around him! Ah, sis.”

As dusk approached, he looked up at the spider-webbed eaves; his forehead was shadowed.

The wife, too, tilted her pale throat upward and closed her eyes to see—the memoranda within her breast.

“So what was it then—that storm during the rainy season, the one that started raging from midnight.”

“Well, you started crying, and Old Man Riemon began chanting Buddhist prayers.”
“My husband dove into those terrifying waves, risking his life.”

“I was just so terrified by the sound of the waves that from evening on, I lowered the chain on the gate and slept in the back with O-Hama, you know.”

“My husband told me—‘No matter how fierce the waves come, that cliff behind us won’t collapse—it’s an iron wall! Rest assured.’ Relying solely on those words—still clutching our baby tight each time they crashed with a boom—as if cliff and waves were locked in battle—terrified that rocks might shatter from those cannon-like impacts.”

“In the dead of night—with my milk drying up and loneliness my only desire—I slept without feeling cold or chilled… But was that truly how it was—right—Sannosuke?”

“Amidst those raging waves and terrifying ghostly flames—those Sea Monks and phantom ships—my husband was out there clinging to a single plank that looked like a fallen leaf from the sea’s view,” said the wife, her head bowed low.

“He never tells me anything…” A teardrop fell unnoticed onto her collar as her eyes grew misty.

“I’m so terribly sorry.”

He knew none of the details, with a comforting expression and a spirited voice,

“There ain’t nothin’ to be sorry about.”
“Hey, sis—I ain’t gonna let you freeze or shiver or suffer none. That’s why Boss works himself raw.”
“I ain’t gonna shed a single tear even if such times come—I’m O-Hama’s husband! I’ll dive into the sea right alongside her!”

But even now, I’ll go!
“You’re preparin’ meals and buyin’ sake for Boss, you know.”

“I don’t drink sake—potatoes’ll do me fine.”

“Heave-ho!” we loaded the bonito, rode the waves back—and there was smoke billowing over the beach. When they asked, “What’s that?”...

and innocently clapped his hands,

“Gathering stones, drawing saltwater, boiling potatoes in a play bucket, burning kelp gentle-like… Well, sis,”

He suddenly sprang up and bared his chest with a sweep of his hand.

“Now that I’ve grown this big here, when’ll O-Hama go down to shore an’ play make-believe, I wonder.”

The wife smiled gently, her eyes glistening with evening dew.

“Ah, she’ll be a proper girl before we know it—any day now—but listen, Sannosuke,”

she called with deliberate weight, shifting her tone.

XI

“Ah,”

“Look, I don’t want any new clothes, and the baby doesn’t need sweets either. So if you’re serious about marrying into this family—please quit being a boatman and take up some other trade. I’m begging you—what do you say?”

Perhaps having resolved herself, she altered her words and adjusted her seating on the veranda.

He, having played through the twilight too long, restlessly listened to the crows’ caws, eyes darting upward, unsteady on his feet.

“Sis, ain’t Inabamaru comin’ back today?”

“Well, we...”
“He left saying he’d be back by evening—listen, Sannosuke,”

She tried to suppress her restlessness, but he paid no heed.

“You’re the one not listenin’, sis! Look sharp—crows’re comin’ out from Dōnodake! Caw! Cawin’ like there’s no tomorrow! Thievin’ bastards—soon as they sniff a good haul, they come flockin’ from miles off!”

“Sis! The ship’s reached the open sea—a monster catch! A monster catch!”

and bounced excitedly beneath the crows.

“Well then, my husband must be returning too. Sannosuke, shall we go out to the shore and look?” Overjoyed at her husband’s imminent return and seemingly forgetting all else, the wife adjusted her collar.

“The ship hasn’t come in anywhere near close enough to see yet.”
“Let me see.”
“Look—those crows in the persimmon branches over there, rustlin’ noisily and huddled up, waitin’ like damn vultures.”

“They’ve sniffed it out from twelve, fifteen miles away.”
“They wait around here, aimin’ for when fish come up to shore. Even if you go out to the beach, the ship’s only visible as far as these damn crows.”

