Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“Express mail!”

Around noon on March 3rd, a piece of Express Mail was flung into the front entrance of my house. Dear Sir, With spring snow falling thickly, I thought it proper that this evening should not pass without a gathering. Please set aside all obstacles and kindly attend today’s gathering from around five o’clock in the afternoon; I believe there will be five or six other attendees as well. However, please note that this will not be one of our usual haiku gatherings.

This concludes the aforementioned notice. Written in haste, with regards.

March 3rd, morning

Master of Frog Hall

For the sake of narrative order, it was necessary to first speak a little about this sender—the Master of Frog Hall. In the sense of "a frog in a well," it was not uncommon for people to adopt the pseudonym Well Frog, but those who took the name Green Frog with its character for "blue" appeared to be rare. He went by the family name Mr. Umezawa and was already five or six years past forty, yet remained a man of remarkably youthful spirit and vigorous energy. His profession had been that of a lawyer, but from about ten years prior he had taken down his law office’s signboard and now maintained a position as consultant to a certain major merchant house in the Nihonbashi area. He was also involved with three or four other companies, holding titles such as consultant or auditor. In short, he was a distinguished contemporary gentleman. Mr. Umezawa had maintained a fondness for haiku since his youth, but from seven or eight years prior his interest had deepened considerably, and he would steal moments from his busy schedule to attend various poetry gatherings. He also held haiku gatherings at his home. He had adopted the haiku pseudonym Kinka and carried himself with the splendid demeanor of a master.

Mr. Umezawa received a Guangdong-made bamboo craft as a souvenir from someone who had returned from China four or five years prior. It had been crafted by hollowing out an enormous bamboo root—one of a size rarely seen in Japan—to create a large frog statue, though this frog possessed three legs like those of a tripod. It was not that one leg had been accidentally broken; without question, it had been made from the outset to have three legs, so even Mr. Umezawa found this peculiar. The person who had given it to him didn’t understand the reason either. Finding it intriguing nonetheless, when Mr. Umezawa positioned the frog statue in a crawling posture within his parlor’s tokonoma alcove, a certain China expert later provided an explanation.

"That is no ordinary frog. It is what is called a three-legged frog deity." That person brought a book titled Tea-Time Conversations written by Ruan Kuisheng of the Qing dynasty and explained it to Mr. Umezawa. In it was written the following account in classical Chinese: ——In Hangzhou there exists one called General Kinka. It is thought to derive from a corruption of the two characters for 'three-legged frog,' though the creature itself closely resembles an ordinary frog. It has only three legs. It most often appears during the transition between summer and autumn. The household where it descends uses a jar of sorghum wine to worship it, having first removed one portion of the vessel. The creature would crouch beside it without eating or drinking; moreover, its skin would naturally shift from blue to yellow, then to red. Those who worship it would declare, "The General has become intoxicated," then place it on a tray and send it to the Temple of Grand Marquis Kinka outside the Surging Gold Gate, whereupon its form would immediately vanish. And thus, within a few days, that household would surely obtain [its desire], and so forth. ——

This clarified the origin of the three-legged frog. Not only that, but what particularly delighted Mr. Umezawa was how this spirit-inhabited frog came to be called General Kinka. Since Mr. Umezawa's haiku pseudonym was Kinka, and as if General Kinka's three-legged frog deity had crawled right into that very name—considered a truly mysterious karmic connection—he consequently came to greatly treasure this frog, commissioning a calligrapher to inscribe a plaque reading "Frog Hall." He himself then began styling his identity as the Master of Frog Hall.

Having received this invitation from Frog Hall, I hesitated. As written in the invitation, a fine snow had been falling since morning. Mr. Umezawa had likely conceived tonight’s gathering upon seeing this snow, but Frog Hall lay deep within a grove so dim even at midday, beyond Christian Slope in Koishikawa. Going out there from the evening of such a day—the journey there was one thing—but I feared the return would prove rather difficult. Had it been one of our usual haiku gatherings, I would have certainly excused myself; but since he had gone out of his way to specify that this was not the case, there might well be some other entertainment planned. Even on March 3rd, there was no girl in Mr. Umezawa’s household to celebrate Girls’ Day. There’s no way he would be holding a memorial service for the Sakurada Ronin either. While I was pondering such things—the snow having fortunately lightened to a suitable degree—I resolved to venture out.

When I began making preparations to leave around four o'clock in the afternoon, the snow unfortunately began falling heavily once more. Seeing this scene, I hesitated again, but steeling my resolve with a "Never mind, just go!", I finally set out, treading the snow-white road. After parting from the tram at Takehaya-cho in Koishikawa, descending Fujizaka, ascending Kirishitan-zaka, and continuing this quite arduous journey through the snowy day, I managed to reach Frog Hall safely, where seven or eight guests had already gathered.

“Still, you’re all quite remarkable. “In this weather and at this location, I had thought five or six people would be our limit, yet already seven or eight have come. “It seems four or five more may yet arrive. “This has blossomed into an unexpectedly splendid gathering!” declared the Master of Frog Hall, welcoming me with an expression brimming with delight.

Having been guided upstairs and shown into a combined space of ten and eight tatami mats, when I surveyed the guests who had arrived before me, aside from about three of them, they were all people I did not recognize. There were scholarly-looking individuals. There were also those who appeared to be businessmen. There was also an elegant elderly lady with a bobbed haircut. On the other hand, there were also those who appeared to be young students. While thinking this gathering had an indefinable nature, I exchanged initial greetings and took my seat. As I engaged in brief small talk with familiar faces, two or three more guests arrived after me. One of them was someone I knew, but I could not tell who the other two were or where they were from.

Before long, the host offered a greeting welcoming us for braving such weather, then proceeded to introduce each member of the gathering in turn. That concluded, sake was served; meal trays were brought out. The snow had abated somewhat, but through the second-floor glass doors, one could still observe it ceaselessly casting white shadows.

The drinking party concluded surprisingly quickly, as there appeared to be no heavy drinkers present; after being led to the spacious lower hall, smoking tobacco, sipping hot lemon tea, and resting awhile, the host cleared his throat with ceremonious deliberation and addressed the assembly.

“The truth is, I requested your kind presence on such an evening for none other than this purpose: “Lately, apart from haiku, I have taken an interest in ghost stories and have been conducting private research on the subject. “In connection with this, I had been considering hosting a single evening ghost story gathering where I might have the privilege of hearing your esteemed tales. While I did think rainy nights might better suit such stories—particularly given today’s spring snow—I ultimately judged that a snowy evening holds its own charm, which led me to impulsively decide to summon you all in this manner. “Not only myself, but there is also an audience here in attendance, so I would like to request each of you to share one rare tale—how does that sound?”

In the tokonoma alcove that Mr. Umezawa indicated, the large bamboo-crafted three-legged frog deity crouched imposingly, a Chinese-style ceramic wine jar laid before it as an offering. The transom bore a boldly inscribed plaque reading "Frog Hall." With none but this amphibian idol and our host as audience, we found ourselves bound to each deliver a ghostly tale. Though already peculiar to hold such a gathering on Girls' Day evening, the three-legged General Kinka's presence as spectral auditor rendered the affair truly singular. All present conveyed silent assent through their expressions when challenged by Mr. Umezawa's request, yet not a soul volunteered to break this uncanny silence. As glances ricocheted between reluctant guests like startled sparrows, our host found himself obliged to appoint an inaugural storyteller.

“Mr.Hoshizaki… How about it? Would you be so kind as to begin by sharing a story…” “How about it?” “You couldn’t possibly begin by kindly sharing something…” “Since you were the one who informed me about this Three-legged Frog Deity—I shall ask you first through that very connection.” “Tonight being an extraordinary occasion—having invited only those equipped with such material aplenty—our proceedings risk stalling through excessive reserve unless someone breaks silence.”

The first to be called upon, Mr. Hoshizaki, was a gentleman of around fifty. He smiled while stroking his whitening beard.

"When you put it that way, I may indeed have the deepest ties to this ornament in the tokonoma." "Due to business requirements, I spent five years working at our Shanghai branch when I was young." "Since then, I’ve made it a point to visit China at least once every two years, traversing most of its northern and southern regions." "That’s how I came to know something of Chinese matters." "As you just mentioned, Master, I was indeed the one who first explained this three-legged frog."

“Therefore, I must insist you begin tonight’s tales without fail,” the host urged once more.

“Very well then—if you’ll pardon my presumption—I shall take it upon myself to serve as the opening act, setting aside all you esteemed guests.” “Legends concerning this three-legged frog extend beyond Hangzhou; in Guangdong too they revere it as the Three-legged Frog Deity.” “Thus since ancient times, numerous legends have accumulated about these creatures.” “Naturally, being largely ghost stories, they prove particularly suited to tonight’s gathering.” “From among those tales, I shall now relate one of the more peculiar specimens.”

Mr. Hoshizaki leaned forward slightly and quietly surveyed the faces of the assembled guests. His demeanor seemed so thoroughly accustomed to such situations that I found myself strangely intrigued and unconsciously turned fully toward him. "As Chinese place names and personal names may be unfamiliar to you all and could dampen your interest in the story, I shall endeavor to omit proper nouns as much as possible." With this preface, Mr. Hoshizaki began his tale.

Please imagine this story occurring at the twilight of the Ming Dynasty, when the realm teetered on the brink of great turmoil. In Jinling of Jiangnan—that is, within Nanjing's walls—there lived a military officer named Zhang Xun. One day, the general commanding the fortress hosted a banquet and bestowed upon each attending military officer and civil official a fan bearing his own hand-painted poems or artwork. They received these with profound gratitude, each unfurling their gift to examine. When Zhang Xun likewise humbly accepted his fan and opened it, he found his alone to be blank—a plain white fan devoid of inscription. Neither front nor back bore any mark. Though bitterly disappointed, he deemed it discourteous to mention this oversight to his superior, and so casually offered thanks before departing with the others. Yet nursing this discontent, he went straight home and recounted everything to his wife.

"Since the General had to paint so many fans at once, he must have simply overlooked yours. "That unfortunately fell to me." "I drew the rotten short straw." As he sighed listlessly, his wife’s face momentarily darkened. His wife—nineteen this year and married to Zhang for three years—was a truly lovely woman: petite and fair-skinned, with a large mole at the outer edge of her right eyebrow. As she listened to her husband’s account and pondered briefly, her expression gradually returned to its usual cheerful charm, and she spoke to console him.

“As you say, the General didn’t act out of any malice—with so many to inscribe, he must have simply overlooked yours. When he realizes later, he will surely exchange it for you. No, he will most certainly exchange it for you.” “But will he notice?” “There’s no saying when he might recall it on some occasion. Regarding that matter, should the General inquire about anything, it would be best for you to answer honestly and without reservation at that time.”

"Hmm." The husband gave a disinterested reply and simply went to bed as he was that night. About two days later, Zhang Xun was summoned before the General. "Hey, what was written on that fan I gave you the other night?"

When asked this, Zhang Xun answered truthfully. "In truth, there was nothing written upon the fan's surface that I received." “Nothing’s written on it,” said the General. He pondered for a moment before giving a quiet nod. "I see. That might have been the case." "That was terribly thoughtless of me." “Then I shall give you this instead.” On a folding fan far superior to the one he had previously received—where the General had personally inscribed a seven-character quatrain—Zhang Xun gratefully accepted this gift and returned home. When he proudly showed it to his wife, she rejoiced in exactly the same manner.

“That’s precisely why I said it.” “The General has an excellent memory, you see.” “That’s right—he truly does have an excellent memory.” “Among all those people, how did he know the plain fan had ended up in my hands?”

Even so, since it wasn’t something worth investigating deeply, the matter was left as it was for the time being. Then, after about half a year had passed, the fearsome rebel army known as the Chuang Thieves rose in revolt, plunging Jiangbei into great turmoil, so even the southern regions had to remain vigilant. With peace having endured for so long—and likely no one having maintained adequate military preparations—the General decided to distribute one suit of armor to each of his subordinates. Zhang Xun also received his allocation, but this suit of armor was defective. The old armor was damaged. Carrying it, he returned home and once again complained to his wife.

“How could this piece of junk be any use in a critical moment? I’d be better off wearing paper armor!”

Then, his wife once again spoke to comfort him. “Since the General didn’t personally inspect and distribute each one individually, when he notices later, he will surely exchange it for you.” “That might be the case.” “There is the example of that fan from before, after all.” As they were saying this, sure enough, two or three days later, Zhang Xun was summoned before the General and asked once more about how the armor had been. When Zhang Xun answered truthfully as usual, the General knit his brows thoughtfully, stared fixedly at Zhang’s face, and then rephrased his question.

“Does your household enshrine any deities?” “No, I am utterly irreligious and do not enshrine any deities or buddhas.” “Most peculiar.”

The General’s forehead wrinkles grew increasingly deeper. Then, as if struck by a thought, he asked again.

“What kind of woman is your wife?”

At the sudden question, Zhang Xun was somewhat taken aback, but as this was no matter to conceal, he truthfully stated his wife’s age and appearance—whereupon the General inquired further.

“And does she have a large mole beneath her right eyebrow?”

“You know well…” Zhang Xun was astonished. “Hmm, I know,” the General nodded deeply. “Your wife has come to my bedside twice before.” Shocked and dumbfounded, Zhang Xun stared blankly at the other man’s face—whereupon the General, with an air of puzzlement, began explaining. “To tell the truth, about half a year ago I summoned you all and distributed my folding fans.” “The following night...” “A woman came to my bedside saying: ‘The fan you gave Zhang Xun yesterday was blank.’” “‘I beg you to exchange it for one bearing your own handwriting.’ No sooner had she spoken than I awoke.” “Thus, when I summoned and questioned you as a precaution, it proved exactly as she had said.” “At that time I found it strange,” he continued, “but when I let it rest for a while, that woman came again last night: ‘The armor you gave Zhang Xun recently is decayed and torn—utterly useless.’” “‘I beg you to exchange it for a proper item,’ she said.” “When I questioned you this time too, it again matched her words.” “As these mysteries persisted, I grew suspicious and made inquiries—discovering the woman was none other than your wife.” “Her age, appearance, even the mole beneath her eyebrow—all matched perfectly without discrepancy.” “I don’t know what manner of being your wife truly is, but this defies understanding.”

Hearing the details, Zhang Xun grew increasingly astonished.

“This is utterly incomprehensible. Let us conduct a thorough investigation.” “In any case, I’ll exchange the armor for you. Take this.” Having been handed splendid armor by the General, Zhang Xun carried it out as he withdrew, his mind dazed and half in a dreamlike state. Having lived together for over three years, why had his virtuous wife—who had never shown any peculiar behavior—done such a thing? Yet he couldn’t believe the General’s words would be lies. On his way home, as he thought it over, there were indeed things that came to mind. Both during the fan incident half a year ago and now with this armor issue, his wife always said things that seemed to anticipate what lay ahead to comfort him. That was somehow suspicious. It was indeed strange. Determining that this required thorough investigation, Zhang Xun hurried home—where his wife promptly noticed the armor and smiled sweetly.

That lovely smiling face showed no trace of demon, fiend, or shapeshifter, leaving Zhang Xun wavering once more. Yet his doubts remained unresolved. Particularly needing to settle this matter before the General, he called his wife into a separate room and recounted the dream incident—whereupon she listened with an expression of bewilderment. Then she spoke: "Both during the fan affair before and now with this armor matter, you appeared so deeply distressed that I devotedly wished from my heart to somehow ease your mind." "Perhaps that sincere wish reached heaven, allowing such wonders to manifest naturally." "I too am gladdened that my earnest thoughts found fulfillment."

When told this, Zhang Xun found himself unable to press further in his inquiry. All he could do was be grateful for his wife’s sincere heart—thus the matter ended ambiguously—yet Zhang Xun remained deeply unsettled. As he continued observing his wife’s behavior thereafter, society gradually grew turbulent for reasons previously mentioned. With military duties occupying him completely now, even the General could no longer spare attention for investigating matters like Zhang Xun’s wife. Zhang Xun too became consumed by his own responsibilities—leaving at dawn and returning late each night. Thus passed over half a month until May arrived, bringing daily downpours of rainy season. But on this particular day—unusually—the rain slackened by afternoon, revealing a pale blue sky come evening.

Zhang Xun had unusually finished his duties early that day and returned home before nightfall, yet his wife—who always came out to greet him immediately—was nowhere to be seen. Upon entering and glancing toward the garden, he saw a large pomegranate tree in the corner of the yard, its flowers blazing crimson like raging fire as they bloomed in profusion. His wife appeared to be crouching beneath those blossoms, gazing intently at something, so Zhang Xun quietly stepped into the garden and approached her back with stealthy steps—where beneath the pomegranate tree loomed an imposingly large toad. Before it, a sake jar had been offered, and his wife seemed to be fervently praying for something. Zhang Xun, his heart pounding at this bizarre sight, continued observing carefully when he noticed the toad bore a bluish moss-like hue and—moreover—possessed three legs.

Had he known it was the aforementioned three-legged frog deity, matters might have concluded peacefully—but Zhang Xun, being a military man, knew nothing of the Three-legged Frog Deity or General Kinryo. What filled his vision was solely the figure of his wife bowing in reverence before a bizarre three-legged toad. With a feeling as though his long-held suspicions had finally been resolved, he instantly drew his sword—and in the next moment, his young wife was pierced through from back to chest, collapsing beneath the pomegranate tree without even a chance to cry out. Crimson flowers scattered down upon her corpse.

Zhang Xun stood frozen as if in a dream for some time, but when he finally came to his senses and looked around, the three-legged toad had vanished without a trace—only his wife’s corpse lay tumbled at his feet. As he continued gazing intently at it, he began to feel regret for his own rashness. His wife’s behavior had indeed been strange, but regardless, after conducting at least a preliminary inquiry, he should have taken appropriate measures—whether sparing or killing her—yet having single-mindedly rushed to cut her down now struck him as exceedingly rash. However, as there was nothing to be done now, he disposed of his wife’s corpse and secretly reported it to the General the following day, whereupon the General nodded.

“Your wife was indeed a kind of demon.”

II

After that, various strange occurrences began manifesting around Zhang Xun one after another. Three-legged toads now haunted him wherever he went. If he stayed indoors, they crawled by his couch. If he went out into the garden, they came crawling to his feet. If he ventured outside, they still followed from behind. As though shadows clinging to his form, wherever he went there was never a place he dwelled without seeing bluish toads. At first there was one, then two became three, three became five, five became ten—some large, some small. They crawled in a squirming chain trailing after him until even Zhang Xun could endure it no longer.

The mysterious swarm of toads took no direct action against him. They simply trailed after him wherever he went—a profoundly unnerving presence. Of course, this phenomenon remained visible only to Zhang Xun; others perceived nothing at all. When he could bear it no longer, he would occasionally draw his sword to slash at them, yet met no tangible resistance. The creatures merely rearranged themselves—those before him shifting behind, those on the left drifting right—leaving him utterly powerless to expel them.

Before long, they began to take on various tasks. When Zhang Xun slept at night, a large toad would crawl onto his chest and press down with such force that he thought his breath might stop. When he tried to eat at the table, countless small bluish toads would appear and leap one after another into his dishes and bowls. Because of this, he could neither rest peacefully at night nor eat properly, so Zhang Xun gradually grew emaciated until he resembled a half-sick man. When his deterioration became noticeable to others, his close friend Yang De grew concerned and pressed him for details. After learning the circumstances, Yang De enlisted a Taoist priest to perform purification rituals—yet these proved equally ineffective, and the toads continued ceaselessly haunting Zhang Xun’s surroundings.

Meanwhile, as the Chuang Bandits' momentum grew increasingly rampant and tragic reports continued pouring in that the capital would soon be in danger, General Kinryo—ever loyal—resolved to dispatch reinforcements toward the capital. Zhang Xun too was counted among those troops. Though Yang De repeatedly urged him to feign illness and withdraw, Zhang Xun refused and prepared to depart. He possessed both a warrior's temperament and fierce national loyalty, but another motive drove him—harried by supernatural toad hauntings beyond comprehension, he deemed it nobler to lay his loyal corpse beneath the Imperial City than idly await death. Resolved never to return alive, he settled all domestic affairs without exception before departing. Yang De accompanied him on this march.

The troop crossed the Yangtze River and advanced northward until coming upon a small village to stay; however, with few houses available, most made camp outdoors. In this willow-rich village, as Zhang Xun and Yang De rested beneath a great willow tree, early autumn moonlight vividly illuminated the dew clinging to their armor. This armor of Zhang Xun’s was what his wife had secured by appearing in the General’s dreams to have it exchanged. As he stood gazing up at the moon, lost in these thoughts, Yang De—seated beside him—posed a question.

“How about it? Are those toads still appearing?” “No—since crossing the river, they’ve disappeared as if vanishing.”

“That’s a relief,” Yang De said with apparent delight. “Perhaps because our vigilance is heightened, the supernatural beings can no longer find an opening to exploit.” “After all, it was better that I went to battle.” As they were saying such things, Zhang Xun suddenly pricked up his ears. “Ah—I hear a biwa.”

Since Yang De couldn’t hear it at all, he dismissed it as a trick of your ears, but Zhang Xun stubbornly insisted he could hear it. Moreover, there was no mistaking it for his wife’s biwa playing—such strange things did exist—and as if drawn by that sound, he discarded his bow and arrows and staggered forward. Yang De, feeling uneasy, hurriedly chased after him—but Zhang was already nowhere to be seen.

“This seems no ordinary matter.”

Yang De turned back and gathered three or four companions; relying on the bright moon to search around the area, they found an old temple just beyond where the village ended. The surroundings were blanketed in autumn grasses, and under the moonlight, the temple’s eaves and doors could clearly be seen in a state of severe decay and disrepair. The sound of insects fell like rain. Thinking “Could it be…?”, they pushed through the grass thicket and arrived before the temple—where Yang De, standing at their head, let out a cry.

Before the temple crouched a large toad-shaped stone, upon which lay Zhang Xun’s helmet. Not only that—when they saw a single large bluish toad crouching beneath the stone as though guarding that helmet, the people involuntarily froze. Before Yang De could confirm whether it was three-legged, the toad’s form vanished as if it had never been there. The people, struck by indescribable terror, exchanged glances for a time—but since they absolutely had to investigate the temple’s interior now, Yang De resolutely opened the door, and the others fearfully followed him inside.

Zhang Xun lay cold within the temple, having died as though asleep. They were startled and tried to revive him, but he never awoke from that slumber. Having no choice but to carry his corpse back, when they asked the villagers what deity was enshrined in that temple, it was merely said to be the Temple of the Three-legged Frog Deity—no one knew its origins. The temple’s interior was completely empty, showing no signs of anything being enshrined; in recent years, even in this area, there were no visitors, and it was said to have been left abandoned to decay. Three-legged Frog Deity—even Yang De and his men did not know what it was, but among the many soldiers was one from Hangzhou, and through his explanation, they finally came to understand its particulars. That Zhang Xun’s wife was from Hangzhou was something Yang De also knew.

“And so, this tale comes to an end.” “Given these circumstances, I earnestly ask that everyone here pay due respect to this Three-legged Frog Deity and take utmost caution to avoid incurring its dreadful curse.”

Having said this, Mr. Hoshizaki wiped around his mouth with a handkerchief and looked back at the large toad idol in the tokonoma alcove.

Tone River Crossing

I

During the conclusion of Mr. Hoshizaki's story, three or four more guests arrived, making the room nearly full. With Mr. Hoshizaki as the first speaker, these people would each take turns telling a tale one by one, creating what might be called the grand finale of ghost stories. Of course, while there were some formulaic tales among them, I had secretly recorded only those with distinctive features and now wish to present them in order.

However, since there were many people meeting for the first time, merely being told their names once left some cases where it remained unclear who was who. Moreover, given the nature of these tales, situations arose where one had to refrain from disclosing the storytellers' names. Therefore, making an exception only for Mr. Hoshizaki who had led off, I resolved to omit all others' names and designate them simply as "the second man" or "the third woman."

And so, the second man begins his tale.

It is the first year of Kyōhō.

On the opposite bank of the Tone River—on the Ōshū-side shore when viewed from Edo—stood a blind masseur. Even the great Tone River—known as Bando Taro—had a ferry crossing here, and during the Edo period, it was called the Fusagawa Ferry.

As it was a key junction between the Oshu Highway and Nikko Highway, the Kurihashi post town had a checkpoint. When one passed through that checkpoint and crossed the river, the opposite bank became Koga Town—a place that had long flourished as the castle town of the Doi family’s 80,000-koku domain. That blind masseur stood near the Koga-side bank. The blind masseur stood on the bank of the Tone River. ――If that were all, it might not have posed any particular problem. He was a lean, medium-built man around thirty years old with a sallow complexion and a slightly twisted mouth. Though dressed in traveler's straw sandals and wearing a pale yellow hood regardless of season, he did nothing but stand at this ferry crossing from dawn till dusk, never once attempting to cross.

Even though the boatmen, seeing he was blind, would offer to ferry him without charge, he would only smile bleakly and silently shake his head. Nor was this a matter of one or two days—for one year, two years, three years, undeterred by rain or wind, uncomplaining of heat or cold, he would invariably appear at this ferry crossing with his gaunt figure every single day.

By now, even the boatmen could no longer turn a blind eye. They repeatedly demanded to know why he came here every day, but the blind masseur merely continued smiling his lonely smile, never providing any proper answer. Yet his purpose gradually revealed itself through nature's course.

Travelers coming from the Oshu and Nikko regions boarded the ferry boats from here. Travelers coming from the Edo direction would board ferry boats at Kurihashi and arrive here. The blind masseur scrutinized each and every one of the boarding and disembarking travelers. "Might there be among you a man by the name of Nonomura Hikobei?" Nonomura Hikobei—a surname befitting a samurai—yet it seemed no such person had ever come by, as everyone would pass through without answering. Even so, the blind masseur appeared daily at this ferry crossing, inquiring after Nonomura Hikobei. As mentioned before, he had not missed a single day over many long years, so no one could help but be astonished by his perseverance.

“Why do you keep asking after that person?” These questions too were frequently repeated by the boatmen, but he merely smiled as always and never once opened his mouth. He was by nature a man of few words, and though he spent every day at this ferry crossing, even toward the boatmen whose voices—if not their faces—he should have long grown accustomed to hearing, he had never once spoken familiarly. Even when they addressed him, he would only respond with a silent smile or nod, seeming to avoid engaging with others as much as possible until eventually the boatmen grew accustomed to this and ceased addressing him altogether. He too appeared to have ultimately accepted this as his lot, standing alone in solitude day after day.

Where he lived and what kind of life he led—that too remained unknown. Where he came from and where he returned to remained unclear to anyone, as no one had gone out of their way to follow his trail. The ferry crossing here began at dawn and ended at dusk. He would stand here throughout that time, and when the ferry ceased operation at dusk, he would depart as though vanishing into some unknown place. Even spending all day like this, he never seemed to bring any provisions. When Old Man Heisuke—who lived in the ferry hut—took such pity on him that he once prepared two large rice balls, even Jihei seemed overjoyed for once and ate one with evident relish. Then, saying it was thanks, he pressed a mon coin into Heisuke's hand. Though Heisuke naturally had no thought of accepting payment and refused, Jihei forced it upon him all the same.

This became the precedent—whenever Heisuke’s hut prepared a large rice ball for him each day, he would invariably leave behind a mon coin. Even in an era of low prices, one large rice ball’s value hardly balanced against a single mon coin. Yet Heisuke, regarding this as a form of charity toward the blind man, not only willingly prepared that rice ball daily but also gave him hot water and let him warm himself by the hearth fire. This kindness appeared to have reached his heart, for while he scarcely spoke to others, he would sometimes exchange remarks about the weather with Old Man Heisuke.

As it was a highway with heavy traffic, multiple ferry boats operated.

However, since all the other boatmen had returned to their respective homes from evening onward, leaving only Old Man Heisuke lodging in this hut, one day he said to the blind masseur.

“I don’t know where you come from,” he said, “but it must be hard for someone blind to go back and forth every day.” “Why don’t you just stay in this hut?” “There’s no one else here but me, so you needn’t hold back.” The blind masseur thought for a while before accepting the offer to stay. As Heisuke lived alone, he was pleased to have gained even a blind companion and decided that very night to lodge him in his hut while providing what care he could. Thus began their cohabitation at this Tone River ferry hut—through rainy nights and windy evenings—the aging boatman and sightless stranger sharing quarters until their bond deepened naturally through proximity. Still true to his nature however, the taciturn masseur spoke sparingly. He maintained absolute silence regarding his origins and purpose. Heisuke refrained from pressing inquiries, having intuited that excessive scrutiny would drive his guest away.

Even so, there had been one occasion when Heisuke had asked him during a late-night talk. “Are you seeking revenge?”

The blind masseur smiled faintly as always and shook his head. That was the end of the matter. When Old Man Heisuke took him in, it had undoubtedly begun from sympathy toward the blind man, but he also held some hidden curiosity. Thus he secretly kept a watchful eye on his fellow lodger's activities, though nothing unusual seemed to occur. The blind masseur went to the ferry crossing from dawn till dusk, ceaselessly calling out the name of Nonomura Hikobei.

Old Man Heisuke would drink one go of nightcap sake each evening and fall into a dead sleep, remaining completely unaware of anything happening in the night. But one late night when he happened to awaken, he found the blind masseur intently polishing something resembling a thick needle by the dimming hearth fire. Yet the man—possessed of senses keener than most—had already detected Heisuke’s slightest movement and swiftly concealed the needle-like object. The situation appeared too unusual to ignore, so Heisuke feigned ignorance and fell back asleep, but when in the dead of night the blind masseur quietly crawled over, climbed atop his sleeping form, and seemed about to thrust that needle-like object through his left eye, he awoke from the dream. Awakened by the moaning voice, the blind masseur roused himself and fumblingly tended to him. Heisuke said nothing about the dream, but from that time on, he began to feel an inexplicable dread toward the blind masseur.

Why did he carry such needle-like objects? One could dismiss them as tools of a blind masseur’s trade, but concealing such thick needles seemed somewhat out of place. Heisuke began to suspect that perhaps the man was feigning blindness and was in fact some sort of thief. In any case, Heisuke had grown uneasy about letting him stay as a lodger, but since he himself had invited the man in, he couldn’t very well drive him out now—so he left things as they were until one autumn evening arrived.

From noon onward, a chill rain fell without respite, leaving few travelers at the ferry crossing until evening brought complete abandonment of the path. The riverbed waters appeared swollen, their stone-striking roar echoing with uncommon ferocity. Lonely too rang the rain pelting the riverside willow before the hut—a sound that drew even weather-hardened Heisuke into melancholy contemplation on this desolate night. Against the creeping cold, Heisuke built up the hearth fire and began sipping his nightly measure of sake from early evening onward, while the masseur—ever claiming poor tolerance for drink—sat wordless before the flames.

“Ah.” The blind masseur soon muttered under his breath. Startled by this, when Heisuke involuntarily looked up, from outside the hut came a splashing sound through the rain. “What could it be? A fish?” said the blind masseur.

“That’s right.” “It’s a fish,” said Heisuke, standing up. “With this rain swelling the water—looks like a big fellow’s jumped up.”

Heisuke hooked the straw raincoat hanging there, took a small scoop net, and exited the hut. Outside, the wind-driven rain poured down fiercely, obscuring the usual glimmer of water, but in the dimness, the shadowy form of a large fish thrashing about on the bank could faintly be discerned.

“Ah, a sea bass.” “This one’s huge!”

Knowing sea bass were strong fish, Heisuke cautiously moved to pin it down, but the fish proved larger than anticipated—apparently exceeding three feet—rendering the small net ultimately inadequate for scooping it up. Fearing the net might tear if handled carelessly, he cast aside the net and tried to grab the fish with his bare hands, whereupon the fish thrashed its tail fin with such force that it sent its adversary flying, causing Heisuke to slip on the wet grass and fall.

