Pathway to Japanese Literature

Frog Deity

1 “Express mail!”

On the afternoon of March 3rd, an express mail letter was thrown into the entrance to my house.

Respected Sir, Spring snow falls thickly; I thought it would be remiss not to convene a gathering this very evening. I humbly request that you kindly attend today’s gathering from around five o’clock in the afternoon by setting aside all obstacles, as I expect there will be five or six other attendees present as well. However, this is not one of our usual haiku gatherings. This concludes my invitation for now; written in haste, with due respect.

March 3rd morning

Frog Hall Master

To follow the sequence of events, it was necessary to first say a few words about the sender of this letter—Frog Hall Master. While it was not uncommon for people to adopt the pseudonym "well frog"—in reference to the proverb about a frog in a well—those who took the name "green frog" by incorporating the character for green seemed to be rare. He was originally named Umezawa-kun; though he had already passed forty-five or six years of age, he remained a man of remarkably youthful spirit and robust energy. His profession had been that of a lawyer, but about ten years prior he had taken down his law office’s signboard and now held the position of advisor to a certain large store in the Nihonbashi area. He was also involved with three or four other companies, holding titles such as advisor and auditor. He was, first and foremost, a proper gentleman of his day. Umezawa-kun had cultivated an interest in haiku since his youth, but starting seven or eight years earlier this hobby had grown ever more profound—so much so that he began stealing moments from his busy schedule to attend haiku gatherings here and there. He also hosted haiku gatherings at his home. He went by the haiku pseudonym Kinka and put on an admirable masterly air.

Umezawa-kun received a Guangdong-made bamboo craftwork as a souvenir from someone who had returned from China four or five years ago. It was crafted by hollowing out a massive bamboo root of a size rarely seen in Japan into a large frog, and this frog had three legs resembling those of a tripod. One of its legs had not been accidentally broken off—it had clearly been made from the start to have three legs—so Umezawa-kun found this peculiar. Even the person who had given it to him didn’t know why it was made that way. Finding it intriguing nonetheless, when Umezawa-kun placed that frog in the alcove of his parlor, a certain China expert explained its significance to him.

“That is no ordinary toad.” “It’s what’s called a green frog.”

That person brought a book titled *Chats After Tea* written by Ruan Kuisheng of the Qing dynasty and explained it to Umezawa-kun. In it were written such matters in classical Chinese. In Hangzhou, there exists what is called General Jinhua. It is indeed a corruption of the two characters for “green frog,” yet the creature itself closely resembles a frog. It has only three legs. It most often appears during the transition between summer and autumn. The household where [the deity] descends uses a jar of millet wine for worship, omitting one portion of [the offering] to enshrine it. The creature sprawls beside it without eating or drinking; moreover, its skin naturally shifts from green to yellow and then to red. Those who worship it proclaim that the General has become intoxicated; if they place it on a tray and send it to Grand Marquis Jinhua’s temple outside Yongjin Gate, its form will vanish instantly. And then, within a few days, the household would surely obtain something; and so forth. ——

With this, he understood the origin of the three-legged frog. Not only that, but what further delighted Umezawa-kun was that this spiritual frog was called General Jinhua. Given that Umezawa-kun's haiku pseudonym was Kinka, the fact that General Jinhua's green frog had crawled into that very name was deemed a truly mysterious karmic connection; henceforth, Umezawa-kun came to greatly treasure this frog and commissioned a calligrapher to inscribe a plaque reading "Frog Hall." He himself came to style himself as Frog Hall Master.

Having received that invitation from Frog Hall, I hesitated. As written in the invitation, fine snow had been falling since morning that day. Frog Hall Master must have conceived tonight’s gathering upon seeing this snow, but Frog Hall lay deep within a grove so dim that even daytime felt dusky, up Kirishitan-zaka in Koishikawa. The thought of venturing there from evening onward—the journey itself was manageable, but I feared the return would prove arduous. Had this been one of our regular haiku gatherings, I would have certainly declined; yet since they had explicitly stated it was no such event, some other form of entertainment might await. Even on March 3rd, Umezawa-kun had no girls to celebrate Girls’ Day with. Nor would he likely hold a memorial for the Sakurada Rōshi. As I weighed these thoughts, the snow appeared to lighten to a tolerable degree—so I steeled myself and resolved to go.

When I began preparing to leave around four in the afternoon, unfortunately, the snow began falling heavily again. Seeing that scene, I hesitated again, but steeling my resolve with a “Never mind, just go,” I finally set out onto the pure white path. After parting from the tram at Takehaya-chō in Koishikawa, descending Fujizaka, ascending Kirishitan-zaka—continuing this quite trying journey on such a snowy day—I nonetheless managed to arrive safely at Frog Hall, where seven or eight guests had already gathered.

“Even so, everyone here is quite commendable.” “In this weather and at this location, I’d expected five or six people at most—yet seven or eight have already arrived.” “It seems four or five more may still come.” “This has turned out to be quite the success!” said Frog Hall Master, greeting me with an expression of deep satisfaction.

I was led upstairs to a combined eighteen-tatami room and shown inside. Surveying the guests who had arrived before me, I found that aside from about three of them, all were people I did not recognize. There were those who appeared to be scholars. There were those who looked like businesspeople. There was also a refined elderly woman with a bobbed haircut. Then again, there were also people who seemed to be young students. While thinking this was some sort of inexplicable gathering, I first exchanged customary greetings and took my seat. As I engaged in casual conversation with familiar faces, two or three more guests arrived after me. One of them was someone I knew, but I had no notion of who the other two were or where they came from.

Before long, Frog Hall Master offered a greeting welcoming everyone despite the weather and proceeded to introduce each attendee in turn. Once this concluded, sake was served and meal trays brought out. Though the snow had lessened slightly, through the second-floor glass doors we could still see white shadows flying ceaselessly. The banquet ended unexpectedly soon—apparently few present were fond of drink—and once guided to the spacious lower hall, we smoked tobacco, sipped hot lemon tea, and rested briefly before Frog Hall Master cleared his throat with ceremonious gravity and addressed the gathering.

“The truth is, there is no other reason I requested your presence on such a night as this. Lately, apart from haiku, I have developed an interest in ghost stories and have been conducting private research on the subject. Accordingly, I wished to host an evening ghost story gathering where I might humbly listen to your esteemed tales. While I did consider that a rainy night might better suit such stories—especially given today’s spring snow—I concluded that a snowy evening too holds its own charm. Thus it came to pass that I abruptly decided to summon you all. Not only myself, but this one here also has an audience waiting to listen, so I earnestly request that each of you share one unusual tale—how does this proposal strike you?”

In the alcove that the master pointed to crouched the imposing three-legged bamboo frog statue, before which sat a wine jar resembling Chinese-style pottery. The transom bore a large plaque inscribed with “Frog Hall.” Alongside the master himself—and with this frog serving as our audience—we found ourselves obliged to each deliver a ghost story. Hosting such a gathering on Girls’ Day was peculiar enough, but reserving a seat for the three-legged General Jinhua elevated it to outright strangeness. Though all present had shown silent assent through their expressions when faced with the master’s request, none stepped forward to break this spectral ice. When their exchanged glances revealed only mutual deference, the master took charge and insistently nominated an opening speaker.

“Mr. Hoshizaki.” “What do you think?” “Might you begin by sharing a tale...” “Since you were the one who informed me about this frog spirit, I must ask you to commence first through our connection.” “Tonight being a most particular occasion, I’ve invited only those possessing abundant material of this nature. Yet should none take initiative to begin, I fear our discourse may grow overly restrained.”

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

“Now that you mention it, I may indeed be the one with the deepest connection to this alcove ornament.” “Due to business reasons, when I was young, I was stationed at the Shanghai branch for about five years.” “After that as well, I made it a point to go to China about once every two years, so I ended up traveling through most of its north and south.” “That being the case, I do know a little about China’s affairs.” “As the Master just mentioned, I was indeed the one who provided the explanation about that frog deity.”

“That being the case, you absolutely must be the one to begin tonight’s tale,” Frog Hall Master pressed again.

“Well then, if you’ll all excuse me, I shall take on the role of opening act.” “Legends concerning this frog deity are revered not only in Hangzhou but also in Guangdong, where it is worshipped as the Frog Deity.” “Therefore, since ancient times, various legends about frogs have endured.” “Of course, being mostly ghost stories, they may prove particularly fitting for tonight’s gathering.” “Among these tales, I shall recount one of the more peculiar specimens.”

Mr. Hoshizaki shifted forward slightly and calmly surveyed the faces of the assembled guests. His demeanor seemed thoroughly accustomed to such gatherings, and even I felt my interest piqued, unconsciously turning back toward him. "As Chinese place names and personal names may be unfamiliar to everyone here—and might instead dampen the story's appeal—I'll try to leave out proper nouns as much as possible." With this opening declaration, Mr. Hoshizaki began his tale.

“Please imagine this tale taking place at the end of the Ming dynasty, when the realm teetered on the brink of great chaos. In Jiangnan’s Jinling—now called Nanjing—within its city walls lived a military man named Zhang Xun. One day, the general overseeing the castle hosted a banquet and presented each attending military officer and civil official with a fan personally inscribed with poetry, paintings, or writings. The assembly expressed profound gratitude, each unfurling their fan to examine it. When Zhang Xun likewise received his with due reverence and unfolded it, his fan alone proved to be a plain white one devoid of any inscription. Neither front nor back bore markings. Though deeply disappointed, Zhang Xun deemed it discourteous to mention this to his superior under such circumstances; he therefore offered casual thanks before departing alongside the others. Yet finding himself disquieted by this turn of events, he promptly recounted it to his wife upon returning home.”

“Since the general had painted so many fans at once, he must have simply forgotten to write on mine.” “Unfortunately, it ended up being the one I received.” “What rotten luck I’ve drawn.” When he sighed listlessly, his wife’s face momentarily darkened. The wife—now nineteen years old and married to Zhang for three years—was a petite, fair-skinned woman with a large mole at the outer edge of her right eyebrow, truly lovely. Yet upon hearing her husband’s account and pondering briefly, her expression gradually regained its usual cheerful charm as she spoke to console him.

“As you say, the General did not act out of malice—with so many [fans], he must have simply overlooked it.” “If he notices later, he will exchange it for you.” “No, he will surely exchange it.” “But will he notice?” “It’s not impossible he might recall it on some occasion.” “Regarding that, should the General inquire about it, you would do well to answer honestly without reservation.”

“Hmm.”

The husband gave a disinterested reply and went to bed that night as things were. 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 honestly. “In truth, there was nothing written on the fan I received.” “There’s nothing written,” the General murmured after a moment’s thought, then nodded quietly. “Ah, I see. That might have been the case.” “That was thoughtless of me.” “In that case, I’ll give you this instead.”

On a fan far superior to the one he had received before—upon which the General had personally inscribed a seven-character quatrain—Zhang Xun gratefully accepted it and returned home. When he proudly showed it to the wife, she rejoiced in the same manner.

“That’s exactly why I said it.” “The General has an excellent memory, after all.” “That’s right—I’ve got an excellent memory.” “Among all those people… How did I know that a blank 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. About half a year later, the fearsome rebel army known as the Chuang bandits rose up, plunging Jiangbei into great turmoil, so those in the south also had to remain vigilant. As peace had long continued and no one had likely made adequate preparations of military equipment, the General decided to distribute one suit of armor each to all his subordinates. Zhang Xun also received his allocation, but the armor was defective. The old armor was torn. Carrying it, he returned home and once again complained to his wife.

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

Then, the wife spoke again in a consoling manner.

“Since the General didn’t personally inspect each one when distributing them, he’ll surely exchange it once he notices.” “That might be true,” he said. “There’s that fan incident from before.” No sooner had they spoken than two or three days later, Zhang Xun was summoned before the General and questioned again about the armor’s condition. When Zhang answered truthfully as before, the General knit his brows meaningfully and stared at Zhang’s face before changing his line of inquiry.

“Does your household enshrine any deities?” “No, we are thoroughly irreligious and do not enshrine any deities whatsoever.” “How curious.” The General’s forehead wrinkles deepened even more. After a moment, as if struck by a thought, he asked again. “What kind of woman is your wife?” Caught off guard by the sudden question, Zhang Xun faltered slightly, but since there was no reason to conceal it, he truthfully described his wife’s age and appearance—prompting the General to press further.

“And does she have a large mole beneath her right eyebrow?” “You know well…” Zhang Xun said in surprise. “Hmm, I know,” the General nodded emphatically. “Your wife has come to my bedside twice now.” Shocked and dumbfounded, Zhang Xun stared blankly at his face for a while, and the General began explaining the details with a look of bewilderment. “The truth is, about half a year ago, I called you people and gave you my fan.” “It was the following night.” “A woman came to my bedside and said, ‘The fan you gave Zhang Xun yesterday was a blank fan.’” “No sooner had she said, ‘Please exchange it for one with your own handwriting,’ than I awoke from the dream.” “So, just to be certain, I called you in and questioned you, and you said it was indeed true.” “At the time, I found it somewhat strange, but when I left it as it was, that woman came again last night and said, ‘The armor you gave Zhang Xun the other day is decayed and torn, utterly useless.’” “‘Please exchange it for a suitable item,’ she said.” “So when I asked you about it this time, again it was exactly as she said.” “Because the strangeness persisted so relentlessly, I grew suspicious and investigated—only to find that woman was indeed your wife.” “Her age, her appearance—even the mole beneath her eyebrow—matched perfectly. There’s no room for doubt.” “I don’t know what manner of person your wife is, but this is truly strange.”

Upon hearing the details, Zhang Xun was utterly dumbfounded.

“This is truly mysterious.” “Let us conduct a thorough investigation.”

“In any case, I’ll exchange the armor for you.” “Take this.”

Having been handed a splendid suit of armor by the General, Zhang Xun exited while holding it, but his mind was hazy, half in a dream-like state.

For three years they had been married, and his virtuous wife, who had never shown any sign of change—why would she do such a thing? Yet he found it hard to believe there could be any falsehood in the General’s words. On his way home, as he turned things over in his mind, certain details began to make sense. In both the fan incident half a year prior and this armor matter, his wife had always spoken words that seemed to foresee what was coming, all to console him. There was something undeniably suspicious about that. It was indeed strange.

Resolved to investigate this matter thoroughly, Zhang Xun hurried home, whereupon the wife quickly spotted the armor and grinned sweetly.