Hey, look—another fifteen or sixteen came flying in! The ship offshore’s scored a haul.

“Sis, we’ll have new clothes again, tsk,”

The arrogance in his tongue click,

“If I’d gone aboard, I could’ve earned some pocket money—but I wasted my time hawking extras and missed out.”
“I can’t buy any playthings for O-Hama at all.”

He slumped his forehead, stabbed oyster shells with his fingernails, and toward where the red dragonflies had scattered—splattering and spilling over—kicked pebbles at the crows’ shadows.

“What’s with all the ‘Caw-caw’? I’ll buy playthings too—buy ’em, buy ’em!”

The wife, who had been silently watching, suddenly grew somber again,

“So, Sannosuke—since we don’t need playthings or clothes—please, instead of being a fisherman, set your heart on some other trade.” Her voice grew tearful.

He opened his mouth for the first time and turned to face her blankly, his expression dead serious.

“Why quit bein’ a fisherman? What’s the point?”

“But even so—with how things look—who knows what might be lurkin’ in that sea? Ain’t that terrifying?”

“While my husband and you are out fishin’, leavin’ us behind—if storms come or waves rise, that’s bad enough—but what if somethin’ from that sea comes ashore to hunt us instead?”

“Even if we hide at home like clams in their shells—if they’re strong enough, they’ll drag us out.”

“O-Hama’s just an infant—and I’ve got no strength to speak of. When I think on that—I can’t help but feel helpless through and through.”

As she spoke earnestly, he listened intently with a look of disbelief—licked his upper lip—then lowered the corners of his eyes and roared with laughter.

“Idiot! What a stupid thing to say!”
“Heh, heh, heh. Fish comin’ to catch humans—how’s that s’posed to work?”
“So they’d stand on their tails, scurrying around, and hold fishing poles with their fins? C’mon, sis.”

“It’s not like bonito or mackerel would come walking ashore carrying fishing poles on their backs to squat under our eaves—but the sea has unknowable depths. Who knows what might dwell there? On nights when the air turns foul, they might come riding the waves.”
“Even during daylight hours—those who come here… Today, isn’t it just you?”

The wife glanced toward the dim storage room.

Twelve

“Ah—it’s gotten so gloomy here, like we’re peering into a hole.”

In the desolate dusk, the half-dried crimson silk darkened as a sea wind swept through the area. Resembling a withered Jizo statue fashioned from old millet stalks, he glanced back at the path lined in neat rows.

“We should move closer to town and put up gas lamps on the eaves. That’s how Boss makes his money.”

“No, I’m not saying I’m dissatisfied with our current life at all.”
“I can endure it, but O-Hama is so pitiful—so please, Sannosuke, I’m begging you—become a newspaper hawker or anything else, just take up another trade.”
“If my husband worries, it’ll be bad—so you absolutely mustn’t say anything about this, okay? Do you understand, Sannosuke?”

Having been implored to grasp the karmic weight of it all, even the crows perched on the branches nodded as if in agreement.

“Hmm… So what—gotta run around with bells on my waist? When I get back, maybe I’ll talk to Old Man Riemon first… But that ain’t gonna pay a damn thing.”

He sullenly bit his finger.

“No, I’m not saying it has to be right this moment.”
“You mustn’t suddenly say such things—well, it’s just talk.”

With that light remark, she shifted her mood and rose to her feet. The wife gently stroked the wooden board,

“It didn’t dry properly because someone got greedy.”

“What? It’s ’cause you’re cryin’, Sis.”

Having been told this so abruptly, her chest suddenly seemed to tighten.

“Ah,”

She pressed one sleeve to her eyes but then jolted and looked toward the storage room again.

“It’s rustling—the crows won’t come in, will they?”

Sannosuke laughed again,

“The fish have come from the sea to catch us!”
“Oh, stop it—you startled me…”

O-Hama fussed, and the mosquito net stirred.