Hearing the commotion, the blind masseur also came outside, but he, being blind, had no reason to fear the darkness. He relied on the thrashing sounds of the fish to grope his way closer and effortlessly seized it. Finding such dexterity too remarkable for a blind man, Heisuke felt a flicker of unease but nonetheless hauled the large fish into the hut—where it proved indeed to be a sea bass. When Heisuke saw the thick needle pierced straight through the sea bass’s eye from right to left, he shuddered involuntarily. The fish was weakening, half-dead and half-alive.

“Is the needle stuck in the fish’s eye?” asked the blind masseur. “It’s stuck,” answered Heisuke. “Did it get stuck? Right in the center of the eyeball…” Baring his unseeing eyes, the blind masseur grinned slyly, and Heisuke shuddered again.

Two Blind people have keen perception. Heisuke had long known that among them all, this blind masseur seemed to possess exceptionally sharp senses, but witnessing his deftness tonight made him marvel all the more. Being blind, he likely cared nothing for darkness or light—yet even so, to have caught a large fish thrashing wildly in this dark rain and pierced straight through the very center of its eye while groping blindly was no ordinary skill. The thought that those needles he had secretly honed away from others’ eyes could perform such feats plagued him with nightmares time and again.

“I’ve ended up harboring quite the troublemaker.” Heisuke now regretted his decision, but he still lacked the courage to decisively drive him out. On the contrary, after that, he took care in all matters and strove to keep him appeased.

After nearly three years since the blind masseur had first appeared at this ferry crossing and nearly two years since being taken into Old Man Heisuke’s hut—totaling roughly four full years—he fell ill with what seemed a cold around early spring’s second month. It was a year of severe lingering cold, where winds sweeping down morning and evening from Nikko and Akagi threatened to blow away this lone hut standing in the wide riverbed. Undeterred by the chill, Heisuke went all the way to Koga Town to buy medicine and made the ailing blind masseur drink it.

Despite being in such a state, the blind masseur never neglected to lean on his cane and go out to the ferry crossing.

"You can't keep enduring this cold - exposed from dawn till dusk like this." "Why not rest at least until your illness heals?" Heisuke finally intervened with this warning after long hesitation, but the blind masseur obstinately refused. Each day he leaned harder on his cane to support his wasting frame as he shuffled out stubbornly - until even that iron will failed at last, leaving him collapsed morning till night in their hut. "It's not that I haven't told you before." "You're still young - you must preserve your strength," Old Man Heisuke urged gently while tending him daily through worsening symptoms that showed no sign of abating.

After he could no longer go to the ferry landing, the blind masseur asked Heisuke to buy him one live fish each day. From winter to spring, the waters here dry up and river fish cannot be caught. Being far from the sea, live sea fish are even scarcer. Even so, Heisuke would search every day and buy live carp, crucian carp, and eels; then the blind masseur would take out those needles and pierce each one’s eye before discarding them. Once killed, they served no purpose—he’d said they could boil or grill them however they liked—but Heisuke couldn’t bring himself to eat those fish imbued with the blind masseur’s obsession, so he always threw them into the river before his eyes.

Not only was the blind masseur crushing one live fish’s eye each day—what further astonished Heisuke was his handing over five gold koban coins as payment for purchasing those fish. Back when receiving just one rice ball for lunch, he had paid one mon coin daily, but after moving into the hut—though sharing three meals from Heisuke’s pot—he ceased paying even a single copper. Of course, Heisuke never pressed him. “Now that I mention it,” said the blind masseur,“I’m deeply indebted to you.” “Therefore,” he continued,“while I live, use this money for fish—keep what remains as payment for my past provisions.” Nearly two years’ worth of food was hardly substantial.

When presented with five koban coins in return, Heisuke was aghast, but upon reluctantly accepting them as instructed, the blind masseur—after about half a month—grew utterly enfeebled, entering a critical condition where he might die any day.

In the second month of the old calendar, though tomorrow was to mark the vernal equinox, this year’s spring cold pierced to the bone as the Akagi oroshi winds that had been blowing since morning began driving in fine snow by afternoon.

Fearing the unseasonable cold might harm the sick man, Heisuke stoked the hearth fire more vigorously than usual. When the ferry ceased operations and the other boatmen had withdrawn early, the spring day too waned toward dusk—the snow was not falling heavily, but the wind grew fiercer still. Whenever it came roaring in with gale force, the old hut rattled violently like during an earthquake.

The blind masseur lying in the corner of the hut said in a weak voice.

“The wind blows fiercely.”

“It’s troublesome how it blows every day,” said Heisuke as he brewed the patient’s medicine over the hearth fire. “Moreover, it’s snowing a bit today as well. The weather’s been so unsettled lately—you especially need to be careful.”

“Ah, so it’s snowing. “Snow…” The blind masseur sighed. “There’s no need for caution—I’m already saying my farewells.” “You mustn’t say such weak things. “If you hold on just a bit longer, the weather will surely turn springlike. “Once it warms up, your body is certain to heal naturally. “Just endure until the end of this month.” “No, no matter what you say, my lifespan has already come to an end. “After all, there’s no way it will heal. “Through some divine providence, you have shown me such kindness in countless ways. “Therefore, as I approach death, there is something I wish for you to hear…”

“Now, wait a moment. “The medicine’s ready now. “Drink this first, then take your time and speak.” After having Heisuke administer the medicine, the blind masseur inclined his ear to the sound of the wind.

“Is the snow still falling?” “Seems like it’s still coming down,” answered Heisuke, peering through a crack in the door at the dark outside.

“Every time it snows, memories of the past pierce me all the more keenly,” the blind masseur began quietly.

“Until now I’ve never spoken my name, but I am Jihei—once a young retainer serving in a domain of Ōshu. I came here at thirty-one, and after nearly five years I’m now thirty-five—but thirteen years ago, when I was twenty-two in spring, on a cold snowy day like this, I lost both eyes. My master was called Nonomura Hikobei—a samurai of considerable standing in his domain with one hundred eighty koku—then twenty-seven years old. His new wife was O-Toku, twenty-two like myself. The new wife prided herself on her looks—no, she was beautiful enough to boast without reservation. Though considered too flashy for a samurai’s bride, she paid no heed and dressed extravagantly, taking advantage of having no children. As I beheld her beauty morning and night in the same estate, uncontrollable desires arose within me. She was another’s wife—my master’s—and though I knew nothing could come of it, I couldn’t let go. I spent days restless until fearing madness—when on the unforgettable twenty-seventh of New Year’s month, after unseasonable warmth in Ōshu, heavy snow began the previous evening and soon piled two feet deep. In snow country we don’t startle at snow. Though I could’ve left it, thinking to sweep near the veranda edge, I took a broom to the garden. The new wife—her colic flared by snow—was warming at the kotatsu in the six-mat room. Hearing my sweeping, she opened the veranda shutters: ‘Stop sweeping what’ll just pile up.’ That alone would’ve sufficed—but she added: ‘You must be cold—come warm yourself.’ Likely half-jesting, but hearing this I grew unreasonably delighted—brushing off snow, I climbed onto the veranda half-dazed. As ash-like snow blew in, I shut the storm shutters and slipped into the kotatsu’s warmth—where she simply stared silent at my impropriety. Truly, I must’ve been mad then.”

Being told such a suggestive story from the lips of the dying blind masseur, even Old Man Heisuke was taken aback.

III

The blind masseur continued his tale. “Thinking I must not stray from this path, I blurted out all the thoughts I’d been harboring at once. When courted by her retainer, the new wife may have grown truly appalled. As she still sat there wordless, I grew frantic and tried to seize her hand—whereupon the new wife finally cried out. Hearing that cry, others came running and bound me without ceremony, tying me to a tree in the garden. With hands bound and exposed to the snow, having resigned myself to death, my master soon returned from the castle. After hearing the details, he had me brought to the veranda. ‘Executing vermin like you would soil my blade,’ he said, sparing me, ‘but such wickedness springs from those seeing eyes of yours.’ ‘To prevent further folly—’ he declared, drawing his dagger, ‘I’ll gouge out your eyeballs.’ And so he stabbed both my eyes.”

As if tears of blood were still flowing from those eyes, the blind masseur pressed his emaciated fingers against both eyes. Heisuke too shuddered at this gruesome punishment, feeling a pain as if a blade had been stabbed into his own eyes. He asked with a sigh. “And then what did you do?”

“Having been suddenly blinded and banished, I was handed over to relatives in the castle town.” “My life was spared, and my wounds were treated—but being suddenly blind left me utterly helpless.” “Since I had an acquaintance in Utsunomiya, I sought refuge there and became apprentice to a masseur; then I went to Edo and studied under a certain kengyō.” “From that spring at twenty-two until thirty-one—nearly ten years—not one day passed without thoughts of vengeance.” “My enemy was my former master: Nonomura Hikobei.” “Had he slain me cleanly—that would have been different—but when I consider how he made me a lifelong cripple through such cruelty...” “Yet knowing him an accomplished samurai whose martial skills surpassed ordinary men’s—how could this blind wretch take revenge? After endless deliberation...” “Having trained with needles both in Utsunomiya and Edo, I fashioned a thick one—to ambush him and stab his eyes.” “Once resolved, whenever free I practiced stabbing—such terrifying focus! In time I could pierce even solitary pine needles unerringly...” “Knowing Hikobei often traveled between Edo and his domain on estate business—I resolved to wait at this ferry crossing...” “For five years since coming here—every day without fail—I inspected travelers boarding and disembarking...” “Ah—this confession should have died with me—yet some compulsion made me burden you with this endless tale...” “Again and again... your kindness sustained me...” “I thank you... once more...”

Having said what needed to be said, he suddenly appeared to grow fatigued, then turned sideways and pressed his face against the wooden pillow. Heisuke too silently entered his own bed.

From midnight, the snow ceased and the wind gradually died down, leaving nothing to disturb this solitary house. The waters of the Tone River flowed without a sound, as if frozen.

The riverside morning dawned early, and when Heisuke awoke as usual, the patient appeared to be sleeping quietly. Because it was too quiet, feeling slightly uneasy, he peered in and saw that the blind masseur had stabbed his own neck with that needle. Having trained for many years in that art, he seemed to know the vital pressure point and had died effortlessly with a single needle. With the help of the other boatmen, Heisuke buried the blind masseur’s corpse at a nearby temple. Of course, they buried that needle along with him. Being an honest man, Heisuke did not lay a hand on the five koban coins left behind by the blind masseur, instead donating all of them to the temple as perpetual memorial offerings.

Six years had passed, marking the eleventh autumn since that blind masseur first appeared at this ferry crossing. At August’s end came relentless rains that swelled the Tone River beyond its banks, drowning every village along its shores. Heisuke’s hut too was swept away.

Because of this, the Bōgawa ferry service had been suspended for over ten days, but when September arrived with days of clear autumn weather continuing and they were finally able to resume operations, the travelers bound for Kurihashi and Koga on both banks—who had been waiting impatiently for the river to reopen—rushed to board all at once, each vying to be first.

“It’s dangerous! Be careful!” “The water hasn’t truly receded yet, but every last boat’s packed full.”

As Old Man Heisuke stood on the bank issuing repeated warnings, a boat that had set out from Koga capsized in the blink of an eye before advancing even a few ken, struck by a powerful crosswave. Just as Heisuke had said, the water had not truly receded. Besides the boatmen, young men from nearby villages had also been stationed there as a precaution. When they saw the capsized boat, they scattered into the water one after another, rescuing people wherever they spotted those on the verge of drowning and carrying them back to the original shore. After being treated, everyone regained their senses, but among them, only one samurai simply would not survive. He was a man of about forty-five or six, of decent appearance, accompanied by two attendants.

The attendants were all safe, and from the mouths of those two, the circumstances of the drowned man were explained. He was a samurai named Nonomura Hikobei from a certain domain in Oshu, who had contracted an eye disease over six years prior and by this time had become nearly blind. Having heard there was a renowned eye doctor in Edo, and having duly reported this to his lord, he was traveling up to the capital for treatment when he unexpectedly encountered disaster here. Being nearly blind, he had been carried in a palanquin and assisted by two retainers during the journey; yet in this situation, even the retainers spoke with suspicion, wondering how he alone had drowned despite supposedly having considerable skill in swimming.

In a somewhat different sense, Old Man Heisuke questioned his death. When he considered this mystery—why Nonomura Hikobei alone, a blind samurai among all rescued passengers, had drowned—Heisuke shuddered abruptly. He secretly asked the retainers whether their master had a wife, to which they replied she had been divorced from him long ago. As for when and under what circumstances this divorce occurred, even Heisuke could not bring himself to press further.

Since this occurred during their travels, the retainers cremated their master’s body and said they would take his ashes back to their home province. Heisuke went to the nearby temple, laid offerings of autumn wildflowers at the blind masseur’s grave, and returned.

Siblings' Souls

I

The third man spoke.

“Since this concerns a somewhat peculiar incident I myself encountered, I ask that you bear this in mind as you listen.”

It is the story of a man named Akao, my friend. Akao's name was Sakuro—a man who graduated school at the same time as I. After graduating, he had intended to work in Tokyo, but when his father back home suddenly died about half a year before graduation, circumstances arose that compelled him to return to his hometown and take over the family business, so he left for home immediately after finishing school. Akao's hometown was a small town in Echigo Province, where his father had served as a doctrine lecturer for the [Redacted] Sect, expounding its teachings to devotees who gathered at the branch chapel. I myself do not know much about the organization of the [Redacted] Sect. Whether he, an amateur, could suddenly return home and immediately succeed to his father's position was unclear to me in its particulars, but according to letters he sent me after returning home, he apparently assumed his father's role without complications and became a doctrine lecturer for the [Redacted] Sect.

To be sure, since he was—like myself—a product of the liberal arts and, as the son of such a family, had apparently conducted considerable research into religious matters even in ordinary times, he likely succeeded to his father’s position without any complications. However, he did not seem particularly fond of that work, for even at the farewell party hosted by seven or eight close friends, he explained the troublesome circumstances that made it absolutely necessary for him to return home at least once, and kept voicing complaints and grievances.

“Ah well, I’ll somehow resolve things within two or three years and come out again. How could I endure being buried in the snow for my entire life?”

He had said such things. Even after returning to his hometown, he frequently sent letters to us, writing in a deeply pessimistic manner about how various circumstances made it impossible for him to easily abandon his current position and similar matters.

At Akao's family home resided an elderly mother and a sister. These two women were undoubtedly devotees of the [Redacted] Sect, and from all sides they seemed to be forcibly restraining him, absolutely refusing to allow him to leave his position. In response to this, he too seemed to be in great distress; if this were how things were, he couldn’t understand what purpose there was in living. He even wrote rather extreme things, such as that it might be better to set fire to the shrine he was managing and burn to death together with it—or so I recall. The seven or eight friends who had attended the farewell party all scattered to various places due to their professions and family circumstances, leaving only a man named Murano and myself remaining in Tokyo. Moreover, Murano being terribly neglectful about writing would only reply to Akao's letters about once for every three received, so naturally their correspondence grew distant. In the end, it seemed I alone continued exchanging letters with him until the very last.

Akao’s letters reached my hands without fail about once each month. I too would invariably write back to him each time. Over the course of these two years, somehow his mindset had transformed—his complaints about his present circumstances gradually diminished. In the end, he did not utter a single complaint; rather, he even seemed to have resolved to devote his entire life to those teachings. I didn’t know what kind of religion the [Redacted] Sect was, but in any case, I secretly rejoiced that he could live by that faith.

In the third year after his return to his hometown, his mother died. After that, I knew he continued living with his younger sister in a house resembling company housing attached to the branch chapel. Then in March two years later, he brought his sister up to the capital. Of course, this wasn't sudden—he'd absolutely needed to come to Tokyo the following spring for sect headquarters business. Since his sister had never seen Tokyo either, plans to bring her along for sightseeing had been mentioned since the previous year's end, so I waited with eager anticipation until finally at March's end, the Akao siblings arrived from Echigo. Knowing the train's arrival time, I went to meet them at Ueno Station and was first astonished at how completely unchanged he looked from before.

Since he had served for years as a doctrine lecturer of the [Redacted] Sect, I had assumed he must look like some ascetic—perhaps with long flowing hair, a thick unkempt beard, wearing a crown-like hat, or clad in white traditional trousers. ――All such imaginings proved mistaken. He still wore his hair in his usual five-centimeter crop, dressed in a new Western-style suit of provincial tailoring, with not the slightest alteration detectable anywhere. The thin mustache grown beneath his nose merely lent him a slight air of dignity; he still possessed as youthful a countenance as he had during his student days.

"Hey." "Hey."

After such simple greetings were exchanged, he introduced the petite girl standing beside him to me. This was his sister Isako, said to be nineteen years old—a fair-skinned girl who seemed the very image of a snow country woman, with delicately small eyes and slender eyebrows. "You have a wonderful sister." "Hmm. Since Mother passed away, we've all been relying on this girl for household matters," said Akao with a smile.

Even during our train ride to my house, I could clearly sense the special bond between these siblings. They stayed at my home for nearly a month, spending their spring days attending to sect matters and sightseeing around Tokyo—I distinctly recall it being April tenth. When I invited them to view cherry blossoms in Mukojima, though the rain hadn't been heavy when we departed, we encountered a sudden downpour along the way and were forced to take shelter in a restaurant. As we waited two hours for the rain to stop, Akao spoke about his sister's situation in this manner.

“Even for someone like her, proposals have come from suitable matches, but the thing is, I’d be in a bind if this girl were gone.” “This girl also says she won’t marry anyone else until I have a wife settled.” “By the way, finding a wife isn’t exactly easy for me either.” “No, even up until now, I’ve had two or three candidates recommended to me, but none have really struck my fancy. After all, since she’s to be my wife, she absolutely must share the same faith.” “I don’t care about status or appearance, but finding a woman of strong faith has proven unexpectedly difficult.”

He appeared to have completely freed himself from his initial torment and now seemed to be dedicating his faith wholeheartedly to its doctrines. However, likely deeming any hope of converting me futile, he never made attempts to propagate his teachings to me. When Tokyo's cherry blossoms had all turned to fresh green leaves, I saw off the Akao siblings as they departed from Ueno.

Was that the last time I ever met these siblings, or did we meet again thereafter? This lingering uncertainty is what I want you to consider as the seed of this tale.

Two Upon returning to his hometown, Akao Sakuro immediately wrote and sent a long letter of thanks. A polite letter of thanks also arrived from his sister. I found it somewhat amusing that the sister wrote far better characters than Akao. After that, correspondence continued about once a month as usual, but when August came, I went up to Myogi Mountain in Joshu and ended up spending the entire summer at an inn there. When I sent a Myogi picture postcard to Akao, the siblings promptly sent a reply addressed to my inn. In Akao’s letter, he wrote that if he had the time, he would like to climb Myogi once, but his religious duties were too busy to allow it.

At the beginning of September, I returned to Tokyo once, but between having somehow taken a liking to Myogi's inn and Tokyo's lingering summer heat still being intense, I changed my mind and decided to stay at Myogi until autumn foliage season to finish all the work I had started. Having made preparations, I returned once more to Myogi's inn. The day after returning to Myogi, I sent another postcard to Akao letting him know that due to work obligations, I planned to stay secluded in the mountains here until around the end of October. But no reply came from either the brother or the sister.

At the beginning of October, I sent a postcard to Akao for the third time, but again received no reply. Akao might be away on sect business somewhere. Even so, I thought his sister Isako would have sent some word, but without paying it much mind, I took pleasure in the progress of my work, spending each day at the old desk I had borrowed from the inn.

By mid-month, hikers coming to view the autumn leaves began arriving in increasing numbers. Particularly with student school trips and group tours from various regions climbing in several groups every day, the once tranquil mountains suddenly became crowded. However, since most would descend to Isobe or head out to Matsuida that same day, few groups stayed overnight here, so at night, the sound of the mountain wind remained as lonely as ever. "A guest has arrived."

The inn maid came to deliver these words around five o'clock in the afternoon on a day nearing the end of October. The day had been overcast since morning, with an indeterminate something—whether mist or drizzle—occasionally drifting down from the mountaintops, and the inn nestled in the mountain’s folds now felt abruptly besieged by winter’s chill. At that very moment, I had descended from the second-floor guest room and was sitting before the large hearth cut into the wall near the entrance, engaged in my usual chatter with the inn staff. Remaining seated, I twisted my body to peer toward the front entrance—and there stood Akao. He wore a worn-out fedora, had his suit trousers rolled up, wore straw sandals over his socks, and carried a tree branch as a walking stick.

“Hey. You made it,” I called out while raising one knee. “Come on in.” Akao stared intently at me with a nostalgic look in his eyes, then turned back toward the entrance as if to leave. I thought perhaps he had companions waiting elsewhere, but finding this unlikely, I rose immediately and went to the entrance—only to see him briskly climbing toward the mountains without a backward glance. Finding this increasingly peculiar, I thrust my feet into the inn’s straw sandals and went out in pursuit.

“Hey, Akao.” “Where are you going?” “Hey, hey, Akao.” Akao did not respond and instead quickened his pace. As I continued chasing after him while calling his name, I lost sight of his figure near Myogi Shrine.

The gloomy winter day was already nearing dusk, and between the large cedar groves it had grown dim. As I called his name repeatedly in a raised voice while gripped by an indefinable unease, Akao Sakuro emerged unsteadily from among the cedars like one lost.

"Cold, cold," he muttered under his breath. “It certainly is cold… Once the sun sets, it suddenly gets cold. Come quickly to the inn and warm yourself by the hearth fire. Or are you going to pray first?” Without answering, he silently thrust his right hand before me. Peering closely in the dim light, fresh blood appeared to be seeping from his index and middle fingers. Having assumed he must have injured himself on a tree branch or something, I fumbled through my sleeve and pulled out a scrap of manuscript paper.

"Well, at any rate, hold this against it and hurry back to the inn." Without uttering a word, he took the scrap of manuscript paper from my hand, pressed it over his right knuckles, then set off briskly again. Rather than retracing his steps, he appeared determined to climb endlessly toward the mountain's peak. Startled, I called out once more to halt him. “Hey, you. What do you plan to achieve by climbing now? I’ll guide you up tomorrow. You ought to turn back today. If darkness catches you mid-path, that’ll spell real trouble.”

As if paying no heed to such warnings, Akao stubbornly continued climbing upward. I grew increasingly anxious and pursued after him, calling out repeatedly as I went. Since August I had grown accustomed to traversing these mountain paths and considered myself quite swift-footed, but his pace proved swifter still. In mere moments he pulled two ken ahead, then three, so even as I climbed breathlessly, I stood little chance of catching up. The surroundings gradually darkened as a cold rain began pattering down. Of course, there being no one else about, I couldn't call for assistance. Determined not to lose sight of his retreating form in the gloom, I strained my owl-like eyes and desperately continued the chase alone—only to lose him completely at a bend in the sloping path.

“Akao.

“Akao.”

My voice only echoed through the surrounding forest, with no response coming from anywhere. Even so, I tenaciously chased after him and finally came before Ipponsugi Tea House, but as Akao's figure remained nowhere to be found, my unease grew ever greater. I called out to the tea house staff and inquired, but with night having fallen, rain coming down, and no one out front, they said they didn't know whether such a person had passed by. From here onward lay Myogi's treacherous terrain, with the first stone gate already looming before my eyes. No matter how familiar I was with the area, I lacked the courage to pass through the stone gate in this darkness, so I gave up and came to a halt.

As the path grew increasingly dark, I borrowed a lantern from a familiar tea house and descended the mountain in the rain. Without any rain gear, I got soaked from head to toe, and by the time I returned to the inn, I felt frozen to the bone. At the inn, they had grown worried about my late return and were discussing whether to come out looking for me, so everyone felt relieved and immediately led me straight to the hearth. Warming my drenched body by the fire, I finally felt relieved, but my anxiety about Akao pressed on my chest like a heavy stone. The people at the inn also frowned upon hearing my account, though some among them offered such interpretations.

“If he belongs to such a sect, he might have deliberately climbed the mountain in the dark to undertake some ascetic practice. Those like mountain ascetics or itinerant monks occasionally do such things.”

The people at the inn recounted how an ascetic had climbed through February's heavy snow up to the second stone gate. Yet considering Akao's demeanor when we had met earlier, he did not seem like one who would undertake such austerities and ascetic practices as those ascetics. Even as night deepened, he did not return. Was he secluded beneath some stone gate on this cold rainy night as the inn staff suggested, or was he practicing some ascetic rite?

While continuing to think such thoughts, I spent that night without a moment's peaceful sleep.

When dawn came, the rain had stopped.

After finishing breakfast, I took along two inn staff members and one guide to search for Akao's whereabouts. On our way to Ipponsugi Tea House from the previous night, we combed through every corner of the groves, but his figure remained nowhere to be found. Perhaps from having dashed about recklessly last night, my legs felt strangely unsteady this morning and wouldn't move as I wished, so I decided to rest awhile at this tea house while the other three passed through the stone gate and continued climbing. Within less than thirty minutes, one of them returned and reported to me that they had discovered a man's figure tumbled down from Candle Rock into the valley. I sprang up from the bench and immediately passed through the first stone gate with him.

The tea house staff went to my inn to report the incident.

Three Helpers from the inn also came rushing over, and in any case, it was close to 11 a.m. when they brought Akao's corpse back to the inn.

The early winter day after the rain shone bright and beautiful, and in the cedar grove could be heard the singing of small birds.

“Ah.”

Having said this, I stared at the corpse for some time. The male corpse—with half its face bloodied from striking its forehead against a rock, mud and leaves clinging to it—had until now led me to single-mindedly assume it was Akao based solely on the clothing, without properly observing its features. But after returning to the inn and laying the corpse out in the earthen entranceway, I finally composed myself and peered at its face once more: it was unmistakably not Akao, but a complete stranger I had never seen before. While doubting this could be possible, I peered at him from every angle under the bright sunlight, but he was unmistakably not Akao.

"What could be the reason?"

I gazed vacantly at the corpse in a dreamlike state. Of course, it had already been dusk yesterday, but the clothing Akao wore when he came to visit me was unquestionably this. The corpse was not only dressed in Western clothes with straw sandals over socks, but even the fedora discovered in the valley appeared identical in every detail to the one I had seen the previous evening.

Still, I couldn't completely shake off such doubts. Since hikers' clothing tends to look alike on everyone, perhaps the man I saw yesterday was someone entirely different from Akao after all. To confirm this, I tried to find some clue by examining the corpse's clothing—the first thing my hand touched was a crumpled sheet of manuscript paper.

Manuscript paper—wasn't this the very sheet I had taken from my sleeve in front of Myogi Shrine to staunch Akao's bleeding finger? Moreover, weren't the traces of my pen clearly visible in the first two or three lines? Upon examining the corpse's fingertips, I found abrasion-like wounds remaining on the right index and middle fingers. Bloodstains had seeped into the manuscript paper too. Given that all this evidence aligned, the man from last night was undoubtedly this corpse. Could my assumption that this was Akao have been mistaken? Yet he had come to visit me. Though it had been dim, I'd clearly recognized him as Akao. He had somehow transformed into a complete stranger. No matter how I reasoned through it, the logic eluded me, so in an increasingly dreamlike state, I kept vacantly comparing the manuscript paper clutched in my hand with the corpse's face for what felt like an eternity.

Both the police officer from the local police box and the inn staff listened to my explanation and tilted their heads in puzzlement. It was undoubtedly strange. This bizarre corpse carried nothing but a frog-mouthed pouch containing a little over two yen in coins, with no other items that might serve as clues. He was transferred to the town office as an unidentified deceased person.

With this, the case had been temporarily resolved, but the great doubt that lay heavy in my heart was never settled. I immediately sent a letter to Echigo inquiring after Akao's well-being, but no response came from either the brother or the sister.

As my doubts only grew larger and I found myself unable to remain calm, I finally resolved to go all the way to his hometown to look into matters. Fortunately, it wasn’t too far from there, so I descended Mount Myogi, boarded a train from Matsuida, passed through Shinano, and entered Echigo. When I visited the [Redacted] Sect’s branch office and requested to meet Akao Sakuro, a man who appeared to be a caretaker came out and informed me that Lecturer Akao had already died. But no—not only Akao—when told that his sister Isako too was no longer in this world, I was stunned to the point of my mind going blank.

How had the Akao siblings died? As for the circumstances of their deaths, the caretaker-like man had been evasive at first, but when I pressed my investigation relentlessly, he finally divulged the details in full. That spring, as Akao had told me, he could find no suitable woman when trying to take a wife. His sister too had resolved to delay marrying elsewhere until her brother wed, instead devoting herself to his care. Thus did the siblings live together in harmony. Then came Uchida—a man employed at a local bank and fellow devotee through their sect affiliation—who proposed to make Isako his wife. But Akao, evidently disliking the man, tactfully declined. Undeterred, Uchida approached Isako directly with his suit, only to meet with her refusal as well.

Rejected by both the brother and sister, Uchida was disappointed. Out of this disappointment, he fabricated baseless rumors and plotted to harm the Akao siblings. Taking advantage of having an acquaintance at a local newspaper, he plausibly reported that there was an illicit relationship between the lecturer siblings of the [Redacted] Sect. He said that the reason his sister had not married elsewhere even when she came of age was because of that. Since it was a report from a fellow devotee, the newspaper carelessly trusted it and splashed the article across their pages, so this immediately became the talk of the town.

The majority of devotees did not believe it, but being subjected to such rumors proved an immense nuisance regardless. It had been perfectly clear this would directly and indirectly affect proselytization efforts. The branch office negotiated with the newspaper to first verify the article's source, but per journalistic custom, they refused to explicitly disclose the manuscript's origin. They stated they would issue a retraction if the facts were found inaccurate.

Several days later, a five- or six-line retraction notice appeared in that newspaper, but such a perfunctory gesture could not satisfy Akao. Yet he resented no one. He considered it divine retribution from the god he worshipped. He became convinced that his inadequate devotion had brought this great punishment from the [Redacted] Sect’s deity. After enduring unbearable dread and anguish for over a month, he resolved to face his final reckoning with dreadful determination.

He had donned a white robe resembling ceremonial attire that he always wore for shrine worship, drenched it thoroughly with kerosene, stood rigidly in the center of the shrine’s courtyard, and struck a match against his own body. Just hearing this account made one’s hair stand on end—he was instantly engulfed in a conflagration. By the time his sister Isako noticed and rushed to the scene, it was already too late. Whether she still attempted to smother the flames or had reached some resolve in that instant, Isako collapsed while clutching her brother’s burning body.

When the others came rushing over in alarm, it was already far too late. The brother’s body lay charred and lifeless. The younger sister bore severe burns across her entire body and gasped faintly like a dying insect. They immediately called a doctor to administer emergency treatment before carrying her to the town hospital regardless, but Isako died four hours later.

The gruesome incident shocked society more profoundly than the previous article had, and while various theories circulated regarding Akao's cause of death, public opinion ultimately settled on the conclusion that it was the newspaper article that had killed the devout [Redacted] Sect lecturer. Even the newspaper company, finally showing remorse for its recklessness, ran a semi-apologetic article that mourned the deaths of the lecturer siblings. At the same time, it was likely someone within the company had leaked the information. When rumors spread anew through society that Uchida had submitted that newspaper article, he too appeared unable to remain in the area any longer and vanished without notice from his bank job about a week prior.

“Do you still not know the whereabouts of that man Uchida?” I asked.

“I do not know,” replied the caretaker who had told me that story. “Since there didn’t seem to be any particular issues on the bank’s side, it is thought that he must have been utterly terrified of public opinion.” “How old is Uchida?” “Twenty-eight or twenty-nine.” “Do you know what kind of clothes he was wearing when he ran away?” I asked again. “It seems he didn’t return home from the bank and immediately boarded a train bound for Tokyo, but when he left the bank, he was wearing a gray Western suit and a fedora, or so it is said.”

My entire body turned cold as ice.

“So then, was it that man Uchida who went to Myogi to visit you?”

When the master of Frog Hall asked, as though unable to wait for the story to pause, the third man nodded with a deep sigh.