Since that sweet smiling face showed no trace of demon, devil, or monstrous transformation, Zhang Xun found himself wavering again. Yet his suspicion remained unresolved. Particularly feeling compelled to resolve this matter before the General as well, he called his wife into a room and first recounted the dream incident, whereupon she listened with a look of bewilderment. Then she spoke these words: "Both during that fan incident before and now with the armor matter, you seemed deeply troubled - so from the bottom of my heart, I earnestly wished to somehow ease your mind." "Perhaps that sincere heart reached heaven, allowing such wonders to manifest naturally." "I am truly gladdened that my prayers were answered."

When told this, the husband found himself unable to press further into the matter. He could do nothing but be grateful for his wife’s sincerity—and so the matter was left unresolved—yet Zhang Xun remained deeply unsettled. While he continued observing his wife’s behavior with care, society at large gradually grew more turbulent for reasons previously mentioned. As the General became occupied with military duties, he could no longer spare time to investigate matters concerning Zhang Xun’s wife. Zhang Xun too found himself busy with his own responsibilities—leaving early each morning and returning late each evening. Thus over half a month passed—and when May arrived—the rains of rainy season fell day after day without cease. Yet today proved unusual—the downpour let up from afternoon onward—and by evening—a pale blue hue began showing through the sky.

Zhang Xun had unusually finished his work early today and returned before sunset when—for some reason—the wife who always came out to greet him immediately was nowhere to be seen. When he stepped inside and glanced toward the garden, he saw a large pomegranate tree in the corner, its flowers blazing crimson like burning fire and blooming profusely. His wife was crouching in the shade of those flowers, seemingly gazing intently at something, so Zhang Xun quietly stepped down into the garden and stealthily crept up behind her—only to find a large toad crouched imposingly beneath the pomegranate tree. Before it, she had prepared a sake jar and seemed to be praying for something. Zhang Xun, his heart pounding at this bizarre sight, continued to observe carefully, and saw that the toad was moss-green in color and, moreover, had three legs.

If he had known it was that infamous three-legged toad, matters might have ended peacefully—but Zhang Xun, being a military man, knew nothing of the Frog Deity or General Jinhua. What filled his vision was solely the figure of his wife bowing before this bizarre three-limbed creature. As if his long-simmering suspicions had finally found resolution, he drew his sword in one fluid motion—and before his young wife could utter a sound, the blade pierced through her back and chest, leaving her collapsed beneath the pomegranate tree. Crimson petals scattered like blood over her lifeless form.

Zhang Xun stood transfixed as if in a dream, but when he finally regained his senses and looked around, the three-legged toad had vanished somewhere, leaving only his wife's corpse lying at his feet. As he stared fixedly at it, he began to feel he regretted his own rashness. His wife's behavior had indeed been strange, but he should have conducted a proper investigation first and then decided whether to spare or kill her after due deliberation—yet he had rushed headlong into executing her, a decision that now struck him as recklessly impulsive. However, it was too late for remorse now, so he disposed of his wife's remains and secretly reported it to the General the next day, whereupon the General nodded.

“Your wife was indeed a kind of demon after all.”

Two

After that，various strange events continued to occur around Zhang Xun．Three-legged toads clung persistently around him at all times．If he was indoors，they would crawl beside the couch．If he went out into the garden，they would come crawling to his feet．If he went outside，they would still follow from behind．It was as though they were shadows following form；wherever he went，without fail，the green toads could be seen．At first there was only one，but then they became two，then three，then five，then ten—some large and some small．They trailed along in a line following him around until Zhang Xun was at his wit’s end．

The eerie swarm of toads did not do anything in particular to him. It did nothing but follow him around, yet it was profoundly unsettling. Of course, they were visible only to Zhang Xun’s eyes—invisible to all others. He could no longer endure it and occasionally drew his sword to slash at them, but there was never any resistance. The toad that had been in front merely shifted its position to behind him, and the one on the left moved to the right—no matter what he tried, there was no way to drive them away.

Before long, they began to take up various tasks. When Zhang Xun lay down to sleep at night, a large toad crawled onto his chest and pressed down so hard he felt he might stop breathing. When he tried to sit at the table for a meal, countless small blue toads would appear and dive one after another into his plates and bowls. Because of this, he could neither sleep peacefully at night nor eat properly, so Zhang Xun gradually grew emaciated until he resembled a half-sick man. When his condition became noticeable to others, his close friend Yang De grew concerned, pressed him for details about the situation, and enlisted a Taoist priest to conduct prayers—yet there remained no sign of their effect, and the toads continued to cling incessantly around Zhang Xun.

Meanwhile, as the Chuang bandits grew increasingly rampant and dire reports of the capital soon being in peril continued to arrive, the deeply loyal general decided to dispatch a unit of reinforcements toward the capital. Zhang Xun was also included in that unit. Yang De repeatedly urged him to feign illness and decline, but Zhang Xun refused and decided to depart. He had a warrior’s disposition and a strong sense of loyalty to his country, but there was also another reason: tormented by inexplicable apparitions of toads, he thought it preferable to lay his loyal corpse beneath the imperial capital rather than idly await death. He resolved not to return alive, settled all household matters, and departed. Yang De also departed together.

The unit crossed the Yangtze River and, while advancing northward, came to stay in a small village; however, as there were few houses, most of them ended up camping outdoors. In a village abundant with willows, as Zhang Xun and Yang De rested under a large willow tree, the light of the early autumn moon shone vividly upon the dew clinging to their armor. Zhang Xun’s armor was something his wife had obtained by appearing in the General’s dream and convincing him to exchange it. While lost in such thoughts and gazing spellbound at the moon, Yang De, who was beside him, asked:

“How about it? “Are those toads still appearing?” “No—since crossing the river, they’ve ceased to appear as if vanished.” “That’s a relief,” Yang De said with apparent delight.

“Perhaps because we’re so tense, the supernatural beings can’t find an opening anymore.” “After all, joining the campaign was the right decision.”

As they were saying such things, Zhang Xun suddenly pricked up his ears.

“Ah, I can hear a biwa.”

“It must be your imagination,” Yang De dismissed since he couldn’t hear anything at all, but Zhang Xun stubbornly insisted he could hear it. Moreover—it was undoubtedly his wife’s biwa playing—truly such strange things existed—and as though drawn by its sound, he discarded his bow and arrows and staggered forward unsteadily. Yang De anxiously gave chase but found Zhang’s figure already vanished from sight.

“This does not seem to be an ordinary matter.” Yang De turned back and gathered three or four comrades; searching the area by the bright moonlight, they found an old temple just beyond the village. The surroundings were blanketed with autumn grasses, and under the moonlight, the temple’s eaves and doors could be clearly seen, terribly weathered and decayed. The chirping of insects sounded like rain. Thinking it might be there, they pushed through the thicket of grass and arrived before the temple—where Yang De, standing at the front, let out a startled cry.

In front of the temple lay coiled a large stone shaped like a toad, upon which sat Zhang Xun's helmet. Not only that—when they saw a massive blue toad crouched beneath the stone as though guarding the helmet, the people froze involuntarily. Before Yang De could verify whether it had three legs, the toad vanished as though dissolving into air. Struck by inexpressible terror, they exchanged glances briefly; but with no choice left but to investigate the temple's interior, Yang De steeled himself and threw open the door, the others trailing fearfully behind.

Zhang Xun lay cold inside the temple, dead as though asleep. Startled, they tried to care for him, but he never awoke from that slumber. Having no choice but to carry the corpse back, when they asked the villagers what exactly was enshrined in that temple, it was merely passed down as the Frog Deity’s temple, and no one knew its origins. The temple’s interior was utterly empty, with no sign of anything being enshrined, and in recent years, there were no worshippers in this area either—it had simply been left to decay. 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 understood the details. The fact that Zhang Xun’s wife was from Hangzhou was also known to Yang De.

“With that, this story comes to an end.” “Therefore, I ask that everyone here pay due respect to this Frog Deity and take utmost care to avoid incurring its dreadful curse.” Having finished saying this, Mr. Hoshizaki wiped around his mouth with a handkerchief and looked back at the large toad in the alcove.

Tone River Crossing

I

During the conclusion of Mr. Hoshizaki’s story, three or four more guests arrived, so the room became nearly full. With Mr. Hoshizaki leading off, these people took turns each telling a story, making it a veritable grand finale of ghost tales. Of course, among them were some formulaic tales, but I secretly took notes only on those with distinctive features, and I now wish to introduce them one by one.

However, since many were meeting for the first time, there were those whose identities remained unclear even after hearing their names just once. Moreover, given the nature of these tales, there were cases where disclosing the storytellers' names had to be avoided. Therefore, with the exception of Mr. Hoshizaki who started things off, I decided to omit all other individuals' names and simply designate them as "the second man" or "the third woman."

Thereupon, the second man began to speak.

It was the first year of Kyōhō.

On the opposite bank of the Tone River, on the shore closer to Ōshu when viewed from Edo's direction, stood a blind minstrel. The great Tone River, known as Bandō Taro, was also a ferry crossing there, and during the Edo period had been called Fusagawa Crossing. As it formed a key point along both Ōshū Kaidō and Nikkō Kaidō highways, Kurihashi's post town contained an official checkpoint. Once past this checkpoint and across the river lay Koga Town - a place that had long thrived as castle town of the Doi family's 80,000-koku domain. That blind minstrel stood near Koga's shoreline.

The blind minstrel was standing on the bank of the Tone River. If that were all there was to it, it might not have been a particular problem. He was a man of around thirty years old, with a sallow, bluish-black complexion, a slightly twisted mouth, and a lean build of average height, wearing a light yellow hood year-round and attired in straw sandals as a traveler—yet he did nothing but stand idly at this ferry crossing from dawn till dusk, never once attempting to cross.

Even though the boatmen, seeing he was blind, offered to ferry him across without charge, he would only shake his head silently with a lonely smile. Nor was this a matter of a day or two—for one year, two years, three years, undeterred by rain or wind, undaunted by heat or cold, he would invariably appear at this ferry crossing with his gaunt figure on any given day. By this point, even the boatmen could no longer overlook it. They often pressed him, asking why he came there every day, but the blind minstrel would only smile sadly and never gave a satisfactory reply. However, his purpose naturally became apparent.

Travelers coming from the direction of Oshu or Nikko would board the ferry there. Travelers coming from the direction of Edo boarded the ferry at Kurihashi and arrived there. The blind minstrel scrutinized every single one of those embarking and disembarking travelers.

“Might there be a person named Nomura Hikobei among those here?” Nomura Hikobei—a surname befitting a samurai—but as no one bearing that name ever appeared among the passersby, all would simply walk past without responding. Still, the blind minstrel came to this ferry crossing daily to seek Nomura Hikobei. As noted before, this continued unbroken through countless years—such perseverance left none unawed.

“Mr. Zatō, why are you looking for that person?”

Such questions were also frequently repeated by the boatmen, but he simply kept smiling as usual and never once opened his mouth. He was by nature a man of few words, and though he spent his days at this ferry crossing, he had never once spoken familiarly even to the boatmen—who, though they couldn't see his face, should have grown accustomed to his voice by now. Even when someone spoke to him, he would only respond with a silent smile or nod, as if avoiding conversation whenever possible. Eventually the boatmen grew accustomed to this too, and none addressed him anymore. He too seemed to consider this arrangement fortunate in the end, standing alone each day in lonely silence.

Where he resided and what manner of life he led—even that remained unknown. Where he came from and where he returned to stayed unclear to anyone, as none had troubled themselves to track his movements.

The ferry there began operations at daybreak and ceased at nightfall. He would stand there idly throughout that time, then vanish as if disappearing somewhere when the ferry ceased operations. Even spending from morning till evening like this, there was no sign he had brought any provisions. Old Man Heisuke, who lived in the ferry hut, felt so sorry for him that he once prepared two large rice balls and offered them—whereupon he delightedly ate one with evident relish. Then, saying it was his thanks, he pressed a single-mon coin upon Heisuke. Heisuke declined, having no thought of accepting gratitude, but he insisted on forcing it upon him.

This became the precedent—whenever Old Man Heisuke’s hut prepared one large rice ball for him each day, he would invariably leave behind a single-mon coin. Even in an era of low prices, one large rice ball’s value hardly balanced against a single-mon coin. Yet Heisuke, interpreting this as a form of charity toward the blind man, not only prepared the rice ball willingly each day but also let him drink hot water and warm himself by the hearth fire. It seemed this kindness had touched his heart, for even he—who hardly spoke to others—would occasionally open up to Old Man Heisuke and exchange greetings about the heat and cold.

As it was a highway bustling with traffic, many ferry boats operated. However, the other boatmen had all returned to their respective homes from evening onward, and since only Old Man Heisuke was staying overnight in this hut, one day he said to the blind minstrel.

“I don’t know where you come from, but going back and forth every day must be hard for a blind man.” “Why not stay at this hut instead?” “There’s nobody here but me, so you needn’t stand on ceremony.”

The blind minstrel considered for a while before saying he would stay there. As Heisuke lived alone, he welcomed having someone to talk to—even a blind man—and resolved to let him stay in his hut from that evening onward, tending to him as best he could. Thus began the cohabitation of an aged boatman and a blind man of unknown origins in the ferry hut along Tone River's banks—through rainy nights and windy nights—their bond gradually deepening. Yet despite this growing familiarity, the habitually taciturn minstrel remained sparing with words. Naturally, he kept his background and purpose firmly concealed. Old Man Heisuke made no effort to pry these from him. For he had discerned that pressing the matter would surely drive the man away.

Nevertheless, only once, in the course of a nighttime chat, Heisuke had asked him.

“Are you seeking revenge?” The blind minstrel shook his head with his usual lonely smile. That matter too ended there and vanished. When Old Man Heisuke took him in, it had undoubtedly begun out of sympathy for a blind man, but with a measure of curiosity also lurking beneath; he had been secretly keeping an eye on his fellow lodger’s actions, though nothing out of the ordinary seemed to occur. The blind minstrel went out to the ferry crossing from morning till evening and continued to call out Nomura Hikobei’s name tirelessly.

Heisuke would drink a nightly measure of sake and fall into a dead sleep, utterly unaware of midnight affairs—but one late night when he stirred awake, he found the blind minstrel, relying on the dying embers of the hearth fire, appeared to be intently polishing something like a thick needle. Yet the man, being unusually perceptive, immediately noticed Heisuke’s stirring and swiftly concealed the needle-like object. The situation seemed too unusual to ignore, so Heisuke pretended not to notice and fell back asleep—but in the dead of night, when the blind man quietly crawled over, straddled his sleeping form, and appeared to thrust that needle-like object through his left eye, he awoke from the dream. At the sound of his moaning, the blind minstrel also awoke and, fumblingly, tended to him. Heisuke did not speak a word about that dream, but ever since then, he had somehow come to fear the blind minstrel.