“See here, she woke up, didn’t she? All because you had to go and startle her,”
With a smile playing on one cheek, she shot a brief glare.
“Easy now, easy now,”

“Well, when she wakes up, I’ll be watchin’ close.”
“If I go and make ’er cry now, it’ll get in the way o’ work—that’s why I been holdin’ back this whole time,” he said, bending his body with sulky defiance.

“There you are, hohoho. Now, O-Hama—”

The wife shifted her position in the dark storage room before the hooded mosquito net.

“Whoa!”

He jumped onto the veranda, but—

“Ah, you’re barefoot, Sis.”

He fidgeted with his shins.

“It’s fine. Come on up.”

“Because Sis is such a neat freak.”

“It’s fine, you know,”

With that, as she nuzzled the child she had lifted up, her face—turned sideways—was pale.

“Well, you’re already laughing—the crow that was just crying,”

He kept a respectful distance at the edge of the veranda, turning his face away as she tried to soothe [the child], but—

“The crows are so noisy.”

He suddenly acted mature and looked up at the sky.
In the evening sky, where a mass of clouds surged forth around the hall on the peak, at their very center—with a sudden sway—a boom erupted: thud-thud-thud, boom, reverberating across the waves.

“Sannosuke,”

“Oh, Old Man Riemon’s shootin’ at crows again. If I get scolded for playin’ around, I’d better hurry over and put a stop to it.”

“Oh, go ahead and play.”

The wife, while warmly melting the snow on her chest for the child, held her obliquely at the storage room entrance.

Thirteen

“Hey, when my husband comes home, we’ll get our share of the vegetables—that way you won’t get scolded.”
“I don’t know why, but today I feel so lonely and uneasy—please stay and play a little longer. See, O-Hama? Your father will be home soon.”

Face-to-face with the child, she came out to the veranda while speaking to her.

Strands of stray hair brushed against her ear as the cries echoed—“Extra edition… extra edition…”—forlorn and distant.

“Oh, he’s already gone.”

The wife lifted her face.

“Such a child…”

She muttered to herself, but when she peered through the door beneath the eaves, a dim black figure stood there.

“What’s this? Deceiving people and still lurking there, are you?”

As if to make the child strike [it], she stomped closer but recoiled in shock.

The black figure beneath the eaves was Nyūdō—a form roughly thrice Sannosuke’s height, its head hazy and rounded, sleeves flat like a monk’s robe.

The wife stiffened her body and pressed her lips into a tight line.

At that instant—as if sensing movement—the lumbering monk’s figure swayed beside the plank wall before planting itself to block the entrance’s full width. It resembled a sand dune’s burrow mouth guarded by twin beasts prowling shoreward.
With this towering shape now slightly withdrawn from her side, the gloom felt as though night had fully descended—yet on this day, a lone band of light still clung to the seaward sky.
The Inabamaru, aboard which her husband sailed, drifted beneath that faint streak of cloud.

As she peered through it, a hazy fog approached from somewhere around her back, enveloping her surroundings. Though she couldn’t tell whether it was gaunt or corpulent, she could make out sunken eyes tinged with red and a tall, pointed black nose.
The robe was not dripping with seawater, but the seawater had soaked into the sand in patterns resembling footprints trailing across the sandy beach toward the open sea; moreover, around its back, something seemed to exhale ceaselessly as though locked in struggle.

Even the timid wife did not immediately consider this to be a mysterious sea god that had emerged from the sea to hunt people, for it was too vividly before her eyes. The wife’s hair simply stood on end. However, she thought that a repulsive, eerie beggar monk had wandered into the village, and at the very moment she thought this, she rushed into the storage room, dropped sideways to one knee in a dark corner beside the chest of drawers, and frantically—yet almost unconsciously—fixed her wide-eyed stare. Wanting him to leave quickly, the wife hurriedly slid out to the front veranda herself and waited there, holding back.

“Yes,”

A woman whose voice remained gentle even so.

The dusky Nyūdō fixed his gaze and, without truly observing her movements, seemed to perceive her presence. Now—as if to offer gratitude with the infant held in one hand and his palm extended—he did not meet her eyes. With an air of weariness, he kept his head bowed low and gave two slow, languid nods that nonetheless exuded arrogance.