“That’s right. When they heard my story and came with me to Myogi—his relatives and those from the bank—the corpse lying at the bottom of Candle Valley was indeed confirmed to be Uchida. Yet why he came to visit me remains unknown to anyone. Of course, I didn’t understand either. That’s the terrifying secret. I had never even dreamed such misfortune would befall the Akao siblings. Then Akao—to my eyes, it unmistakably appeared to be him—suddenly came calling. Moreover, this was not Akao himself, but rather Akao’s enemy—one who had met with an unexplained and bizarre death. How do you interpret this secret?”

“Are you suggesting the siblings’ souls lured him out here?” the master said pensively. “Most likely so.” “I had interpreted it that way.” “Even so, if Akao wanted to meet me once, did his soul possess Uchida’s body to come here?” “Or did they send him as a messenger to report their own deaths?” “How did that man Uchida know where I was?” “Since I couldn’t grasp it clearly myself, I later met with various scholars seeking an explanation, but none provided answers sufficient to satisfy me.”

However, general opinions seem to have converged on this explanation—that Uchida had fallen under a sort of self-hypnotism which must have driven him to such bizarre actions. Uchida had initially planned to harm the Akao siblings on a mere whim, but when the consequences spiraled beyond all expectations and the siblings met such a gruesome end, he too was suddenly seized with terror. As a fellow adherent of their religious sect, he likely grew increasingly horrified by his own sin. Moreover, he may have become firmly convinced that the siblings' grudge would inevitably exact vengeance upon him. As a result, he came wandering dazedly to visit me, feeling as though guided by Akao himself. As for how he knew my whereabouts—being both a fellow believer and on such familiar terms as to propose marriage to Isako, he had frequented the Akao household and might have seen the postcards I regularly sent from Myogi Inn. He may have also known I was Akao's closest friend. Thus under self-hypnosis, guided by Akao's influence, he presumably came all the way to Mount Myogi intending to seek out his friend's confidant.

“So that’s how things stand, but since I haven’t studied hypnotism in detail, I can’t say for certain whether that’s truly the case. When I went abroad, I even asked scholars specializing in psychic research, but their opinions varied, and unfortunately, they still couldn’t reach an accurate conclusion. However, regardless of what the scholars’ opinions may be—even if Uchida was indeed under self-hypnosis—how is it that what I saw appeared as Akao’s figure? Or perhaps, as a result of self-hypnosis, had Uchida himself become so thoroughly immersed in Akao’s persona that everything from his speech and mannerisms to his very appearance naturally came to resemble Akao’s? Or perhaps I too was under some form of hypnotism at that time?”

The Monkey’s Eye

I

The fourth woman speaks.

“I was born in Bunkyū 1, Year of the Rooster, so I am now sixty-five. The collapse of Edo into Meiji 1 came when I was eight years old, and the abolition of Yoshiwara’s licensed quarter occurred in October of Meiji 5—when I had seen twelve winters. As you may well know, that November brought calendar reforms, making December third the first day of the new year’s reckoning. Oh dear, I fear age has made me rather long-winded against my will.”

“With that, I shall conclude my preface and proceed to the main text.” “This is truly a trivial tale, unworthy of being presented in such detail before everyone here. However, as the storytelling order has now come round to my turn, I shall relate it merely as a formality—pray listen without laughter.”

“This is truly mortifying to admit, but at that time my family resided within Yoshiwara’s licensed quarter, running a hikite-jaya teahouse for our livelihood. In the days of Edo, there were quite a number of cultured individuals even among Yoshiwara brothel keepers and hikite-jaya proprietors—they would compose haikai verses, practice calligraphy and painting, and associate with what you might call literati and artists. My grandfather and father were certainly part of that circle, keeping a great many items such as folding screens painted by Utamaro and hanging scrolls by Priest Hōitsu.”

"My grandfather passed away when I was three years old, and when Edo became Tokyo in the first year of Meiji, the family head—my father—was thirty-two and went by the name Ichibei. That was apparently the name borne by successive family heads. After all, with society suddenly turned upside down in such commotion, the entire world fell into terrible economic depression, leaving theater districts like Yoshiwara and all pleasure quarters as desolate as extinguished flames. Moreover, with the new Shimabara quarter having been established in Shin-Tomisaka Town, customers were drawn there. My father even suggested abandoning our business altogether, but upon being advised by my mother and others in the trade to wait a while longer and observe how things developed, it was soon decided that maintaining a pleasure quarter in the heart of Kyōbashi was improper. Thus Shin-Shimabara was abolished, and all its brothels were relocated to Yoshiwara."

“Just when we thought we might finally catch our breath, along came the abolition in Meiji 5 that I mentioned earlier... ‘Since the courtesans and geishas up to that time were deemed improper as human chattel, they were all ordered liberated at once.’ ‘What we now call “the emancipation of courtesans” was generally referred to then simply as “the abolition.”’ ‘Ah, but this caused another tremendous uproar—to put it plainly, it was as if Yoshiwara’s entire licensed quarter were being smashed to rubble.’”

“However, given that it was that era, everything depended on the authorities’ directives, so no one had any means to voice complaints. Of course, this did not mean Yoshiwara was completely ruined—they rebuilt their establishments and continued business as usual. However, coming atop my father Ichibei’s longstanding secret intention to close shop, this new upheaval finally made him decide to cut his losses and end the business that had continued for over a hundred-odd years. Yet carelessly embarking on an unfamiliar trade seemed unwise, for there were plenty of living examples of failed samurai-turned-merchant ventures. Relying instead on the five or six rental properties we owned around Tamachi and Imado, we resolved to live a modest, frugal household existence.”

My father had loved haikai poetry since his youth—whether he was skilled or unskilled, I cannot say—but as a disciple of the third-generation Yosetsuan under the name Rakushō, having already completed the ritual of establishing his lectern, he was in his own way qualified as a master. In this situation, he resolved to make his way through the world as a haikai master—partly to leisurely pursue his beloved path, and partly with the sense that his art might sustain him. However, since we were now moving into a smaller house unlike our previous residence, there was no space for extra belongings, and it seemed better to sell off cumbersome items for cash. Thus, not only unnecessary junk but also the calligraphies, paintings, and antiques collected since my grandfather’s time were mostly disposed of.

As you may well know, during the early Meiji years, artworks and antiques were truly being sold off at fire-sale prices—an era when masterpieces by Kikuchi Yōsai and Watanabe Kazan lay scattered in secondhand shops for merely one yen fifty sen or two yen. Thus even Utamaro paintings and works by Priest Hōitsu held no special value; they were all sold for a pittance. Even then, Mother would say it all seemed such a waste, but Father being a decisive man disposed of everything without hesitation—though he did keep seven or eight favored calligraphies and paintings, one folding screen, and five or six antique pieces.

The antiques included such items as alcove ornaments, flower vases, and writing stands—among them was a wooden monkey mask. It was something my father had acquired not long before; apparently, one cold evening in December of the previous year, Meiji 4, when passing through Ueno Hirokoji, he came across a night stall where someone had spread a thin mat by the roadside displaying a few secondhand items. A man around forty—his grown-out samurai forelock resembling a ronin from a play, dressed in threadbare clothing against the cold—sat dejectedly on the mat with a boy of about nine or ten, keeping watch over the stall.

At that time, there were many such night stall vendors about, so Father immediately surmised this too must be a fallen former samurai who had brought out his household belongings. Feeling pity, he peered into the stall only to find most notable items already sold off—scarcely anything worthwhile remained on display—yet among them lay a single aged mask. It caught his eye, and Father stopped. “Is this something you’re selling?”

Perceiving that the seller was no ordinary night stall vendor, Father politely inquired in this manner. The man likewise bowed courteously and said, “Please examine it at your leisure,” so Father bowed again and picked up the mask. When he held it up to the dim lamplight, it appeared appropriately aged—the entire face darkened with antiquity—but seeing that the carving was remarkably well-executed, Father, ever the lover of curios, felt an impulse to purchase it.

“If I may ask, how much is this?” “No, whatever amount you deem suitable will be fine, sir.” It was truly a greeting befitting a samurai-turned-merchant. Having neither the ill intent to exploit their situation by haggling down the price nor the heart to do so when feeling some pity for them, Father proposed buying it for three bu. The vendor expressed great delight at this, saying it hardly warranted three bu and that two would suffice—but Father insisted and ultimately purchased it for three bu. “This may sound like the story is backwards, but such things were apparently common in those days.”

Once the bargaining was finally settled, my father asked the vendor: “Has this mask been preserved in your family since ancient times?” “Well, I don’t know when we acquired it,” “To be honest, I wasn’t even aware such an item had been passed down through our lineage. But as you see from our fallen state—selling off household goods one after another—we unearthed it from the bottom of an old storage chest.” “Was it stored in a box or such?”

“There was no box.” “It was wrapped in turmeric-dyed cloth.” “What we found peculiar was how both eyes of the monkey mask had been covered with white cloth—the ends tied at the back like a blindfold.” “When this was done or by whom—with no family lore about it—we couldn’t say.” “Truth be told, I myself couldn’t tell whether it was worth two bu or three.”

The seller was utterly honest, disclosing everything without reservation. Having heard all this explanation and taken possession of the mask, Father returned to his Yoshiwara residence—yet when he examined it properly the next day, it appeared markedly different from what he had seen in the dim light of the previous evening. While there was no doubt it was quite old, the carving technique seemed rather crude, and he could not consider it any sort of masterwork. He now felt a sense of regret, thinking he had somewhat overestimated its value at three bu, but since he had insisted on purchasing it despite the other party stating two bu would suffice, there was no way to voice any complaint. "There's nothing to be done about this—well, I can just consider it a donation to a struggling former samurai."

Resigning himself to this, Father had stuffed the mask deep into a cupboard and nearly forgotten about it entirely. But when the time finally came to close down the Yoshiwara shop and sort through various artworks and antiques, he happened upon that very mask. Though he had naturally intended to sell it off along with the other items, when the moment arrived, he found himself inexplicably reluctant to part with it.

So, saying something like, “Well, I’ll just leave this as it is,” he added it to the five or six antique pieces he had previously mentioned and decided to take them along. Father later recounted that he himself hadn’t fully understood why he had suddenly become reluctant to part with it at the time.

In any case, for those reasons, our family left the Yoshiwara quarter where we had lived for many years in April of Meiji 6—mid-spring by the new calendar. The place we moved to this time was a small house in Imado, which had four rooms plus a four-and-a-half-mat detached cottage, and from its garden edge, the Sumida River could be seen in a single glance. Father shut himself away in this four-and-a-half-mat room and set up his haiku master’s desk.

Two

After that came about a month of various commotions, but once things finally settled down, it was mid-May—by the new calendar, the daytime had grown thoroughly summer-like. Due to Father having maintained wide social connections up until then, even after moving to Imado, many people came to visit. A great number of haiku friends also visited. "I had thought with a child’s sorrow that leaving Yoshiwara would surely bring loneliness," I reflected, "but with so many visitors coming and going—far more than anticipated—there proved to be little cause for such melancholy. Mother and I were secretly pleased amidst this when the incident occurred."

As I mentioned before, our new house had four rooms: a three-tatami entryway annex, a four-and-a-half-tatami maid’s quarters, a six-tatami family room, and an eight-tatami parlor. In that eight-tatami room, my parents and I were to sleep together. When we had a guest staying over, we could hardly have him sleep in the entryway, nor could we put him in the family room. As the four-and-a-half-tatami detached room where Father kept his desk was unoccupied at night, we decided to accommodate him there.

The guest staying over was Mr. Ida from Yotsuya—the son of a pawnshop owner—who was also a haiku enthusiast, having come visiting in the evening and becoming engrossed in discussions about his favorite subject until late into the night. Moreover, the rain began pouring down heavily. As this was an era unlike today's, without trains or automobiles, the journey back from Imado to Yotsuya would have been quite arduous—so we insisted he stay with us, and Mr. Ida agreed to accept our offer of lodging.

Guided by the maid, Mr. Ida slept in the four-and-a-half-mat detached room. We slept as usual in the eight-tatami room. The two maids slept in the four-and-a-half-tatami room next to the kitchen. It seemed the rain had begun mixing with wind, for a sound like storm shutters rattling could be heard. Because our location was Imado’s riverbank, the sound of the Sumida River’s waters splashing against the shore resonated close to our pillows. Thinking it seemed like a rather frightening night, I crawled into bed and had just drifted off to sleep when I was awakened by the sound of Father and Mother talking.

“Do you think something’s wrong with Mr. Ida?” Mother said anxiously. “It sounds like he’s groaning,” Father replied suspiciously.

Hearing this, I suddenly grew frightened again. As the night deepened, the sounds of rain, wind, and waves grew ever louder.

“Let’s go check regardless.”

Father lit the hand candle at his bedside and stepped out onto the veranda. Mother too had sat up on her bedding and seemed to be watching for any signs. Though it was a detached room, being right there in the garden, Father went out without even an umbrella and seemed to be talking with Mr. Ida upon entering—but their voices were drowned out by the storm and couldn’t be heard clearly. Before long, Father returned and spoke to Mother while laughing.

“Mr. Ida is still young, isn’t he? He claims some monster appeared in that room. Don’t be ridiculous!” “Oh my, what happened?” As Mother weighed this with mingled belief and doubt, Father laughed again.

“Even if you call him young, he’s already twenty-two. He’s not a child. Talking nonsense and causing a commotion in the middle of the night—this won’t do.” Father and Mother seemed to have fallen back asleep then, but I grew increasingly afraid and could not sleep. Had a ghost really appeared? On a night like this, there was no telling if a ghost might appear. As I thought this, my eyes grew wide awake and my small heart raced with fear, making it utterly impossible to fall back asleep.

As I prayed for dawn to come quickly, the Asakusa temple bell struck two o’clock. At that very moment, another clattering noise came from the detached room. Startled, I pulled the bedding over my head from top to bottom, not caring if my hair got tousled, and curled up small. Then it seemed Father and Mother had woken to this commotion. "What’s all this commotion now?" "This is getting to be a real nuisance." Father lit the hand candle again while grumbling complaints and went out, but suddenly let out a surprised cry and called Mother. Mother, also startled, had barely stepped out onto the veranda when she turned back and hurriedly lit the lamp. As this clearly wasn’t ordinary business, I too could no longer remain frozen in fear. Driven by morbid curiosity, I quietly poked my head out from the bedding—only to see Father carrying in Mr. Ida through the rain.

Mr. Ida was deathly pale and completely silent; having apparently tumbled from the detached room into the garden, his white sleeping yukata was now covered in mud. Mother woke the maids, had them draw water from the kitchen to wash Mr. Ida’s hands and feet, and change him into fresh sleeping garments. After some time of commotion, Mr. Ida finally calmed down and asked for a glass of water. He seemed relieved after drinking it, but his face still retained a pallid hue.

“You’ve done enough now—go over there and get some rest.” Father dismissed the maids to their room, then asked Mr. Ida what had happened, whereupon Mr. Ida began speaking in a low voice. “I must apologize for causing such repeated disturbances. “As I mentioned earlier, after being allowed to sleep in that four-and-a-half-mat detached room, when I thought I’d dozed off with my head on the pillow, I suddenly felt unbearably restless—as though someone was grabbing my hair and pulling it out—so when I cried out in panic, you all heard it and the Master came over specially.” “The Master said it must have been a dream I had, but whether it was dream or reality, even I couldn’t say for certain.” “After that, I tried lying down again, but my eyes remained wide awake and I couldn’t fall asleep.” As I kept tossing and turning, my chest grew oppressively heavy again, and I felt as though my hair were being clawed at. This time I desperately propped myself halfway up and peered intently around my pillow—there in the darkness was something glowing. “Hmm, what could that be? I wonder—” Trembling with fear, I looked up and saw the monkey mask hanging on the pillar… The two eyes were glowing like blue flames and glaring straight at me. “I couldn’t bear it any longer and tried to rush out in panic, but the storm shutter’s latch stubbornly refused to budge.” “Finally managing to pry it open and tumble out into the garden, the rain-soaked ground caused me to slip and fall… leading to this whole wretched series of disturbances.”

That Mr. Ida’s account wasn’t false could be discerned simply by looking at his pallid complexion.

Since Father knew from daily interactions that he wasn’t the sort to cause such a commotion over jokes or pranks, he listened with a look of bewilderment but nonetheless stood up, saying he would see for himself just to be certain. Mother wore an uneasy expression and seemed to gently tug at Father’s sleeve, but being of an unyielding nature, he paid no heed and strode off toward the detached room. Before long, he returned and let out a groaning sigh.

“This is truly strange.”

I was startled again. If Father said so, then it must indeed be true beyond doubt. Mother and Mr. Ida both seemed to be silently gazing at Father’s face. The mask had been stored away in the back of a cupboard, but this time we had hung it on a pillar in the detached room for the first time. Since no one ever slept in the four-and-a-half-mat room, we had gone nearly a month without knowing whether its eyes would glow. It was only tonight, after having Mr. Ida stay there, that we first discovered this uncanny phenomenon. That the eyes of a wooden monkey mask glowed blue like will-o'-the-wisps was an eerie tale just to hear.

At any rate—it having been decided we would investigate thoroughly come morning—Mr. Ida was settled into sleep within the six-tatami family room; though that night ultimately passed without further incident thereafter,I found myself unable to rest peacefully until daybreak whitened eastern skies,the clamor of wind-driven rain subsided,and dawn crows began calling through Hachiman Shrine’s sacred groves.

III

When dawn broke, the day turned out to be uncommonly fine—a vivid blue sky spread wide above the Sumida River’s muddy waters. A clear morning in early summer truly brings a refreshing feeling. Since I hadn’t slept properly last night, my head felt rather heavy, but as I gazed out at the river from the parlor window with the cool morning breeze gently caressing me, my mind gradually grew clearer. Before long, breakfast preparations were ready, and Father and Mr. Ida sat facing each other to eat. It fell to me to serve them.

Even during the meal, last night’s incident came up again, and Father explained in detail to Mr. Ida how he had acquired that monkey mask.

“It’s not just you—I saw it too with my own eyes, so we can’t dismiss this as some trick of the mind or faulty vision,” Father said, setting down his chopsticks. “The samurai who sold us that mask mentioned—though I don’t know when or by whom it was done—that they had covered its eyes with white cloth.” “At the time, I didn’t think anything of it, but now that I consider it, there must be some uncanny power in those monkey’s eyes, which is likely why someone had blindfolded it.”

“Hmm, so that’s how it was?” Mr. Ida also set down his chopsticks and fell into deep thought. “Given that explanation, I suppose there’s no way to trace the antique dealer’s current whereabouts.” “I don’t know. After all, this happened at the end of the year before last—though I passed through Hirokoji many times afterward, I never saw that antique dealer again. He must have either relocated his business or retreated to his hometown, I suppose.”

After finishing our meal, Father and Mr. Ida went to the detached room to inspect the true nature of the monkey mask in daylight. Mother, I, and the maids—driven by morbid curiosity—stealthily trailed behind and peered from afar. There we saw Father and Mr. Ida exclaiming in unison, “How strange! How utterly strange!”

When we asked what had happened, it turned out the mask had vanished without a trace. Since no one had entered the detached room from when Mr. Ida pried open the door and tumbled out until daybreak, it seemed possible someone might have sneaked in during the commotion to steal it. Yet with all other items remaining undisturbed and only that single mask missing, Father tilted his head in puzzlement, muttering about how truly strange it was. But no matter how much they investigated or discussed, what wasn’t there simply wasn’t there—there was nothing to be done. They could only repeat “How strange, how strange,” but in the end, they understood nothing.

Even by morning, Mr. Ida still did not seem to be truly feeling well; with a pale face, he left early, so Father and Mother saw him off with pitying looks.

It may not have been directly because of that incident, but Mr. Ida soon took to his bed with a lingering illness and ultimately passed away in October of that year. They had apparently forgotten the first five characters of his death poem, but it was said to be "The autumn wind seeps into the monkey’s eyes," and Father grew pensive once more. "If he went so far as to mention the monkey’s eyes in his death poem," Father mused, "then perhaps that monkey incident truly had been a curse after all."

Even so, Father continued keeping his desk in the four-and-a-half-mat detached room and spending his days on his beloved haikai poetry, during which time he gradually acquired disciples. After some years of effort, he had managed to establish himself as a full-fledged poetry master. Three years then passed without incident until Meiji 10—the year of the Satsuma Rebellion, as you know well. At that time Father was forty-one and I seventeen when, at March's end that year, a man named Kohei casually came calling. He had once been a houkan entertainer in Yoshiwara's pleasure quarters but, having been expelled by his master and barred from those circles, now ran a small curio shop in Shitaya while visiting former patrons' homes as a freelance jester—a man Father had known from earlier days. After this long absence he appeared saying, "I've brought something I thought you should see," and presented his find. "No—you know full well I sold off even our family's heirlooms when I quit dealing," Father initially refused. "Whatever treasure this might be, bringing it here is pointless." But Kohei pressed shamelessly—"Just look! If it doesn't suit you, help me find another buyer"—as he ceremoniously untied his furoshiki cloth to reveal an aged mask box.

“This came from the residence of a certain hatamoto, and the box inscription states it is the work of Ōno Deme.” “As its provenance is certain, I believe the item to be genuine, but…”

When he untied the cord, opened the lid, and took out the mask to look at it, Father was startled. It was undoubtedly that very monkey mask. It appeared Kohei had obtained it from somewhere, fabricated a makeshift box claiming it was the work of Ōno Deme or suchlike, and schemed to sell it at an exorbitant price. Such practices were hardly unusual in the antique trade, so Father showed no particular surprise—but what astonished him was how that mask had circled about to return to our house.

When pressed rigorously about its origin, Kohei’s facade gradually crumbled until he ultimately confessed having bought it at a night stall on Yotsuya-dori. Asked what sort of person the seller had been, he described a samurai-class man around forty-six or forty-seven—likely nearing fifty. When questioned whether the seller had been accompanied by a boy, he replied the man had sat alone on a straw mat. Pressed for details about the man’s appearance and other traits, they concluded he likely matched the same vendor who had operated a night stall in Ueno. Asked how much he had paid, Kohei admitted to fifteen sen. To take a mask purchased for fifteen sen, box it up, and claim it as Ōno Deme’s work—what an unscrupulous scoundrel this Kohei was, even by the standards of these times! No wonder his master had cast him out.

In any case, he should have sent it back immediately, but since Father felt inclined to test once more whether the monkey mask truly glowed, when he said to keep it for two or three days, Kohei readily agreed and handed the mask over to Father and left.

At that time, Mother was unwell and had been alternating between lying down and sitting up, but later when she heard about the matter, she made a displeased face. "Why did you take that thing in again?" "I didn’t take it in. Whether there’s any true mystery to it or not—I’m merely testing it out," Father replied calmly.

Unlike before, I was now seventeen years old, so I wasn’t merely trembling in fear anymore. Yet whenever I thought about Mr. Ida’s death and such matters, an inescapable sense of dread still crept over me. Father hung the mask in the four-and-a-half-mat detached room as before and decided to go check on it during the night, then slept alongside Mother after spreading their bedding in the eight-mat room. As I had grown older, I had taken to sleeping in the six-tatami family room around this time.

I didn't know what day it was by the lunar calendar, but that evening hung unseasonably warm and overcast, a handful of faint stars filtering through the low-hanging sky. Father told us to go ahead and sleep, but I lay awake after settling beneath the covers, the mask affair gnawing at my thoughts. When the clock struck twelve, Father—who'd been sleeping in the adjoining room—began rising quietly. I propped myself up slightly, holding my breath to listen as he slipped outside in stockinged feet and started stealing across the garden toward the detached room.

The moment I thought he had quietly opened the four-and-a-half-mat room’s door, Mother’s startled cry rang out from the adjoining room. I instinctively leapt up and slid open the sliding door to look, but with the lamp extinguished, I couldn’t make anything out. In my panic, I fumbled to light the lamp, and there was Mother—half-crawled out from her bedding, collapsed facedown on the tatami mats. Her round chignon lay completely disheveled, as though someone had grabbed her by the topknot and dragged her out. I cried out in a tearful voice.

“Mom! Mom!” “What’s happened to you?”

Startled by the cry, the maids woke up and came. Father also returned from the garden entrance. After giving her water and medicine and tending to her, Mother soon regained consciousness. According to her account, someone had suddenly grabbed her round chignon and forcibly dragged her out from her bedding.

“Hmm,” Father sighed. “It’s truly mysterious. The monkey’s eyes were still glowing blue.” I shuddered again. The next day, when Father called Kohei and told him about the matter, Kohei turned pale and trembled violently. When Father said, “It’s not good to keep such a thing around—let’s just smash it and burn it,” Kohei naturally had no objections, since he had originally bought it for fifteen sen. Father went out to the garden with him, smashed the mask into fragments, set them ablaze until completely burned, then cast the ashes into the Sumida River.

"Even so, that curio dealer is an odd fellow." "Whether it's the same man who sold you the mask or not, shall we investigate to be certain?" Kohei persuaded Father to accompany him, and that evening they went all the way up to Yamate, but no such curio dealer's night stall stood on Yotsuya-dori. The location Kohei had described was right beside Mr. Ida's pawnshop, and even Father apparently felt an uneasy premonition. After that, Mother experienced no further incidents, but her health gradually declined until she passed away three years later.

"That concludes my story." “Some said there might have been some medicine applied to the monkey’s eyes, but even then, we couldn’t fathom how the mask kept disappearing and reappearing.” “We never discovered who tore out Mr. Ida’s hair or seized Mother’s chignon either.” “What do you make of it all?” “I truly haven’t the slightest notion,”

The Master of Frog Hall also answered with a sigh.

Snake Spirit

I

The fifth man began his tale.

In my hometown, there was a certain type of ghost story concerning snakes that had been passed down. Of course, snakes and ghost stories shared an inseparable connection—since ancient times, there had been countless tales of people being enchanted by snakes or suffering their curses. However, I would ask you to consider that the story I was about to tell differed somewhat in nature from those conventional snake-related ghost stories. My hometown was Katayama village in Kyushu, where being close to the mountains and having a warm climate made snakes of various kinds exceedingly numerous. However, their varieties were common types such as rat snakes, tiger keelbacks, Japanese keelbacks, and burrowing snakes—few were the kind that posed harm to humans. We occasionally heard rumors of people being bitten by pit vipers, but those fearsome habu snakes did not inhabit the area. There were fairly large boa constrictors. In recent years, their presence had gradually disappeared, but it was said that in the past, giant snakes measuring fifteen to twenty shaku would writhe leisurely about.

Setting aside whether they're harmful or harmless, snakes are creatures that everyone dislikes. The people here grow accustomed to seeing them since childhood, so they neither dislike nor fear them as much as those from other regions do; however, even so, they cannot help but fear pit vipers and giant snakes. Since pit vipers are venomous snakes, it’s only natural that everyone fears them. However, in this region, cases of people losing their lives or becoming disabled due to pit vipers prove exceedingly rare. From ancient times, everyone knows these treatment methods, and upon realizing they’ve been bitten by a pit viper, they immediately administer first aid, so most major calamities end up as minor ones. Particularly as pit vipers detest the scent of indigo, when entering mountains likely teeming with them, people wear indigo gaiters and indigo tabi socks while carrying tree-branch staffs, beating to death every viper they encounter. In other regions, professions like viper catchers or snake catchers exist, but no such trade appears around here. None eat snakes. Nor does anyone drink pit viper-infused liquor. They simply beat them to death and discard them.

Pit vipers inhabited not only mountains but also villages in great numbers. Those accustomed to them would twist a hand towel into two layers and deliberately thrust it forward—the enraged vipers would instantly sink their fangs into the cloth. The moment one yanked sharply back, the viper’s white hair-like fangs would remain embedded in the fabric and snap clean off. A pit viper stripped of its venomous fangs became like a soldier disarmed—its fate was sealed. Thus while people here feared pit vipers, their dread never reached the intensity found elsewhere. These creatures were acknowledged as dangerous yet simultaneously scorned as easily subdued. To admit fearing pit vipers would invite mockery.

However，when it came to those giant snakes，they could not be spoken of in the same breath as pit vipers. Those gigantic creatures would coil around livestock，kill them，and swallow them whole. At times，they would even swallow children. Exterminating them was extremely difficult，and since they could not be handled through simple means like pit viper extermination mentioned earlier，the people here truly feared those giant snakes. Numerous ancient legends born from that fear remained，and these tales seemed only to intensify their dread.

For this reason—though no one knows from which era it began—it became the annual custom in these villages to conduct a Snake Festival at the beginning of the fourth month of the lunar calendar, when those giant snakes would gradually begin their activities. They would fashion an effigy of a great serpent using long green bamboo for its body and woven grass leaves for scales, then drag it along while singing some particular song before finally casting it into a nearby large river. It was said that placing those grass leaves inside an amulet pouch would prevent encounters with giant snakes or enchantment by them, so women and children scrambled to pluck them. Even observing how this annual event has been ceaselessly repeated since ancient times, one could imagine just how much those giant snakes had plagued the people here and how deeply they were feared by them.

Amidst them all, there lived in this village a single man who did not fear that giant snake in the slightest—or rather, one might say it was the giant snake that feared him. He was officially named Yoshijiro, but among the general public, he was known by his nickname Hebijū. He was the second-generation Hebijū; the predecessor Yoshijiro had drifted into the village some forty years prior, making his living as a roofer until certain circumstances led him to be recognized as a master of giant snake extermination, until during summers that extermination work became his primary occupation.

That Yoshijiro had already passed away, and his son Yoshijiro had likewise succeeded his father in working both as a roofer and giant snake exterminator. However, as his skills were said to surpass even those of his predecessor, the second-generation Hebijū came to be greatly trusted by the villagers. He lived with his nearly sixty-year-old mother, maintaining what passed for an ordinary life among the locals, until eventually abandoning his primary trade as a roofer to specialize exclusively in giant snake extermination. He worked only during the summer and spent the winters sleeping.

As for the means by which he exterminated giant snakes, there appeared to be two methods. One involved selecting locations where giant snakes were likely to appear, digging deep pits there, and burning a certain substance within them. The giant snakes would detect this scent, crawl out from somewhere, and slither down into these trap pits. Not only could they not climb back out due to the pits' depth, but intoxicated by the fumes of this substance, they would ultimately become paralyzed. Once this occurred, whether to let them live or kill them became entirely his choice. However, he guarded the composition of this substance as a closely guarded secret, never revealing it to anyone.

If it were merely this alone, then anyone could likely manage it provided they obtained that secret medicine, and there would be no particular reason to acknowledge Hebijū’s expertise; however, the second method was nearly impossible for anyone but him. For instance, when receiving an urgent report of a giant snake appearing in some part of the village—in situations where there was no time to hurriedly dig pit traps or burn that secret medicine—what would he do? He would take a single hand axe and set out with a hemp bag tied at his waist. Inside the hemp bag was stored an ochre-colored powder resembling medicinal herbs; first, he would scatter that powder in a straight line across the path from which the snake would approach. Then he would retreat four or five ken and scatter it again there. He would then scatter more at a spot another four or five ken away. In this manner, he would draw three lines across the snake’s path and await the enemy.

“I’ll show them I can stop it at the second line.” “If it crosses the third line, my life will be in jeopardy.”

He always used to say this. Standing before the first line with hand axe in hand, the giant snake would charge forward, eyes blazing—yet upon reaching the first line, it would hesitate momentarily. Seizing that instant, he would leap without hesitation and smash through the enemy's frontal assault. If the adversary advanced past the first line unhesitatingly, he would retreat backward—swift as flowing water yet faster than the serpent—to defend the second line. Even foes that breached the first line would inevitably falter at the second. Once they wavered, it meant their end—Hebijū's axe would descend upon their heads without mercy. True to his word, most giant snakes met destruction at the first line, while those stubborn enough to cross it invariably lost their heads before reaching the second.

Explaining it verbally made it sound straightforward, but when actually confronting a snake charging head-on, one had to first hold the front line—and if peril loomed, immediately retreat to defend the second line. This demanded agility akin to a flying bird or streaking serpent; extraordinary nimbleness proved essential. It could be said that this was precisely where Hebijū’s essence as Hebijū lay. However, one time, a giant snake nonchalantly crossed even that second line, leaving the spectators gripping their hands in tension. Hebijū’s face turned pale. He hastily retreated to defend the third line, but the enemy advanced further and crossed over.