Why did he have that needle-like object? If it was merely a blind man's tool of the trade, that would be one thing—but carrying such a thick needle in secret seemed rather out of place. Heisuke began to suspect that perhaps he was feigning blindness and was actually a thief or something of the sort. In any case, Heisuke came to feel 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.

A chilly rain had been falling since noon, and few travelers had crossed the ferry, but by nightfall, all foot traffic had ceased. It seemed the water had risen in the riverbed, and the sound of it striking the stones there resounded more fiercely than usual. The sound of rain pouring down on the riverside willow before the hut echoed lonesomely, making it a night that even Heisuke—accustomed as he was—found himself drawn into desolate thoughts. Because the evening was chilly, Old Man Heisuke lit the hearth fire stronger than usual and began sipping his nightly one *go* of sake little by little, while the blind minstrel—who always claimed he couldn’t hold his liquor—sat silently before the fire.

“Ah!”

The blind minstrel soon muttered under his breath. Startled by this, Heisuke involuntarily raised his face, and from outside the hut, a splashing sound could be heard in the rain. “What could it be? A fish, perhaps?” said the blind minstrel.

“That’s right. “A fish,” said Heisuke, standing up. “With this rain swelling the water, looks like some big fellow’s jumped up.” Old Man Heisuke grabbed the straw raincoat hanging there and took a small scooping net as he exited the hut. Outside, wind-driven rain poured down so fiercely in the darkness that the usual gleam from the water was nowhere to be seen, yet on the dimly lit bank, a large fish thrashing about could faintly be perceived.

“Ah, a sea bass. “This one’s huge!” Knowing that sea bass are strong fish, Old Man Heisuke cautiously tried to pin it down, but the fish was larger than expected—apparently over three feet long—so with such a small net, it seemed impossible to scoop it up after all. Fearing the net might tear if handled carelessly, he threw aside the net and tried to grab the fish with his hands, whereupon the fish thrashed its tail fin and powerfully flung its adversary away, causing Heisuke to slip on the wet grass and fall.

Hearing the commotion, the blind minstrel also came outside—but being blind, he had no reason to fear the darkness. No sooner had he groped his way toward the sound of the thrashing fish than he effortlessly seized it. Heisuke thought it somewhat strange that a blind man could act so deftly, but he carried the large fish into the hut anyway—and sure enough, it was a sea bass. When Old Man Heisuke saw that a thick needle had been pierced through the fish’s eye from right to left, he shuddered involuntarily. The fish was weakening in a half-dead, half-alive state.

“Is the needle stuck in the fish’s eye?” asked the blind minstrel. “It’s stuck,” answered Old Man Heisuke. “Did it pierce? Right through the very center of the eyeball…” Baring his unseen eyes, the blind minstrel grinned sinisterly, causing Heisuke to shudder once more.

II

The blind possess keen intuition. Even among them, Heisuke had long known this blind minstrel seemed unusually perceptive—but witnessing tonight’s deft display left him utterly astounded. Being blind, the man likely cared nothing for light or darkness—yet to have captured a large fish thrashing wildly in this dark rain and pierced straight through its very eye while groping blindly was no ordinary skill. When Heisuke considered how that needle—which the man had secretly honed away from prying eyes—could achieve such a feat, he found himself haunted by nightmares time and again.

“I’ve dragged in quite a troublesome fellow.”

Old Man Heisuke now regretted it, but even so, he lacked the courage to go so far as to drive him out. Instead, he became cautious in all matters and strove to keep him appeased.

Nearly three years had passed since the blind minstrel first appeared at this ferry crossing, and nearly two since he had been taken into Old Man Heisuke’s hut—a full four years in total—when he fell ill with a cold around the beginning of spring’s second month. It was a year of lingering cold so severe that the winds sweeping down morning and evening from Nikko and Akagi seemed ready to blow away this solitary hut standing on the vast riverbed. Braving the bitter cold, Old Man Heisuke went to Koga town to buy medicine and had the ailing blind minstrel drink it.

Despite being in such a state, the blind minstrel did not neglect to go out to the ferry crossing, leaning on his cane. “You can’t keep enduring this cold, exposed from morning till night. At least until your illness heals, why don’t you rest?” Old Man Heisuke could no longer stand by and warned him, but the blind minstrel refused to agree no matter what. Barely supporting his increasingly emaciated body with a single cane, he trudged out every day, but even that stubbornness could not last forever, and he came to lie collapsed in the hut from morning till night.

“That’s exactly why I’m saying this. You’re still young—you must take care of yourself.” Old Man Heisuke nursed him kindly, but the blind minstrel’s condition appeared to grow graver by the day. Once he could no longer go to the ferry crossing, the blind minstrel asked Old Man Heisuke to procure one live fish for him each day. From winter through spring, these waters would dry up, making river fish scarce. Being far from the sea meant live saltwater fish were rarer still. Yet every day Old Man Heisuke would search about and bring back live carp, crucian carp, or eels—whereupon the blind minstrel would produce that needle and pierce each fish’s eye before discarding it. “Once they’re dead, they’re useless—cook them however you like,” he’d say, but Old Man Heisuke couldn’t stomach eating fish that seemed imbued with such obsessive malice, always tossing them instead into the river before him.

Not only was he gouging out the eyes of one live fish each day, but what further astonished Heisuke was that the blind minstrel had given him five koban coins as payment for purchasing those fish. Back when he received a single rice ball for lunch, he had paid one mon each day, but once he began living in the hut—even though he shared three meals a day from the same pot as Heisuke—the blind minstrel stopped paying even a single mon. Of course, Heisuke never pressed for payment himself. The blind minstrel now brought it up: “You’ve let me owe you so much.” “So while I’m alive,” he continued, “use this money to buy fish—keep what’s left as payment for all the food until now.” Two years’ worth of provisions hardly amounted to much anyway. When handed five koban in return, Heisuke was dumbfounded—but keeping them as instructed regardless, the blind minstrel grew ever weaker over half a month until his condition turned critical: on death’s doorstep any moment now.

In the second month of the lunar calendar, though tomorrow would mark the start of spring's equinox, this year's bitter cold pierced through flesh and bone. The Akagi oroshi wind that had raged since dawn now bore fine snow by mid-afternoon. Fearing this unseasonable chill would worsen his patient's condition, Old Man Heisuke fed more fuel than usual into the hearth. When ferry operations ceased and fellow boatmen retreated early, what remained of daylight soon dwindled—snow fell sparsely but winds gained relentless strength. Each roaring gust that battered against them made weatherworn timbers groan; walls shuddered like earth itself trembled beneath them.

The blind minstrel lying in the corner of the hut said in a weak voice. “The wind is blowing.”

“The wind blows every day—it’s unbearable,” said Old Man Heisuke as he brewed the patient’s medicine over the hearth fire. “And today there’s snow coming down too. This fickle weather means you especially need to take care.” “Ah...snow? Snow...” The blind minstrel sighed. “No need for caution—I’m already departing.” “Don’t speak such defeatist words. If you hold out a little longer, spring warmth will surely come. Once it turns mild, your body will heal naturally. Just endure till month’s end.”

“No—no matter what you say, my lifespan has already come to an end.” “After all, there’s no chance it will heal.” “I wonder what bond brought us together—you’ve taken such good care of me in so many ways.” “In connection with this… there is something I would like you to hear at the time of my death…” “Now, wait.” “The medicine should be ready by now.” “Drink this first, then take your time talking.” After having Old Man Heisuke administer the medicine, the blind minstrel listened attentively to the sound of the wind.

“Is the snow still falling?” “It seems to be falling,” answered Old Man Heisuke, peering through a gap in the door at the dark outside.

“Every time it snows, the past comes to mind all the more keenly,” the blind minstrel began quietly. “I have never told my name before now, but I am Jihei—one who once served as a young retainer in a certain domain of the Oshu region. “I came here at age thirty-one, and after nearly five years—making me thirty-five now—but thirteen years ago, in the spring when I was twenty-two, on another cold snowy day like this, I lost both my eyes. “My master was Nomura Hikobei, a samurai of considerable standing in the domain with a stipend of 180 koku. At the time, he was twenty-seven years old, and his wife was O-Toku, who was the same age as me—twenty-two. “The wife was proud of her looks—no, in fact, she had looks worth boasting about. Though as the wife of a samurai household, she was considered somewhat too flamboyant, she paid no heed to such opinions and, taking advantage of having no children, dressed as extravagantly as she could. “As I continued to observe her beautiful appearance morning and night within the same estate, uncontrollable desires arose within me. “She was another man’s wife—my master’s wife at that. I knew full well nothing could come of it, yet I couldn’t let go of these feelings. Tormented by restlessness until I began to wonder if I was losing my mind, I spent my days in agitation—until that unforgettable twenty-seventh day of the first month. Though that spring had brought unseasonably warm days to Oshu, heavy snow began falling the previous evening and soon piled up about two shaku deep. “Since it was a snow country, there was no reason to be surprised by snow. “Even though it would have been fine to leave it as it was, thinking I should at least sweep around the veranda, I took a broom and went out into the garden. The wife had developed her chronic stomach ailment from this snow and was warming herself by the kotatsu in the six-tatami-mat living room. However, upon hearing the sound of my broom, she opened the storm shutters at the edge of the veranda and told me to stop, saying there was no point in sweeping something that was bound to keep piling up. “That alone would have been fine, but she then said to me, ‘You must be cold—come there and warm yourself by the kotatsu.’ “She likely said it half in jest,” he continued, “but hearing those words filled me with an overwhelming joy. Brushing the snow from my body, I half-frantically climbed up onto the veranda.” As ash-like snow blew in, I immediately closed the storm shutters and slipped into the kotatsu area, whereupon the wife simply gazed at me in silent dismay at my rudeness. “Truly, I must have been out of my mind at that time.”

Old Man Heisuke was taken aback to hear such a lurid tale from the lips of the dying blind minstrel.

III

The blind minstrel continued his tale.

“I thought I must not stray from this path and ended up saying everything I had been thinking all at once.” “Having been courted by a retainer, the wife must have been utterly astonished.” “Still remaining silent and seated, when I grew frantic and tried to seize her hand, the wife finally cried out.” “Hearing her cry, the others came running, bound me without a word, and tied me to a standing tree in the garden.” “With my hands bound and exposed to the snow, I had resigned myself to the fact that my life was surely over when eventually my master returned from the castle.” “After hearing the details, my master had me brought to the veranda. ‘I’ll spare you the disgrace of dirtying my blade by executing scum like you,’ he said, ‘but such audacious notions arise precisely because those eyes of yours can see.’” “To ensure you never make such a mistake again, I’ll put out your eyes,’ he declared, drawing his dagger and stabbing both my eyes.”

As if tears of blood still flowed from those eyes even now, the blind minstrel pressed both eyes with his emaciated fingers. Old Man Heisuke also shuddered at this gruesome punishment, and a pain as if a blade had been stabbed into his own eyes began to ache. He let out a sigh and asked.

“And then what did you do?”

“Suddenly blinded and exiled, I was handed over to relatives in the castle town.” “My life was not in danger, and the wound had healed, but being suddenly blind meant there was nothing I could do.” “Having an acquaintance in Utsunomiya, I went there seeking help and became a disciple of an anma practitioner. Then I went to Edo and became a disciple of a certain kengyō.” “From the spring when I was twenty-two until the year I turned thirty-one—a span of nearly ten years—not a single day passed when I forgot my grudge.” “The object of my grudge was my former master, Nomura Hikobei.” “Had he simply killed me outright, that would have been one thing—but when I think how he subjected a man to such cruel punishment, crippling him for life, I knew I must avenge this wrong.” “That said, knowing my opponent was a distinguished samurai whose martial skills far surpassed ordinary men’s—I, blind as I was—pondered endlessly how to exact revenge. What I finally conceived was the needle.” “Having practiced with needles both in Utsunomiya and Edo, I prepared a thick one to suddenly lunge at his eyeballs.” Once resolved, whenever free moments allowed practice stabbing objects with needles—such is human determination’s terrifying power—I reached even precision to pierce single pine needles without fail. Yet now arose the problem of approaching my target. Knowing Hikobei frequently traveled between Edo and his domain on estate business, I waited at this river crossing—intending to ambush him boarding or disembarking—and after telling my kengyō master I’d return home, came here. For nearly five years since then, daily without fail I went to examine travelers ascending or descending—yet before encountering anyone called Nomura or Hikobei, my life reached its end. “Ah—this matter should have stayed buried within me—yet some urge compelled me to tell someone once… thus this interminable tale.” “Again and again you’ve cared for me.” “I offer renewed thanks.”

Having said what he needed to say, he suddenly seemed to grow fatigued, then turned sideways and pressed his face against the wooden pillow. Old Man Heisuke also wordlessly entered his own bed. From midnight, the snow ceased, and the wind gradually died down; there was nothing to disturb this solitary house. The waters of the Tone River, as if frozen, made no sound of flowing.

The riverside morning dawned early, and when Heisuke awoke as usual, the patient appeared to be sleeping quietly. Finding the silence too profound, he peered in with growing unease only to discover the blind minstrel had pierced his own neck with that needle. Having honed his craft through years of practice, he seemed to have struck a vital pulse point—dying effortlessly with but a single needle. With help from fellow boatmen, Old Man Heisuke buried the blind minstrel's corpse at a nearby temple. The needle was interred alongside him as well. True to his honest nature, Heisuke left untouched the five koban coins left behind as mementos, instead dedicating them all to fund perpetual memorial services at the temple.

Six years had passed since then—it was the autumn of the eleventh year since that blind minstrel had first appeared at this river crossing.

At the end of August, prolonged rains continued to fall, causing the Tone River to flood and submerge all the villages along its banks. Heisuke’s hut was also swept away. Because of this, the Bō River ferry service had been suspended for over ten days, but with the arrival of September and a stretch of clear autumn weather, when it was finally decided to resume operations, the ascending and descending travelers who had been stranded on both banks at Kurihashi and Koga—unable to wait any longer for the river to reopen—eagerly rushed to board all at once.

“Watch your step! Be careful!” “The water hasn’t fully receded yet—look how every boat’s overloaded.”

As Old Man Heisuke stood on the bank urgently cautioning travelers, a boat that had set out from Koga capsized instantly—caught by strong crosscurrents before advancing even a short distance. True to Heisuke's warning that the waters had not fully receded, young men from nearby villages stood ready alongside the boatmen as a precaution. Seeing the accident, they scattered into the water, rescuing those on the verge of drowning wherever found and carrying them back to shore. Though all regained consciousness after treatment, one samurai among them failed to revive. He appeared forty-five or six years old, well-dressed and accompanied by two retainers.