While rocking the infant who had begun crying again, the wife opened her clear eyes aimlessly, but

“What is it? What do you want?”

Yet the notion that this was still a beggar seeking alms did not leave her.

After a moment, from the rat-colored robe—its sleeves formless—a wrist emerged, and the monk raised his finger as though lifting something weighty, pointing beneath his towering nose.

As he pointed, he exhaled a sharp burst of breath.

He was hungry.

“Sannosuke, wake up.”

Ah, if only he had stayed—she dwelled on his name in her mind—the wife called out with feigned cheer as she withdrew into the storage room again.

Fourteen

To have called out to someone who wasn’t even there—like confronting a robber—even I felt my own pulse quicken all the more for it.

The wife hurried anxiously, kneeling on one knee at the kitchen entrance adjoining the storage room, pulled the rice tub closer, scooped water from the bucket up to her waist with practiced motions—all while cradling the infant in her arm—her hands moving absently and unsteadily as she formed three rice balls.

She placed them on a tray—dried brittle by salt winds and lacquer, like a folded strip of kelp—pushed the tub aside with a clatter, lowered her raised heel, and came out immediately.

“We’re just a small household—there isn’t much. I’ll give you my share, so please take it quickly.”

This time, edging slightly closer, she extended one hand past the veranda toward the monk—but his hand, which had been pointing at his mouth earlier now swung toward his scaly, filthy chest and jerked into motion. With a sharp swipe sideways—whether from fury or focus—the tray and all clattered down, rolling away like a bitter persimmon that had once crushed a crab long ago.

The monk exhaled a drawn-out breath.

Absorbed in her own affairs, the wife lost herself,

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Stepping back a step,

“You shouldn’t do such a spiteful thing—you, what is it that you find so displeasing?”

she snapped, but beneath her anger, her heart faltered,

“You’re saying it’s rude to offer rice balls to a reverend?”

“Then shall I prepare a proper meal for you?”

“Let’s do that, shall we?”

“If that’s how it is, I would have prepared it properly from the start, but with no free hands—what with being busy tending to the child and all the work at sunset—it’s been quite hectic. …Well… there’s some eggplant that’s just the right texture, so I’ll make you tea-soaked rice with that.”

In the dimness, perceiving what seemed like a nod, the wife felt her heart inexplicably clear and her mood brightened,

“Then let’s do that.”
“You… there’s nothing here at all.”

As his back turned toward the kitchen, the monk lurched forward—as though solidified night itself had entered—and abruptly stepped up from the veranda, plunging the front six-mat room into utter darkness.

Startled stiff, she stood frozen—yet what could a lone woman do?

Impatient for her husband’s safe return—too frantic even to light the lamp—each thought of preparing his meal made her resent her own frailty. Closing her eyes briefly, she set out the meal with swelling resolve, the infant nestled against her breast within kimono folds.

“Ah, Naritake, please hurry now! Let’s rush back at once.”
“The one inside is terribly strong-willed, I must say. If you treat a stranger like this, it might lead to another misunderstanding—wouldn’t you agree?”

She heaped it high into a bowl.

At that moment, having filled the four corners of the room, he sat imposingly at its center with legs splayed wide—but when he thrust his feet forward abruptly, the meal tray flipped over soundlessly, crushed flat as if by a weight.

“What in the—”

Startled, the wife rose to flee, disheveling her hem as she threw out a hand to brace herself,

“What do you want?”

The monk opened his great maw and pointed again.
With that finger—even as she shielded herself with her sleeve amidst this—he pressed relentlessly into the wife’s chest,

*(Give me the child.)*

No sooner had she heard this than she knew nothing more.

When she came to her senses and caught sight of her husband, she clung to him desperately, trembling violently—but perhaps from holding her too tightly, O-Hama had turned cold.

To leave someone as weak-hearted as me in charge of the house—the bounty of the sea that my husband catches.

That night soon arrived—under Ei’s crystalline moon where white sands met indigo cliffs—as that guy’s “Extra edition!” ran sorrowfully around the inlet, and the blue sea’s waves raged.

January 1906 (Meiji 39)