“Ah, it’s no use.” The people involuntarily let out sighs.

Whenever Hebijū went out to exterminate them, he was always completely naked, wearing nothing but indigo-dyed half-length work pants. Today he appeared in his usual state, but upon seeing that even the final line had been breached and all hope was lost, he swiftly stripped off those half-length work pants. Chanting an incantation-like phrase, he leapt up and tore them apart from the crotch—whereupon the giant snake too split from mouth to tail and died. Hebijū collapsed as if utterly exhausted, but after being cared for by the people, he soon regained consciousness.

From that time onward, people came to revere Hebijū all the more. The powder he scattered was also a type of secret medicine, undoubtedly meant to poison snakes. While they had mostly understood the logic of killing weakened snakes through poison until then, this time they couldn’t make sense of it at all. When matters became life-or-death, he tore his work pants in two while chanting an incantation—and the snake too split apart and died.

In such cases, one could call it a kind of magic. Of course, even if they had asked him, it was common knowledge he wouldn't offer an explanation, so no one bothered to investigate further—but rumors began to circulate among the people, whispered from mouth to ear, that he might not be entirely human.

“Hebijū isn’t human. That’s a snake spirit.”

Such voices began to emerge.

II

Whether he was human or snake spirit, Hebijū's presence proved a blessing to this village, so none harbored resentment or hostility toward him. Mingled with dread that offending him might invite some terrible curse, the people came to revere him all the more. Half a year after that incident with the work pants, Hebijū's mother died as if struck down suddenly and was tenderly mourned by every villager.

After his mother’s passing, Hebijū was left alone. He was already a year or two past thirty. By all rights, he should have taken a wife long ago, but plagued by the name Hebijū, no one from within the village—let alone neighboring villages—stepped forward to propose a marriage arrangement. He was respected by the villagers. As long as giant snakes continued appearing, his livelihood remained guaranteed. Moreover, when it came to forming marriage ties with him, many inevitably hesitated, so he had remained single up to this age.

“Until now, with my mother here, I never minded anything... but being alone like this feels truly lonely. First off, I’m struggling with cooking morning and evening. Could someone arrange a proper bride for me?” he once came to the village headman’s house and pleaded.

The village headman also felt sorry for him. Though people whispered all manner of ill of him behind his back, he was a man who had served this village for many years. His daily conduct showed no particular faults. Having lost his mother and finding himself in hardship, he wished to take a wife. Since this was indeed a reasonable request, the headman promised to do something about it—yet when he consulted the village's leading figures, every last one of them tilted their heads in doubt.

"That man truly is pitiable." While they all called it pitiable, yet when it came to offering up their own daughters or sisters, not a soul stepped forward—leaving the village headman at his wits' end—when from among them, one shrewd villager brought up this idea.

“Well, how about this? For some time now, there’s been a thirty-five or thirty-six-year-old woman at Jūsuke’s house—she claims to be some distant relative or such. They say she worked at a daruma tea house somewhere. Why not consult Jūsuke and arrange to have her taken care of…?” “But that woman has a nasty illness,” another villager interjected. “Jūsuke seems quite troubled by it.” “Still,” persisted the shrewd one, “if there’s even a hint of possibility here, let’s summon Jūsuke and hear his account.”

The village headman immediately summoned Jūsuke. He was a water-drinking peasant whose household of four already scarcely managed their livelihood when, some days prior, a woman claiming to be his cousin’s daughter had tumbled into their home—a predicament he had been thoroughly airing. Though called a “daughter,” she was thirty-seven this year and, having been of ill repute from a young age while drifting through various daruma tea houses and such, was afflicted with a severe syphilitic disease. As a result, she could no longer work anywhere, so she had come to his house relying on family ties—if she had been healthy, it would have been one thing, but being a semi-invalid who spent her days alternating between bed and getting up, she was nothing but a burden and of no use at all. And so, he laid bare every detail before the village headman.

“A semi-invalid would be troublesome,” the village headman grimaced. “Actually, I have a matter to discuss regarding a bride...” “Is there anyone who would take someone like that as a bride?” Jūsuke asked incredulously. “It’s uncertain whether he’ll definitely take her, but that Yoshijirō is looking for a bride.” “Ah, that Hebijū?” “I don’t care if it’s Hebijū or whoever else. If there’s someone willing to take in such a person, I’d greatly appreciate your help in arranging it,” Jūsuke pleaded earnestly. However, since a semi-invalid would be of no use, the village headman persuaded him that they should discuss it once she regained her health, then sent him home.

About half a month later, Jūsuke came again to the village headman’s house and said that since the woman’s illness had healed, he asked him to please finalize the previous arrangement. He seemed to be quite troubled by how to handle the woman. Therefore, since this claim of her full recovery seemed rather dubious, the village headman was hesitating in his response when Hebijū himself came pressing for an answer, asking if there was still no prospect in sight. Thinking that the simultaneous appearance of someone wanting to send off a bride and someone wanting to take one might be fate’s doing, the village headman decided to broach the matter regardless. When he did, Hebijū answered without a moment’s hesitation: “I leave it entirely in your hands.” He said he wanted to take her as his bride, fully aware that she was thirty-seven—five years older than himself—and that she had served at a tea house and suffered from a bad illness.

With this settled, there were no further complications. The matter proceeded smoothly, and within no more than another half-month, a middle-aged wife had settled into Hebijū’s household. The wife went by the name O-toshi. Just as the village headman had suspected, O-toshi had not truly fully recovered. Though she managed to get up, her face remained deathly pale, her body gaunt as a specter. Having reluctantly taken her in out of necessity, the village headman privately fretted whether matters would resolve peacefully—yet strangely enough, as another half-month passed, then a full month, O-toshi began regaining vigor at a remarkable pace, her complexion transforming until it glowed with health scarcely recognizable from before.

"Hebijū might've fed her some charred snake or something," some whispered in secret. Whether that was true or not remained unclear, but O-toshi’s recovery of health was an undeniable fact. And seeing her living harmoniously with her younger husband, the village headman felt at least somewhat relieved. In reality, their marital harmony surpassed anything others could have imagined. O-toshi—who had spent years toying with numerous men—devoted such intense affection to Hebijū that even she herself found it bewildering. Hebijū also passionately loved him. Thus during their more than three years of cohabitation, Hebijū had revealed most of his professional secrets to his wife.

Behind his house stood a low-roofed hut. Built facing north amidst thick surrounding trees, it remained dim even at noon and stayed damp year-round. In the hut's corner, O-toshi discovered several unfamiliar mushrooms growing here and there. When she asked Hebijū what they were, he explained they served as medicine for catching snakes—if one killed multiple serpents of various sizes and buried their corpses deep underground, a peculiar mushroom would sprout there after two or three years. After shade-drying them, he would finely chop the mushrooms, mince strands of women's hair, then blend these with another medicinal substance before kneading them together. Burning this completed concoction, he said, would lure giant snakes through its scent. Yet Hebijū refused to divulge the secret of that additional medicinal ingredient. As for the powdered remedy he scattered during battles with serpents, this too contained some blended mystery substance—though even knowing its composition would prove useless to others, O-toshi reasoned, so she pressed no further into such arcane matters.

The couple remained harmonious, their lives free from hardship, and the household lived in peaceful harmony—yet lately, for reasons unknown, Hebijū’s vitality seemed to be gradually declining. He would occasionally sigh by himself. O-toshi felt uneasy and asked if something was wrong, but her husband replied that there was nothing particular the matter. However, one day he suddenly said something like this.

"I don’t think I can keep doing this much longer."

O-toshi did not particularly dislike their current occupation, but she had sensed that once they grew old, they would likely be unable to continue such work. She thought she must resolve herself now to either save up capital to start another business or purchase cheap farmland—somehow plan for their livelihood in old age—and when she consulted her husband about this, Hebijū nodded.

“I don’t care what becomes of me, but you mustn’t face hardship.” “With that resolve, I’ll work myself to the bone earning while I still can.”

He also told this story.

“The villagers all know this story—just before my mother died, I came across a terrifying giant snake and nearly lost my life.” “When that thing calmly crossed the third barrier line, even I was at my wits’ end. But then I suddenly remembered my dead father’s final words.” “When my old man was on his deathbed from that grave illness, he told me: ‘After I’m gone, if you ever face mortal danger in your life, call my name and chant this spell.’” “‘I’ll save you without fail.’” “‘But only once.’” “‘Only once in your whole life,’ he’d stressed repeatedly when leaving those instructions.” “Remembering this, half in a daze I stripped off my leggings, called my father’s name while reciting the spell, and tore them clean in two—and miraculously, the opponent split apart and died too.” “To this day I don’t understand what made me tear those leggings.” “Maybe my dead father guided my hands.” “When I returned home and told Mother this story, she both rejoiced and mourned.” “‘You’ve used up that once-in-a-lifetime promise,’ she said. ‘Father won’t save you again.’” “‘From now on, live with that knowledge.’” “I didn’t think much of it then, but lately I keep remembering her words—can’t help feeling strangely weakened in spirit.” “Well, if it were just me alone, I could manage somehow…but when I think of you, I can’t afford any carelessness.”

No matter the occasion, O-toshi felt deeply moved and overjoyed by her husband’s kindness that always kept her in his thoughts.

Three

The fourth summer since the two had begun living together came. This year saw a giant snake appear in the neighboring village, ravaging their fields and paddies until men and women alike grew too terrified to work outdoors. Left unchecked, their fields would soon become overgrown with weeds—thus after much deliberation, the entire village resolved to summon Hebijū to exterminate the giant snake. They offered one ryō of gold and three bales of rice for successful elimination, but Hebijū refused their request.

The neighboring village seemed to be in dire straits indeed, for they came to plead with their village headman once more, insisting that he somehow persuade Hebijū on their behalf. Feeling sympathy for the neighboring village’s plight, the village headman personally tried to persuade Hebijū once more, but he still refused. Hebijū said, "Please spare me from this job as I’m really not in the mood for it," but the village headman would not allow it. “Isn’t this your line of work?” "Why are you refusing a job that offers one ryō of gold and three bales of rice?" "Firstly, there’s the matter of goodwill between neighboring villages." "Five years ago, when our village had flooding, you must remember how people from the neighboring village came to assist us." “After all, it’s a mutual matter—if we just stand by and watch their hardship, we can’t fulfill our duty.” "If it were something anyone could do, we would send others, but this is something only you can handle—that’s why I’m asking you like this." “Please go and take care of this as requested.”

When told this, even Hebijū could no longer persist in his obstinacy. In the end, he was reluctantly compelled to agree, but even after returning home, he remained in a rather gloomy state. The next morning, as he prepared to leave, he bid farewell to his wife with tears in his eyes.

The neighboring village welcomed him joyfully. Hebijū was guided to the village headman’s house where he received lavish hospitality, then began his usual preparations for exterminating the giant snake—but from the moment he set foot in this village, that serpent had not once shown itself. Some speculated that even the giant snake, aware of Hebijū’s arrival, might have retreated far into hiding. But with the adversary remaining unseen, there was no choice but to draw it out. Hebijū identified a likely spot for the snake’s emergence, dug his customary pit trap there, and burned his secret medicinal concoction. Yet it had no effect whatsoever. Not even a single small snake fell into that pit.

Though they persuaded him to stay a little longer—having gone to the trouble of coming—Hebijū remained there for several days, but the giant snake never showed itself. It did not fall into the pit trap either.

“If I stay too long, my family will worry—I must return now,” he declared on the eleventh morning, adamant about leaving. Since they couldn’t detain him indefinitely, they agreed to request his services another time, presenting him with two bu from the village coffers as a courtesy. Though he hadn’t slain the giant snake, its disappearance since his arrival remained an irrefutable fact. Having occupied him for over ten days to no avail, they couldn’t send him away empty-handed—this payment served as their obligatory token of gratitude.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t make use of your efforts, but we’ll gratefully accept your kind offer.” Just as he was about to leave with the money, one of the villagers came rushing in with news that a giant snake had appeared at the edge of the thicket where the mountain continued, causing the entire group to stir at once. “We were just one step away from seeing Mr. Yoshii off.” “Now then, we leave this in your hands.” Since this was precisely why he had come, Hebijū could no longer delay. He quickly readied himself and rushed to the spot with his guide, where sure enough, the giant snake had half-emerged from the thicket and lay on its belly as if asleep.

Hebijū took out his prepared powdered medicine and drew three lines on the ground resembling the character for "river" laid sideways. He stood before the first line and let out a great shout, whereupon the giant snake—which had seemed asleep until now—flashed its eyes and raised its head. No sooner had this happened than it came charging toward Hebijū with a flame-like tongue lashing out and a harsh scraping sound, but neither the first nor second line posed any obstacle as the enemy barreled straight through them. The third line was also breached.

Hebijū did not chant the incantation as he had done before. He did not remove his workman's pants either. Raising the hand axe he held, he struck the enemy head-on from the front. His aim was true, but the enemy showed no sign of weakening from this single blow. Wielding its powerful tail, it coiled around him from left leg to waist, then waist to chest, until man and serpent faced each other so close that their faces rubbed against the snake's scaled neck. Now that it had come to this, there was no choice but close combat. Hebijū threw down the hand axe and strangled the serpent’s throat with both hands with all his might, whereupon the enemy mustered its full strength and constricted his body.

As the crowd watched this terrifying struggle with bated breath, Hebijū held the advantage since he had seized the enemy's vital spot. Even the mighty serpent gradually weakened as its throat bones were crushed. "Cut off this bastard's tail!" Hebijū roared. A bold young man rushed forward from the crowd and cleaved through the snake's tail with a sharp sickle blade. With its tail severed and neck wounded, the giant snake grew utterly enfeebled. Seeing this, five or six more people surged forward and swung their weapons wildly. Tormented like an earthworm beset by ants, the great serpent writhed in agony until its elongated corpse lay exposed beneath the morning sun.

At the same moment, Hebijū lost consciousness and collapsed to the ground. He was carried into the village headman’s house where, after receiving extensive care from the crowd, he finally regained consciousness. Though he had no particular injuries, he remained severely weakened and lacked the strength to rise again. When Hebijū was carried back on a door plank, Otoha cried out in tears. The villagers came running in alarm. The village headman—whose heart ached all the more since he had been the one to push him into going despite his reluctance—was comforting Otoha and tending to Hebijū when the latter suddenly shouted deliriously.

"That's enough! Everyone get out! Go on—get out!" As he kept shouting this incessantly，the village headman reasoned it was unwise to contradict an invalid and suggested they withdraw from the premises for now．Leaving only their relative Shigesuke behind，and having instructed Otoha to notify them immediately should anything change，the group departed for home．

The morning had been clear, but from afternoon onward it clouded over and grew muggy, and by evening in mid-June, rain had begun to fall. Otoha and Shigesuke sat silently by the patient’s bedside. The rainy night gradually deepened into lonely stillness, the sound of rain mingling with the croaking of frogs. “Shigesuke, you go home too,” Hebijū groaned. As the two exchanged looks, the patient groaned again. “Otoha, you go too.” “Where are you going?” Otoha asked.

“Anywhere will do. Go with Shigesuke. Don’t torment me forever.” “Then I’ll go.” The two nodded to each other and rose from there. Sharing a single umbrella between them, they walked about four or five ken through the dark rain before stealthily turning back and returning. Peering in from the entranceway, they found the interior silent with no groans to be heard. The two exchanged glances once more and stealthily peered inside again, only to find the patient’s sickbed stripped bare, with no sign of Hebijū.

That once again threw the entire village into an uproar, and the crowd split up to search the area, but Hebijū’s figure was nowhere to be found. He abandoned the home he had grown accustomed to living in, abandoned his beloved wife, and vanished forever from this village. When one considers how he had told his wife he couldn’t continue this line of work much longer, his intense aversion to visiting neighboring villages, and all those circumstances combined, it seems plausible that he had perhaps foreseen his own fate. Yet whether he had indeed perished or was hiding somewhere remained an enduring mystery.

However, most villagers believed he had died. And so, they interpreted it thus.

“That thing was never truly human to begin with.” “A snake—a proper snake spirit.” “Must’ve slunk off to the mountains rather than show its true form when death came.”

If he were a snake spirit, then his father and mother too would have to be snakes. Otoha absolutely denied that such a thing was possible. Moreover, why had her husband kept those around him at a distance and hidden himself during their absence? The particulars of this eluded even her.

This story is said to have taken place during the Bunkyū era at the end of the Edo period.

Clear Water Well

I

The sixth man speaks.

“We just heard a tale set in Kyushu—well, my own hometown lies in that same region where what we call Heike legends still linger in great number,” said the sixth man. “Legends always come entwined with strange tales of romance and mystery—this one being no exception. Though mind you—this isn’t any recent affair.” He paused meaningfully before concluding: “I’ve heard it happened some ninety years back—during Tenpō’s first year.”

About thirteen ri from my hometown lay a village called Sugido. From there, it was said to stretch another three ri further inland—while this might not seem particularly remote today, in those times it must have been quite a backwater place. There resided an influential family known as Yui Kizaemon. Their ancestors had supposedly been retainers of the Kikuchi clan, but after the Kikuchi's downfall, they went into hiding here, tilling fields while wearing swords at their sides. Yet this progenitor evidently possessed considerable financial acumen, gradually developing the land until he established himself as a large-scale farmer of uncommon prominence in those parts. Thus, as their lineage continued unbroken through the Tokugawa era, not only did local inhabitants show them special deference, but successive domain lords granted the family particular privileges—beyond permitting them the right to bear surnames and swords, they were also required to present New Year's greetings at the castle each year.

Thus, though technically peasants, they maintained a quasi-samurai lifestyle—the master would wear his long and short swords when going out, his residence displayed arms and horse gear, sustaining this half-samurai, half-farmer existence. They employed thirty to forty male servants, surrounding the large estate with bamboo groves and using a natural stream beyond to construct a small moat-like ditch. When locals passed by its gate, they would remove their straw hats and face coverings, each politely greeting them as they went by—such was the manner in which this household commanded considerable respect from villagers in its vicinity. The family head had traditionally inherited the name Kizaemon for generations, and it is said that at the time of this story in the first year of Tenpō, the sixteenth Kizaemon held this position.

Yui Kizaemon had two daughters: the elder was named Osoyo, and the younger was called Otsugi. From early autumn one year, these sisters gradually grew emaciated with what people called a languid sickness - they ate little at midday meals and could no longer sleep peacefully at night. Their parents grew deeply concerned and went so far as to summon an excellent physician from distant Kumamoto Castle Town, administering various intensive treatments, yet neither sister showed any improvement. Every doctor could only tilt their heads in bewilderment, utterly unable to determine what manner of illness this was.

Osoyo was eighteen and Otsugi sixteen—both young women of marriageable age—so people suspected they might be suffering from what was called lovesickness, though having not just one but both sisters afflicted by the same condition seemed rather odd. Of course, this didn’t mean both girls were entirely bedridden—on fine days or when they felt better, they would rise from their sickbeds and wander through the rice fields and garden. But patients they remained, and their parents’ distress knew no end.

This stirred various uncertainties in the parents. The locals too began spreading all manner of rumors. Word passed from mouth to mouth that either some possessing spirit had taken hold of the Yui family's daughters or a curse plagued the household itself. Disturbed by this, the parents called upon Shinto priests, Buddhist monks, mountain ascetics, and wandering holy men in turn, attempting every form of incantation and ritual prayer—yet none yielded results. Eventually one of the male servants whispered this secret to his master and mistress.

The male servant’s duty was to patrol the estate once each night. During his usual rounds on a clear year-end evening, he discovered two women standing by the old well at the back. Though it was dark and distant, as tonight’s moon shone brightly, he discerned that these women were unmistakably his master’s two daughters—a realization that struck him as strange. Hiding behind a large tree and continuing to observe their movements, he saw the sisters holding hands and clinging together closely as they appeared to be peering intently into the well. Vigilant in case they might throw themselves in, before long the sisters entered inside, still holding hands and laughing joyfully.

The male servant’s report was limited to just that, but when they considered it, the circumstances had to be called deeply suspicious. What business could these young women—especially ones half-sick—have venturing out to the back entrance on a cold late night to peer into an old well? Kizaemon and his wife furrowed their brows. They ordered the male servant to keep watch near the well again the following night, and sure enough, late that evening too, the sisters emerged hand in hand. Then, just as they had the previous night, they peered into the well and returned home with apparent delight.

With such strange behavior continuing for two consecutive nights, the parents could no longer leave matters unattended. However, thinking that interrogating both sisters together would likely prevent them from confessing the truth, Kizaemon and his wife decided to first question the younger sister, Otsugi. This was because they thought that being younger, she would confess more readily. Otsugi was summoned to an inner room where her parents conducted a kneeling interrogation. At first she remained stubbornly silent, but pressed from all sides, she finally confessed.

That confession too was strange indeed. Osoyo and Otsugi customarily laid out their bedding each night in an eight-mat room deep within the house. One night in early August— Otsugi awoke suddenly in the dead of night to find her elder sister quietly rising from beside her. At first thinking she might be visiting the privy, Otsugi grew puzzled when Osoyo slid open the veranda's storm shutters and slipped toward the garden. Drawn by unease and curiosity, the younger sister stealthily followed, watching Osoyo circle from the garden entrance to the rear. There lay a broad empty plot where an ancient well stood beside a solitary camellia tree. Osoyo crept to the well's edge and seemed to peer into its depths by moonlight.

Then, as she kept observing every night, Osoyo's identical behavior repeated itself over four or five days. Otsugi considered reporting this to their parents, but deeming it unwise to expose her beloved sister's secret without cause, she waited until one night when her sister was about to leave as usual. Stopping her, she demanded to know why she did such things, to which Osoyo stated she had a sacred vow. Finding this deeply suspicious, Otsugi pressed further with root-and-branch questioning until Osoyo could no longer contain it, finally disclosing the secret to her younger sister for the first time.

About a month ago, around noon, as Osoyo was passing by the old well, two large, beautiful butterflies fluttered about entangled with each other, and eventually fell into the well while still overlapping. Osoyo approached to ascertain their whereabouts and peered down, but the butterflies were nowhere to be seen. Wondering if they had fallen into the water, she gazed intently into its depths—when two beautiful men’s faces appeared reflected on the surface. Startled, she looked around, but there was no one nearby. It couldn’t be that the two butterflies had transformed into those men’s faces. As she peered curiously downward, the faces looked up at her and smiled sweetly, causing Osoyo to shudder and leap back.

However, the eeriness lasted only for that brief moment, and Osoyo found herself wanting to see those beautiful men’s faces again. She looked around furtively, tiptoed over to the well, and peered quietly at the water’s surface, but the men’s faces no longer floated there. Osoyo felt an indescribable, intense disappointment and left there dejectedly, but when she passed by the well again the following day, she once more saw two butterflies entangled in flight above it. The butterflies had vanished somewhere, but today, as if chasing their traces, Osoyo peered into the well once more—and there again appeared two faces. Osoyo gazed endlessly at those faces.

That was the beginning, and Osoyo went to peer into the old well several times a day. As this continued, the men’s faces ceased to appear in broad daylight, their beautiful visages no longer floating upon the water’s surface except at night. On moonlit nights naturally, and even on pitch-dark ones, those faces appeared clearly, growing ever more vivid by midnight than in evening’s early hours. The reason behind Osoyo’s recent nightly escapes from bed had become clear, yet her younger sister Otsugi remained unconvinced—until she persuaded Osoyo to take her along. There upon the ancient well’s waters indeed floated two pale faces, each resembling painted court nobles of such elegance as never seen in those parts, leaving Otsugi gazing in dreamlike fascination. Thus she came to nod in understanding—no wonder her sister stole here nightly without fail.

The faces reflected in the well's water were two—until now, only the elder sister had been gazing at them, but afterward, the sisters' own faces facing those apparitions also became two. The sisters continued visiting the wellside together every night by mutual arrangement. Of course, all they could do was gaze at those faces—there was nothing else to be done—but much like a monkey scooping at the moon's reflection in water, these sisters found themselves yearning to pluck the two beautiful visages from the surface, stealing out night after night in restless anticipation of the deepening dark. And so they remained tormented by futile, inexorable yearnings that left their bodies wasting away.

II

When Kizaemon and his wife summoned their elder daughter Osoyo for further interrogation, since the younger sister had already confessed everything, the elder sister could no longer conceal anything at this point. Osoyo also honestly revealed everything before her parents, and since her account did not differ in the slightest from Otsugi’s, Kizaemon and his wife could no longer harbor any doubts. As a precaution, Kizaemon and his wife went to peer into the well late that night—but nothing appeared before the eyes of the sisters’ parents.

“There must be something sinister dwelling at the bottom of this well that is deluding our daughters,” declared Kizaemon. “Dredge the bottom and investigate it thoroughly.” Though mid-December, the day had dawned clear and bright, with a bush warbler’s song trilling faintly in the distance. Nearly all male and female servants mobilized to clear the well starting around eight in the morning, yet the water showed no sign of draining away.

Within the Yui estate there were several wells, but this well was the oldest among them. It was said to have already taken shape as a well when Yui’s ancestors first settled here, so there was no doubt it had been dug by people of the distant past. However, this well was the deepest, its water the clearest and coldest, and it had never once dried up even in the worst droughts—thus within this estate, it was called the Clear Water Well. Since they were attempting to drain the well, it was perfectly clear this would be no easy task. No matter how much they drew, the water kept surging forth in such abundance that the servants were utterly overwhelmed, yet even so, through their combined efforts, the water level had fallen significantly lower than usual.

As to what kind of monster might be lurking at the bottom—whether it was a koi or catfish akin to a pond guardian, or perhaps a toad or newt—none of the forms that everyone had imagined could be found, so Kizaemon issued another command. “Lower the rake.”

The iron rake was lowered to the bottom of the well with a thick rope. As they raked through repeatedly to see if anything was caught, a small yet surprisingly heavy object became entangled in the rake and was hauled up. When the crowd gathered under the bright sunlight to look, it turned out to be a small mirror. The mirror appeared quite old, and that it had likely been owned by someone of high status was evident from the intricate carvings adorning it. Thinking there might still be something more, they lowered the rake again to search, and yet another mirror was pulled up. This one was also an item of the same kind as the previous.

Since there appeared to be no other discoveries, the day’s well cleaning was temporarily halted, and they proceeded to examine the two mirrors. However, they could only surmise they were merely old objects, with almost no way to determine from which era or by whom they had been sunk. However, with two faces reflected in the water and now two mirrors retrieved, anyone could easily imagine some relationship must exist between those who owned the faces and those who owned these mirrors.

Kizaemon, having been born into a prominent family, possessed considerable scholarly cultivation and thus took no small interest in the discovery of these ancient mirrors. Moreover, having recognized that the mirrors seemed to harbor some mysterious magical power that had bewitched his two daughters, he felt he could no longer leave them as they were. First, he sealed both mirrors securely inside a plain wooden box. Afterward, Kizaemon went out to the castle town and visited renowned scholars and appraisers to request verification and appraisal regarding the era and provenance of the mirrors' creation. However, beyond concluding they were not made in Japan and likely came over from China, no further discoveries were made, leaving Kizaemon disappointed.

Since retrieving the mirrors, the men’s reflections had ceased to appear in the well. Believing this proved the mirrors must conceal some secret, Kizaemon reached out to neighboring provinces to conduct various investigations. Though his wealth spared no expense and the Yui family’s renown opened doors, this particular inquiry defied resolution, leaving them to pass the months fruitlessly until April or May of the following year.

The sisters’ daughters seemed to have awakened from a dream thereafter, and their inexplicable, mysterious illness gradually faded away until they returned to their original, healthy selves.

The daughters had returned to their original state, and since there had been no further incidents thereafter, it would have been acceptable to leave matters as they were—yet Kizaemon remained unsatisfied. Sparing neither expense nor time—even if it took years—he resolved to uncover the mirrors’ provenance at all costs. After summoning scholars from Kumamoto and beyond—Saga, Kokura, Nagasaki, Hakata—and establishing a sort of research facility within his estate where he ardently continued his investigations, all secrets first came to light at year’s end, exactly one year after the mirrors had surfaced into the world.

The process of this discovery began as follows. The people gathered at the Yui household, after deliberation, adopted a policy of first investigating when the well had been dug and who had lived there before the Yui ancestors migrated to this area, rather than pursuing inquiries into the mirrors’ origins and other matters.

This matter too proved difficult to determine at first, but through examining old records and elders' oral traditions, they discovered that a samurai named Ochi Shichirōzaemon had lived here until the early Nanboku-chō period. Shichirōzaemon had maintained his residence here since the Genpei era and appeared to have been a samurai of considerable influence, but it emerged he had been defeated by the Kikuchi during the Nanboku-chō period, with his descendants departing for unknown destinations. They consequently undertook to investigate the descendants' whereabouts, though given the remoteness of these events, this too proved difficult to ascertain. After exhausting every investigative method, they finally determined that the Ochi descendants had relocated to Hakata, where they now operated a lacquerware shop called Tomoe-ya. To describe it plainly, these were the steps taken—yet confirming even this much had required nearly an entire year.

When they investigated old records concerning the Ochi family at Tomoe-ya in Hakata, they found that no separate records of any kind remained there either. However, regarding their distant ancestors, the current master told them there existed this sort of legend.

It remains unclear exactly which generation this was, but during the Genpei era, the Ochi family appears to have been at the height of its prosperity. One spring evening, two young, beautiful women came visiting the Ochi estate. They met with Master Shichirōzaemon—what exactly was discussed remains unknown—but from that night onward, the women took up residence there, becoming members of the household. The master strictly ordered his household members to keep silent and secretly confined those women. The women too avoided public attention and seldom ventured outside.

Judging from their demeanor and attire, they were people of the capital—likely court ladies of the Taira clan who had fled from Dan-no-ura to seek refuge here—so the household members secretly concluded. At that time, Master Shichirōzaemon was twenty-two or twenty-three years old and still unmarried. Given that a young woman from the capital had stumbled into his embrace, the inevitable outcome was not hard to imagine. Before long, the two women began living with the master, sharing his daily life, and they passed over three years in harmonious companionship. It was unclear which was the wife, but the retainers called one Ume-dono and the other Sakura-dono, holding them in reverence.

In the midst of this, an incident occurred here. It was a samurai from the neighboring area named Takizawa who came to propose marriage to Shichirōzaemon. Takizawa was also an influential samurai in these parts, and forming a marital alliance with him would be advantageous for the Ochi family. Moreover, Takizawa’s daughter was a seventeen-year-old beauty this year, so Shichirōzaemon’s heart was swayed. In reality, no matter what their relationship might have been, Ume-dono and Sakura-dono were ultimately living in obscurity, so nothing could be said about them publicly. The marriage negotiations proceeded smoothly, and at last, the morning of this auspicious day had arrived—the evening when the bride would be brought in her palanquin. The retainers of the Ochi estate were shocked by an unexpected incident.

Master Shichirōzaemon was stabbed to death in his bed. He was stabbed through both sides of his chest with a blade and lay dead on his back. Ume-dono and Sakura-dono, who should have been sleeping in the same room, were nowhere to be seen. The entire estate erupted in shock and commotion. When they searched every corner of the grounds, the corpses of two women were discovered in the garden well. Considering the circumstances surrounding the incident, there was no conclusion to be drawn other than that Ume and Sakura had killed their master and then drowned themselves together. Of course, it appeared to be an indisputable fact.

Moreover, when the retainers retrieved the two corpses from the well, they were shocked by yet another unexpected fact—Ume and Sakura, whom they had wholeheartedly believed until now to be court ladies from the capital, were unmistakably male. They were likely scions of prominent figures from the Taira clan who, capital-bred and elegant in disposition, had probably disguised themselves as court ladies to escape. To country samurai raised in mountain villages, it was only natural that they appeared to be genuine women—yet there was no reason for even Shichirōzaemon to have been deceived. He must have known their true identities all along, yet made Ume and Sakura his own and indulged in secret pleasures. That sin, in turn, was repaid through those two hands.