The retainers were all safe, and from the mouths of those two, the circumstances of the drowned man were explained. He was a samurai named Nomura Hikobei from a certain domain in Oshu, who had suffered from an eye disease for over six years and by this time had become nearly blind. Having heard that there was a renowned eye doctor in Edo and having already informed his lord, he was on his way to Edo for treatment when he unexpectedly met with disaster here. As he was practically blind, he had been carried in a palanquin during the journey and assisted by two retainers; yet in this situation, even the retainers themselves spoke suspiciously of how he alone had drowned despite having what should have been considerable swimming skills.

In a slightly different sense from theirs, Old Man Heisuke was suspicious of his death. While all the other passengers had been saved, why was it that Nomura Hikobei, the blind samurai alone had drowned? When he thought of this, Heisuke shuddered suddenly again. He secretly asked the retainers whether their master had a wife, to which they replied that his wife had been divorced long before. As for when exactly or under what circumstances the divorce had occurred, even Heisuke could not bring himself to press further.

Since it was during their journey, the retainers said they would cremate their master’s body and bring the remains back to their home domain. Heisuke went to the nearby temple, placed flowers of autumn grass on the blind minstrel’s grave, and returned home.

**Siblings’ Souls**

I

The third man began to speak.

“This is a strange and bizarre incident that I myself encountered—please listen with this understanding. It concerns a man named Akasa who was my friend.”

Akasa's given name was Sakurō, and he was a man who graduated from school at the same time as I did. After graduating, he had intended to work in Tokyo, but when his father back home suddenly died about half a year before graduation, circumstances compelled him to return home and take over his family's responsibilities, so he left for his hometown immediately after finishing school. Akasa's hometown was a small town in Echigo where his father had served as a lecturer for the ○○ sect, expounding its doctrines to believers who gathered at its branch church. I don't know much about how the ○○ sect was organized. It remained unclear whether he—a complete amateur—could immediately succeed to his father's position upon suddenly returning home, but according to letters he sent me after his return, it appeared he had smoothly taken over his father's role and become what they called a lecturer for the ○○ sect.

Admittedly, he was, like me, a humanities graduate, and being the son of such a household, he had apparently amassed considerable knowledge about religion over time; thus, he was able to succeed to his father’s position without any issues. However, he seemed to dislike the job considerably; even at a farewell gathering hosted by seven or eight close friends, he explained the complicated circumstances that left him no choice but to return home temporarily, all while voicing complaints and grievances incessantly.

“Ah, I’ll settle things somehow within two or three years and come back out here.” “How could I endure being buried in the snow for a lifetime?” He had been saying such things. Even after returning to his hometown, he often sent letters to us, writing in a deeply pessimistic tone about how due to various circumstances, he could not easily abandon his current position.

At Akasa’s family home were his elderly mother and sister. These two women were, of course, believers of the ○○ sect, and from all sides they forcibly restrained him, seemingly never allowing him to leave his position. In response to this, he too appeared to be in great anguish; if things were like this, he could not comprehend why he was living. I recall that he even wrote such radical things as suggesting it might be better to set fire to the church he was in charge of and burn to death along with it—there had been times when he sent letters like that. The seven or eight friends who had attended the farewell gathering had all scattered to various places due to their professions or family circumstances, leaving only a man named Murano and myself still remaining in Tokyo; moreover, Murano was terribly neglectful in writing, replying to Akasa’s letters only about once for every three he received, so naturally the connection between both parties grew distant, and in the end, it seemed I alone was the one who continued exchanging letters with him.

Akasa’s letters reached me without fail about once every month. I too, without fail, wrote back each time. Over the course of about two years continuing like this—how his state of mind had transformed—his complaints about his current circumstances steadily diminished. In the end, he did not utter a single word of complaint; rather, it even seemed he had resolved to devote his entire life to those teachings. I didn’t know what kind of religion the ○○ sect was, but I secretly rejoiced that he could live by that faith.

In the third year after he returned to his hometown, the mother died. I knew that even after that, he continued to live with his sister in a house resembling a church residence attached to the branch church. Then, in March of the second year, he took his sister and traveled to Tokyo. Of course, this was not a sudden decision; he was certain to travel to Tokyo the following spring on sect business. Since his sister had never been to Tokyo either, he had mentioned since the end of the previous year that he would take her along for sightseeing, so I had been eagerly awaiting their arrival—and sure enough, at the end of March, the Akasa siblings came from Echigo. Since I knew the train’s arrival time, when I went to Ueno to meet him, I was first astonished that he hadn’t changed at all from the past.

Given that he had served as a lecturer for the ○○ sect for many years, I had imagined he might look like an ascetic—perhaps with long flowing hair, a wild beard grown out, a crown-like hat worn, or white hakama trousers donned. ——All such imaginings proved mistaken; he retained the same close-cropped hairstyle as before and wore a new Western suit tailored in country fashion—not a single altered feature could be detected anywhere. The only thing lending him a slightly dignified air was the thin mustache beneath his nose; otherwise, he still possessed the same youthful countenance he’d had during his student days.

“Hey.” “Hey.”

After such a brief exchange of greetings, he introduced the petite girl standing beside him to me. This was his sister Isako, said to be nineteen—a fair-skinned girl who embodied the women of snow country, with lovely small eyes and slender eyebrows. "You have an excellent sister."

“Hmm,” “Since Mother passed away, we’ve all been relying on this woman for household matters,” Akasa said with a smile. Even as we rode the train together to my house, I could clearly sense the special closeness between these siblings. They stayed at my home for nearly a month afterward, spending their spring days attending to sect affairs and sightseeing around Tokyo—I distinctly remember it being April tenth. I invited them to view cherry blossoms in Mukojima. Though the rain hadn’t been heavy when we left, we were caught in a sudden downpour along the way. Forced to take shelter, we dashed into a restaurant and waited two hours for the rain to stop. It was there that Akasa spoke about his sister’s situation.

“Even someone like her gets marriage proposals from suitable places, but I’d be in trouble if this woman left.” “She says she won’t marry elsewhere until my wife is decided.” “By the way, finding a wife myself has proven rather difficult.” “Well, two or three candidates have been recommended so far, but none have appealed to me. After all, my wife must absolutely share the same faith.” “Status or appearance don’t matter at all—the problem is finding a woman of strong faith. They’re not easy to come by.”

He had completely freed himself from his initial anguish and now seemed to devote his faith entirely to its teachings. However, perhaps thinking there was no prospect of converting me, he never attempted to proselytize its doctrines to me. When all the cherry blossoms in Tokyo had turned to green leaves, the Akasa siblings departed from Ueno, seen off by me.

Was that the last time I ever met these siblings, or did our paths cross again? I want you to consider that lingering question—the one that still haunts me—as the seed of this tale.

II Upon returning to his hometown, Akasa promptly sent a lengthy letter of thanks. A polite letter of thanks also came from his sister. I found it somewhat amusing that his sister wrote much more skillful characters than Akasa. After that, we continued exchanging letters about once a month as before, but when August arrived, I climbed Mount Myōgi in Jōshū and spent an entire summer at an inn there. When I sent Akasa a picture postcard from Myōgi, the siblings promptly sent a reply addressed to my inn. "If I had the time, I would like to climb Myōgi once myself, but my religious duties are too busy and do not allow it," Akasa had written in his letter.

At the beginning of September, I returned to Tokyo once, but between taking a liking to the Myōgi inn for some reason and Tokyo’s lingering summer heat still being intense, I changed my mind and resolved to stay leisurely at Myōgi until the autumn foliage season to finish all my unfinished work; having made preparations, I returned once more to the Myōgi inn. The day after returning to Myōgi, I sent another postcard to Akasa, stating that due to work circumstances, I planned to remain here in mountain seclusion until around late October. Yet there was no reply from either the brother or the sister.

At the beginning of October, I sent a third postcard to Akasa, but again received no reply. Akasa might have been away on sect business somewhere. Still, I thought his sister Isako would have sent some message, but without dwelling on it deeply, I spent my days becoming acquainted with the old desk I had borrowed from the inn, finding enjoyment in how my work progressed.

By the middle of that month, hikers coming to view the autumn leaves began to increase in number. Particularly with student school excursions and group tours from various regions climbing the mountain in several groups each day, the quiet mountains suddenly became crowded; however, since most groups descended to Isobe or headed out to Matsuida within the same day, there were not many who stayed overnight here, so at night, the sound of the mountain wind remained as lonely as ever.

“A guest has arrived.” It was around five o’clock in the afternoon on a day near October’s end when the inn maid came to say this. The day had hung overcast since morning, with something indeterminate—mist or fine rain—occasionally sifting down from the mountaintops, making the inn nestled in the valley’s embrace feel abruptly besieged by winter’s chill. Just then, having come down from the second-floor guest room, I sat before the large hearth built near the entrance while engaged in idle chatter with the inn staff—so without rising from my seat, I twisted around to peer outside and saw none other than Akasa standing at the entrance. He wore a battered fedora, his suit trousers rolled up above straw sandals worn over socks, clutching a tree branch as an improvised walking stick.

“Hey. You made it.” “Now, do come in.”

As I called out while lifting one knee, Akasa stared at me with a nostalgic gaze and then began turning back toward the entrance. I wondered if he had left someone waiting outside, but since that didn’t appear to be the case, I found it slightly peculiar and immediately stood up to approach the entrance—only to see Akasa briskly climbing toward the mountains without even glancing back. Finding this increasingly strange, I thrust my feet into the inn’s straw sandals there and hurried out after him.

“Hey, Akasa!” “Where are you going?” “Hey, hey, Akasa!”

Akasa did not respond and quickened his pace. As I continued chasing after him while calling his name, I lost sight of his figure near the Myōgi Shrine.

The overcast winter day was already approaching dusk, and the space between the large cedar groves had grown dim. While gripped by a kind of unease, I kept calling his name at the top of my voice when Akasa emerged unsteadily from between the cedars, as though lost. “It’s cold, so cold,” he muttered under his breath.

“It is cold, indeed… When the sun sets, it suddenly gets cold. Come quickly to the inn and warm yourself by the hearth fire. Or perhaps you mean to visit the shrine first?” Without answering, he silently thrust his right hand toward me. Peering through the dim light, I saw fresh blood seeping from his index and middle fingers. Assuming he’d caught them on a branch, I fished through my sleeve and produced a scrap of manuscript paper.

“Well, just hold this against it for now and hurry back to the inn.” He still said nothing, took the manuscript paper from my hand, and after covering the back of his right hand with it, immediately started walking briskly away. He was not turning back but seemed intent on climbing ever upward toward the mountaintop. Startled, I called out to stop him again.

“Hey, you. What do you think you’re doing going up the mountain now? I’ll guide you up tomorrow. You should go back now. It’ll be dangerous if it gets dark on the way.”

As if paying no heed to such warnings, Akasa stubbornly continued climbing. I grew increasingly uneasy and chased after him while calling out several times. Since August, I had grown accustomed to these mountain paths here, so I considered myself fairly swift-footed, but his pace was even faster. In mere moments he would be two ken ahead, then three ken ahead; even as I climbed breathlessly, I stood little chance of catching up.

The surroundings gradually grew darker as a cold rain began pattering down. With no likely passersby around, I couldn't ask anyone for help. Straining my owl-like eyes in the dimness to keep sight of his retreating figure, I desperately continued chasing him alone until finally losing him at a bend in the sloping path. "Akasa! Akasa!" My calls only echoed through the forest with no response. Undeterred, I kept pursuing until reaching Ipponsugi Teahouse, but finding no trace of Akasa deepened my unease. When I questioned the staff, they said nobody had been outside in the falling rain and gathering darkness to notice any passersby. Ahead loomed Myōgi's treacherous terrain with its first stone gate already towering before me. However familiar I was with these paths, I couldn't muster the courage to pass through that gate in such darkness and finally stopped in my tracks.

As the path grew increasingly dark, I borrowed a lantern from a familiar teahouse and descended through the rain. Without any rain gear, I became drenched from head to toe, and by the time I returned to the inn, I felt frozen to the bone. The inn staff had been discussing whether to come meet me nearby out of concern for my late return, so everyone—now relieved—promptly took me to the hearthside. Warming my drenched body by the fire, I finally felt relief, but my unease toward Akasa weighed on my chest like a large stone. The inn staff grimaced upon hearing my story, but among them were those who offered this interpretation.

“If he was someone of that sect, he might have gone out of his way to climb the mountain at such a dark hour to undertake some ascetic ritual.” “Mountain ascetics and practitioners often engage in such practices.”

The inn staff spoke of an ascetic practitioner who had climbed to the Second Stone Gate through heavy snow in February. However, considering Akasa’s demeanor when I had encountered him earlier, he did not seem like someone who would undertake such severe austerities as those mountain ascetics did. Even as the night deepened, he did not return. Was he performing a vigil beneath some stone gate on this cold, rainy night as the inn staff suggested—or practicing some ascetic ritual?

While continuing to think such thoughts, I passed that night without a moment's rest. When dawn came, the rain had stopped. After finishing breakfast, I set out to search for Akasa's whereabouts, taking two inn staff members and one guide with me.

On our way to Ipponsugi Teahouse from last night, we searched every nook and cranny deep into the groves, but found no trace of him anywhere. Perhaps from having run around 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 teahouse while the other three passed through the stone gate and climbed upward. Less than thirty minutes later, one of them returned and reported to me that he had discovered a man's figure tumbled down from Candle Rock into the valley. I leapt up from the camp stool and immediately passed through the first stone gate with him.

The teahouse staff member went to my inn to report the incident.

Three

Helper men from the inn also rushed over, and in any case, it was close to 11 a.m. when Akasa’s corpse was brought back to the inn.

The early winter day after the rain shone brightly and beautifully, and in the cedar grove, the chirping of small birds could be heard.

“Ah.” Having said this, I stared at the corpse for some time. The male corpse—with its forehead struck by a rock and half its face drenched in blood, combined with mud and leaves clinging to it—had until now led me to assume through clothing alone this was Akasa, having never properly observed its features. But after returning to the inn and laying the corpse in the earthen entryway, when I finally settled down and peered at its face once more, it was unmistakably not Akasa—a stranger I had never seen before. While doubting this could be possible, I examined it from every angle under the bright sunlight, but he was unmistakably not Akasa.

“What could be the reason?”

In a dreamlike state, I gazed blankly at the corpse. Of course, it had already been dim yesterday evening, but the clothing worn by Akasa when he came to visit me was unquestionably this. The corpse was dressed in a Western suit with socks and straw sandals, and even the fedora found in the valley appeared identical in every detail to the one I had seen yesterday evening. Even so, I still harbored such doubts. Since hikers’ clothing tends to look similar on everyone, perhaps the man I saw yesterday was a complete stranger rather than Akasa. To confirm this fact, I tried to find some clue by examining the corpse’s belongings, and the first thing that touched my hand was a piece of wrinkled manuscript paper.