It was the Clear Water Well into which Ume and Sakura sank their bodies. The two mirrors were likely clutched to their chests and either accidentally dropped during retrieval or perhaps taken by the retainers and cast in. After losing Master Shichirōzaemon, the Ochi family was inherited by a relative's child. And then, as previously stated, they perished upon reaching the Nanboku-chō period. Then, after several decades during which the site had become a wild field overgrown with grass, the ancestors of the Yui family came and settled there. When later inhabitants cut down trees, cleared the grass, and built a new dwelling, they unexpectedly discovered an old well buried here and, delighted by its clear water, apparently continued using it as they found it.

From the Genpei era to the beginning of Tenpō, over six hundred years had passed. During that span, the two mirrors that harbored the souls of the Taira nobles must have lain sunken at the bottom of the ancient well as though asleep. Why they awakened from their long slumber to attempt bewitching descendants of later inhabitants with whom they shared no connection remains an eternal mystery. The mirrors were enshrined at the Yui family temple, where Kizaemon served as patron to conduct an elaborate memorial service.

The mirrors became designated treasures at a certain temple—reportedly displayed during airing-out days even after the Meiji era—but their current whereabouts remain unknown.

The Yui household was completely destroyed by the fires of war during the Satsuma Rebellion for having sided with the Satsuma army, but rumor has it that the family members went to Nagasaki and still live there in relative comfort today. As for that well—what became of it remains unknown. Nowadays, it’s said that the area has become quite developed, so perhaps that Clear Water Well still serves as a convenient water source for many people as it always did.

Kiln Mutation

I

The seventh man spoke.

It was the evening of August 29, 1904.

At that time, I was working as a war correspondent for the Russo-Japanese War in Manchuria, and on this day, I arrived at a small village called Yangjiadian around three in the afternoon. Ahead, the Liaoyang Offensive was raging, and the high ground of Shoushanbao had yet to fall. The sound of gunfire was resounding incessantly.

Since we had been enduring nights of hardship akin to camping out every evening, we decided to seek shelter in a house to rest tonight, splitting into groups of two or three, or four or five people each to search for lodging. Yangjiadian was, true to its name, a village abundant with willows. Passing through those willows, our group of four came upon a stone ancient well and found a fairly large house. Beside the well, a young man of about eighteen or nineteen was lowering a bucket attached to a rope and drawing water into a carrying bucket. "Are you from this house?" we asked in halting Chinese, and he shook his head fearfully. When we pressed again, asking what family name this house bore, he picked up a fallen branch nearby and wrote the character Xu in the dirt. He then asked in return what business the Japanese men had going there.

When we answered that we intended to stay at this house tonight, he shook his head again and waved his hands vigorously as if to say this wasn’t allowed. However, not only were we unskilled in Chinese, but the man spoke with a thick Manchurian accent, making his words impossible to decipher clearly. He began making menacing faces and gestures that seemed to warn us against lodging there, but since we couldn’t fully comprehend his meaning, our own impatience started rising.

“Well, fine. No matter what happens, let’s just go inside and try to arrange things.”

The three impatient ones took the lead and entered through the gate. When I tried to follow, the man grabbed the knapsack at my waist and began rapidly repeating similar words. I wordlessly shook off his hand and left. The gate was open, but no sign of anyone inside could be seen. The four of us called out in unison, but no one answered. "I wonder if it's abandoned."

The four exchanged glances and surveyed their surroundings once more. To the right past the gate stood a small outbuilding. Beyond through the trees at the far end of what appeared to be a front garden loomed a large structure resembling a main house. At any rate, they tried pushing open the door of this nearer small building—it too opened easily—but found no trace of anyone inside. Utterly exhausted by now, we resolved to rest here regardless and settled onto floorboards covered with a torn rush mat. Though hungry, we had no food left. Thinking we might at least drink some water, our group of four took up our shoulder-slung canteens and began drinking—but with only lunchtime's dregs remaining being insufficient—I went out to draw water from the well before the gate and found that man still standing beneath his willow tree.

When I asked for water, he readily poured some from the bucket into my canteen but once again muttered something rapidly. Since I simply couldn’t comprehend this, he seemed to grow impatient and took a tree branch again to write "家有妖" in the dirt. This allowed me to roughly grasp his meaning. When I wrote the character for "oni" in the dirt to show him, he didn’t recognize it. However, he insisted there was a supernatural presence in that house. Though I couldn’t discern the distinction between demons and supernatural entities in this context, I at least understood this house seemed to be some sort of haunted dwelling. In short, he was warning us not to rashly enter a place harboring such a presence. I thanked him and took my leave.

When I turned back, an old man had come after I left and was quietly talking with the others. Among the four of us, Mr. T—who was relatively proficient in Chinese—served as interpreter and explained to us. "This old man has served this household for thirty years, and there are apparently four or five other servants as well." "The war has been raging right before our eyes for some time now, so all the family members are hiding in the inner quarters." "Therefore, we cannot offer any proper hospitality, but we do have tea and sugar." "There are vegetables in the back field." "He very kindly says, 'Please feel free to stay here if you wish.'" "Let's have them put us up."

“Of course! Thank you, thank you,” we said in unison to the old man.

The old man left laughing. Later, Mr. T went out saying he would check what was in the field and soon returned carrying five or six splendid ears of corn. Delighted to find such fine specimens, Mr. M dashed out again to fetch more. In the dirt-floored area of the house stood an earthen stove, so we burned sorghum branches beneath it to roast the corn. Since each of us had prepared salt in our knapsacks, sprinkling it over the corn revealed a flavor—true to its origin—unlike any corn found in Japan.

As we took turns fetching more from the field and devouring it, the old man had a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old boy bring a kettle of boiling water while he himself came bearing paper-wrapped sugar and tea. We repeated our profuse thanks, promptly prepared the tea, mixed in the sugar, and began gulping it down noisily. The old man watched with a smile as we ate our fill of corn and drank warm tea to regain our vigor, then quietly began speaking to Mr. T. He was asking whether anyone in our group had medicine.

In fact, the master and his wife had a seventeen-year-old daughter who had recently fallen ill. Around here, one had to go all the way to Liaoyang’s inner city to purchase medicine, but these days, due to the war, traffic between the inner and outer city had been completely severed, leaving them no way to obtain any. He said pleadingly that if anyone among the Japanese adults had medicine, he humbly begged for their kindness.

When we realized his kindness toward us had stemmed from such hidden motives, our gratitude necessarily became tempered, yet hearing these circumstances also made us find the situation deeply pitiable. It seemed people in these parts had long regarded all Japanese as either doctors or pharmacists, for whenever they saw us, they would invariably ask us to examine their ailments or provide medicine. There having been many such cases before, we didn't consider this old man's request particularly unusual, but administering medicine without first properly understanding the patient's condition posed clear dangers. Indeed, when lodged at Kaijo previously, there had been an incident where we mistakenly gave Seikisui eye drops to a gastrointestinal patient - only realizing our error afterward and panicking as we rushed to retrieve them. In light of this failure, we'd since resolved never to rashly dispense medicine without having personally verified the patient's condition.

When Mr. T explained our circumstances to him and said we wished to at least see the patient once, the old man made a deeply troubled face and seemed to ponder anxiously for some time. However, since our request wasn't unreasonable, it was decided he would consult with the master first. He then retreated deeper into the house together with another boy. We were of course not doctors, but even so, rather than giving medicine haphazardly, it was safer to first observe the individual in person, closely inquire about their condition, and then provide what seemed like appropriate medicine. Especially since we were still young at the time, the fact that the patient was a seventeen-year-old girl meant our actions were accompanied by a certain interest in wanting to see what kind of girl she was.

“What kind of girl is she?” “She’s still young, you know.” “What kind of illness could it be?” “If it’s a gynecological disease, that’d be trouble.” “None of us brought any such medicine, you know.” “It could be consumption, you know.” “In China, they call it ‘consumption’ or something like that.” While we were exchanging such rumors, I recalled the “家有妖” incident. “According to that man who was drawing water from the well by the gate… he said there’s either monsters appearing in this house or some kind of curse—in any case, it seems like a suspicious place, you know.” “That man wrote ‘家有妖’ and showed us, you know.”

“Hmm...” The other three also tilted their heads in puzzlement.

"In that case, that girl might be possessed by something or other," said Mr. T. "In that case, our medicine won't reach the cure," said Mr. M with a laugh. We also laughed together. Under normal circumstances, this might have given us pause, but for us now—having passed through what they call the smoke of guns and rain of bullets, where should we make even the slightest misstep, we might well receive an artillery greeting—a mere supernatural presence in the house was hardly worth troubling over.

“Even so, the girl’s late.” “Since Chinese women rarely show their faces to foreigners, she might be reluctant to come out.” “Especially since the ones she’s dealing with are us, she must be all the more reluctant.” Before us, artillery roared incessantly, but by then we had grown so accustomed to it that neither the rumble of heavy cannons nor the glare of tracer bullets particularly agitated our nerves anymore.

We lay sprawled unceremoniously about the place, keeping up a steady stream of gossip about the girl as the day waned into dusk, and when the early autumn evening in Manchuria had grown chilly, we snapped off dried sorghum stalks piled in the corner of the dirt-floored room and gathered around the stove like crickets fearing frost.

Two

“Won’t the enemy ever let up?” “I do wish we could get to Liaoyang soon.” Just as we grew weary of discussing the girl and shifted to our usual war talk, the old man stealthily reappeared and announced, “I shall now bring the master’s daughter here; I humbly request your kind attention.” Hearing this, we sprang up as if we could wait no longer and followed the old man to the entrance. When we stepped outside, night had already fallen, leaving only the faint glimmer of large willow leaves swaying gently under starlight. There, the choked chirps of crickets could also be heard.

Before long, a single lantern’s light faintly emerged from deep within the cluster of trees. That was the sort of painted lantern frequently seen in these parts. I suddenly recalled "The Peony Lantern" from Jiandeng Xinhua. I also recalled Enchō's Peony Lantern. And then, imagining that the one bearing that lantern was a beautiful woman like a ghost, I found myself drawn into an uncanny and chilling atmosphere. As the lantern gradually drew near, the shadows illuminated by it were not solitary. The young woman who appeared to be the daughter in question was being supported by an elderly woman, and beside them walked another young woman holding a painted lantern. All seemed to be wearing embroidered shoes as they approached without a sound over what appeared to be dew-covered soil.

The old woman was not the girl’s mother. The fact that both the young woman holding the painted lantern and the old woman were likely servants of this household became immediately apparent from their attire, so we paid them no mind and instead focused our attention on the girl at the center. Though said to be seventeen, she appeared remarkably mature for her age. Though slim, she was rather tall and wore a pale pink silk robe with a pale green border. With one hand held by the old woman, she covered half her face with her other sleeve. From between those sleeves escaped occasional violent coughs.

When the three shadows illuminated by the painted lantern came to a stop beneath a willow tree, the old man quietly approached and whispered something to the old woman. The old woman appeared to be his wife. The old man then politely addressed us, saying that since the patient’s daughter had arrived, he would like to request an examination. Now then, faced with this situation, we found ourselves somewhat hesitant about which of the four of us would step forward to examine the patient. But given that Mr. T was relatively proficient in Chinese, he had no choice but to play the role of the doctor. Mr. T also steeled himself and stepped forward, finally proceeding to take the patient’s pulse. When Mr. T told them to show the patient’s face, the old man whispered to the old woman as if interpreting his request and made them expose the girl’s face—hidden in the shadow of her blue sleeve—under the painted lantern. The girl was just as I had secretly imagined—a pale-complexioned, beautiful woman who looked utterly like a ghost. The female ghost from Jiandeng Xinhua—that image flashed through my mind once more.

Mr. T gazed at the girl’s face, took her pulse, and then measured her temperature with a thermometer. All the while, she continued to suffer violent coughs that threatened to bring up blood from time to time, tended by the old woman. Mr. T looked back at us and said in a low voice: “You—it’s definitely tuberculosis.” “Hmm,” we all nodded in unison. That she suffered from respiratory illness left almost no room for doubt even to our untrained eyes. “Her fever’s about thirty-eight point seven degrees,” Mr. T added. “If there were an army medical unit nearby, I could report her condition and get proper medicine—but under these circumstances…” “Let’s at least give her some fever reducers as a stopgap.”

“Well, that’s about it,” I said. Mr. T took out the white powdered antipyretic from his knapsack and explained its usage. When he gave it to them, the old man knelt on the ground and reverently received it. Watching this, I couldn’t help but feel terribly sorry for him. Manchurian natives rarely took medicine, so compared to Japanese people, its effects were remarkably potent. Indeed, I had heard stories of people recovering from pneumonia by taking Houtan. But this girl’s illness—especially this disease at her age—being saved by something as ordinary as an antipyretic was utterly unimaginable. The old man—likely this household’s loyal servant—received mere two or three days’ worth of antipyretic that offered only temporary relief, kneeling before amateur doctors to bow in gratitude. Unable to bear the sight of this mournful spectacle, I involuntarily averted my face.

“It would be better not to stay exposed to the night wind for too long.” Cautioned by Mr. T, the girls bowed silently in respect before turning back. The three women had not uttered a word from the start, but as the painted lantern’s glow faded faintly into the distance, only intermittent coughs pierced the quiet. After watching them leave, the old man bowed to us and withdrew. “How pitiful.” “That girl won’t last much longer.” Until then, we had waited with a certain curiosity about what sort of girl she might be—but confronted with her pitiable state, our lightheartedness vanished. The four of us exchanged glances and sighed as one. With the sorghum under the stove nearly burned through, we broke fresh stalks to feed the flames when laughter echoed beyond the gate. As footsteps approached, we peered outside to find a man standing at our door.

“Are the war correspondents present?” “Ah,” I answered. “It’s me.” When we realized it was our interpreter Mr. S, we welcomed him warmly.

“Is that you, Mr. S?” “Please come in.”

Mr. S nodded courteously and approached the stove. Mr. S served as a military-attached Chinese interpreter, but being an exceedingly earnest man who had always kindly provided us with various reporting materials, he was respected even among us war correspondents. He had come to this village tonight on some requisition business when he heard an odd story from a certain Chinese man, which brought him here to verify exactly who was lodging at this residence.

“A young Chinese man from a certain household reported that there were Japanese people staying at the Xu household in this village tonight.” “I warned them, but they went in without heeding my advice.” “When I asked what kind of people they were, he said they had white cloths with ‘newspaper’ written on them wrapped around their arms.” “Well, I was certain they must be you war correspondents, but I came to see exactly who was among you,” said Mr. S with a serious expression tinged with a smile.

“A young Chinese man...” I immediately recalled. “Then, are you saying there’s a supernatural presence in this house?”

“That’s correct,” Mr. S nodded gravely. “The Chinese man apparently tried desperately to stop you...” “We did attempt to stop them,” I interjected, “but merely hearing ‘supernatural presence’ made no sense to us. What exactly does this ‘presence’ entail?” “So you’re unaware of the particulars then.” “He kept chattering away,” I explained, “but between our broken Chinese and his thick Manchurian accent, we couldn’t grasp a word.” “In essence, he seemed to be warning us against staying in this house due to some uncanny business...”

"That's right, that's right," said Mr. S, nodding again. "Actually, even I couldn't make sense of it just from 'there's a supernatural presence in the house.'" "Moreover, as you said, that young Chinese man had such a thick accent that even I couldn't clearly make out what he was saying. Fortunately, there was an old man who claimed to be his grandfather, and he explained everything thoroughly, so I finally understood the details of the supernatural presence." When the attentive Mr. T prepared and served tea, Mr. S exclaimed, "Ah, what a treat!" and drank it with delight. Indeed, even a single cup of tea with sugar was a real treat on the battlefield.

Mr. S finished sipping his tea and, in his usual serious tone, began explaining the origins of "家有妖" (there is a supernatural presence in this house).

Even at night, the battle seemed to be continuing. The ear-splitting roar of artillery shells and the crackling din of rifle fire like roasting beans could be heard near and far on the front lines. Paying no heed to it, Mr. S proceeded to expound on the supernatural presence within this dark house. The four of us surrounded him and listened attentively to his ghost story before the sorghum fire.

III

"The family name of this house is Xu." "Speaking of five generations ago, it may sound like ancient history, but since this occurred about forty years prior, in Japan it would correspond to the early Genji or Keiō eras, while in China to around the third or fourth year of Tongzhi." "It was precisely when Hong Xiuquan of the Long-Haired Bandits met his end." Mr. S, demonstrating his thorough command of Chinese history as expected, first established the temporal framework.

"This house is now a farming household, but I hear it was a tile workshop at that time." "They set up a kiln in their own house to bake tiles." "It wasn't a particularly large house." The master and his son were firing tiles together. On a winter evening—a day when snow was falling, they say—two travelers came by. Though they had come to visit, they rushed in as if being pursued by something. The travelers addressed the master: "We're being hunted by constables—please hide us." "In return, we'll give you half our money," they said, producing a heavy-looking leather bag. "The master too was blinded by greed and agreed immediately." But finding nowhere to hide them, they took advantage of the unlit kiln, stuffed the men inside, and shut the door. Soon after, five or six policemen arrived demanding if suspicious travelers had come there—the master feigned ignorance. Yet the policemen wouldn't relent; certain the men had fled here, they began searching the premises, leaving the master desperate. They'd done something unthinkable—now it was too late for regrets. At the critical moment, the older son signaled his brother and coolly lit the kiln. "My word—this truly is a dreadful tale."

The policemen thoroughly searched the house but found no trace of the men anywhere. Since flames already burned in the kiln, they never imagined anyone could be hidden inside. Eventually withdrawing with lingering suspicion, the master felt momentary relief—yet now his mind turned to those trapped within the kiln. "Being baked like tiles would be unbearable," he muttered. When he groaned, "We've done something monstrous," his sons countered that those men must have committed grave crimes. "If our sheltering them comes to light, we father and sons will face severe punishment too." "With matters this far gone, we've no choice but to burn them dead and save ourselves." "For them as well—better a swift death by fire than capture and gruesome torture at their pursuers' hands." "It's precisely because we lit the kiln early that those hunters grew careless and left," they reasoned. "Otherwise they'd have checked there first, and by now both those men and ourselves would be shackled in pillories."

Upon hearing this, the master could no longer bring himself to blame his sons for their cruelty. “Then let us burn them thoroughly,” he declared, and joining in himself, he piled on ample fuel to cremate the two pitiful travelers. “It’s unclear who the travelers were, but they were likely remnants of the Long-Haired Bandits.” “It may seem odd that bandits from Jiangnan would flee all the way to Manchuria, but that’s what they say around here.”

“In any case, the travelers died, leaving behind the money bag,” said Mr. S. “Had they safely helped them, they were supposed to receive half of it, but since all had perished, they took the entire sum.” Though the exact amount remained unknown, it was true that the Xu family’s fortunes had suddenly improved—a fact that privately puzzled even their neighbors. From that time onward, various bizarre incidents began occurring at their tile kiln. “The first problem was that the tiles refused to fire properly, often crumbling to pieces,” he continued. “But stranger still were the kiln mutations. As you may know, ‘kiln mutation’ refers to distortions within the furnace that warp objects into unexpected shapes—a rare phenomenon among ceramics, or so they say. Yet at the Xu family’s kiln, these mutations occurred frequently. Though they meant to bake ordinary tiles, when retrieving them from the furnace, they found countless tiles transformed into shapes of human faces, hands, and feet.”

This too became a neighborhood rumor, and while people were whispering that there must be some reason behind the Xu family’s kiln mutations, one day they discovered that their young son had burned to death inside the kiln. It was said that the elder brother, unaware his younger brother had entered the kiln, closed the door from outside and lit a fire. Following this, that elder brother also went mad and died—thus misfortune piled upon misfortune. Nevertheless, the master stubbornly continued his business, but since the kiln mutations persisted unceasingly, there was nothing he could do. In the end, worn down, he closed his tile business and purchased fields and farmland to take up agriculture instead. After that, there were no further strange occurrences; rather, their fortunes grew substantially until the master passed away a little over ten years later. On his deathbed, he blurted out various things—thereby revealing the tile kiln’s secret to the world for the first time—but since it concerned events from over a decade prior with no concrete evidence, it was ultimately dismissed as merely the ravings of a dying man. However, both those kiln mutations and the manner of the brothers’ deaths remain undeniable facts in which the neighbors still believe to this day.

Since the sons had died before their father, the Xu family adopted a girl and took in a son-in-law for her. However, this couple too died within two or three years after the master’s passing. Next came an adopted son, then an adopted daughter—none lasted even seven or eight years before collapsing one after another, so that in short order, the current master became the sixth-generation head, it was said. The current master was likewise an adopted son and still young in years, so a man named Wang—who had served the family for thirty years—managed all matters. He was quite a loyal servant—aware of the supernatural presence in the house yet standing firm amidst unending misfortunes to faithfully protect the Xu family. Given these circumstances, even while sympathizing with Wang’s loyalty, the neighbors greatly feared and despised the Xu household as being haunted. “Seeing you all about to pass heedlessly through that gate knowing nothing,” he concluded, “that young Chinese man kindly warned you—but as his words didn’t properly get through, you left without a backward glance—and he still seemed uneasy afterward, they say.”

“Ah, so that’s how it is,” said Mr. T gravely. “Actually, I’ve already encountered that supernatural presence.” “You encountered it…” Mr. S leaned forward intently. “What exactly happened?” “No, it was just a joke,” I interjected, regretting my earlier remark. “They asked him to examine the daughter of this household’s illness,” another journalist explained with forced levity, “so Mr. T performed his usual beauty treatment routine.” “Oh, I see,” Mr. S replied with a knowing smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The ‘daughter’ they speak of is likely his wife.” “I’ve heard about that woman.” “The Xu family’s cursed reputation keeps local brides away.” “Their loyal servant Wang traveled all the way to Shandong Province to find a beautiful girl.” “Though in truth,” his voice dropped conspiratorially, “he probably purchased her at great expense.” “Yet upon arriving here, she fell gravely ill—a sickness that refuses to heal.” “To outsiders, they avoid calling her his wife and use ‘daughter’ instead.” Mr. S’s gaze sharpened as he turned back to Mr. T. “What exactly ails her?”

“It is indeed tuberculosis,” replied Mr. T. “How pitiable,” said Mr. S with a frown. “It’s not as though her being brought to this house is the cause, but sooner or later, it means another element will be added to the house’s supernatural presence.” “Well, I’ve rambled on too long.” “Since you’ll be staying here tonight, you’d best take care not to incur its curse.” “After all, a female supernatural presence is even more terrifying.”

With a serious face while making jokes, by the time Mr. S left our group, the sorghum firewood had mostly turned to ashes, a weak flame burning feebly in its loneliness. When we four went out to see them off to the gate, silvery stars filled the sky shining bright, while all around us rose the scattered chirping of crickets. The heavy night dew glimmered pale in the darkness - so thickly settled one might have thought frost had already formed that night.

“Cold, cold.” “Let’s burn the sorghum again.”

After seeing Mr. S off, we promptly went back inside.

The next morning when we were leaving, that old man once again brought us hot water, tea, and sugar. He greeted us amiably, but perhaps it was my imagination—a dark shadow lingered on his face. After administering last night's medicine, he repeatedly expressed his gratitude, saying that the patient was feeling much better this morning.

The gunfire from the front was particularly intense this morning, so we hurriedly prepared ourselves as if urged on by it. Without even a moment to reconsider Mr. S’s story from last night, we hurried off toward the location of our division headquarters. The old man came to see us off at the gate, bowing repeatedly to us as we hurriedly departed.

We reached beyond Liaoyang's city walls three days later. After that, I never had another chance to visit the Xu residence—what became of that old man, I wonder? What of the sickly girl? Did that accursed house finally meet its ruin, or does it still stand thriving as before? Even now, I cannot help but dwell on these thoughts.

Crab

I

The Eighth Woman speaks.

This is a story I heard from my grandmother. My hometown was Kashiwazaki in Echigo Province. Until my grandfather's generation, our family had run a grain shop as their business, but when it came to my father's generation, they became involved in the petroleum industry and sold the shop to others. The person who took it over also saw a generational change, and while it has now become an entirely different trade, the shop building itself still retains some vestige of its former appearance. Whenever I return home during my summer vacations each year, I always find myself peering into that shop with a certain nostalgic feeling as I pass by.

My grandmother passed away at seventy-six years old the year before the Great Earthquake. Born in Kaei 1, the Year of the Monkey, and since this occurred when she was eighteen years old, it was likely during the early years of Keiō. My grandmother was called Ohatsu, and Ohatsu’s father—that is, my great-grandfather—was Masuemon, who served as head of the household at that time and was said to have been forty-three or forty-four years old. It is said our ancestors came from Dewa Province, and our family business was called Yamagata-ya. As an established local family running a considerable trade at the time, Great-grandfather Masuemon—though nominally master—largely entrusted shop management to his clerks while devoting himself to haikai poetry and dabbling in calligraphy and antiques, seeming to spend half his life in leisurely pursuits. For this reason, when calligraphers, painters, or haikai masters traveled through the northern regions, they invariably made it their custom to stop at our house to rest their straw sandals—some reportedly staying for two or three months.

At the time of this story as well, two guests were staying at the house. One was a haikai poet from Nagoya named Nomizu, and the other was a painter from Edo called Bun’a—Bun’a having arrived some twenty days earlier and stayed for over a month. Nomizu had come later and been lodging there about half a month. And so it was said to have happened one evening in early September. Masuemon, the master of the house, invited four acquaintances who shared his interests in haikai poetry and antiques. Adding Nomizu and Bun’a to their number made seven in total—host and guests—who gathered to hold a banquet in the spacious inner room.

The four invited guests were neighbors who all gathered around dusk at six o'clock. Before laying out the meal trays, they first served tea and sweets while the seven engaged in casual conversation—when a rōnin named Sakabe Yomoshirō happened to drop by unannounced. Though technically masterless, he reportedly cut an impressive figure rather than wearing some dingy brown haori. As you may know, this area during the Edo period was an exclave of Kuwana Domain containing its administrative office. The official Sakabe Yogorō stationed there enjoyed an excellent reputation despite his youth, while his elder brother Yomoshirō—the rōnin—had been frail since childhood. In modern terms, this amounted to disinheritance, leaving the second son Yogorō to inherit the family headship and receive assignment here from their ancestral domain of Kuwana.

Yomoshirō, the elder brother, had left home early and gone up to Kyoto to become a disciple of a certain physiognomist. As he gradually honed his skills, he had now become an independent master who traveled through various provinces. He was not only skilled in physiognomy but also exceptionally adept at divination. At this time, being around thirty-two or thirty-three years old, he wore his sword like an ordinary samurai and cut a splendid figure in both attire and character. To those who knew nothing of him, he appeared as a distinguished warrior—all of which only deepened people’s respect.

That man had traveled through various provinces, entered the Echigo Road from Shinshū, come to visit his younger brother at the administrative office in Kashiwazaki, and was staying there for a while. Since my great-grandfather Masuemon had long been on friendly terms with a man named Yogorō, through that connection he naturally became acquainted with Yogorō’s elder brother Yomoshirō as well, and Yomoshirō would sometimes come to visit our house. He came visiting suddenly again tonight. Though they had not invited him, Masuemon happily ushered Yomoshirō into the inner room, saying he had come at just the right time.

“I’m afraid I’ve intruded at such an ill-timed moment with guests present,” Yomoshirō said apologetically as he settled into his seat. “Not at all—no need for apologies. In truth, I had wished to invite you myself but hesitated for fear of imposing. Yet you’ve graced us with your presence at the perfect moment—most fortuitous indeed,” Masuemon replied courteously before introducing everyone present to Yomoshirō. Naturally, as some were already acquainted from before, the company eased into conversation.

The master was delighted that such an excellent guest had come at just the right moment, but with the sudden addition of an unexpected visitor, the kitchen staff found themselves in a panic. Grandmother Ohatsu—who, as mentioned before, was still an eighteen-year-old girl at the time—had been assigned tonight's serving duties. Worried there might be some oversight, she went to check on the kitchen. There, an elderly maidservant named Ougi was overseeing the food preparation, busily directing the male servants and other maids. When Ougi saw Grandmother's face, she spoke in a hushed voice.

“The number of guests has suddenly increased, and it’s causing trouble.”

“Can’t we manage?” Grandmother asked, furrowing her brows. “No, we can handle the other dishes somehow, but it’s the crabs that pose a problem.” Masuemon had always adored crab, and large specimens were meant to be served at tonight’s banquet. With seven portions prepared for the host and guests combined, they found themselves at an impasse when an unexpected eighth visitor arrived—there were simply not enough crabs to go around.

They had sent someone to inquire at their regular fishmonger's, but there were none of the desired kind. Given that crabs were being served, having them vary so much in size would look terribly unsightly. They would surely be scolded by the Master afterward. The kitchen staff were all worried, for although a young man named Hanbei had gone out some time ago saying he would find some somewhere, he still hadn't returned. Since they couldn't serve the other dishes until they saw what crabs they had, Ougi explained with a grimace, truly at a loss.

“This is truly troublesome,” Grandmother said, furrowing her brows even more. Since there were already several other substantial dishes prepared, she had even considered simply omitting the crab. However, given that her father Masuemon was particularly fond of it, she knew carelessly removing it would surely put him in a bad mood. As Grandmother pondered this, the sound of someone clapping their hands came from the inner room. When Grandmother turned back and went into the inner quarters, Masuemon emerged into the corridor as though he had been waiting impatiently.

“Hey, what are you doing? Hurry up and bring out the meal trays.”

Seizing the opportunity of being urged, Grandmother quietly mentioned the crab shortage, but Masuemon paid no attention at all. “What? You’re telling me you can’t manage one or two crabs? If there are none in town, go search all along the shore! I’ve already boasted to the guests that tonight I’d treat them to delicious crabs. If there are no crabs, this can’t be called a feast!” When told this, there was no room for argument, so Grandmother reluctantly returned to the kitchen. As the kitchen staff grew increasingly anxious—craning their necks while awaiting Hanbei’s return—the hours slipped by. In the inner rooms, they pressed impatiently.

Everyone was anxiously pacing about when Hanbei came rushing back, out of breath. When they heard he had returned, everyone rushed out to look and found Hanbei accompanied by an unfamiliar boy. The boy was fifteen or sixteen years old, wearing a knee-length short soiled hitatare sleeve and holding an old fish basket. Seeing this, everyone first breathed a sigh of relief, it was said. The fish basket contained three crabs, so they tried to purchase one of similar size to match the seven already prepared. However, the boy insisted they buy all three, arguing he had been brought all the way from afar for this purpose.

Given that we were pressed for time ourselves and couldn't engage in prolonged haggling, we decided to purchase them all as he insisted and paid the price he demanded. The boy then left clutching his empty basket and disappeared somewhere. "This should suffice for now."

They all suddenly regained their vigor and immediately began boiling the crabs.

Two Sake was served, and dishes began appearing one after another. Both host and guests had settled into a relaxed mood while drinking when those crabs—arranged on large platters—were brought out before each of them. "As I mentioned earlier, tonight's feast consists solely of this. Please partake freely."

Having said this, Masuemon urged all those present to partake. The crabs commonly found in my homeland are colloquially called thorn crabs, their shells somewhat triangular in shape with many bramble-like spines covering both carapace and legs. Tonight's crabs, however, are known as helmet crabs—their shells slightly rhomboid in form, colored a reddish-black with white mottling. They say these rank supreme among sea crabs for flavor, but I myself cannot attest to this.

After all, serving these crabs tonight was a point of pride for the host, so when Masuemon urged others to partake and was just about to set his own chopsticks upon them, Sakabe Yomoshirō—who had been seated in the place of honor—suddenly called out.

"Master, wait a moment." The voice carried such grave weight that Masuemon instinctively lowered his chopsticks and turned toward its source. Yomoshirō sat with his brow deeply furrowed, his gaze fixed intently first upon the Master's face. He then took up a candlestick in one hand, methodically illuminating each face around the gathering before producing a small mirror from his breast pocket to study his own countenance. After a prolonged sigh and moment of contemplation, he finally uttered his pronouncement.

“Hmm, a most curious thing has occurred.” “Among those seated here, there appears one whose countenance bears the mark of death.”

The people gathered there turned pale. Coming from this man known to be skilled in physiognomy and divination, such an earnest declaration left them unable to remain unshaken. Everyone simply stared in silence at Yomoshirō’s grim face. Even Grandmother, who had been serving, felt her entire body turn to ice, it was said.

Then Yomoshirō abruptly turned to face Grandmother as if suddenly remembering her presence. Until now, he had been scrutinizing only the host and guests’ faces, overlooking the sole young woman present at the gathering. When he noticed this omission and held the candlestick up to Grandmother’s face, she reportedly felt her very soul freeze solid. Yet there appeared nothing unusual about her countenance, and Yomoshirō merely nodded in silent acknowledgment before resuming his measured speech.

“This is indeed a splendid feast, but it would be wisest if none of you were to touch these crabs with your chopsticks.” “Have them removed exactly as they are served.” This made clear there was something unnatural about the crabs. Who bore this deathly countenance? Though he refrained from naming names, all understood it pointed to Master Masuemon. Grandmother particularly recalled a crucial detail—the seven crabs prepared earlier had been served to guests, while the eighth purchased later rested on the host’s tray. Any person might reasonably suspect poison lurked in that final crab.

Upon hearing this, the master immediately ordered that the crab be removed. As Grandmother, understanding the situation, began clearing the tray bearing the dish, Yomoshirō issued another warning. "You must not let the kitchen staff eat that crab either." "Dispose of them all." "Understood."

When Grandmother went to the kitchen and relayed this, all those present there turned pale. Above all others, Hanbei—since he had been the one to procure those crabs—was utterly astonished. As a precaution, they called over the house dog and fed it the crab that had been brought before the master. The moment it ate, the animal immediately began writhing in agony and died, making everyone shudder in horror. Then they brought a neighbor’s dog and tried feeding it the other crabs, but these showed no ill effects. At this point, there was no longer any room for doubt. The one crab purchased later was poisonous, for when the master tried to eat it, a deathly countenance had appeared on his face.

Thanks to Sakabe Yomoshirō, the master had narrowly escaped peril—a most auspicious turn—but with such an incident having occurred, the gathering grew strangely subdued, the sake losing its warmth and the revelry its spirit. The carefully prepared feast ended in ruin, and all present rose from their seats to depart in due order.

Of course, it was unfortunate for the guests, but the master’s shock and anger at being forced to eat a suspicious crab and nearly losing his life were no small matter. The entire kitchen staff was immediately summoned and subjected to a severe interrogation, but given the circumstances as previously described, each of them could only find it strange. In any case, since Hanbei was the responsible party, he was supposed to set out early the following morning to search for that suspicious youngster and investigate where exactly he had caught those crabs, but that night, he simply went to bed.

Since the boy had forcibly sold three crabs, two still remained. They needed to test whether these too were poisonous, but since night had already grown late, they decided to leave it for tomorrow and tossed them into a corner of the kitchen's earthen floor—yet before dawn broke, both crabs had vanished without a trace. The crabs they had thought dead were in fact still alive and might have crawled away unnoticed, or perhaps a dog or cat had carried them off—in the end, they never discovered what had happened.

Generally speaking, crustaceans like shrimp and crabs can sometimes cause poisoning. Therefore, while one might say there was no particular need to make such a fuss over the crab being poisonous—for such things do happen—at this moment, with everyone from the master down to the lowest servant already in an uproar over the strangeness of it all, news came that the remaining two crabs had also vanished. This only amplified the commotion further, prompting Hanbei to set out at dawn with a young man named Isuke to search for that boy’s whereabouts.

Of course Hanbei, but none of those present in the kitchen had ever seen the boy’s face. The reasoning was that if he were a fisherman’s child from the shore, someone would likely recognize his face, so perhaps he had come from another area. Never having anticipated such an event occurring, and given that it was dark and they had been rushing about carelessly, they had in fact failed to properly ascertain the boy’s features or appearance—thus making it an exceedingly difficult task to track him down now.

Bracing themselves for this hardship, the two set out early. Afterward, Master Masuemon went to the magistrate’s office to visit the residence of a man named Sakabe Yogorō. When he met his elder brother Yomoshirō and earnestly expressed his gratitude for having narrowly escaped death the previous night thanks to him, Yomoshirō reportedly said: “For now, your safety brings me profound relief.” “Yet according to my observations, I cannot deem this calamity truly passed.” “Before long, some misfortune may yet befall your household.” “You must exercise utmost vigilance—this I declare most earnestly.”

Masuemon was startled once more. He consulted whether there might be some way to ward off this calamity, but Yomoshirō reportedly did not teach him any method. He merely admonished him never to eat crab again from then on. Forbidden from eating his beloved crabs, Masuemon found himself somewhat troubled, but under the circumstances, he couldn't very well protest. So he vowed before Yomoshirō never to eat crab again for the rest of his life—yet still he couldn't feel at ease. Yet since he didn't know what exactly should be done, he couldn't give any specific warnings to his household. Even so, he whispered Yomoshirō’s warnings only to Grandmother and instructed her to remain cautious in all matters for the time being.

Meanwhile, Hanbei and Isuke had left at dawn and still not returned by noon. As everyone grew anxious about their whereabouts, around the ninth half-hour—said to be around one o'clock in the afternoon nowadays—Isuke alone returned with a pallid face. Even when asked about Hanbei, he could not readily respond. Seeing his ashen complexion and shaken demeanor, everyone started anew with alarm.

Three

As the crowd gradually questioned the dazed Isuke, they learned that such an incident had occurred at the site. Hanbei had hurried out last night to visit the fishermen’s houses he frequented, but there were no crabs at any of them. Even where thorn crabs or spider crabs existed, there were no kazami crabs. Moving from place to place while making inquiries, they gradually headed north until finding a young boy standing by the roadside.

Therefore, today as well—accompanied by Isuke—they headed north, in the direction of Izumozaki, to continue their inquiries, but they did not catch sight of anyone resembling last night's young boy. Before they knew it, they had advanced to the banks of the Sabagawa River—as you may be aware, this river flows into the sea. A young boy stood rigidly by the shore near the sea, gazing at the water—his figure from behind seemed indeed to match that description, so Hanbei hurriedly gave chase.

With the sea on one side and the river on the other—and assuming no other escape route existed—Isuke followed leisurely behind. But when Hanbei, who had rushed ahead first, grabbed the boy from behind and exchanged what might have been a word or two, something inexplicable happened: Hanbei appeared to be dragged into the water by the boy as if pulled beneath the surface. Seeing this, Isuke too panicked and rushed to the spot, but both Hanbei and the boy seemed to have been swallowed by the water, their figures vanishing completely. In his alarm, Isuke dashed to a nearby fisherman’s house and pleaded, “Someone from Yamagataya has drowned—please retrieve them quickly!” The shop’s name being well-known in the area, seven or eight men immediately gathered to search the water, yet neither could be found. Given the swift current at the river’s mouth, they might have been swept out to sea. Isuke stood utterly helpless, with nothing left to do. After urging them to search as thoroughly as possible, he returned to report what had transpired.

The household members were astonished when they heard this. Particularly Master Masuemon, who had also been cautioned by Yomoshirō, felt increasingly distressed. He promptly dispatched a head clerk with five or six of the shop’s men to accompany Isuke. The painter Bun’a also went out.

As I mentioned before, in my house were staying Nomi the haiku master and Bun’a the painter; at that time, Nomi had gone out to the neighborhood and was absent. Bun’a was painting in his assigned eight-tatami mat room. Bun’a was something like a disciple of Bunkō and, though young, was said to be a painter of considerable renown even in Edo. The master was fond of crabs, so during Bun’a’s stay, he had requested him to paint a hundred-crab illustration. However, Bun’a felt his unpolished skills were hardly up to the task of depicting a hundred crabs. Since he had proposed painting at least an illustration of ten crabs instead, he had shut himself in that room for some time now and was painting with single-minded focus, using various crabs as models. The nine of them had already been completed, and while he was in the midst of painting the remaining one, this incident occurred, so Bun’a set down his brush and stood up.

“Are you also going out, Mr. Bun’a?” Masuemon said in an attempt to stop him. “Ah. I can’t help but be concerned.”

Having said that curtly, Bun’a left with the crowd. Since there was no use trying to stop him further, they let him go as he wished. Upon hearing this, a large crowd from the neighborhood too came swarming after them. From the fishing quarter as well, helpers set out to join. It had become quite an uproar, but the master could not possibly go out himself. He remained at home, doing nothing but worrying.

While Grandmother and the others waited anxiously at the shopfront for news, Sakabe Yomoshirō arrived there. He appeared to have heard rumors along the way, for he already seemed aware of Hanbei’s incident. “This is truly an unexpected turn of events,” he said. “Your master hasn’t gone out, has he?” “No, my father is at home,” Grandmother answered. With an expression of initial relief, Yomoshirō was then guided to the inner rooms by Grandmother.

“This is truly an unforeseen incident…” Yomoshirō repeated. “But no matter what may occur, Master must not go out.”

“Understood,” Masuemon answered respectfully. “You had warned that some calamity would befall my household, but I was astonished to find it has indeed come to pass exactly as you foretold.” “Who from your shop has gone out?” Yomoshirō inquired. “I sent out Clerk Kyūemon with five or six of the shop’s men.” “Is there anyone else who has gone out?” pressed Yomoshirō once more. “In addition, the painter Mr. Bun’a…”

“Ah.” Yomoshirō exclaimed in a low voice. “You should send someone running to immediately call back that man.” “Yes, yes!” The terrified Masuemon had rushed out to the shop and was urgently ordering someone to go call back Mr. Bun’a and bring him immediately when one of the shop employees came running back, his face pale. “Mr. Bun’a…” “Wh-what? Mr. Bun’a…?” Without waiting to hear the rest, Masuemon immediately began to lose consciousness. In today’s terms, it would be what we call a fainting spell. Because he had turned pale and collapsed, another commotion arose here. They immediately called a doctor and administered treatment. Fortunately, he regained consciousness, but as it was advised to let him rest quietly for a while, they carried him into a back room and laid him down. With uproars breaking out both inside and outside, it was truly a major incident.

Now, as for what happened to Mr. Bun’a—after going to the Sabagawa River’s bank with the crowd and watching the fishermen working on their corpse search, whether from some misstep or not, the earth beneath his feet suddenly crumbled away, and in the blink of an eye, Bun’a had tumbled into the water. Here another commotion arose, and though the fishermen tried to retrieve him immediately, his form had already vanished. In Hanbei’s case it was one thing, but this time there were many fishermen and boatmen working there. Yet try as they might, they could not find where Bun’a had sunk or where he had been carried off to, leaving the entire crowd utterly perplexed. Upon hearing this report, Yomoshirō let out a deep sigh.

“Ah, if only I had arrived a bit sooner. Even so, that the master did not go out was at least a blessing.”

With those words, Yomoshirō departed. The master had regained consciousness about an hour later, yet neither Bun’a nor Hanbei could be found anywhere. As the autumn day darkened into evening, they abandoned further efforts—both shop workers and fishermen reluctantly withdrawing for the time being. Their return threw the shopfront into chaos. Grandmother had come out to hear their accounts when Nomi the haikai poet came rushing from the rear quarters, crying for someone to come at once.

Nomi had returned somewhat earlier and, shocked to find various incidents had occurred during his absence, went to offer his condolences in the inner rooms where he was speaking with Master Masuemon about something. When he came rushing out in such agitation, the startled crowd pressed him for details. He explained that while conversing with the master in the rear parlor just moments before, they had heard a rustling noise in the garden. When he casually peered outside, two large crabs had crawled out from beneath the veranda and were raising their claws toward them. The instant he laid eyes on them, the master lost consciousness and collapsed.

Recognizing this as a crisis, they erupted into commotion and once again sent for a doctor. One commotion after another erupted in rapid succession, so that every soul present was gripped by such intense anxiety and terror that they could scarcely find any will to go on living. "It was a chilly autumn evening, and even now when I think of that time, it sends a shiver down my spine," Grandmother always used to say.

One could well imagine why she felt that way. Through the doctor's treatment, Masuemon regained consciousness, but having collapsed twice in a single day, the physician emphasized the importance of subsequent recuperation. Complaining of lingering malaise himself, he remained bedridden for nearly half a month thereafter. Whether two crabs had truly manifested or whether Masuemon's terrified eyes had glimpsed some phantom remained uncertain. Yet not only he—Nomi too insisted he had witnessed them. The crowd divided to search, suspecting the two crabs missing since nightfall might be hiding beneath the veranda, but within the garden they found no trace of such creatures. As the house was vast and searching fully beneath the veranda proved impossible, perhaps they had escaped deeper into shadowed recesses.

From our present-day perspective, it does seem likely that what Masuemon and Nomi saw were hallucinations—yet we cannot dismiss it so categorically, for here lies yet another incident. As previously mentioned, Bun’a had left after starting his painting of ten crabs, leaving the room untouched. Yet upon later inspection, the paint dishes lay overturned from one end to the other. Across the large silk painting depicting nine crabs were scattered pigments—black ink, vermilion, orpiment—and what appeared to be several crab-like sideways crawling footprints. It would seem that those two crabs had crept into Bun’a’s vacant studio and trampled across the silk painting of ten crabs.

About a week later, the corpses of Bun’a and Hanbei surfaced. The faces and bodies of both men had been devoured by something, exposing the bones of their limbs and ribs—truly a sight too horrendous to behold twice. According to the fishermen’s accounts, they had likely been eaten by crabs. With this, at least those two corpses were found, but that apprentice’s whereabouts were never determined. No matter whom they asked, nobody in the area had seen such a boy, so they concluded he must have been from another region. That was probably the case. After all, he couldn’t have emerged from a river or the sea.

From that time onward, Masuemon not only never ate crab again but also discarded all crab-related items—whether they were hanging scrolls, folding screens, alcove ornaments, or even metal tobacco cases. Even so, it is said that during dimly lit hours, there would be commotions about two crabs crawling out into the garden. Since sea crabs cannot survive long beneath verandas or such places, this was, of course, a kind of hallucination.

The One-Legged Woman

I

The ninth man spoke.

I am from Chiba. The Satomi house, familiar to readers of Bakin’s Eight Dog Chronicles, passed through nine generations—Yoshizane, Yoshinari, Yoshimichi, Saneyoshi, Yoshitoyo, Yoshiyori, Yoshihiro, Yoshiyori, and Yoshikore—before meeting its end in the tenth generation under Tadayoshi. It is said that this occurred in the first year of Genna—that is, the summer of the year Osaka Castle fell—when the Satomi clan invited their own destruction through marital ties to Ōkubo Sagami-no-kami.

Ōkubo Sagami-no-kami Tadachika was lord of Odawara Castle in Sagami Province and among the most prosperous of the Tokugawa family's hereditary daimyo, yet his house was abolished in a single day. The cause remains unclear. Some say they were implicated in the crimes of Ōkubo Izumi-no-kami Nagayasu; others that suspicions arose of colluding with the Osaka faction; still others that it resulted from slanderous accusations by Honda Sado-no-kami and his son. In any case, since Satomi Tadayoshi was married to the daughter of Ōkubo Sagami-no-kami Tadachika, he too had his domain confiscated soon after his father-in-law's house fell, was sentenced to exile in Hōki Province, and thus the renowned family of Bōshū came to an end. Had the Satomi house continued unbroken, the Eight Dog Chronicles would certainly never have seen the light of day. Bakin would have had to choose another subject matter.

Imitating Bakin’s manner of speech—but enough digression—what I shall now relate concerns the events surrounding the fall of that Satomi house. Yoshikore, Tadayoshi's predecessor and a man known as the Lord Chamberlain of Awa, had died on the sixteenth day of the eleventh month of Keichō 8 at the age of thirty-one. This was said to have occurred a month or two before his third death anniversary, which would place it in the late autumn or early winter of Keichō 10 (1605). Among the retainers serving the current lord Tadayoshi was a samurai named Ōtaki Shōbei with a 100-koku stipend. Though called 100 koku, it was actually said to be 100 bales. There were a hundred of these 100-koku samurai, referred to as the Awa Hundred, and they wielded considerable influence among Satomi’s retainers. Shōbei went on a pilgrimage to Enmei-ji Temple in Tateyama’s castle town with his spouse and a servant, the three of them together. Enmei-ji was the Satomi family’s family temple.

On their way back, the couple saw a girl crouching by the roadside.

The girl appeared to be a beggar. When she saw the couple passing by this spot, she silently bowed her head to the ground, whereupon they involuntarily halted. It wasn’t that they meant to offer her coins upon seeing a beggar on their return from Buddhist prayers. Since Lord Tadayoshi’s accession, almsgiving had been forbidden. Beggars were deemed a drain on the realm. For it was precisely through such charity that their numbers multiplied—thus came the edict that not one grain of rice nor copper coin should ever be given. Of course, Ōtaki Shōbei and his wife were bound by this decree; faced with this beggar now bowing before them, they ought to have feigned ignorance and passed by. Yet here they found themselves rooted—so exquisitely beautiful and pitiable did the girl appear.

The girl appeared to be only eight or nine years old, wearing a cotton kimono with narrow sleeves—so grimy that its striped pattern was barely discernible—that hung limply around her, providing little warmth. Her hair was naturally disheveled. Her face peering through that tangled mane looked like an unpolished jewel. "My, how adorable," Shōbei's wife murmured to herself.

“Hmm,” the husband sighed. Putting aside whether to give alms or not, the couple found it unbearable to abandon this pitiful girl. When the wife approached and asked her age and name, she answered that she was nine years old but did not know her name. “Where were you born?”

“I don’t know.” “What are your parents’ names?” “I don’t know.”

For a girl with such circumstances not to know her birthplace, her parents’ names, or even her own name was not particularly unusual. In response to the wife’s questions, the girl explained that she had been abandoned on the roadside as an infant and was picked up by someone, only to be abandoned again at age three. Then she was picked up by someone else again, but this person too abandoned her after about a year. Picked up only to be abandoned again and abandoned only to be picked up once more—after passing through two or three more hands in this manner—the girl had somehow reached seven years of age. She explained that as she had grown older, even by begging she could somehow manage to survive and thus had sustained her fragile existence until then by relying on people’s pity.

“Oh, you poor thing…,” Shōbei’s wife said, her eyes welling with tears. “Why would a lovely child like you be abandoned everywhere you go?” “It is because I am a disabled person,” said the girl, her beautiful eyes glistening with tears. “Who would take in a disabled person as rare as I am? “Even if they take pity on me at first, they soon grow weary of me.” She spoke with a maturity beyond her years. Yet at first glance, her appearance showed exceptional beauty without visible disability, leaving both his wife and Shōbei perplexed. Whether from shame or sorrow, the girl merely hunched her body, trembling as she sobbed quietly. When the couple gently coaxed and questioned her, they finally discovered the reason for her disability.

Because she had been sitting on the ground, they had not noticed until now, but the girl was missing a leg. She had only her left leg; her right leg had been severed above the knee. It was not a disability she had been born with. However, it had not been severed due to any illness either. Having likely been abandoned by the roadside for some reason, her leg had apparently been bitten off by a stray dog or wolf-like beast—Shōbei deduced this from the wound’s appearance.

At this point, the couple's pity grew ever stronger, and they found themselves utterly unable to abandon her as she was. Not only was it pitiable to leave such a beautiful, heartrending girl to beg, but given that the aforementioned decree had been issued, she could no longer receive alms from anyone—she would either have to quickly flee to another domain or starve to death right there before their eyes. Shōbei tentatively asked the girl.

“Don’t you know there’s been a decree issued forbidding giving anything to beggars?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, as though entirely unaware of anything.

Shōbei’s wife was made to weep again. She drew her husband aside into shade and whispered they must find some way to save the girl—to which Shōbei raised no objection. Yet being himself in service to the Satomi house, he deemed open protection of a beggar unwise at this juncture; thus he summoned Yoichi—the retainer accompanying them that day—to confer. Yoichi hailed from Nishizaki village near Tateyama’s castle town—a farmer’s son who had entered samurai service two years prior through aspiration alone. Though young in years he proved honest and dutiful still maintaining ties with mother and brother at his family home. Shōbei proposed entrusting the girl temporarily to Yoichi’s household—a plan presented discreetly and accepted without demur.

“Then take her away immediately.”

Yoichi, who never disobeyed his master’s orders, carried the one-legged beggar girl on his back and immediately transported her to his family home. Now reassured, Ōtaki Shōbei and his wife returned directly to their residence. As dusk fell, Yoichi returned and reported that he had indeed entrusted her to his mother and brother. About half a month later, when Shōbei’s wife visited the Nishizaki house to check on her condition, she found the girl living safely there. Yoichi’s mother and brother were honest and dutiful people who not only strictly adhered to their master’s instructions but also took on every inconvenience to care for the disabled girl with genuine kindness, so his wife returned home feeling even more reassured.

Then, after about two or three months had passed and the year drew to a close, an even more astonishing command was issued by Lord Chūgi. Despite having previously proclaimed that no alms should be given to beggars, they still wandered aimlessly through the castle town and surrounding areas—whether because secret violators continued aiding them or because they stole food themselves. Deeming it regrettable that his prior decree’s intent remained unheeded, he further ordered all vagrants and beggars within his domain to depart for other territories within three days. Those found loitering after this deadline were declared subject to immediate execution.

Frightened by this strict decree, the beggars all fled in haste; however, among them were those who remained unaware of the proclamation and stayed behind, those who were captured after fleeing too late—and these were beaten to death in accordance with the law. There were also those who were buried alive. Thus, beggars and vagrants within the Satomi domain were completely eradicated. “It’s a good thing we saved that girl when we did,” Shōbei and his wife whispered to each other in secret.

A one-legged girl who could not even walk freely would likely have been the first sacrifice in this situation, having been left behind. Fortunately, the fact that the couple had saved the girl remained unknown to anyone. Of course, they had strictly instructed Yoichi to keep quiet.

Two

The fortunate girl was being kindly raised at Yoichi’s family home. Shōbei’s wife would also occasionally visit her quietly, bestowing clothes and spending money. Since they had to give her some sort of name, they decided to call the girl Oto. Before long, five years passed, and Oto turned sixteen.

Exposed to rain and wind, covered in sand and dust, crawling on the earthen roads—even during those days, the girl who had caught Shōbei and his wife’s eye gradually grew, her jewel-like radiance shining ever brighter. As she had been accustomed to it since childhood, there was no problem walking around the neighborhood when leaning on a cane. She was intelligent and naturally dexterous, so her needlework skills were exceptional for her age.

“If only her legs were both intact—she’d be perfect as she is now…” Yoichi’s mother and brother lamented her misfortune all the more. Though her disability itself posed challenges, having only one leg made securing marriage prospects particularly difficult. Especially since this area consisted entirely of farming households where both men and women had to labor, no matter how fair her features or sharp her mind, there seemed no one willing to accept a one-legged cripple as a bride. The thought that such striking beauty might spend its days as a flower withering in shadow plunged not only Yoichi’s mother and brother but also Shōbei’s wife—who visited periodically—into gloom.

Shōbei and his wife had no children. When they had picked up the disabled girl, it had undoubtedly stemmed from pity for her misfortune, but half of it was also intermingled with the childless couple’s fondness for children. Thus, while harboring a shadow of melancholy, his wife also took secret pleasure in visiting from time to time to watch Oto’s face grow ever more beautiful. They even consulted Yoichi’s mother and brother about whether there might be a household somewhere willing to take her as a bride, perhaps offering some dowry, but given the circumstances previously mentioned, this matter did not seem likely to proceed easily.

And so, as another year or two passed, Oto blossomed into a beautiful young woman in the full bloom of her youth, always becoming the talk of the neighborhood's young men. There were even those who playfully tugged on her sleeve, but the clever Oto did not so much as turn her head. She respected Yoichi's mother and brother as her masters and regarded them as family, living quietly and modestly.

In the nineteenth year of Keichō, when Oto reached her eighteenth spring, dark clouds began to gather over the household of her great benefactor, Ōtaki Shōbei. Ōkubo Sagami-no-kami Tadachika had suddenly been stripped of his Odawara domain yielding fifty thousand koku by shogunate decree, and Odawara Castle had been demolished alongside this.

Without knowing the details, the entire Kantō region was thrown into turmoil over this event—a veritable bolt from the blue—but none reeled in panic more desperately than the Satomi household, bound by ties to Ōkubo, like those who had lost their lantern in a moonless night. Rumors spread from mouth to mouth—that they too might suffer Ōkubo's fate: confiscated domains, ruined house. An air of unease permeated every corner of the castle.

Ōtaki Shōbei also appeared to be among those who shared this anxiety and had recently begun visiting Suzaki Shrine. This shrine marked where Yoritomo first came ashore after his defeat at Ishibashiyama and retreat to Awa. As the Satomi family—descended from the same Genji lineage—had long venerated this site, it stood to reason that Shōbei would pray there for his lord household's preservation.

As the shrine was located on the outskirts of Nishizaki Village, Ōtaki Shōbei stopped by Yoichi’s family home along the way for the first time in a while. He was astonished to see Oto in the full bloom of her youth, growing more beautiful with each passing year. From then on, he began visiting Yoichi’s house whenever he made a pilgrimage. Before long, according to various pieces of information leaking from Edo, it became said that the Satomi family would not escape without suffering a curse of guilt by association, and so the unease throughout the entire household grew ever greater. Ōtaki Shōbei began making night pilgrimages to Suzaki Shrine.

His night pilgrimages began in March and continued through May. Unless prevented by official duties or other unavoidable circumstances, he never neglected his pilgrimage for even a single night. It was only natural for him to worry about his lord’s household, but ever since he began making these night pilgrimages, his wife noticed that he never took any attendants with him. It appeared she had noticed something else as well, for his wife called Yoichi and whispered to him.

“Master Shōbei’s recent behavior doesn’t sit right with me—I intend to follow him quietly today.” “Will you guide me?” Yoichi consented to lead his master’s wife. Though described as nearby, the distance proved considerable, so Shōbei departed as if impatient for nightfall. When his wife and Yoichi set out moments later, the May sky had fully darkened, the village ahead swallowed by fresh foliage’s gloom, causing them to lose sight of the figure they were following.

“What should I do?” Shōbei’s wife murmured, stopping in her tracks to ponder. “In any case, why don’t you go as far as Suzaki and see for yourself?” said Yoichi.

“Very well.” Since there was truly no other way, the wife resolutely started walking again, but as it was exceedingly dark, he found himself perplexed. As Yoichi was a man and well-acquainted with the lay of the land, he did not struggle particularly much, but Shōbei’s wife found herself greatly troubled by the precarious footing. Since she had come out intending to follow her husband, they naturally had not prepared any torches or fire ropes. The wife, unable to bear it any longer, called out.

“Yoichi.” “Won’t you hold my hand?”

Yoichi seemed to hesitate for a moment, but when the master’s wife called out to him again, he could no longer refuse. He took the master’s wife’s hand with one hand and began walking through the darkness as if feeling his way. And before they had gone even ten ken, someone emerged from the shadow of a tree by the roadside and thrust a hooded lantern—the kind used by stealthy figures—abruptly into their faces. Startled, they froze—then the other party immediately called out.

“Yoichi?” “Leading my wife by the hand—where do you think you’re going?” That was their master Shōbei’s voice. Shōbei continued: “I’ve seen conclusive proof of your adultery.” “Prepare yourselves.” “What absurd nonsense…!” his wife cried out in shock. “Indeed—wandering hand in hand through this dark night with this young servant—that alone constitutes irrefutable evidence.”

There was no longer any time for argument. The moment Shōbei’s sword flashed in the darkness, he struck down at his wife’s shoulder with a one-handed blow. Yoichi too cried out and tried to flee, only to be struck on the shoulder from behind. Even so, he fled frantically until he found himself before his own house; stumbling inside in relief, his mother and brother were shocked to see his blood-drenched figure. Yoichi briefly recounted the night’s events, then drew his last breath.

The following morning, Ōtaki Shōbei filed an official report. It claimed his wife had committed adultery with Yoichi, a chūgen, and that he had intercepted them attempting to flee to Yoichi’s family home to hide themselves before executing both. Her natal family doubted this account. Naturally, Yoichi’s mother and brother refused to accept it. Yet even as her relatives, they could produce no definitive evidence disproving the adultery. Bound by the grief of their inferior social standing, Yoichi’s mother and brother ultimately had no choice but to swallow their tears in silence.

At the same time, a messenger from Ōtaki Shōbei arrived at Yoichi’s house and, declaring they could not leave Oto in the household of such unscrupulous individuals, placed her in a palanquin and took her away. From that day onward, the beautiful one-legged woman came to be sheltered in the inner quarters of Ōtaki Shōbei’s residence. After all, it was a critical juncture where it remained unclear whether their lord’s household would collapse or endure, and whether they themselves would live or die—so no one troubled themselves to question such matters.

III They spent a year in anxiety and turmoil until it became Genna 1. In May of that year, Osaka Castle fell, and the realm was finally unified under the Tokugawa. Seeing that they had remained unharmed until then, they thought they might yet be spared—but this proved a vain hope. Not long after Osaka’s resolution, in late May, the final judgment was delivered. The Satomi house had its territory confiscated, and Tadayoshi was sentenced to exile in Hōki. With their master’s house destroyed, all of Satomi’s retainers suddenly became ronin. Among them, Ōtaki Shōbei—who had no family besides his wife and had always been prudent—had accumulated modest savings. As becoming ronin posed no immediate hardship, Shōbei dismissed his few retainers and withdrew from Tateyama’s castle town. Yet he could not depart alone. He had a woman named Oto clinging to him. Ōtaki Shōbei refused to abandon her. While tending to her mobility difficulties, he resolved to head toward Edo regardless. Securing passage on a ship to Kazusa, he continued by boat from Kisarazu, arriving safely in Edo.

It was one year after Shōbei had executed his wife and chūgen manservant as adulterers. Shōbei was forty-six years old, and Oto was nineteen in the summer of that year. They were now openly husband and wife, having secured temporary lodgings near Sensō-ji Temple where they passed their days with little occupation. While the Satomi of Awa remained an illustrious family, their martial reputation had waned in recent years, leaving no mansions willing to employ Satomi ronin. Oto too disdained samurai service. Shōbei felt reluctant to present a one-legged woman—young enough to be his daughter—as his wife at samurai estates. He therefore abandoned plans to seek service under two lords. Unable to remain idle indefinitely, he became a calligraphy instructor at his neighbors' urging. These neighbors kindly mediated matters and swiftly gathered seven or eight students for him. This development left Shōbei unable to assist with household affairs. With only mobility-impaired Oto proving inconvenient for daily tasks, they resolved to hire a kitchen maid—yet every woman departed within a month or two.

The maids were replaced so frequently that even the neighbors found it strange. When they quietly asked one of the maids who had resigned and was leaving, she said such things.

“The young mistress has such a beautiful face, yet there’s something frightening about her.” “On top of that, they’re so overly affectionate with each other that I simply couldn’t bear to watch any longer.” Though the neighbors acknowledged that the couple—with an age difference akin to parent and child—lived harmoniously together, the fact that their affection was so intense it drove all the servants to leave, unable to endure witnessing it, came as something of a surprise. Upon closer observation, Shōbei and his wife’s affection proved even more intense than imagined—so much so that even among his students, the slightly older children would often blush. Some twelve- or thirteen-year-old girls had even started saying they no longer wanted to go to that teacher. For these reasons, not only did their already small number of disciples gradually dwindle, but they had also nearly exhausted their savings, so even this devoted couple began to keenly feel the hardships of managing a household after a little over a year.

“Since I was originally a beggar, it’s simply a matter of returning to my former station.” Oto seemed unperturbed, but Shōbei could not bring himself to become a beggar with his beloved wife in tow. On a night in the twelfth month of Genna 2, as he passed through the row of trees in Asakusa, he encountered a man coming from the opposite direction. The man was a servant from a townsman’s household who appeared to be on his way to collect a debt, so Shōbei, acting on a sudden impulse, abruptly blocked his path.