Manuscript paper—wasn't this the very sheet I'd taken from my kimono sleeve to stem Akasa's bleeding finger before Myōgi Shrine? Moreover, didn't those first two or three lines clearly bear my pen's markings? When I examined the corpse's fingertips again, scraped wounds remained on the right index and middle fingers. Bloodstains seeped through the manuscript paper too. With all this evidence aligned, last night's visitor must unquestionably be this corpse. Had I erred in believing him Akasa? Yet he'd come specifically to see me. Though dimly lit, I'd positively identified him as Akasa. Now he'd transformed into another man entirely. No reasoning could untangle this mystery—in deepening bewilderment, I endlessly compared the bloodied manuscript sheet clutched in my hand with the stranger's lifeless face.

Both the police officers from the local substation and the inn staff members listened to my explanation and tilted their heads in puzzlement. It was certainly strange beyond doubt. This strange corpse had merely over two yen in its gamaguchi purse and carried nothing else that could serve as a clue. He was handed over to the town office as an unidentified deceased person.

With this, the incident had been temporarily resolved, but the great doubt looming in my chest was never resolved. I immediately sent a letter to Echigo inquiring after Akasa’s well-being, but there was no reply from either the brother or the sister.

My suspicions only grew larger and larger, and since I couldn’t seem to settle down at all, I finally resolved to make up my mind and visit his hometown. Fortunately, it wasn’t particularly far from there, so I descended Mount Myogi, boarded a train from Matsuida, crossed through Shinano Province, and entered Echigo. When I visited the branch office of the ○○ Sect and requested to meet Akasa Sakurō, a man who appeared to be a caretaker came out and informed me that Lecturer Akasa had already died. No, not just Akasa—when I heard that his sister Isako was also no longer in this world, I was so shocked my mind went blank.

Why did the Akasa siblings die? Regarding the circumstances of their deaths, the caretaker-like man had been evasive with his explanations, but when I pressed him relentlessly for answers, he finally relented and disclosed the full details to me. That spring, as Akasa had told me himself, he had been unable to find a suitable woman despite wanting to take a wife. His sister had resolved not to marry until her brother did, choosing instead to devote herself to caring for him. Thus did brother and sister live together in harmony. Then came Uchida—a man employed at a local bank and fellow sect member—who proposed marriage to Isako. But Akasa, evidently disliking the man’s character, tactfully declined on her behalf. Undeterred, Uchida approached Isako directly with his proposal, only to be refused by her as well.

Having been rejected by both brother and sister, Uchida was disheartened. Out of that disappointment, he fabricated baseless rumors and plotted to hurt the Akasa siblings. Taking advantage of having an acquaintance at the local newspaper, he earnestly reported that there was an adulterous relationship between the lecturer siblings of the ○○ Sect. He claimed this was the reason the sister had not married into another family even when she came of age. Since it was a report from a fellow believer, the newspaper carelessly trusted it and published the article in a sensational manner, causing it to instantly become a major scandal in the area.

The majority of believers did not believe them, but in any case, being subjected to such rumors proved an immense nuisance. It was entirely clear this would directly and indirectly impact their missionary efforts. The branch office negotiated with the newspaper company to first confirm the article's source, but following journalistic custom, they refused to disclose the manuscript's origin. They stated they would issue a retraction if the facts were found to differ.

Several days later, a five- or six-line retraction notice was published in the newspaper, but such a mere formality could not satisfy Akasa. Yet he never resented anyone. He believed this to be divine punishment from the god he worshipped. He had become convinced that due to his own inadequate faith, the ○○ Sect's deity had inflicted this great chastisement upon him. After enduring unbearable terror and torment for over a month, he resolved with dreadful finality to undergo his last judgment.

He donned a white ritual hunting robe—the kind he always wore when worshiping before the altar—doused it liberally with kerosene, stood rigidly at the center of the shrine’s broad courtyard, and struck a match against his own body. Even just hearing about it was truly hair-raising—he was instantly engulfed in flames. By the time his younger sister Isako noticed this and rushed over, it was already too late. Whether she still tried to smother the flames somehow or had resolved herself to some decision in that split second, Isako collapsed while still holding her burning brother’s body.

By the time others came rushing over in alarm, it was already far too late. The brother lay scorched and blistered, devoid of breath. The sister bore severe burns across her entire body, her breathing faint as a dying insect’s pulse. They summoned a doctor for emergency treatment and carried her to the town hospital regardless, but Isako died four hours later. This ghastly incident shocked society more profoundly than the prior article had. Though various theories circulated about Akasa’s cause of death, public consensus ultimately settled on that very newspaper report having killed the devout lecturer of the ○○ Sect. At last showing remorse for their recklessness, the newspaper published a semi-apologetic article mourning the lecturer siblings’ deaths. Around this time—likely through a leak from someone at the company—rumors spread that Uchida had submitted the original article. Unable to remain in the area any longer, he vanished without notifying his bank about a week prior.

“Have you still not discovered where that man Uchida is?” I asked.

“I do not know,” answered the caretaker who had related this information. “Since there didn’t seem to be any particular issue on the bank’s side, it is thought that he must have been utterly terrified by public opinion.” “How old is Uchida?”

“Twenty-eight or twenty-nine.”

“Do you know what clothes he was wearing when he ran away?” I asked again. “He apparently didn’t return home from the bank and immediately boarded a Tokyo-bound train. When he left the bank, he was reportedly wearing a gray Western-style suit and a fedora.”

My entire body turned cold as ice.

“So then, was it that man Uchida who came to visit you in Myogi?” When Frog Hall Master asked impatiently, as though he couldn’t wait for the story to pause, the third man nodded with a heavy sigh.

“That’s right. After hearing my account, his relatives and bank employees came with me to Myogi. When we looked, the corpse lying at the bottom of Candle Valley was confirmed beyond doubt to be Uchida. However, why he came to visit me—that remains unknown to anyone. Of course, I didn’t understand it either. That’s the terrifying secret, you know. I had never even dreamed that such a calamity would befall the Akasa siblings.”

Then Akasa—to my eyes, it unquestionably appeared to be him—suddenly came calling. "And yet that was not Akasa himself—rather, it was Akasa's sworn enemy who had met an unexplained, unnatural death." "How would you interpret this mystery?"

“Are you suggesting the siblings’ spirits lured him here?” the master said musingly. “Most likely.” “I had interpreted it that way.” “Even so, did Akasa want to meet me once, so his soul possessed that man’s body?” “Or did they send him as a messenger to report their own deaths?” “How did that man Uchida know my whereabouts?” “Since I couldn’t understand it clearly at all, I continued meeting various scholars afterward to seek an explanation, but none provided an answer that could sufficiently satisfy me.”

However, it seemed general opinion had largely converged on this explanation. In other words, they said Uchida had fallen into a kind of self-hypnosis and taken such mysterious actions. Uchida had plotted to harm the Akasa siblings on a momentary impulse, but when the consequences grew far beyond his expectations and the siblings met such a horrifying end, he too was suddenly overcome with terror. As he was also a believer of the same religion, he may have come to feel the horror of his sin all the more intensely. And he may have strongly believed the siblings' resentment would inevitably be visited upon him. As a result, he came to feel as though guided by Akasa and wandered unsteadily to visit me. As for how he knew my whereabouts—being a fellow believer and on such familiar terms as to have proposed marriage to the sister—he frequently visited Akasa's household and may have seen the picture postcards I often sent from Myogi Inn. "He may have known I was Akasa's close friend." Under self-hypnosis, he was guided by Akasa and came all the way to Mount Myogi intending to visit Akasa's close friend.

“—That’s how it’s been explained, but since I haven’t studied hypnosis in detail, I can’t say for certain. When I traveled abroad, I even consulted scholars specializing in psychical research, but their opinions were so varied that I regrettably never arrived at a definitive conclusion. However, regardless of what the scholars say—even if Uchida had indeed fallen into self-hypnosis—why did he appear to my eyes as Akasa’s form? Or perhaps, as a result of self-hypnosis, Uchida himself had come to feel as composed as Akasa, so that from his speech and behavior to his very demeanor, he naturally came to resemble Akasa? Or perhaps I too had fallen under some sort of hypnosis at that time?”

Monkey’s Eyes

I

The fourth woman spoke.

“I was born in the first year of Bunkyu, the Year of the Rooster, so this year I am sixty-five.” “I was eight years old when Edo fell in Meiji 1, and twelve winters old come October of Meiji 5—the time of Yoshiwara’s emancipation.” “As you are likely aware, that November saw the calendar reformed, making December third the New Year’s Day.” “Oh no—when one grows old, one’s tales grow tedious despite oneself.”

“I shall conclude my preface here and now proceed to the main text. This being truly an insignificant tale, it is not something I ought to recount in detail before such distinguished company. However, as the speaking order has now come round to me, I shall offer this mere token of an account by way of apology. I beg you to listen without laughter.”

“It is truly a matter of great embarrassment, but at that time, my family’s house stood within Yoshiwara’s licensed quarter, where we ran a teahouse business.” “In Edo’s past, even among Yoshiwara’s brothel keepers and teahouse proprietors, there were many cultivated individuals who composed haikai verses, amused themselves with calligraphy and painting, and mingled with what might be called literati and artists.” “My grandfather and father too belonged to this circle—they had stored away many items such as folding screens painted by Utamaro and hanging scrolls inscribed by Hōitsu Ōjōn.”

"My grandfather passed away when I was three years old, and when Edo became Tokyo in Meiji 1, the family head—my father—was thirty-two and went by the name Ichibei. That was said to be the name borne by successive generations of family heads. After all, with society suddenly turned upside down in such turmoil, the whole country plunged into terrible economic depression, leaving theater districts like Shibaimachi, Yoshiwara, and all pleasure quarters as lifeless as extinguished flames. Moreover, with the new Shin-Yoshiwara pleasure quarter having been established in Shin-Tomicho, customers were drawn there. My father had even said he might as well abandon the business altogether, but upon being advised by my mother and others in the same trade to wait a little longer and observe how things would develop, it was soon decreed improper to maintain a pleasure quarter in the very heart of Kyōbashi—thus Shin-Yoshiwara was abolished, and all its brothels were relocated back to Yoshiwara."

“Just as we thought we could finally catch our breath, in Meiji 5 came the emancipation edict I mentioned earlier...” “Since the previous courtesans and geisha were deemed improper due to human trafficking connections, they were all ordered to be freed at once.” “Today we call it ‘prostitute emancipation,’ but in those days it was commonly referred to as the ‘emancipation edict.’” “Well—this became another catastrophe. To put it plainly, it caused such an uproar you’d think Yoshiwara’s entire quarter was being demolished.”

“But given that it was that era, everything depended on the authorities’ directives, and no one had any means to voice complaints. Of course, this did not mean Yoshiwara had collapsed entirely—they reorganized their operations and continued business as usual. But just as my father Ichibei had long harbored a secret desire to close shop, this fresh turmoil arose once more. Resolved at last, he decided to abandon the trade our family had maintained for over a hundred years. However, carelessly starting an unfamiliar business seemed too precarious—especially with so many cautionary examples of samurai-turned-merchants’ ventures gone awry. Thus, relying on the five or six rental houses they owned in Tamachi and Imado, they resolved to live modestly in a small residence.”

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 school under the name Rakō, having already completed his formal desk-setting ceremony, he was in his own right of master rank. In this situation, partly because he wished to leisurely pursue the path he loved and partly with the notion that his art could sustain him, he resolved to make his way in the world as a haikai master. However, since they were now moving into a smaller house unlike before—where there was no place for unnecessary belongings and it seemed better to sell off cumbersome items for cash—he disposed of not only worthless junk but also most of the calligraphies, paintings, and antiques collected since his grandfather’s time.

“As you may well know, during the early Meiji years, calligraphies and antiques were practically being given away—masterpieces by Kikuchi Yōsai and Watanabe Kazan lay scattered in secondhand shops for a mere 1 yen 50 sen or 2 yen. Thus even works by Utamaro or Hōitsu Ōjōn held no special value; everything was sold off for pennies. Even then, Mother kept saying it seemed such a waste, but Father—being decisive by nature—disposed of things one after another without hesitation. Still, he kept only seven or eight calligraphies and paintings he favored, one pair of folding screens, and five or six antiques.”

Those antiques consisted of items such as alcove ornaments, flower vases, and writing desks, but among them was one wooden monkey mask. Father had acquired it fairly recently—in the cold December evening of the previous year, Meiji 4, when passing through Ueno’s Hirokoji, he came upon a night stall where someone had spread a thin straw mat by the roadside and laid out old items for sale. A man in his forties—with a grown-out samurai topknot like a ronin from a period play and dressed in threadbare clothing—sat listlessly on a straw mat alongside a boy of about nine or ten, minding the stall.

At that time, there were many such night stall merchants about, so my father quickly surmised this too must be a fallen samurai who had brought out his household belongings to sell. Feeling pity, he peered into the stall only to find that most noteworthy items had likely already been sold off—nothing of value remained displayed there—but among them lay a single aged mask. That caught his eye, and Father stopped. “Is this something you are selling?”

Perceiving that the man was no ordinary night stall merchant, Father politely asked his question in this manner. The man likewise bowed courteously and said, “Please examine it,” so Father bowed once more, took up the mask, and held it up to the faint lamplight for inspection; though its entire face was blackened with age—appearing appropriately antiquated—the carving was remarkably fine, and Father, being an antique enthusiast, found himself impulsively inclined to purchase it.

“If I may ask, how much is this?” “Oh no, any amount would be acceptable.” Truly a greeting typical of a samurai-turned-merchant. Having neither the ill intent to exploit this opening for ruthless haggling nor being entirely unsympathetic, Father proposed buying it for three *bu*. The man, overjoyed, insisted three *bu* was too much—two *bu* would suffice—but Father pressed firmly and finalized the purchase at three *bu*. “This may seem like a topsy-turvy exchange, but such dealings were said to be quite common in those days.”

After concluding the transaction, Father inquired: "Has this mask been passed down through your family?" "I couldn't say when it was acquired," he replied. "Truthfully, I never knew such an object existed in our household. But after our fortunes declined and we began selling off possessions one after another, I discovered it at the bottom of an old storage chest." "Was it kept in a box?"

“There is no box.” “It was simply wrapped in turmeric-dyed cloth.” “What struck me as strange was how both eyes of the monkey mask were covered with white cloth—the ends tied at the back like a blindfold.” “When this was done or by whom, with no stories passed down, I’ve no notion at all.” “Truth be told, whether it’s even worth two or three *bu*—that much I couldn’t say either.”

The seller was utterly honest, disclosing every detail without reservation. Having heard all this and received the mask, Father returned to his house in Yoshiwara. However, when he examined it closely the next day, it appeared vastly different from what he had seen in the dim light of the previous evening. While undoubtedly quite old, the carving technique seemed rather clumsy, and he could not consider it a true masterpiece. He now felt he had somewhat overpaid at three bu and was beginning to regret it, but since he himself had insisted on purchasing it despite the seller’s offer of two bu, there was no way to voice any complaint. “There’s nothing to be done about such a thing. “Well, I can just think of it as having made a donation to a struggling samurai gentleman.”

Having resigned himself thus, Father had shoved the mask into the back of a cupboard and nearly forgotten about it when, upon finally reaching the stage of closing down the Yoshiwara shop and sorting through various calligraphies, paintings, and antiques, he suddenly rediscovered his mask. Though it was naturally meant to be sold off along with the other items, when the moment came, Father reportedly found himself feeling 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 antiques he had mentioned earlier and decided to take them along. “Why he had suddenly become reluctant to part with it—Father later admitted that even he himself didn’t fully understand his feelings at the time.” In any case, it was for such reasons that our family left the Yoshiwara pleasure 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, with four rooms and a four-and-a-half-tatami detached cottage, from whose garden front the Sumida River could be seen in its entirety. Father shut himself away in this four-and-a-half-tatami room and set up his haikai master’s desk.

II

After a little over a month of commotion, things finally settled down by mid-May, and even by the new calendar, the days grew distinctly summer-like.

Due to Father’s having cultivated extensive social connections up until then, even after moving to Imado, many people came to visit. Many haikai friends also came to visit. “I, with my childish heart,” she said,“had sadly thought that leaving Yoshiwara would surely be a lonely affair—but with people coming and going so frequently,there proved far less solitude than I’d feared.Just when Mother and I began privately rejoicing at this turn...that incident occurred.”

As I mentioned before, this new house consisted of four rooms with the following layout: a three-tatami entrance alcove, a four-and-a-half-tatami maids' room, a six-tatami family parlor, and an eight-tatami formal reception room, and it was in this eight-tatami room that my parents and I were to sleep together. Around that time, we had a guest staying over, so we couldn’t very well have them sleep in the entranceway, nor could we put them in the family parlor. Since the four-and-a-half-tatami detached cottage where Father kept his desk was unoccupied at night, we decided to accommodate them there.

The guest staying over was Mr. Ida from Yotsuya, the heir to a pawnshop and a man equally enthusiastic about haiku, so he came visiting from evening onward, engrossed in his favorite discussions until late into the night. Moreover, the rain began falling heavily. Since it was an era unlike today with neither trains nor automobiles, returning from Imado to Yotsuya would have been quite arduous, so we suggested he stay over, and Mr. Ida consented to be accommodated.

Guided by the maid, Mr. Ida slept in the detached four-and-a-half-tatami room. We slept in the eight-tatami room as usual. The two maids slept in the four-and-a-half-tatami room next to the kitchen. It seemed the rain began to mix with wind, and a sound like shutters rattling could be heard. Since the location was Imado's riverbank, the sound of Sumida River's waters rhythmically splashing against the shore resounded near our pillows. Thinking it was somehow a frightening night, I entered my bedding and had just dozed off when I was awakened by the sound of Father and Mother talking.

“Is something wrong with Mr. Ida?” Mother asked uneasily. “He seems to be groaning somehow,” Father replied suspiciously. Hearing this, I suddenly grew frightened again. Night deepened, and the sounds of rain, wind, and waves grew ever louder.

“Anyway, I’ll go take a look.” Father lit the hand candle by his pillow and went out to the veranda. Mother too had sat up on the bedding and seemed to be peering out to assess the situation. Although it was called a detached cottage, since it was right there in the garden, Father went out without even an umbrella, entered the cottage, and seemed to be talking with Mr. Ida about something, but the sounds of wind and rain drowned out their voices, making it impossible to hear clearly. Before long, Father returned and, while laughing, was talking to Mother.

“Mr. Ida is still young,” he said. “He claims some apparition appeared in that room. This is no joking matter.” “My, what could be the matter?” As Mother weighed this with uncertainty, Father laughed again. “Young he may be, but he’s twenty-two already. Not a child. Spouting nonsense and disturbing everyone at this hour—utterly unacceptable.”

Father and Mother seemed to fall asleep after that, but I grew increasingly frightened and couldn’t sleep at all. Had there really been a ghost? On a night like this, there was no telling if a ghost might appear. When I thought that, my eyes grew wide awake, my little chest pounded, and I found it completely impossible to fall asleep again.

As I prayed for dawn to come quickly, the Asakusa bell struck two o'clock. At that very moment, another clattering noise came from the direction of the detached cottage, making me gasp. Without caring that my hair was getting disheveled, I pulled the bedding over my head from top to bottom and curled up small. Then it seemed Father and Mother both awoke at this commotion.

“Has something started making a commotion again?” “This is truly troublesome.” Father grumbled complaints as he lit the hand candle again and went out, but suddenly let out a startled cry and called for Mother. Mother, also startled, rushed out to the veranda only to immediately turn back and hurriedly light the andon lamp. It seemed this was no ordinary matter, so I could no longer remain frozen in fear. Driven by a fearful curiosity, I cautiously peeked my head out from under the bedding—only to see Father come in carrying Mr. Ida, both of them drenched by the rain.

Mr. Ida was deathly pale and utterly silent; having apparently tumbled from the detached cottage into the garden, the white yukata he slept in was now caked in mud. Mother woke the maids and had them draw water from the kitchen to wash Mr. Ida’s hands and feet. She had them change him into fresh nightclothes. After some time of commotion, Mr. Ida finally calmed down and asked for a glass of water. He seemed relieved after drinking water, but even so, Mr. Ida’s face still bore a bluish tinge.

“You’ve done enough. Go get some rest.” Father dismissed the maids, then turned to Mr. Ida and asked what had happened. Mr. Ida began to speak in a low voice.

“I must deeply apologize for repeatedly troubling you like this.” “As I said earlier, after being allowed to sleep in that four-and-a-half-tatami detached cottage, I’d just dozed off with my head on the pillow when I suddenly felt unbearably restless—as if someone were grabbing fistfuls of my hair and yanking them out. When I screamed in panic, you must have heard it, so you came to check on me.” “The Master said I must have been dreaming, but I couldn’t tell whether it was reality or a nightmare.” “After that, I tried lying down again, but my eyes stayed wide open—I couldn’t sleep a wink.” “As I kept tossing and turning, my chest grew heavy once more, and I felt like my scalp was being clawed at. This time I desperately pushed myself halfway up and stared around my pillow—that’s when I saw something glowing in the darkness.” “Bracing myself, I looked up… and there was that monkey mask hanging on the pillar—” “Its two eyes shone like blue flames, glaring straight at me.” “I couldn’t bear it another moment—I tried to bolt outside, but the shutter latch wouldn’t give.” “When I finally pried it open and stumbled into the garden, the rain-soaked ground made me slip and fall… causing you even more trouble with this whole commotion.”

That Mr. Ida’s story was not a lie could be discerned from his pale face. Since it was clear from daily interactions that he wasn’t one to cause such disturbances through jokes or pranks, Father listened with a puzzled look, but nevertheless stood up saying he would verify things for certainty. Mother wore an uneasy expression and seemed to gently tug Father’s sleeve, but being of uncompromising nature, he brushed her off and headed out toward the detached cottage. He soon returned, heaving a sigh that sounded like a groan.

“This is truly strange.” I started again. Since Father had said so, there could be no doubt it was indeed true. Mother and Mr. Ida both seemed to be silently gazing at Father’s face. The mask had been stored away in the depths of a cupboard but was hung on a pillar in the detached cottage this time. Since no one ever slept in the four-and-a-half-tatami room, whether its eyes glowed had gone unnoticed for nearly a month—until tonight, when having Mr. Ida stay there revealed this peculiar phenomenon for the first time. The wooden monkey’s eyes glowing blue like ghostly flames—just hearing about it made one’s skin crawl.

In any case, it was decided we would investigate thoroughly again come morning; after settling Mr. Ida in the six-tatami family room for the night, the evening passed without further incident—yet until the eastern sky whitened, wind and rain sounds stilled, and dawn crows called from Hachiman Shrine’s woods, I lay awake without respite.

Three

When dawn broke, the day brought the finest weather in recent memory, and above the Sumida River’s muddy waters stretched a vast azure sky. A clear morning in early summer is truly a refreshing thing. Since I had hardly slept last night, my head felt somewhat heavy, but as I gazed at the river from the drawing room window and was gently caressed by the cool morning breeze, my mind gradually grew clearer. Before long, breakfast preparations were complete, and Father and Mr. Ida sat facing each other to eat. I ended up being the one to serve them.

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

“Not just you alone—since I myself have witnessed it, we cannot dismiss this as mere delusion or trickery of the eyes,” Father said, setting down his chopsticks. “This reminds me—the samurai who sold that mask mentioned someone had placed a white cloth over the monkey mask’s eyes as a blindfold, though I don’t know when or who did it. At the time I thought nothing of it, but now I realize there must have been something uncanny about those eyes—perhaps that’s why they kept it covered.”

“Hmm, such a thing happened?” Mr. Ida also set down his chopsticks and pondered. “In that case, we likely have no way of knowing the seller’s whereabouts.” “I don’t know. After all, it was around the end of the year before last. Though I passed through Hirokoji many times since then, I never saw that antique shop again. Perhaps they changed their place of business, or maybe retreated to their hometown.”

After finishing our meal, Father and Mr. Ida went to the detached cottage to examine the true nature of the monkey mask in proper lighting. Drawn by fearful curiosity, Mother, I, and the maids quietly followed behind them to watch from a distance—whereupon both Father and Mr. Ida exclaimed in unison, "How strange! How strange!" When we asked what had happened, they said that the mask had disappeared somewhere. Since no one had entered that detached cottage from when Mr. Ida pried open the door and tumbled out until daybreak, it seemed plausible that someone might have sneaked in amidst the commotion and stolen it away. Yet Father tilted his head in puzzlement at how strange it was that all other items remained untouched, with just that single mask having disappeared. But no matter how much they investigated or deliberated, since what was gone remained gone, there was simply nothing to be done. They merely repeated their astonishment over and over, but in the end, they understood nothing at all.

Even by morning, Mr. Ida still did not seem to be truly feeling well; with a pale face, he departed early, so Father and Mother saw him off with pitying looks. Though that may not have been the direct cause, Mr. Ida soon after took to his bed with a lingering illness and finally succumbed in October of that year. It is said that his death poem—though I have forgotten the first five characters—was “Autumn wind seeping into the monkey’s eyes,” and Father was again deep in thought.

"If he went so far as to compose a death poem mentioning the monkey’s eyes, then perhaps the monkey mask incident was indeed cursing him."

Even so, Father continued to sit at his desk in the four-and-a-half-tatami detached cottage, devoting his days to his beloved haiku composition, and gradually began to acquire disciples. After some struggles, he somehow became a full-fledged master.

After that, about three years passed without incident until Meiji 10—the year of the well-known Satsuma Rebellion. At that time, Father was forty-one and I was seventeen when, at the end of March that year, a man named Kohei came visiting without notice. He had previously been a banquet entertainer in Yoshiwara but, after being expelled by his master and rendered unable to remain in the pleasure quarters, had started a small antique shop in Shitaya—while on the side making rounds to old acquaintances’ homes as a freelance entertainer. Father had known him for some time. He appeared after a long absence and announced he had brought something to show us. “Well, as you know,” Father initially refused, “when I quit the business I sold off all our family heirlooms—calligraphies and antiques alike—so whatever treasure you’ve unearthed now, bringing it to me is pointless.” But Kohei pressed on shamelessly—“Just take a look! If it doesn’t suit your taste, help me find someone else”—as he ceremoniously untied the cloth bundle to reveal an aged mask box.

“This comes from the residence of a certain hatamoto, and the box inscription states it is the work of Ōno Deme.” “Since its provenance is certain, I believe the item to be authentic, but…” When he untied the cord, opened the lid, and took out the mask for a look, Father was startled. That was undoubtedly the Monkey Mask. Kohei had obtained it from somewhere, created a makeshift box claiming it was the work of Ōno Deme, and appeared to be scheming to sell it at a high price. Such things were hardly unusual in the antique trade, so Father wasn’t particularly surprised either—but what did astonish him was how that mask had wound its way back to our house.

When pressed rigorously about its origins, Kohei’s facade gradually peeled away until he finally confessed he had purchased it at a night stall on Yotsuya-dori. When asked what sort of person the seller had been, he described a man who appeared to be a samurai—around forty-six or forty-seven years old, perhaps nearing fifty. When questioned whether the seller had brought a child along, he replied that the man had been sitting alone on a mat. As they pressed for details about the man’s appearance, it seemed he might have been someone who once ran a night stall in Ueno. When asked how much he paid, he admitted to buying it for fifteen sen. To take a mask acquired for fifteen sen, box it up, and pass it off as the work of Ōno Deme—even in these times, such a thoroughly unscrupulous man deserved his expulsion by his master.

In any case, it would have been better to immediately send such a thing back. However, as Father felt inclined to test once more whether the monkey mask truly glowed, when he told Kohei to let him keep it for two or three days anyway, Kohei readily agreed and handed the mask over to Father before departing. At that time, Mother was feeling somewhat unwell and had been in and out of bed, but when she later heard about it, she grimaced.

“Why did you take that thing back again?” “It’s not that I took it back.” “It’s simply a matter of testing whether there’s any real mystery to it or not,” Father said calmly. Unlike before, since I was now seventeen years old, I was no longer merely terrified out of sheer fright—but whenever I thought of things like Mr. Ida’s death, I still couldn’t help feeling unsettled. Father hung the mask in the four-and-a-half-tatami detached cottage as before, decided to go check on it during the night, and Mother and I laid out our futons in the eight-tatami room to sleep. Since I had grown older, I had made it a practice by then to sleep in the six-tatami tea-room.

I did not know what day it was by the lunar calendar, but that night hung mildly warm and overcast, two or three faint starlights filtering through the low sky. Father said, "You all should just go to sleep without worrying," but I found myself too unsettled by the mask affair to rest, lying awake even after retreating to bed. When the clock struck twelve like a signal, Father—who had been sleeping in the adjoining room—seemed to rise quietly. I too sat up slightly and strained my ears in the darkness until I heard him steal out into the garden with silent steps, creeping toward the detached cottage.

Just as I thought he had quietly opened the door to the four-and-a-half-tatami room, Mother’s startled cry came from the next room—so I instinctively leapt up and slid open the fusuma screen to look, but with the lantern extinguished, I couldn’t make out anything clearly. In my panic, I fumbled to light a fire, only to find Mother halfway crawled out from her futon, collapsed facedown on the tatami mats. Her round chignon lay completely disheveled, as if someone had grabbed her hair and dragged her out. I called out with a sob.