“With the twelfth month pressing in, this ronin finds himself in dire straits." “I beg your assistance.” Recognizing this as robbery, the man kept his guard up. Without responding, he suddenly grabbed the straw sandal he wore and struck Shōbei full in the face. Then, seizing Shōbei’s moment of confusion, he tried to flee headlong. Struck square in the face by the mud-caked sandal, Shōbei flushed crimson. Having cut him down, he now felt remorse—but steeling himself with “In for a penny, in for a pound,” Shōbei snatched the purse from the corpse’s neck and fled. When he reached Sensō-ji Temple’s precincts and quietly checked the purse, it held merely two kanmon in coins.

“To have committed such a grave sin over this small matter,” he now deeply regretted. However, given his current circumstances, even two kanmon in coins was precious. Shōbei put the coins in his pocket and returned home, but since this was the first time he had ever committed robbery and murder, his conscience troubled him deeply. Fearing that any investigation might uncover evidence, he was meticulously wiping the blood from his sword by lamplight when Oto peered in from beside him.

"If that isn't human blood, then what could it be?" "Hmm, I encountered a robber on the way and cut him down to drive him off," Shōbei said, inverting his own role in the incident. Oto nodded and gazed at it, but soon asked him to let her lick the blood from the sword. Though Shōbei was somewhat startled by this, he couldn't refuse his bewitchingly beautiful wife's request, and so he let Oto suck the fresh human blood as she desired.

What demands his wife made of him in their bedchamber that night remained unknown, but thereafter, from dusk onward, he would sneak out and go about cutting down people on the streets roughly once every three days. Oto happily sucked the blood from the sword. The money taken from the corpses’ pockets became the couple’s living expenses. One night, when he found no opportunity to kill a person and returned after slaying a dog by the roadside, Oto licked it and her face turned pale. "This is not human blood. This is dog blood."

Shōbei said nothing. Not only that, but Oto would distinguish each time whether it was a man’s blood, a woman’s blood, or even a child’s blood, astonishing Shōbei. As this escalated, Shōbei began concealing a small jar in his sleeve to collect fresh blood flowing from his victims’ wounds. He was not entirely free from occasional pangs of conscience over these cruel acts, but such anguish would vanish like dew under morning sunlight whenever he met his wife’s beautiful smile. He had transformed into a murderous demon who roamed Edo cutting down men and women. Not only did this please his wife, but having her identify whether the blood came from a man or woman became another morbid fascination for him.

However, even in this era, they could not forever overlook such rampant acts of evil spirits. Particularly as the realm had finally been unified and the Tokugawa shogunate was devoting all its efforts to managing Edo during this period, they by no means neglected policing the city. The town magistrate's office resolved to cast a strict investigative net against the street slashings that had recently become rampant. Shōbei had not been entirely unaware of this, but now found himself unable to stop no matter what, and while continuing his street slayings as before, he was apprehended by town patrolmen at the foothills of Ueno.

After being confined in prison for three or five days, his maddened mind gradually calmed, and Shōbei became like a person waking from a dream. He honestly confessed all his crimes during the officials’ interrogation. He did not conceal even the fact that he had brutally executed his wife and servant when he was in Awa.

“Why have I committed sins in this manner?” “Even to myself, it seems like a dream.”

He could not recall each one individually, but he stated that from the winter of Genna 2 to the following summer, he had apparently cut down approximately fifty people. And now that he thought about it, he added that Oto, the one-legged woman, might not have been entirely human after all. As evidence, it was said he had enumerated several suspicious facts about her, though these were kept secret and never made public. In any case, Oto was deemed to require at least a preliminary examination. Four or five constables headed to Shōbei's residence during his absence. Dispatching so many officers to apprehend a single woman seemed excessive at first glance, but it appeared the magistrate's office had taken precautions based on Shōbei's testimony.

It was late June at dusk when Oto stepped onto the bamboo veranda to burn mosquito-repelling incense. Through gaps in the smoke, she caught sight of the constables and instantly sprang up. Before one could blink, she had leapt into the garden, torn through the sparse hedge, and fled outside. The constables immediately gave chase. Though one-legged, Oto ran faster than any man could match. At that time, numerous ditch-like streams crisscrossed the area. She flew over them one after another like a bird in flight, leaving the constables astounded. Undeterred, they pressed their pursuit until she twisted her body at Sumida River's bank and plunged into its waters. Along the way, some attempted to aid the constables by blocking her path, but all recoiled upon seeing her terrifyingly wrathful visage.

“Hurry, launch the boat!” The constables boarded the small boat tied to the shore and began rowing out when Oto’s figure sank once before resurfacing. Whether she had stripped herself at the river bottom or her clothes had naturally slipped off, when Oto surfaced she stood completely naked—not a thread clinging to her—the white form of this one-legged woman kicking through waves remaining clearly visible upon waters still faintly lit by lingering dusk. As they rowed toward her—perhaps having damaged their oar through haste—the small boat was struck by a crosscurrent and capsized instantly before reaching midstream. Though all constables emerged unscathed thanks to their swimming skills, they lost sight of Oto’s whereabouts amid the commotion. They investigated the opposite embankment but found no witnesses to her landing, forcing them to abandon their pursuit empty-handed.

In his prison cell, upon hearing this account, Shōbei sighed deeply as if everything had finally fallen into place. “That woman was no mere mortal. That must be what the world calls a demon woman.” After about ten days had passed, Shōbei petitioned the prison officials, requesting to be executed as soon as possible. The truth was that last night Oto had come outside the prison and persistently tried to lure him out, but he had resolutely refused and did not go. Even though he clearly recognized her as a creature of dark magic, whenever he saw her face, he couldn’t help but feel his heart waver. Even if he refused once, should it happen again and again—twice, thrice—there was no telling whether his mind might not go mad once more and lead him to plot a jailbreak. When he thought of that, he himself was overcome with terror, so he wanted to be killed as soon as possible.

In accordance with his wish, he was crucified in Senju two days later.

Yellow Paper

I

The Tenth Woman speaks.

“In recent years, it is truly a most welcome development that cholera and such diseases have ceased to be prevalent. “Even should an outbreak occur, since prevention measures and disinfection are thoroughly implemented nowadays, the utmost number of patients during a single epidemic period would be a hundred or two hundred at most. “However, in the past, things did not go so smoothly. “As for what the great cholera of the Ansei era was like, I only know from others’ accounts and cannot say for certain, but upon entering the Meiji era, it is said that the cholera of the nineteenth year was the most severe.”

"I was born in the first year of Meiji and was in my nineteenth summer at that time, so I remember those days well. The epidemic then was truly dreadful—even within Tokyo city proper alone, patients emerged one after another at a rate of a hundred fifty to two hundred per day. It was utterly terrifying." "I shall now recount the story from that time." "My family name is Kotani, and we had been physicians for generations since the Edo period." "My father went to Nagasaki for training when he was young, they say. After the Meiji Restoration, he volunteered to become a military doctor and served in the Satsuma Rebellion." "During that campaign at Nobeoka in Hyuga Province, a stray bullet struck his left leg. Though it initially healed without complications, some impairment later developed—not quite lameness, but his leg would often go numb or stiff. Finally, he resolved to resign his position in Meiji 17." "With some savings and a pension, living modestly wouldn't have been particularly difficult. But to continue without employment required proper arrangements." "My father consulted with my mother and purchased a house with land in Banshūmachi, Shinjuku."

"As you may well know, Shinjuku has now been incorporated into Yotsuya Ward and become a thriving area almost unrecognizable, but in those days Shinjuku—particularly around Banshūmachi—was so thoroughly rural it could rightly be called countryside. Though houses were indeed being built there continuously, it remained a truly desolate place."

The house my father purchased was a former samurai residence, its gate flanked by large bamboo thickets with a seven-room dwelling situated deep within. The grounds were said to measure about five hundred twenty tsubo. While the rear portion had been cultivated as farmland, there still remained vast stretches of open space. It was said that raccoon dogs and badgers dwelled around here, and at night we would sometimes hear foxes crying. For that reason, my father called it pleasantly quiet, but to my mother and me, it felt rather too quiet and lonely. There was a maid named Ofumi—a sturdy woman of twenty-four or twenty-five who helped my father with farm work.

The third year since coming to Banshūmachi was Meiji 19—the year of the Great Cholera. The heat was fierce, and living in such a remote area as we did, we seldom went into the city center and thus knew little of worldly affairs. Yet from reading the daily newspapers, it became clear that cholera in the city was growing ever more rampant, showing no signs of abating easily.

It was an evening in late August.

Mother and I had gone out to the wide veranda and were discussing the cholera rumors in the city, remarking that it seemed about time for it all to end, when Ofumi—who had been sitting on the edge—spoke up. "But ma'am, it's said there's someone around here who wants to catch cholera." "Oh, what nonsense—" Mother burst out laughing involuntarily. "Who would ever want to get cholera... "That's beyond a joke."

“No, it appears to be quite true.” “You know of the Iida household in the side street to the right here, don’t you?”

Ofumi said with a serious expression. “It’s the Mistress of that household.” In this era, lingering vestiges of Edo remained, and the term “Mistress” was still in use. It ranked after Madam and before Proprietress. In other words, the hierarchy ran Madam, Mistress, then Proprietress. While the Iida household maintained quite an impressive lifestyle, their female head—apparently a kept woman—led the neighbors to avoid both “Madam” and “Proprietress,” settling instead on “Mistress” as their term of address.

"Why on earth would that Mistress say such a thing? It must be a joke after all," Mother said, still laughing.

"I too had naturally thought it was a jest. However, when I listened properly to what Ofumi was saying, it became clear this was no mere joke."

The Iida household was situated such that if you entered my side street and went about halfway down, there was another side street turning to the right. On the south side of that side street stood a large house with cedar hedges flanking both sides of its gate, while at the rear there was an equally large bamboo thicket. Both the gate and buildings appeared to have been maintained in recent years, making them look far more splendid than our old house. The Mistress was a stylish woman of twenty-eight or twenty-nine—perhaps around thirty—and there were rumors she had once been a geisha in Nihonbashi or similar districts. This woman served as mistress of the household, with two maids named Ogen and Onaka besides herself. Ogen was already an elderly maid over fifty, while Onaka remained a young woman of eighteen or nineteen. It was said that Onaka had told Ofumi about the Mistress's desire to contract cholera.

I didn't know why, but the Mistress had lately taken to repeating like a mantra that she wanted to contract cholera. She wondered aloud how one might catch the disease. This fixation grew increasingly obsessive until she began eating sashimi and raw meat despite Old Maid Ogen's attempts to stop her. She ate tempura. She ate cucumber salad—at that time, such foods were said to bring on cholera. When one saw her calmly yet ostentatiously consuming these things, it became clear the Mistress wasn't jesting or making idle jokes but genuinely wished to contract the disease, until young Onaka could bear it no longer. Should cholera strike, the Mistress might consider her heart's desire fulfilled, but unlike ordinary matters, this would spell trouble for those around her. It was said Onaka wore a tearful expression as she declared that if the Mistress fell ill and infected them, it would be catastrophic—she wanted to request leave and depart immediately before such disaster struck.

Hearing this story, both Mother and I were overcome with an unpleasant feeling. "It’s not just the servants of that house. If cholera were to break out there, it would trouble the whole neighborhood," Mother said with a grimace. "Still—why would that Mistress say such things? Has she lost her mind?" "That’s true," I agreed. "It does seem strange." For it truly did not strike one as the act of a sane person.

“However, according to Ms. Onaka’s account, there doesn’t seem to be any sign of her acting strangely,” Ofumi said. “It seems there’s a highly revered ascetic in Asakusa, and the Mistress recently went there to request some prayers. Afterward, she apparently started saying she wants to contract cholera. Could it be that the ascetic told her something strange?” “But isn’t it strange for her to say she wants to get cholera?”

Mother seemed to doubt that. I couldn’t quite grasp the logic of it either. In any case, the fact that someone wishing to contract cholera lived right nearby in the same neighborhood was rather unsettling. "It's just so awful, isn't it?" Mother grimaced again. "It's truly awful. Onaka insists she must leave by the end of this month, but I wonder if the Master will consent," Ofumi said with an anxious expression.

Around that time, Father returned from his bath, and when Mother told him the story, he immediately burst out laughing. "That maid must have messed up somehow herself and ended up getting dismissed abruptly, so she’s spouting all that nonsense to cover it up." “If only she’d come up with a slightly more convincing lie…” “After all, she’s still young.”

Since Father dismissed the matter outright, the conversation ended right there.

Indeed, come to think of it, one couldn't say such a thing was impossible. Even if servants were dismissed due to their own failings, it was common practice for them to spread word that their master was at fault - thus with the Mistress of the Iida Household's cholera story too, we could never tell how much was true. Once we thought this way, we too came to avoid dwelling deeply on the matter.

Two

On the evening of the third day after that, I took Ofumi out shopping to Shinjuku Avenue. Though evening had come, it was still bright out, and the cicadas’ clamor sounded busy all around, as if lamenting the hot day’s passing. When we were about five or six ken from exiting the alley, two women entered from the opposite direction. As Ofumi called “Young Mistress” in a hushed warning, I too noticed and looked closely—it was none other than the Mistress of the Iida Household and her maid Onaka. Though we lived nearby without being particularly close, we merely exchanged silent nods as we passed. Onaka followed her mistress looking utterly dejected, on the brink of tears—I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. “Young Mistress,” Ofumi whispered again, glancing back. “Look at that Mistress’s face…” Indeed, as Ofumi said, the Mistress of the Iida Household had grown alarmingly gaunt in just a short time, her pallor so pronounced she no longer seemed fully human.

Though we lived in the same neighborhood, we had never become particularly close, so we merely exchanged silent nods as we passed each other. Yet there was something pitiful about how Onaka the maid followed behind her mistress with a face utterly sunken in despair, looking as though she might burst into tears at any moment. “Young Mistress. Look at that Mistress’s face…,” Ofumi said again in a hushed voice, glancing back over her shoulder.

Exactly as Ofumi had said, the Mistress of the Iida Household's appearance had grown alarmingly haggard in such a short time, transforming her into a shadowy figure who could no longer pass for ordinary. "Could she have already contracted cholera?" Ofumi said. "Surely not." Though I said this, I found myself unable to shake a growing unease about the Mistress's condition. Even if cholera were a lie, I felt certain she must have contracted some grave illness. I wondered whether it might be gynecological disease or tuberculosis.

I considered that perhaps it was because of such an illness—one unlikely to heal easily—that complaints like "I’d rather just die" or "I wish I’d get cholera and die" had emerged, which the maids earnestly took at face value, leading them to spread rumors that the Mistress was wishing to contract cholera. However, given that she was eating raw fish and tempura so recklessly, I even considered that she might genuinely want to contract cholera and die.

Even as September arrived, the cholera showed no signs of abating, so most schools had resorted to postponing the start of classes from September 1st for the time being. Moreover, cholera patients—which had been relatively few in the Yamanote area until now—gradually began to increase, and houses with yellow paper pasted on them started to become noticeable from Yotsuya toward Shinjuku. At that time, it had been decided that houses where cholera patients had emerged were to have yellow papers pasted on them in a manner resembling wooden quarantine tags, so walking through the streets and passing before houses with those yellow papers affixed was truly an unpleasant experience. Thus, as the terrifying cholera drew nearer and nearer right before our very eyes, we of timid disposition found ourselves in a state of constant anxiety, praying for nothing but the swift arrival of colder weather.

“It seems Ms. Onaka from the Iida household has ended up continuing her employment after all.”

One day, Ofumi reported to me. Onaka had been determined to leave by the end of August, but when the Mistress confronted her, saying, “Are you truly intent on leaving this house? I myself do not have much longer—please endure and stay,” she had no choice but to remain. “If you dare cast aside my desperate pleas and leave,” she glared with a terrifying expression, “know that I shall resent you eternally.” Onaka shuddered at this and found herself compelled to endure her service once more.

Ofumi related such matters as well. “It seems that Mistress killed a mujina last night.” “A mujina… Why…?” I asked.

“Anyway, yesterday evening when it was already growing dark, a mujina from somewhere…” “It was apparently the smallest cub—it had come weakly crawling out into the garden when the Mistress spotted it and ordered the old maid and Onaka-san to catch it immediately. Though reluctant, they did so, whereupon the Mistress brought out a grass-cutting sickle and with all her might chopped off the young mujina’s head…” “They say Onaka-san shuddered in terror.” “That Mistress has truly lost her mind.” “This is no ordinary matter at all, I tell you.”

“Hmm, perhaps so...”

As the Mistress of the Iida Household's illness worsened and her nerves grew increasingly agitated—perhaps driving her to commit such madness-tinged acts of violence and cruelty—I found myself feeling strangely sorry for her. Yet if such violence grew any worse, there was no telling what she might do next. The thought that someone might set fire to my house—I found myself thinking such things.

I will never forget—it was around eight o'clock in the morning on September 12th. Ofumi, who had gone out on an errand, came back pale-faced and breathlessly made her report to us once more.

“The Mistress of the Iida Household has finally contracted cholera,” Ofumi said. “She’d been vomiting and having diarrhea since midnight last night… It’s not a lie. The police and town officials have come—it’s a huge uproar.” “Oh my,” I said. “How dreadful…” Startled, I went out to the gate to look. A large crowd had gathered noisily at the entrance of the narrow alley, the stench of carbolic acid stinging my eyes. Patients appeared to be sent to the quarantine hospital on stretchers bearing yellow paper flags. Overcome with terror, I hurriedly fled back inside.

The Mistress of the Iida Household was transported to the quarantine hospital with genuine cholera, but reportedly died around ten o'clock that evening. This may have fulfilled her own wishes, but the neighborhood endured great inconvenience from traffic blockades and disinfection measures. Had it been a naturally occurring case, it would have been an unavoidable mutual misfortune, but rumors spread that this Mistress had deliberately sought to contract the disease herself, leading to her being bitterly resented and reviled throughout the neighborhood.

“What a preposterous lunatic,” my father also said.

However, afterward, a fact conveyed by the maid called Onaka left us all perplexed. As I mentioned earlier, at that time it had been decided that yellow papers with "Cholera" written in black would be affixed to the gates of houses where new patients appeared. The Mistress of the Iida Household had somehow prepared two of these yellow papers—posting one on her own house’s gate and asking the police to affix the other to the gate of a certain house in Yanagibashi.

Though they wondered what she meant by this, when the police contacted Yanagibashi as a precautionary measure, it turned out that a new cholera patient had indeed appeared at that house—so much so that even the police themselves were reportedly astonished. The new patient was said to be a geisha from Yanagibashi.

III Onaka had been employed since the Mistress of the Iida Household moved to Banshūmachi and knew nothing of past matters, but Ogen—an old maid who had served there long before—knew all the circumstances. Given the nature of the illness, no one came to offer condolences, so Ogen and Onaka alone conducted a lonely funeral. It was said that during that wake night, Ogen first revealed the Mistress's secret to Onaka.

The Mistress was indeed, as rumored, a former geisha in Yanagibashi who had come under the patronage of a distinguished official and was ultimately taken as his mistress. This distinguished official subsequently rose steadily in status, living until the very end of the Meiji era, and as his household remains prosperous even today, we must refrain from disclosing his name explicitly here—thus we shall refer to him simply as "the distinguished official." the distinguished official’s kept woman—at that time, the term “power wife” was in vogue. —became his "power wife," had him purchase land and a house in this Banshūmachi district, and thus it came to be that the Master would occasionally sneak over to visit.

Thus, four or five years passed without incident, but from around this spring, the Master’s carriage gradually began visiting less frequently, and by around June, his visits ceased altogether. When the Mistress of the Iida Household, growing concerned, conducted her own investigations, she discovered that the Master had taken up with a new geisha in Yanagibashi. Moreover, when it became clear that this geisha was none other than a young woman whom the Mistress had taken under her wing and treated like a younger sister during her own days in service, she reportedly ground her teeth in bitter frustration.

To be sure, the Master continued delivering her monthly allowance without fail, so she never faced hardship in her livelihood; yet having her patron taken by the woman she had treated like a younger sister filled her with unreasonable bitterness. While this was only natural, the Mistress appeared doubly prone to jealousy by nature, finding herself unable to bear her hatred for that geisha. The Master’s distancing from Banshūmachi was, as I had surmised, due to the Mistress suffering from an obstinate gynecological ailment. Though she had received various treatments over time, not only did it refuse to heal, but it worsened with each passing year—a circumstance that led the Master to return to his old haunt in Yanagibashi and cultivate new companionship there. Thus, one might say there was some justification even from his perspective. Even so, since her monthly allowance arrived unfailingly without causing her any material want, the Mistress refrained from resenting the Master himself—yet no matter how she considered it, she found that woman detestable, loathsome. Meanwhile, her illness progressively worsened. The Mistress grew increasingly agitated—constantly declaring she’d rather die or even contract cholera—and in this state, perhaps her nerves had finally frayed. Resolved now to truly fall ill with cholera, she began eating recklessly despite Ogen’s attempts to dissuade her, consuming without restraint things one ought not eat under such circumstances.

The brutal act of decapitating the badger cub with a sickle was likely due to her deranged state—whether she saw the creature as that geisha herself or likened it to her in some vengeful metaphor akin to Yu Rang’s legendary disguise—that much remains unclear. In any case, the Mistress had indeed contracted cholera as she had so fervently wished. I do not know what manner of person this renowned ascetic in Asakusa was, nor what sort of prayers he performed, but it seems the Mistress had commissioned some secret rite from him and came to believe that when she died, she could take that woman with her.

Therefore, it is thought she had prepared two yellow papers in advance and resolved to request one be posted on the gate of a particular house in Yanagibashi when the moment arrived. Whether cursed by the Mistress or through mere coincidence, the fact remained this geisha too contracted cholera on that same day and died that very night like her former patron. Ogen, the elderly maid, inherited everything from the Mistress's garments to all possessions per the will and returned to her homeland. This servant had been a loyal retainer since the Yanagibashi days, born—I heard—in Sagami province. Onaka received some keepsakes from Ogen before departing for new employment elsewhere. The remaining land and residence were bequeathed to the Mistress's brother—a harness-maker in Honjo notorious for his profligate ways—who transferred both properties into others' hands within half a year.

When that happened, people didn't have anything good to say about it. There were those who spread baseless rumors about that house - that the ghost of the Mistress of the Iida Household appeared and such. However, I must say it remains a fact that after this, Mrs. Fujioka - who moved into the house next - died of influenza in the fifth year of Meiji 24; then the Army Lieutenant Colonel who came after her perished in the Sino-Japanese War of Meiji 27; and next, a man named Matsuzawa who followed committed suicide due to stock market failures.

I too left that place about twenty years ago, so I do not know what has happened since. In recent years, that area has become significantly developed, so I have completely lost track of where the Iida household’s house might be now. It was likely demolished along with the bamboo thicket being cleared away.

Flute Mound

I

The eleventh man speaks.

"I am from a northern province, but within my domain there is a ghost story passed down like this." "No, before I tell that story, I would like to introduce a passage from the essay Mimibukuro, written by Edo’s renowned magistrate Nezuki Hizen-no-kami." "In Mimibukuro there is written such a story." "When the house of Kanamori Hyōbu-shōyū of Mino was abolished by the shogunate, a certain chief retainer was ordered to commit seppuku." "The chief retainer addressed the inspecting official, stating: 'As I am now taking upon myself the sins of my lord’s house through this seppuku, there is absolutely no guilt on my part.'" "'Rather, as a samurai, I consider this to be my true fulfillment.'" "'However, to tell the truth, I have a hidden sin.'" "'When I was young and stayed at an inn during my travels, a mountain ascetic sharing my lodgings drew out his sword during some conversation and showed it to me.'" "'As it was a renowned sword of exceptional quality in the world, I grew intensely desirous and pleaded to acquire it for a fair price, but he refused, stating it was a family heirloom.'" "Even so, I still could not relinquish my desire. The next morning, as I accompanied the mountain ascetic to a deserted pine grove, I suddenly cut him down, seized the long sword, and fled." "'That was an incident from long ago, and fortunately I spent these days undetected by anyone until today. But reflecting now, it was a grievous sin. I declared that even for that crime alone, it is only fitting I meet such an end,' he said before performing seppuku properly." "What I am about to tell you bears some resemblance to that story, but I would have you consider it an even more complex and bizarre tale."

In my domain, Noh chants and Kyogen plays had long been popular since ancient times. Therefore, there were also many teachers of Noh chants and Kyogen. It was likely due to their influence that among the samurai class, there were those who not only performed Noh chants but also danced shimai pieces. There were also those who played the flute. There were also those who played the hand drum. Among them was a man named Yagari Kihee. Though his name sounded like that of an old man, he was at that time still a nineteen-year-old young samurai serving as a horse guard. His father had also been named Kihee, and when this son died of illness during the summer of his sixteenth year, his only child—who had just come of age—inherited both his father's name and estate without complication. Over the subsequent four years, this second-generation young Kihee performed his duties without incident or ill repute, so his mother and relatives felt secure enough to privately consider finding him a suitable bride once he turned twenty the following year.

Given the cultural customs of our domain mentioned earlier, Kihee had practiced the flute since his youth when he still wore his forelock. In other domains, they might have derided him as effeminate, but here, those with such cultivated pursuits were rather deemed more samurai-like than the wholly unskilled—thus none reproached his frequent flute-playing. There existed an old folk belief that those born in full zodiac years possessed well-aligned teeth suited for flute-playing. Whether because this Kihee too was born in February of such a year, he grew remarkably skilled at the instrument—praised by others since childhood, a pride to his parents—and thus never abandoned this artistic indulgence.

It was an autumn night in the first year of Tenpō. Enticed by the beautiful moon, Kihee left his residence. In his hands he carried his treasured flute. When he stepped through the night dew and emerged onto the riverbank outside the castle town, under the bright moon, plumes of silver grass and reeds tangled white in disarray. Somewhere insects chirped. As Kihee descended far down the riverbank while playing his flute, another flute's sound reached him ahead along his path. It wasn't merely his own flute echoing over the water—there must be another player somewhere, he thought. Listening intently, the clear tones rang distant across the night-shrouded riverbank. Though the player showed no lack of skill, Kihee sensed this must be an extraordinary instrument, and he grew curious to know its owner.

It was not only autumn deer drawn to flute sounds. Kihee too found his soul seized by this path of passion, pulled toward the flute whose notes now seeped through silver grass thriving downstream along the riverbank. Thinking how remarkable it was that another soul might wander moon-drunk like himself—playing flute amid night-dampened reeds—he crept on silent feet toward the reed thicket’s edge where stood a low hut roofed with tattered mats. This was what folk called a kamaboko hut; Kihee knew its dwellers to be homeless beggars.

Because it was quite unexpected that such a tone would emanate from there, Kihee came to a suspicious halt. "It can’t be foxes or raccoon dogs trying to trick me." He suspected that foxes or river otters might be exploiting his distraction to play malicious tricks, but Kihee was a samurai. At his waist, he carried the family heirloom Nagasone Kotetsu. Steeling his resolve to cut down any supernatural creature with a single stroke should it appear, he pushed through a thicket of silver grass. Lifting the straw mat at the hut's entrance, he found a man sitting and playing the flute.

“You there!”

Called out to, the man stopped playing his flute. Then, adopting a guarded stance, he looked up at Kihee standing there. Bathed in moonlight, his attire was unmistakably that of a beggar, but Kihee could tell at a glance that this man—around twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old—seemed different in character from the ordinary homeless vagrants and beggars who nested in these parts. His manner of speech naturally grew more dignified.

"Are you the one playing the flute there?" "Yes," answered the flute-playing man in a low voice.

"The tone sounded so exceptionally clear that I was drawn here seeking it," said Kihee with a smile.

The man had quickly noticed the flute in his hand too, and seeming somewhat more at ease, his tone became more open. “Truly, it was but a clumsy rendition, and I am most ashamed.” “No, not at all. From what I hear so clearly, you’ve had proper training. If I may be so bold—would you show me that flute?” “This is merely something we play to pass the time. It could never be worthy of presentation to someone of your standing.”

Though he had said this, showing no sign of refusal, he carefully wiped his flute with silver grass leaves growing nearby and reverently presented it before Kihee. How could his demeanor be that of a mere beggar? Kihee surmised that he was likely a samurai ronin who had fallen into ruin due to some misfortune, and thus greeted him all the more courteously. "Then allow me to examine it."

He took the flute and held it up to the moonlight. After offering a formal disclaimer, he tested it with a tentative blow—its extraordinary tones revealing an unparalleled masterpiece of an instrument—and Kihee grew increasingly convinced this was no ordinary man. His own flute was indeed respectable, but it paled in comparison. Kihee burned to learn how such a treasure had come into this man's possession and what history it carried. Compelled by curiosity, he returned the flute while breaking off silver grass stalks to fashion seating, then settled beside his companion.

“When did you come here?” “I arrived here about half a month ago.” “And where were you before that?” asked Kihee again. “Given my circumstances, I have no fixed place to call home. I wandered from Chūgoku through Kyoto-Osaka, along the Ise and Ōmi roads, drifting from place to place.” “You are from a samurai family, are you not?” Kihee suddenly asked.

The man was silent. In this situation, offering no denial was taken as acknowledgment, so Kihee edged even closer and pressed his inquiry.

“Though you possess such a renowned flute, there must surely be some circumstance that has led you to wander thus.” “If it would not trouble you, might I entreat you to relate it?”

The man remained silent as before, but pressed repeatedly by Kihee for an answer, he reluctantly began to speak. "I am cursed by this flute."

II

The man was a samurai from Shikoku named Iwami Yajiemon. He too, like Kihee, had enjoyed playing the flute since his boyhood. Yajiemon was nineteen years old on that spring evening. On his way back from visiting his family temple, he discovered a Shikoku pilgrim collapsed in a sparsely traveled rice field. Unable to pass by without helping, he approached and found it was a man nearing forty, tormented by illness. Yajiemon fetched fresh water from nearby to make him drink, took out medicine stored in his seal case to administer, and nursed him in every way he could—but the man only grew more distressed until he finally breathed his last there.

He was deeply grateful for Yajiemon's kindness—that an unknown samurai had shown such care to someone like him. There was no way to adequately express gratitude for such profound benevolence. "Though it may be presumptuous," he said, "I wish to offer this as a token of my thanks," and took out a bagged flute from his waist to present to Yajiemon. "This flute has no equal in all the world. However, take utmost care that you do not share my fate."

He died leaving behind a cryptic phrase. Yajiemon asked about his birthplace and name, but he shook his head and did not answer. Believing this too must be some karmic bond, Yajiemon took care of the remains and buried them at his family temple.

The flute left as a memento by the unidentified Shikoku pilgrim was truly a masterpiece without equal in all the world. Yajiemon was greatly puzzled as to why he had possessed such a thing, but rejoicing at having obtained an unexpected treasure through this chance occurrence, he kept the flute carefully stored away—and then, some half a year later... Yajiemon visited his family temple once again and was approaching the rice field where he had previously discovered the Shikoku pilgrim when a young samurai in traveling attire stood before him as if lying in wait.

“Are you Lord Iwami Yajiemon?” called the young samurai as he approached. When he answered in the affirmative, the man stepped closer still. “By rumor I have heard that your lordship recently tended to an ailing Shikoku pilgrim here and received a flute in a bag as a memento. That pilgrim was my sworn enemy.” “I have come all this way to take his head and the flute he carried, but since the man himself has already perished of illness, there was nothing to be done. I thought to at least lay claim to that flute, and have been waiting here since earlier,” he said.

Being suddenly confronted with such a demand out of the blue, Yajiemon had no reason to hand it over willingly. He addressed the young samurai, replying that unless he first learned who the man was, from what domain, and for what reason he bore enmity toward that Shikoku pilgrim, he could offer no proper reply—but the other man pressed him relentlessly, refusing to explain in detail and demanding only that he hand over the flute. By now Yajiemon’s suspicions had grown even stronger, and he began to think this man might be fabricating such a story to swindle him out of his precious flute. Thus he flatly refused, stating he would never relinquish it unless the man’s lineage and vendetta details were clearly verified. At this, the young samurai’s countenance changed.

With that, declaring 'Then I too am resolved,' he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. Seeing that verbal exchange was futile, Yajiemon also assumed a stance. After exchanging a few more heated words, their swords were drawn, and the young samurai of unknown origin collapsed before Yajiemon's eyes, drenched in blood.