“Mom! Mom! What’s wrong with you?”

Startled by the voice, the maids also woke up and came. Father also returned from the garden entrance. After giving her water and medicine and nursing her, Mother soon regained consciousness, but according to her account, someone had suddenly grabbed her round chignon and forcefully dragged her out from her bedding. “Hmm...” Father let out a sigh. “It’s truly strange. The monkey’s eyes were still glowing blue.” I shuddered.

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, as he had originally bought it for fifteen sen. Father and I went out to the garden, smashed the mask into pieces, set it ablaze until it was completely burned, and then disposed of the ashes in the Sumida River.

“Even so, that antique dealer is a strange fellow. Whether it’s the same person who sold you the mask or not—just to be sure, why don’t we investigate?”

Kohei took Father out and went all the way up to Yamanote that evening, but there was no such antique dealer’s night stall on Yotsuya-dori. The place Kohei had indicated as where the stall had been set up was right next to Mr. Ida’s pawnshop, so even Father couldn’t help but feel an unpleasant feeling. After that, Mother had no further incidents, but her body gradually weakened, and 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 so, how the mask kept vanishing and reappearing remained unclear.” “As for who tore out Mr. Ida’s hair and grabbed Mother’s chignon—we never discovered.” “What do you make of that?”

“I truly have no idea at all.”

The Frog Hall Master also answered with a sigh.

Serpent Spirit

I

The fifth man spoke.

In my hometown, there exists a particular type of ghost story concerning snakes that has been passed down through generations. Of course, snakes and ghost stories are inextricably linked; tales of being enchanted by serpents or cursed by them have been countless since ancient times. However, I would ask you to understand that the story I am about to tell differs somewhat in nature from those typical snake-related tales.

My hometown lies in a remote mountain village of Kyushu, where snakes proliferated abundantly due to mountainous terrain and warm climate. However, their varieties were mostly common rat snakes, tiger keelbacks, forest snakes, and burrowing snakes - few posed danger to humans. Though rumors of mamushi bites circulated occasionally, those dreadful habu snakes did not inhabit the region. Among them existed rather sizable giant serpents. In recent years they had gradually disappeared, but long ago, fifteen-to-twenty-foot uwabami would writhe leisurely through the land, or so it was told.

Putting aside whether they were harmful or harmless, snakes were disliked by everyone. The people here, having grown accustomed to seeing them since childhood, neither disliked nor feared snakes as much as those from other regions did. Still, they could not help but fear mamushi vipers and giant snakes. Mamushi vipers being venomous snakes, it was only natural that everyone feared them; however, in this region, cases of people losing their lives or becoming crippled by mamushi were exceedingly rare. Since ancient times, everyone had known the treatment methods, and because they applied first aid immediately upon noticing a mamushi bite, major calamities usually ended as minor ones. Particularly as mamushi vipers were said to detest the smell of indigo, when entering mountains where mamushi were likely abundant, they wore indigo-dyed gaiters and indigo tabi socks, carried tree branch staffs, and beat any they encountered to death on sight. In other regions, there were said to be professions like viper catchers or snake catchers, but no such trade existed there. No one ate snakes either. No one drank viper-infused liquor either. They merely beat them to death and discarded them.

Mamushi vipers dwelled not only in the mountains but also abundantly in villages, but those accustomed to them would stretch out a hand towel, fold it double, and deliberately thrust it before them—whereupon the mamushi, enraged, would instantly sink its fangs into the cloth. The moment they yanked sharply, the mamushi’s fangs—white as aged hair—remained embedded in the hand towel, only to snap off brittlely. A mamushi that had lost its fangs was like a soldier who had lost his weapons—its fate was already sealed. For this reason, even if the people here feared mamushi vipers, they did not fear them as strongly as those from other regions did. He was acknowledged as dangerous on one hand, yet on the other hand he was also scorned as something easily subdued. To claim fear of mamushi vipers would earn you nothing but laughter.

However, when it came to those giant snakes, they could not be spoken of in the same breath as mamushi vipers. The massive ones coiled around livestock, killed them, and swallowed them whole. At times, they even swallowed children. Exterminating them was extremely difficult and could not be handled as easily as the mamushi extermination mentioned earlier; therefore, the people there truly feared giant snakes. Ancient legends born from that fear remained in great numbers, and those very legends seemed to further intensify their terror.

For this reason—though no one knows from which era it began—it had become an annual custom in the villages there to hold a Snake Festival at the start of the fourth month of the lunar calendar, when giant snakes were beginning to stir. They would fashion an effigy of a giant serpent using a long green bamboo pole for its body, weaving grass leaves around it, then drag it away while singing a certain song and cast it into a nearby large river. It was said that placing those grass leaves inside an amulet would prevent encounters with giant snakes or enchantment by them; thus women and children vied to pluck them. Even seeing such annual events ceaselessly repeated since ancient times made clear how much calamity those giant snakes had brought upon the people there—and how deeply they were feared.

Amidst them all, there lived in this village a man who alone did not fear the giant snakes at all—indeed, one might even think it was the snakes who feared him. His real name was Yoshijirō, but he was commonly known by his nickname, Hebi Kichi. He was the second-generation Hebi Kichi; his predecessor Yoshijirō had drifted in from somewhere about forty years prior, making his living as a roofer, but after certain circumstances led him to be recognized as a master of giant snake extermination, during summers, eradicating those serpents became his primary occupation.

That Yoshijirō had already passed away, and his son Yoshijirō had likewise succeeded his father, working as both a roofer and a giant snake exterminator. However, as his skill was said to surpass even that of his predecessor, the second-generation Hebi Kichi came to be greatly trusted by the villagers. He lived with his nearly sixty-year-old mother, just the two of them, leading an ordinary life by local standards. However, he eventually abandoned his main occupation as a roofer and specialized solely in giant snake extermination. He worked only during the summers and spent the winters idle.

As for the methods he used to exterminate the giant snakes, there appeared to be two. One involved selecting locations where giant snakes were likely to appear, digging deep pits there, and burning a certain medicine within them. The giant snakes would detect the scent, crawl out from their hiding places, and slither into these trap pits—not only was the depth too great for them to climb back out, but they also grew dazed by the drug's fumes until finally becoming paralyzed. Once this state was achieved, whether to spare or kill them lay entirely at his discretion. Yet he guarded the nature of this medicine fiercely, never revealing its secret to anyone.

If it were merely a matter of this alone—if one could obtain that secret medicine—it would seem something anyone could do, and there would be no particular reason to acknowledge Hebi Kichi’s skill. But 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—leaving no time to dig pits or burn that secret medicine—what would he do? He would take a single hatchet and a hemp sack tied to his waist before setting out. Inside the hemp sack was stored a reddish-brown powder-like substance, and first, he would scatter this powder in a straight line across the path of the approaching snake. He would then retreat four or five ken and scatter it again. Then he would scatter it again at a point four or five ken further away. In this way, drawing three lines across the snake’s path, he would await the enemy.

“I’ll stop it at the second line for sure.” “If it crosses the third line, my life’s done for.”

He always said this. Holding his hatchet and standing before the first line, he would face the giant snake as it glared and advanced—only to hesitate upon reaching that initial barrier. Seizing this moment, he would pounce without hesitation and shatter the enemy head-on. If the snake advanced past the first line undeterred, he retreated backward faster than the serpent could pursue, taking position at the second line. Even those that breached the first line inevitably hesitated at the second. Once hesitation took hold, Hebi Kichi’s axe descended upon their heads. True to his word, most giant snakes fell at the first line—and those stubborn enough to cross it invariably lost their heads before the second.

While this may sound straightforward when described verbally, in reality, when facing a snake charging head-on, one had to first hold the first line; if danger arose, immediately retreat to defend the second line. Thus, whether likening him to a swift bird or a darting serpent, he needed to maneuver with extraordinary agility. It could be said this was what made Hebi Kichi Hebi Kichi. However, on one occasion, a giant snake calmly crossed even that second line, causing the spectators to grip their hands in sweat. Hebi Kichi also turned pale. He hurriedly retreated to defend the third line, only for the enemy to advance further and cross it.

“Ah, it’s no good.”

The people involuntarily let out sighs.

Whenever Hebi Kichi went out to exterminate snakes, he was always completely naked, wearing nothing but indigo-dyed half-length trousers. Today, he was in his usual state as well, but the moment he saw that even the final line had finally been breached and all hope was lost, he swiftly stripped off those indigo-dyed half-length trousers, chanted something akin to an incantation as he leapt up, and tore them in two from the crotch—whereupon the giant snake too split from mouth to tail and died. Hebi Kichi collapsed as though utterly exhausted, but with the people’s care, he soon regained consciousness.

From then on, the people came to revere Hebi Kichi even more. The powder he scattered was also a type of secret medicine, undoubtedly something that poisoned snakes. The reasoning that one could kill them by striking when weakened by the poison had been mostly understood until then, but this time they simply couldn’t make sense of it. At a life-and-death moment, he chanted some incantation while tearing his own trousers in two—whereupon the snake too split into two and died.

At this point, one might call it a form of magic. Of course, since it was obvious he wouldn’t provide an explanation even if questioned, no one went out of their way to investigate further—yet whispers began to spread from mouth to ear among the people that he might not be entirely human after all.

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

People who said such things began to appear.

II Whether he was human or a snake spirit, Hebi Kichi’s presence brought fortune to the village, so none harbored resentment or hostility toward him. Intertwined with fear that offending him might invite supernatural retribution, the villagers came to revere him even more deeply. About half a year after that incident with the trousers, Hebi Kichi’s mother died as though struck down suddenly and was earnestly mourned by every soul in the village.

With his mother gone, Hebi Kichi was now alone. He was already a year or two past thirty. Under normal circumstances, he should have married long ago, but the name 'Hebi Kichi' proved troublesome, and no one from within the village—let alone neighboring villages—came forward to propose a match. He was respected by the villagers. As long as the supply of giant snakes never ran out, his livelihood remained secure. Moreover, when it came to marrying him, many indeed hesitated, so he had remained single until now.

“Up until now, having my mother here, I didn’t think much of it, but being alone like this feels truly lonesome. First of all, I’m having trouble with the morning and evening cooking. Could you please find me a suitable bride?” he requested when he came to Shoya’s house one day.

Shoya also felt pity for him. Though people whispered all sorts of things behind his back, he was a man who had served this village faithfully for many years. His usual conduct wasn’t particularly bad. That is, having lost his mother and finding it inconvenient, he says he wants to take a wife. Since this was truly a reasonable request, he agreed to do something about it, but when he consulted the village’s prominent figures about it, every last one of them tilted their heads in doubt.

“That man is truly pitiable indeed.” While everyone said it was pitiable, no one was willing to offer their own daughter or sister, and Shoya was at a loss how to handle the matter—when one clever fellow among them spoke up.

“Well, how about this? Since some time ago, a thirty-five or thirty-six-year-old woman has come tumbling into Jusuke’s house, claiming to be a distant relative or something. Apparently she worked at some daruma tea house or other—why not consult Jusuke and arrange for that woman to be looked after…?” “But that woman has a bad illness, so Jusuke seems to be troubled,” said another. “However, if there’s even a possibility like that, let’s call Jusuke and ask him.”

Shoya immediately summoned Jusuke. He was a tenant farmer whose household of four already struggled to scrape by when his cousin’s daughter had come tumbling into their midst—leaving him utterly overwhelmed as he had been lamenting at length. Though called a daughter, she was thirty-seven that year and had contracted severe syphilis after drifting through disreputable tea houses since her youth due to loose morals. Having become unable to work elsewhere, she had relied on family ties to take refuge in his household; if healthy she might have been useful, but as a semi-invalid alternating between bedrest and brief activity daily, she proved nothing but a burden requiring constant care. And he laid bare everything before Shoya.

“A semi-invalid would be problematic,” Shoya grimaced. “There’s actually a matter concerning a bride...” “Could there truly be someone willing to take such a woman as a bride?” Jusuke asked skeptically. “It’s unclear whether he’ll accept her for certain, but that Yoshikichirou is seeking a bride.” “Ah—that Hebi Kichi?”

Whether it was Hebi Kichi or someone else, he didn’t care. "If there’s someone willing to take in such a person, I earnestly ask for your help," Jusuke pleaded repeatedly. However, since a semi-invalid was no good, Shoya persuaded him that they would discuss it once she had recovered her health and sent him home.

About half a month later, Jusuke came to Shoya’s house again and said that since the woman’s illness had now healed, please settle that matter they had discussed before. He seemed to be considerably troubled with how to handle the woman. Therefore, since this supposed full recovery was somewhat doubtful, Shoya was hesitating in his response when—as if on cue—Hebi Kichi came pressing for an answer, asking if there had been any progress. Thinking that the simultaneous appearance of someone wanting to send off a bride and someone wanting to take one might be fate at work, Shoya decided to broach the matter regardless—whereupon Hebi Kichi answered without hesitation, earnestly requesting his assistance. He said he wanted to take her as his bride despite knowing she was thirty-seven—five years his senior—and that she had worked at disreputable tea houses while carrying a severe illness.

Given this, there remained nothing more to discuss. The matter proceeded smoothly, and within no more than another half-month, a middle-aged wife had settled into Hebi Kichi’s household. The wife’s name was Otoshi.

As Shoya had suspected, Otoshi had not truly fully recovered. Though she forced herself to get up, her face remained ghostly pale, her body wasted away like a specter. Shoya had tended to her out of necessity yet privately fretted whether matters would settle peacefully—but then came the marvel: over weeks that stretched into months, vitality surged back into Otoshi with startling speed, her cheeks blooming with such newfound radiance they seemed almost unrecognizable.

“Maybe Hebi Kichi’s been feeding her snake ash or something,” some whispered in private. Whether that was true or not, it was a fact that Otoshi regained her health. And so, seeing them living harmoniously with her younger husband, Shoya finally felt relieved. In reality, their marital relationship was far more harmonious than others could imagine. Otoshi—a woman who had toyed with countless men over the years—devoted such intense affection to Hebi Kichi that even she herself found its depth unnerving. Hebi Kichi, of course, ardently loved her as well. Over the course of more than three years of living together like this, Hebi Kichi revealed the secrets of his work to his wife.