“That flute will curse you!”

With those words, he died. Having killed his opponent without understanding why, Yajiemon felt as though in a dream for some time, but upon promptly reporting the incident—given the circumstances as described—they found no fault with Yajiemon, and the matter was settled with his opponent having been slain in vain. Who was the Shikoku pilgrim who had passed the flute to him? Who was that later young samurai? Of course, none of this was ever known.

The matter of having slain his opponent was thus settled, but here arose new trouble. This was because the incident had become the talk throughout the domain, reached the lord’s ears, and a command had been issued for him to present the flute. If it were merely a matter of presenting it for viewing, there would be no particular issue, but Yajiemon knew full well that Her Ladyship loved flutes and acquired fine specimens regardless of their price. If he carelessly presented this flute, there was a danger it would be taken by Her Ladyship under the pretext of His Lordship’s wish. Yet as a retainer, he could not refuse His Lordship’s command, even if only a formality. Yajiemon was perplexed by this situation, but no matter how he considered it, he found himself reluctant to part with the flute.

In this situation, there was no other way. The young man absconded from his lord's mansion, clutching that flute. Due to his obsession with a single flute, he abandoned his ancestral family stipend. Unlike in the past, the financial circumstances of all the daimyo at that time were strained, so new retainers were rarely taken on. Yajiemon had no choice but to become a ronin, clutching that flute. He crossed to Kyushu, wandered through Chugoku, drifted through Kyoto and Osaka—and while seeking a livelihood for himself, misfortunes piled up one after another: falling ill here, suffering theft there—until at last, a once-respected samurai named Iwami Yajiemon finally fell to joining the ranks of beggars.

During that time, he had even parted with his swords, but he would not let go of that flute. And now, having wandered to these northern lands, the sound of him joyfully playing it beneath tonight’s moon had unwittingly reached Yagari Kihee’s ears.

Having spoken up to this point, Yajiemon sighed. “As the Shikoku pilgrim foretold, it seems this flute carries some manner of curse. I do not know who its previous owners were, but as far as I am aware, the Shikoku pilgrim who possessed this died by the roadside. The traveling samurai who came to take it was struck down by me and died. Because of this flute, I too have come to such a state. When I think of that, my future seems dreadful—I have resolved many times to either sell it off or break and discard it, one of the two—but selling it feels too wasteful, and breaking it even more so. Though I know it brings calamity upon me, I cannot bring myself to part with it.”

Kihee too could not help but sigh as he listened. From ancient times one had heard such strange tales of karmic fate concerning swords, but that there could be such mysteries surrounding a flute—this he had never imagined. Yet being young, he immediately denied it. He thought this beggar ronin had likely fabricated such an eerie tale out of fear that he might be asked to relinquish the flute, and that no such events could have truly occurred.

“No matter how precious it may be,” he pressed, “I cannot fathom clinging to what you know brings ruin upon yourself.” “That is something even I fail to comprehend,” Yajiemon replied. “Though I try to cast it aside, I cannot. Would you call this a personal affliction or divine retribution? For nigh on ten years now, this curse has ceaselessly plagued me.” “Ceaselessly plagued...”

"That is not something I can speak of to others. Even were I to tell you, in the end you would not believe it as truth."

With that, Yajiemon fell silent. Kihee too remained silent. All that could be heard was the chirping of insects. The moonlight illuminating the riverbed was white as if frosted.

“The night has grown late,” Yajiemon said at length while gazing up at the sky. “The night has grown late.” Kihee echoed back. He came to his senses and rose to his feet.

III

After parting from the ronin and returning home, Kihee reappeared at this riverbed about an hour later. He had covered his face and dressed lightly. In the manner of the Daianji Embankment scene from the play *Adauchi Ranru Nishiki*, he crept toward the kamaboko hut with stealthy steps. Kihee wanted that flute unbearably. However, judging by the ronin’s tone, he seemed unlikely to relinquish it willingly, so he resolved that his only recourse was to ambush him under cover of darkness and seize it by force. Of course, he had hesitated many times before solidifying that resolve, but no matter how he considered it, he wanted that flute. Though he was a ronin, his opponent was merely a homeless beggar. If he killed him in secret, there would be no particularly difficult investigation to worry about. Once he thought this, he fully embraced his demonic resolve—first returning to his own residence to prepare himself, waiting for the night to deepen, then launching another attack here.

Whether it was a lie or truth remained unclear, but according to Yajiemon's earlier account, he appeared to be quite a skilled swordsman. Though he didn't seem to carry anything resembling a weapon, Kihee thought he mustn't lower his guard. I had trained in swordsmanship to some extent, but above all else, I was young—of course having no experience in real combat. Even for this cowardly night ambush, he deemed thorough preparation essential, so he cut a bamboo stalk from a thicket along the way to fashion a spear. Cradling it underarm while carefully avoiding leaf rustles, he quietly parted the pampas grass to peer inside the hut—the flute's sound had stopped. A straw mat hung over the entrance, leaving the interior deathly quiet.

The next moment, a low groan could be heard from within. It gradually grew louder, and Yajiemon appeared to be in great distress. It was not physical illness but rather seemed to be some kind of nightmare assailing him, so Kihee hesitated slightly. Recalling the earlier story about how he had been ceaselessly tormented for nearly ten years because of that flute, Kihee felt an inexplicable eeriness come over him.

As he held his breath and watched, the sounds of agonized thrashing from within grew increasingly violent until Yajiemon tore aside the entrance mat as if clawing at it and came tumbling out of the hut. Then, as though that terrible dream had already lifted, he let out a relieved breath and scanned his surroundings.

Kihee had no time to hide himself. Unfortunately, tonight's moon was shining with crystalline clarity, so his figure standing rigidly with the bamboo spear clutched under his arm was vividly illuminated before the ronin's eyes.

At this, Kihee panicked. Once discovered, there was no more time to hesitate. He readjusted the spear he held and thrust it straight forward, but Yajiemon swiftly dodged, seized the spear’s tip, and yanked it forcefully—causing Kihee to stagger involuntarily and drop to one knee on the grass. Finding the man far more formidable than anticipated, Kihee grew increasingly flustered. As he discarded the spear and reached for his sword, Yajiemon immediately called out.

“No, wait a moment…” “Is your lordship so taken with my flute?” Confronted by this stellar accusation, Kihee had no words. As he held back his half-drawn hand and hesitated, Yajiemon said quietly: “If you are so taken with it, I shall relinquish it.”

Yajiemon entered the hut, retrieved that flute, and handed it to Kihee, who was silently kneeling there. “Pray do not forget what was discussed earlier.” “Pray take utmost care so that no misfortune befalls you.”

“Th-thank you,” Kihee stammered. “Return quickly before anyone notices,” Yajiemon warned. Now that matters had reached this point, he could do nothing but obey the man’s command. Kihee reverently accepted the flute, rose mechanically to his feet, and wordlessly bowed with perfect decorum before taking his leave. On his way back to the mansion, Kihee found himself assailed by shame and remorse. While savoring the joy of having obtained a flute unparalleled in this world, he simultaneously burned with regret over his disgraceful conduct that night. Precisely because his opponent had surrendered the flute so readily, the weighty guilt—akin to murderous theft—pressed ever more heavily upon his conscience. Yet even so, he thought it fortunate he had at least refrained from mistakenly killing the man.

He resolved that when morning came, he would visit the ronin again to apologize for his discourtesy that night and offer some token of gratitude for the flute. With this determination, he quickened his steps back to his mansion—but that night, his eyes remained unnaturally alert, leaving him unable to sleep soundly.

Unable to wait for night to break, Kihee set out early for last night’s location. In his pocket, he had three koban coins.

Autumn morning mist still lingered over the riverbed, and from somewhere came the cry of wild geese.

Parting the pampas grass and approaching the hut, Kihee was suddenly startled. Iwami Yajiemon lay dead before the hut. He held the bamboo spear Kihee had left behind in both hands and drove it through his own throat. In spring of the following year, Kihee took a wife, and they lived harmoniously with two sons. They continued without incident until autumn seven years later, when professional failure compelled him to commit seppuku. He made preparations at his residence and requested permission from the witnessing official to play one final flute piece at life's end - a request that was granted.

The flute had been received from Iwami Yajiemon. As Kihee was calmly playing it, just as he neared the end of his piece, the flute suddenly emitted an eerie sound and split in two. Finding this strange, he examined it closely to discover these characters carved inside: 990 years — End — Hamanushi Being a researcher of this art, Kihee knew Hamanushi's name. Hamanushi of Owari was revered as the founder who first introduced flutes to our imperial court. This being Tenpō 9 [1838], calculating back 990 years brought one to Emperor Ninmyō's Kashō era first year [848]—the fourth year after Jōwa 12 [843], when Hamanushi was said to have performed his flute at court. Though Hamanushi had been a flutist who both crafted and played instruments in his early years, the presence of his name on this flute suggested his handiwork. Yet while such engraving would be understandable on the surface, how anyone could carve so many Chinese characters inside the narrow pipe remained puzzling.

What was even more mysterious was that the nine hundred and ninetieth year—said to mark the end—appeared to correspond precisely to this very year. Did Hamanushi himself craft that flute and himself determine its lifespan? Looking back now, it seems that Iwami Yajiemon’s karmic account was not a lie after all. This flute, bearing this mysterious fate, brought misfortune upon each successive owner, and when its final owner perished, the flute itself seems to have reached the end of its nine-hundred-and-ninety-year lifespan.

Kihee was astonished by the sheer strangeness of it all and at the same time realized that sharing this flute's fate was an inescapable karmic bond. He faced the witnessing official and, after disclosing all the past secrets concerning this flute, performed his seppuku in the customary manner.

That was conveyed through the officials’ accounts, and all who heard it were struck by a sense of strangeness. Someone from the domain who had been close to Kihee during his lifetime consulted with his bereaved family, mended the flute that had split into two, buried it at the location where Iwami Yajiemon was believed to have committed suicide, erected a marker stone, and had the two characters for "Flute Mound" carved into it. That mound remained on the riverbed even after the Meiji era, but due to two floods, it is said that now not a trace remains.

Ryūma Pond

I

The twelfth man spoke.

As a photography enthusiast—though to be honest, just a dabbler among fellow amateurs with more enthusiasm than skill—when it comes to hobbies, I simply couldn't be satisfied snapping away only within Tokyo and its suburbs. So I snatched time from my busy schedule to travel extensively through various regions. During that time I accumulated no shortage of mishaps and adventures, but the story most fitting for tonight's topic concerns an autumn about four years ago, when I planned a photo expedition to Fukushima Prefecture.

At that time, I set out alone, and in Shirakawa Town there was a man named Mr. Yokota. Though I was meeting him for the first time, my friend Mr. E had known this man beforehand and insisted I should call on him if I went to Shirakawa, even writing me a formal letter of introduction. So on my return journey, I visited the place, where Mr. Yokota’s house turned out to be what appeared to be an old-established kimono shop locally, its business seemingly quite extensive. The person I was introduced to was the young proprietor there, and as he too was one of those photography enthusiasts, he warmly welcomed me despite our first meeting, putting me up in an inner guest room in a separate building and treating me to various delicacies. He treated me with such kindness it almost felt pitiful.

After sunset, Mr. Yokota came to my guest room and conversed until late into the night, in the course of which he broached the following matter.

“There aren’t any particularly photogenic spots around here worth shooting,” he began. “But since you’ve gone to the trouble of coming, I’d like to show you somewhere unusual. About five and a half ri—nearly six—from here lies what we call Ryūma Pond. It’s rather distant, but there’s a stagecoach that covers half the journey. Why don’t we go take a look?”

“I’m quite accustomed to traveling, so a little distance doesn’t faze me.” “So, is this Ryūma Pond a place with good scenery?”

“Rather than being scenic, it’s a place where large trees grow thickly across the landscape, creating a dim and rather fearsome atmosphere." "I hear it was once an enormous pond in ancient times, though now it’s about the size of Tokyo’s Shinobazu Pond—perhaps slightly larger." "In the distant past, a dragon was said to dwell there—though it was likely just a large snake or some sort of spiny fish. At any rate, since people believed a dragon lived there, they used to call it Dragon’s Pond. Then from medieval times onward, it came to be known as Ryūma Pond." "There remains a rather strange legend concerning it." "The truth is…that’s precisely why I wish to guide you there this time…" “You aren’t too tired or sleepy, are you?”

"No, I don't mind staying up late at all." "What sort of eerie legend is this?" I inquired, my curiosity thoroughly aroused. "Well, if I don't share this tale now, there'd be little purpose in guiding you there. I should at least give you a proper account of it first."

It was past ten o'clock tonight, and in the garden could be heard the feeble chirping of crickets. Even at September's end, the night chill here pressed so keenly that one felt compelled to draw a brazier near.

Mr. Yokota took a breath and began to explain the secret of Ryūma Pond. "They say this was during the height of Hidehira’s power in Oshu, so it must have been about eight hundred years ago." "A little over a hundred meters away from that Dragon’s Pond, there was a wealthy farmer called Kurodayu." "It’s not written as ‘Kurō’ but with the character for ‘black,’ you see." "As you know, Oshu was a horse-producing region—nearby Miharu even hosted a large horse market—so Kurodayu’s household also kept many horses." "Moreover, by Dragon’s Pond stood an old shrine." "I don’t know when it was built, but it was said to be an extremely old shrine. The locals called it both the Dragon Deity Shrine and the Water Deity Shrine, and before that shrine stood a wooden horse." "Normally, when they speak of a sacred horse, they keep a real, live one, but here it was a wooden horse of the same size as a real horse—though no one knows when in the past or by whom it was made—and its carving was so masterful that it seemed almost alive." "Therefore, various rumors spread—that this wooden horse would occasionally go out to drink the pond’s water, or that on New Year’s morning it would neigh three times—and the locals believed them."

“However, that wooden horse vanished without a trace one day. Given there was an existing legend about it disappearing and returning, people assumed it had wandered off and would come back—but even after three months passed, then half a year passed, it never reappeared. Since it was originally just a small shrine without any priests or caretakers, naturally no one could determine how or why the horse had vanished. ‘It couldn’t have been stolen,’ they reasoned. ‘What use would stealing it serve anyway?’ The prevailing theory held that this spirit-possessed wooden horse must have sunk to the bottom of the pond. While matters remained unresolved that way, autumn brought a violent storm—the pond’s waters overflowed and submerged every nearby village. Terrible diseases began spreading too. Ever since that horse disappeared, disaster after disaster struck—the locals grew gripped by unease.”

“The one who was particularly anxious was Kurodayu. Given that he owned extensive lands and had a large family, whenever some disaster occurred, his household suffered the greatest damage. After consulting with the villagers, it was decided that Kurodayu himself would craft a new wooden horse to dedicate before the Dragon Deity Shrine. However, in those days, there were no sculptors of such caliber in Oshu. Of course, Hiraizumi had competent Buddhist sculptors, but precisely because the previous work was so outstanding, finding a craftsman of comparable skill proved impossible.”

With Kurodayu also troubled by this, one evening a mountain ascetic came seeking lodging for the night, so Kurodayu kindly let him stay. Then, when their conversation turned to the wooden horse, the mountain ascetic said there was something beneficial about it. In connection with the construction of a structure called the Konjikido in Hiraizumi, Oshu, a great number of Buddhist sculptors, carpenters, and various other craftsmen came down from the capital. Among them was a renowned Buddhist sculptor named Yūkei. “Since this man was renowned not only for Buddhist statues but also for carvings of flowers, birds, dragons, phoenixes—indeed, all manner of sculptures—why not wait for him to pass through and somehow ask for his assistance?” “He said that since he had met him in Utsunomiya, he would likely come here within a day or two.”

Upon hearing this, Kurodayu was greatly pleased. The mountain ascetic departed the following morning, but Kurodayu immediately made preparations, took four or five members of his household with him, stationed himself along the highway to wait, and sure enough, that man named Yūkei came passing by. Contrary to Kurodayu’s expectations, he was a young man still in his mid-twenties—so much so that Kurodayu briefly doubted whether this man was truly as renowned as claimed—but regardless, when Kurodayu stopped him and requested the carving of the wooden horse, Yūkei refused, saying he was in a hurry. After persuading him in various ways—insisting that he at least take a look at the site—he ended up forcibly bringing Yūkei back to his residence.

Yūkei was guided to the Dragon Deity Shrine and spent some time gazing around Dragon Pond. "If you insist so earnestly," he said, "I shall make it." However, he reportedly emphasized that merely crafting the horse risked its departure again—they must absolutely include someone holding its reins—and pressed whether this would still be acceptable. Since Kurodayu could only consent, entrusting everything to Yūkei’s care, the sculptor demanded a living human and horse as models for his work—in essence, today’s models. "As I mentioned earlier," Mr. Yokota continued, "Kurodayu’s household kept many horses." From these, Yūkei selected a large white horse with reddish mane. When deliberating who should hold the reins, he chose a boy named Sutematsu from among the stablehands.

Sutematsu was a fifteen-year-old boy this year who had been abandoned as an infant before the Dragon Deity Shrine and taken in by Kurodayu's household. Being a foundling, they named him Sutematsu—literally "Abandoned Pine"—and had raised him to that day, making him a true servant reared from childhood within the household. Since he was a person of unknown parentage and origins, Kurodayu kept him in service out of pity. The boy himself worked diligently. Strangely enough, this Sutematsu possessed exceptional skill in handling horses—despite his youth, he could splendidly subdue even the most unruly steeds, earning him praise as the finest among the many horse handlers. It may have been these circumstances that led Yūkei to select him. In any case, it was at the end of the seventh lunar month—when autumn had fully settled over the region—that the young Buddhist sculptor finally began crafting the wooden horse, using both the boy handler and the white-maned horse as models.

II "The precise manner of Yūkei’s creative process remains undocumented, but he had a new workshop erected deep within the estate’s woods—a space forbidden to all save Sutematsu and the white-maned horse serving as models." "Not even Master Kurodayu could glimpse inside." "Thus did seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven months pass—a full five by the old reckoning—until at last the carvings of man and steed stood complete." "Some claimed to hear chisels and mallets whispering through midnight hours, their rhythmic clatter carrying an eerily unsettling quality."

When the work was finally completed and Yūkei emerged from the workshop for the first time in five months, his hair and beard had grown long, his cheeks hollowed, and his eyes sunken—appearing as if he had aged ten years—yet those eyes still shone with vitality. The model boy and horse remained in good health, so the Kurodayu household felt relieved. The completed wooden horse and the figure of the handler holding its reins perfectly mirrored their living models, looking so lifelike that all who saw them reportedly gasped in admiration.

When Kurodayu, greatly rejoicing, presented lavish gifts, Yūkei declined and accepted nothing. He cut off a portion of his long-grown beard, buried it in the nearby mountains, and set up a small stone marker—stating there was no need to designate it as anyone’s grave—before promptly departing the area. Though they thought it strange, they set up a small stone marker as instructed, and before anyone knew who had started it, it came to be called the Beard Mound.

Thus they selected an auspicious day and resolved to install the wooden horse before the shrine precincts in early December. Just as all nearby villagers were meant to gather, snow suddenly began falling from midnight the previous night. Snowfall in December was hardly unusual here, but come dawn it intensified into a blizzard so violent one could scarcely open their eyes. As Kurodayu's household wavered over what to do, the locals—whether hardened to snow or driven by fervent faith—began streaming in undeterred by the storm, arriving not only from neighboring hamlets but distant regions too, leaving no room for further postponement. As noon drew near, Kurodayu's household resolved to move the wooden horse. When the snowfall eased at precisely the needed moment, the people regained their spirit. They loaded both wooden statue and horse onto a large cart and were poised to haul them through the estate gate when—from within the stables—came a piercing whinny. The white-maned horse that had served as model reared wildly as if possessed by some fiendish spirit, snapped its reins, and bolted through the gates.

The people cried out in alarm as Sutematsu came chasing after them. The horse dashed headlong toward Dragon Pond. Sutematsu continued his pursuit. The snow intensified once more, engulfing both people and horse in a white vortex that made them appear and disappear intermittently. Sutematsu seemed to have grabbed the reins midway, but today he could not subdue it; dragged by the frenzied steed, he stumbled and rose repeatedly through the blizzard. Other horse handlers gave chase to assist him, but between the violent snow and the horse's speed, none could catch up. They could only shout "Hey! Hey!" from behind.

Before long, the blizzard grew increasingly fierce, and no sooner had a white wave engulfed both horse and man than their figures vanished in an instant. It seemed they had been blown into the pond. The commotion grew ever more intense, and though many people investigated in every way possible, both Sutematsu and the white horse ultimately vanished without a trace. Resigning themselves to the likelihood that they had sunk to the bottom of the pond like the previous wooden horse, they installed the newly crafted wooden statue and wooden horse before the Dragon Deity Shrine and managed to conclude that day’s ceremony. However, fearing that these too might break free, Kurodayu’s household dispatched observers morning and night—and since both statue and horse stood without incident, guarding the shrine, they felt somewhat reassured—yet with this, they mourned anew the deaths of Sutematsu and the white horse.

To anyone who looked, the wooden statue and horse bore such a striking resemblance to Sutematsu and Shirokage that some began saying the master craftsman’s skill had perhaps stolen the very souls of both man and beast into his creations, leaving their physical forms to vanish without a trace. Then, through further conjecture, rumors began to spread—that this wooden horse would occasionally whinny, or that the wooden statue of Sutematsu would speak.

As for what became of that master Buddhist sculptor, his subsequent whereabouts remain unclear. It seems he was killed in Hiraizumi. Since he had spent five months here crafting the wooden statue and horse, his arrival in Hiraizumi was significantly delayed. This delay had already displeased Hidehira, and moreover, once he began working, the project showed no progress whatsoever. Appearing completely dispirited, he ultimately angered Hidehira and was finally killed—so the rumors go. Considering how he had left part of his beard behind when departing, it’s possible he had privately resolved himself to this outcome.

"People used to simply call that pond Dragon Pond, but since this incident occurred, they added the character for 'horse,' and it came to be called Ryūma Pond, it is said."

"And do those wooden statue and horse still remain even now?" I asked, unable to wait for the story to conclude. "There is another story about that," Mr. Yokota said quietly. "Later accounts say that Yūkei the Buddhist sculptor was not Japanese but had come from the Song dynasty." "The fact that he cut off part of his beard and left it there—where a Japanese man would have cut his hair—makes one think he truly was a man of Tang." Over seven or eight hundred years, the land underwent many changes until Kurodayu’s household survived only as ruins called Kurodayu Estate before finally vanishing long ago. Ryūma Pond too changed shape repeatedly through landslides and floods until it became less than half its former size. Though the Dragon Deity Shrine alone remained until Edo’s end, during the Boshin War of Meiji’s first year when Shirakawa became a battleground between Eastern and Western armies, the shrine too was burned down. "With nothing new ever built there, the site remains buried in weeds."

"So then, that wooden horse was burned along with it?" "Well, everyone thought so." "Therefore, no one came to investigate its whereabouts—until about forty years later, after the Russo-Japanese War." "A man named Horii—originally from Shirakawa, who now ran a sundries shop in Nanjing—traveled up the Yangtze River on business to Shu. When he went to Chengdu’s outskirts—though it was said to be a village six or seven ri away—there stood a Dragon King Temple by the river in that desolate village." "In front of the old temple stood a large willow tree, beneath which a wooden horse had been placed." "Leaving aside the wooden horse itself, the statue of the boy holding its reins was unmistakably Japanese—a fact that deeply puzzled Horii."

Of course, Horii was a man born after the Meiji era who had never seen the wooden statue or horse of Ryūma Pond, but not only did they closely resemble what he had long heard described—the fact that the statue’s facial features and attire were unmistakably those of a Japanese boy greatly captured his attention. "He made various inquiries with the locals, but they had no idea when or how it had been brought there." In the end, it seems he returned without achieving anything conclusive, but Horii adamantly maintained that they were undoubtedly Japanese. If this were indeed true, since wooden horses and statues could not naturally make their way to China, one might imagine that someone had taken them out amidst the chaos of war and sold them to Chinese residents in Yokohama or elsewhere—but how such life-sized wooden statues and horses could have been transported without anyone knowing remains extremely questionable. Just because the Buddhist sculptor who created them was Chinese does not mean that the wooden statues and horses naturally made their way back to China hundreds of years later. "After all, since Horii had never actually seen the real items from Ryūma Pond, no matter how much he insisted, there was doubt as to whether they were genuine."

I could do nothing but listen in silence to the strange tales that spread from one to the next. Mr. Yokota concluded by saying,

“I’ve told you this long story up to now, but in recent years, a new mystery has been discovered at that Ryūma Pond.” Still surprised that there could be yet another mystery, I too fell silent and continued gazing at his face. Neither of them had noticed that the fire in the brazier placed between them had long since turned to ashes. “That is precisely why I wish to guide you there,” said Mr. Yokota.

“It was about seven years ago,” Mr. Yokota continued. “When a middle school teacher from Miyagi Prefecture brought his students to Ryūma Pond and took photographs there, they were shocked to find the figure of a boy holding a horse’s reins clearly floating on the water’s surface when they developed the film.” “After that rumor spread, many people came to take photographs.” “Three or four came from Tokyo too.” “Local professionals and us amateurs all rushed there one after another, trying repeatedly—but success was rare.” “You might think it never worked at all, but about one in ten attempts succeeded, with both horse and boy clearly visible.”

“That is truly mysterious,” I sighed as well. “And did you succeed?”

"No, unfortunately that was unsuccessful. I went six or seven times myself, but I kept failing every time, so I've given up - but your coming here is most fortunate. Tomorrow I shall by all means accompany you." "Ah, I would very much appreciate your guidance."

My curiosity had grown ever stronger. Moreover, driven by a certain pride in wanting to flawlessly capture with my own camera those mysterious photographs said to succeed only about one in ten times, I eagerly awaited the coming of tomorrow.

III

The next morning was fortunately clear, so I prepared from early dawn and set out with Mr. Yokota. Mr. Yokota also carried a camera and brought along a shop apprentice. Since there were no houses near the pond where we could get a meal, we packed lunches and beer into a basket and had him carry it.

For about three ri, we rode a stagecoach, jostled along, then crossed farm paths, forests, and hills on foot for another three ri until we gradually came near the mountains. Since Mr. Yokota and the apprentice were locals, this level of journey was nothing to them. I too, being well-traveled, was not particularly fazed. The apprentice was named Shōkichi and was said to be sixteen this year. For his age, he was large-framed, looked robust at a glance, and seemed quite clever. Therefore, he seemed to be favored even by the young master, Mr. Yokota, and it was said that whenever Mr. Yokota went out anywhere, he always took him along as an attendant.

“This Shōkichi shares the same circumstances as the model for the wooden statue I mentioned last night,” Mr. Yokota said as he walked. “His parentage remains unknown too.”

The boy named Shōkichi was also a foundling, and neither his parents nor his origins were known. It was said that Mr. Yokota’s household had taken him in and raised him from the age of three. Upon hearing this, I too recalled the old tale of that horse handler named Sutematsu, and felt that bringing him along on today’s photographic expedition was somehow fated—but Shōkichi proved to be an exceptionally clever lad, attending to us without fail throughout the journey.

We arrived at our destination around noon, but it was quite different from what I had imagined based on Mr. Yokota’s descriptions. While there were indeed large trees present, it was not some dimly lit or shadowy place even in daylight; rather, it had an open, bright atmosphere with clear visibility.

“They’ve cut more down again,” Mr. Yokota muttered to himself. He explained that with the recent frequent tree-cutting in this area, the surroundings had gradually brightened, causing the ancient mystical atmosphere to fade significantly. “It’s the same everywhere—this can’t be helped,” he added. Yet the site believed to be where the Dragon Deity’s shrine once stood remained buried under weeds taller than a man, making it impossible to step inside easily.

The three of them took a brief rest under a large tree by the pond, and then Shōkichi devoted himself to preparing lunch. It appeared Mr. Yokota had come prepared with various things, for he took a kettle from the basket with the intention of boiling water here to make tea.

The morning-clear sky stretched high and pure in indigo blue, with not a breath of wind stirring. Large dead leaves occasionally fell soundlessly from the treetops, and the pond water lay still. Though reeds and pampas grass grew thickly along parts of the shore, no other water plants were visible, making it, if anything, a rather clear pond.

When I thought this was the Ryūma Pond that held all those legends within it, I felt a slight disappointment, and somehow it also seemed as though Mr. Yokota had deceived me.

“I’ll go fetch water.”

Having said this, Shōkichi took the kettle and went off. Under a large cherry tree located north of the pond was a place where clear water sprang forth. Mr. Yokota explained that this water flowed into the pond and was as cold as ice even in summer. “Well, while the tea’s being prepared, I suppose we should get started on our work.”

Mr. Yokota took out his camera. I also took out my camera, and the two of us took four or five shots from various positions, but Shōkichi had not returned for quite some time. “What’s that fellow up to?” Mr. Yokota called out his name in a loud voice, but there was no response.

Before long, we noticed that the kettle had been placed beside the basket, filled with clear water inside. While we were absorbed in taking photographs, Shōkichi must have already fetched the water—yet now he was nowhere to be seen. Since waiting any longer was impossible, Mr. Yokota began gathering dead branches and fallen leaves from the area. I helped build the fire, boil water, and brew tea. In this manner, we began eating our lunch, but Shōkichi still hadn’t returned. We gradually began to feel a certain unease and exchanged glances.

“What could have happened?” “What’s wrong?” Finishing their meal in haste, the two set about searching for Shōkichi’s whereabouts. They made a full circuit around the pond, then ran through the nearby woods and fields. Parting the thicket said to be the ruins of the Dragon Deity’s shrine, they continued searching for about two hours, but Shōkichi could not be found no matter what. Mr. Yokota and I, both disappointed, ended up sitting down on the grass.

“There’s nothing more we can do. Let’s go home and start over,” said Mr. Yokota. Leaving the basket and such where they were, the two hurriedly prepared to return. As dusk approached and they reported the matter upon returning to town, the shop people were astonished. Together with shop staff, regular patrons, and neighbors—about twenty people in all—they set out for Ryūma Pond. Mr. Yokota too took the lead and set out again.

“You must be tired, so please take a bath and rest at ease.”

Mr. Yokota left after saying this, but there was no way I could sleep. I waited restlessly for the search party’s return, and when midnight came, Mr. Yokota and the others returned. “We couldn’t find Shōkichi anywhere.” Hearing this report, I felt utterly dejected. At the same time, I couldn’t help wondering if Shōkichi’s disappearance might share the same fate as Sutematsu’s.

I stayed there the following day as well, wanting to see how things would turn out for Shōkichi, when that day the police and youth group arrived to conduct an extensive search; however, the boy’s whereabouts ultimately remained unknown. As I could not continue imposing on their hospitality indefinitely, I departed the next day, spent a day in Utsunomiya, and then returned directly to Tokyo. Yet being deeply concerned about Shōkichi, I sent a letter to Mr. Yokota asking about subsequent developments, and a reply arrived after two or three days. The contents were roughly as follows.

[...] Despite your gracious visit, I must offer my deepest apologies for causing you undue concern through this wholly unforeseen incident. Shōkichi’s whereabouts have ultimately remained unknown, yet there exists no circumstance suggesting he ran away from home—leaving us with no explanation other than to deem it a profound mystery. In the unlikely event that this might represent a second instance akin to Sutematsu’s case, we attempted an underwater search of Ryūma Pond; however, this too ended in vain. Here is another matter deemed mysterious: on that day, among the five photographs I took, in one of them the boy’s figure appears faintly as a blur. Though it was shadow-like in its faintness and could not be clearly discerned, it somehow seems to bear resemblance to Shōkichi’s form.

"As for the photographs you took—how did they fare? Should you kindly inform me of the development results, I should consider it most fortunate." Given this was the general meaning, I promptly developed my own photographs, but nowhere could I find anything resembling a human shadow. As for what manner of shadow had appeared in Mr. Yokota’s photograph, I cannot say with certainty without having seen the actual image.