Behind his house stood a low-roofed hut. Built facing north and surrounded by thick trees, it remained dim even at noon and perpetually damp throughout the year. In the corner of that hut, Otoshi found two or three unfamiliar mushrooms growing. When she asked Hebi Kichi what they were, he explained they were medicine for catching snakes. If one killed several snakes of varying sizes and buried their corpses deep in the ground, a type of mushroom would grow there after two or three years. After sun-drying them in the shade, he would finely chop the mushrooms, then mince a woman's hair and mix it with another type of medicine before kneading everything together. "When you burn the finished medicine," he said, "the giant snake comes drawn by its scent." Yet regarding that other medicine, even Hebi Kichi would not readily disclose its secret. Another substance—the powdered medicine he scattered during battles with the giant snake—was likewise made by blending certain ingredients into that base. Even had she learned these secrets in detail, since such work ultimately lay beyond others' capabilities anyway, Otoshi refrained from probing further into the matter.

The couple’s relationship was harmonious, their livelihood was not in want, and the family was living in true contentment; yet for some reason, Hebi Kichi’s vigor seemed to be gradually waning these days. He would sometimes sigh when alone. Otoshi felt uneasy for some reason, but even when she asked if something was wrong, her husband replied that there was nothing particular. However, one day he blurted out such a thing.

“I don’t think I can keep doing this much longer.” Otoshi didn’t particularly dislike their current occupation, but she had realized that once they grew old, continuing such work would likely become impossible. Determined to prepare now—whether by saving capital for a new venture or purchasing affordable farmland—she concluded they must somehow plan for their future livelihood. When she consulted her husband about this, Hebi Kichi nodded.

“I don’t care what happens to me, but you mustn’t face any hardship.” “With that in mind, I’ll work as hard as I can while I still can.”

He spoke again of such matters.

“As everyone in the village knows, just before my mother died, I encountered a terrifying giant snake and nearly got killed.” “When it calmly crossed the third barrier line, I was at my wits’ end—but then I suddenly remembered my dead father’s last words.” “When Father was on his deathbed from that serious illness, he told me: ‘After I’m gone, if you ever face mortal danger in your life, call my name and chant this incantation.’” “‘I’ll definitely save you.’” “‘But only once.’” “‘Just once in your lifetime,’ he’d stressed repeatedly.” “Remembering that, half in a daze, I stripped off my leggings, called Father’s name while chanting the incantation, and tore them clean in two—then miraculously, the thing split straight down the middle and died.” “To this day I don’t understand why I tore those leggings.” “Maybe my dead father made me do it.” When I returned home and told Mother about it, she both rejoiced and mourned. “Since you’ve used up that once-in-a-lifetime promise, your father won’t save you again.” “From now on, you must be careful with that in mind,” she said. “I didn’t think much of it then, but lately remembering that... it’s been weighing on me something fierce.” “Well, if it were just me, I’d manage somehow—but thinking of you, I can’t afford slip-ups.”

No matter what came to pass, Otoshi felt deeply moved by her husband's kindness that always kept her in mind.

III

The fourth summer since the two began living together arrived. This year, a large giant snake appeared in the neighboring village and ravaged the fields, leaving all men and women too terrified to work outdoors. With the fields destined to become overgrown if left unchecked, the entire village gathered to deliberate until they resolved to request that Hebi Kichi exterminate the creature. They offered one ryō of gold and three bales of rice for successful extermination, but Hebi Kichi refused their proposal.

It seemed the neighboring village was truly desperate, for they came once more to plead with Shoya, insisting he somehow convince Hebi Kichi. Sympathizing with their plight, Shoya personally tried to persuade Hebi Kichi again, but he still refused. When Hebi Kichi said he wanted to be excused from the job as he felt no motivation for it, Shoya would not relent. “Isn’t this your trade?” “Why refuse work offering one ryō of gold and three hyō of rice?” “First, there’s neighborly goodwill to consider.” “Five years ago when our village flooded, you know their people came to help us.” “Since it’s mutual obligation, we can’t uphold propriety by just watching their troubles.” “If anyone could do it, we’d send others. But this requires you specifically—that’s why I’m asking like this.” “Please accept and go.”

When told this, Hebi Kichi could no longer persist in his obstinacy. He was ultimately compelled to agree against his will, but even after returning home, he appeared somewhat despondent. The next morning, as he finished preparing and set out, he parted from his wife with tears in his eyes.

In the neighboring village, they welcomed him joyfully. He was guided to the village head’s house, treated to a lavish feast, and then began his usual preparations for exterminating the giant snake. However, from the moment he set foot in this village, that serpent had not shown itself even once. Some speculated that even the formidable giant snake must have retreated far away upon learning of Hebi Kichi’s arrival, but since the creature showed no sign of itself, there was no choice but to lure it out. Hebi Kichi identified a likely spot for the snake’s appearance, dug his usual pitfall trap there, and burned his secret medicine. Moreover, it had no effect at all. Not even a single small snake fell into that pit.

Having been persuaded to stay a little longer since he had come all this way, Hebi Kichi spent several days there, but the giant snake never showed itself. It did not fall into the pitfall trap either. "If I stay too long, those at home will start to worry. I'm going back now," he declared on the morning of the eleventh day, insisting he absolutely had to leave. Since the other party could not keep him indefinitely either, it was decided they would request his services again another time, and the villagers gave him two bu as a token of gratitude. Though he had not succeeded in exterminating the giant snake, it remained true that since his arrival, the creature had ceased to appear. Having made him waste over ten days of his time, they could not send him back empty-handed—thus, out of courtesy, they presented him with that sum.

“I’m sorry I was of no use, but I’ll gratefully accept your kind gesture.” As he was about to leave with the money, one of the villagers came running in a panic to report that a large giant snake had appeared at the edge of the thicket bordering the mountain, causing everyone to stir abruptly. “We were just about to see Mr. Yosh off.” “Now, please—we’re counting on you.” Since this was precisely why they’d summoned him, Hebi Kichi could no longer delay. He quickly got ready and rushed to the spot with his guide, where sure enough, the giant snake lay prone with half its body emerging from the thicket, as if asleep.

Hebi Kichi took out the prepared powdered medicine and drew three lines on the ground resembling the character for "river" turned sideways. He stood rigidly before the first line and let out a great shout, whereupon the giant snake—which had appeared to be sleeping until then—flared its eyes and raised its head. No sooner had this happened than it spat out a flame-like tongue and charged raspingly toward Hebi Kichi, but neither the first nor second line seemed to pose any obstacle as the enemy stormed straight over them. The third line was also breached.

Hebi Kichi did not chant an incantation as he had before. He did not remove his work trousers either. He swung up the hand axe he held and struck the enemy head-on from the front. Though his aim held true, the serpent appeared unfazed by this single blow. Wielding its powerful tail, it coiled around him—from left leg to waist, then chest—until man and snake faced each other so closely their faces nearly touched. With matters having reached this point, grappling became inevitable. Hebi Kichi threw down his hand axe and seized the serpent’s throat with both hands in a crushing grip, whereupon the enemy summoned its full strength to constrict his body.

As the crowd watched this terrifying struggle with bated breath, precisely because he had seized the enemy’s vital point, this battle was in Hebi Kichi’s favor. Even the mighty giant snake, its throat bone crushed, gradually weakened.

“Cut this bastard’s tail off!” Hebi Kichi bellowed. From the crowd, a bold young man rushed out and slashed through the snake’s tail with the sharp blade of a sickle. With its tail severed and neck wounded, the giant snake had grown utterly feeble. Seeing this, five or six more people rushed over and swung their weapons of choice. The serpent thrashed about wildly like a worm tormented by ants, its long corpse exposed beneath the morning sun.

At the same time, Hebi Kichi also lost consciousness and collapsed to the ground.

He was carried into Shoya’s house and, after being tended to by many people, finally regained consciousness. He hadn’t suffered any particular injuries, but he was severely weakened and lacked the strength to rise again. When Hebi Kichi was carried back on a door plank, Otoshi burst into tears. The villagers were also surprised and rushed over. Since he himself had pushed him to go, leading to this outcome, the Shoya was especially pained at heart. As he comforted Otoshi and tended to Hebi Kichi, the latter shouted as if in delirium.

“That’s enough. Go away, all of you. Just go.” Since he kept shouting this, and since it wouldn’t do to oppose an invalid, the Shoya proposed they withdraw from the place for now. Leaving only their relative Jusuke behind and instructing Otoshi to notify them immediately if anything changed, they all went home.

The morning was clear, but in the afternoon it clouded over and became muggy, and by mid-June evening, rain began to fall. Otoshi and Jusuke sat silently by the patient’s bedside. The rainy evening gradually deepened into desolation, and amidst the sound of rain, the croaking of frogs could be heard. “Jusuke, you go home too,” Hebi Kichi groaned.

While the two were exchanging glances, the patient groaned again. “Otoshi, you go home too.” “Where are you going?” Otoshi asked. “Anywhere will do. Go with Jusuke. Don’t keep tormenting me forever.” “Well then, we’ll go.” The two nodded to each other and left the spot. Sharing a single umbrella, they started walking four or five ken through the dark rain, but then retraced their steps stealthily. Peering quietly from the entrance, they found the interior silent, with no groans to be heard. As the two exchanged glances once more and stealthily peered inside, the sickbed was empty, and Hebi Kichi’s figure was nowhere to be seen.

This once again threw the entire village into an uproar, and many people split up to search the area, but Hebi Kichi’s figure was nowhere to be found. He abandoned the home he had long lived in, abandoned his beloved wife, and vanished forever from the village. When one considers how he had told his wife that he could not continue this trade much longer, his intense aversion to visiting neighboring villages, and all such circumstances together, it seems he may have foreseen his own fate—yet whether he had indeed perished or was hiding somewhere remained a mystery for all time.

However, the majority of the villagers believed he had died. And so, they interpreted it in this way.

“That is indeed no mere human. A snake! A snake spirit! He must have hidden himself deep in the mountains, determined not to show his true form when dying.” If he were a snake spirit, then his father and mother must likewise be snakes. Otoshi absolutely denied that such a thing could be possible. Moreover, why had her husband kept the surrounding people away and hidden himself during their absence? The particulars of it were unclear even to her.

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

Clear Water Well

I

The sixth man spoke.

Just now we heard a tale from Kyushu, but my own homeland lies in that same region where what we call Heike legends still linger in abundance. Such legends invariably cling to eerie romances, and this one too follows that pattern. However, this did not occur in recent times. I heard it happened some ninety years past, during Tenpō's first year.

Thirteen ri from the town in my hometown region lay a village called Sugido. Since it was said to be another three ri further inland from there—though today that might be different—in those days it must have been quite a remote place. There resided a prominent household known as Yui Kichizaemon. It is said their ancestors had been retainers of the Kikuchi clan, but after the Kikuchi fell from power, they hid there and cultivated fields while still wearing swords. This ancestor evidently excelled in financial matters as well, gradually developing the land until he established himself as a large-scale farmer of rare prominence in those parts. Thus, their descendants continued unbroken through the Tokugawa period. As such, not only the local people but also successive feudal lords granted the family special treatment—beyond permitting them the right to bear a family name and wear swords, they were also required to visit the castle every New Year to offer formal greetings to their lord.

Thus, though nominally peasants, they maintained a semi-samurai, semi-agrarian lifestyle akin to country gentry: the master wore long and short swords when venturing out, his residence displayed weaponry and horse gear, and he employed thirty to forty male workers alone. A bamboo grove encircled the large estate, while beyond it, they had fashioned a small moat-like structure using a natural stream. When local people passed by its gate, they would remove their hats and face cloths, politely greeting each time as they went by, and thus the household was held in no small esteem by the villagers in the surrounding area. The family head had inherited the name Kichizaemon for generations, and at the beginning of the Tenpō era when this story takes place, it is said that the sixteenth-generation Kichizaemon was the master.

Yui Kichizaemon had two daughters: the elder was named Osoyo, and the younger was Otsugi. From early autumn of a certain year onward, these sisters gradually grew thin and weak, exhibiting what might be called a wasting illness—they ate little during the day and slept restlessly at night. Their parents grew deeply concerned and went to great lengths to summon an excellent physician from distant Kumamoto’s castle town to administer thorough treatments, yet neither sister showed any improvement. Every doctor merely tilted their heads in puzzlement, unable to determine what sort of illness this was.

Osoyo was eighteen and Otsugi sixteen—both young women of marriageable age—so people suspected it might be what’s commonly called love sickness. However, it seemed odd for not just one but both sisters to suffer from the same affliction. Of course, this did not mean they were entirely bedridden; on fine days or when they felt better, they would rise from their beds and stroll through the rice fields and garden. Yet they were still patients through and through, and their parents’ distress was unending.

Then, various doubts arose within the parents. The local people also began spreading all sorts of rumors. Rumors spread that either a possessing spirit had taken hold of the Yui household's daughters or some curse had befallen the family. Troubled by this, the parents summoned Shinto priests, Buddhist monks, mountain ascetics, and itinerant holy men one after another to perform every manner of exorcism ritual—yet none proved effective. Before long, one of the male servants whispered this secret to the master and his wife.

The servant’s duty was to patrol the mansion once each night at midnight. On a December night when the moon shone brightly, as he made his usual rounds, he discovered two women standing by the old well at the rear of the estate. Though seen at night and from a distance, the bright moonlight allowed him to quickly discern that the women were undoubtedly the master’s two daughters—a realization that filled him with puzzlement. Hiding behind a large tree and continuing to observe their movements, he saw that the sisters, holding hands and clinging together affectionately, appeared to be peering intently into the well’s depths. While he watched vigilantly, thinking they surely wouldn’t throw themselves in, the sisters eventually entered inside, still holding hands and laughing joyfully.

The servant’s report was merely that, but upon consideration, one must say the suspicions were manifold. The Kichizaemon couple also frowned in concern, wondering why young women—especially semi-invalids—would go out to the back door during cold late-night hours to peer into the old well. So, having ordered that servant to lie in wait near the well again the following night, when the night grew late once more, the sisters emerged hand in hand. And then, just as they had the night before, they peered into the well and returned home looking just as happy.

With such strange behavior continuing for two nights in a row, the parents could no longer ignore it. However, believing that interrogating both sisters together would prevent them from confessing the truth, Yui Kichizaemon and his wife resolved to first question the younger sister, Otsugi. They reasoned that being younger, she would yield a confession more readily. Otsugi was summoned to an inner room where her parents pressed close to interrogate her. At first she stubbornly kept silent, but under relentless pressure finally confessed.

That confession proved equally strange. Osoyo and Otsugi had customarily laid their bedding each night in an eight-mat inner room, but one night in early August changed everything. When Otsugi awoke at midnight, she found her sister rising quietly from beside her. Assuming Osoyo meant to visit the privy, she watched as her sister instead slid open veranda shutters and stole toward the garden entrance—a sight that filled Otsugi with unease. Compelled by mingled dread and curiosity, she followed stealthily as Osoyo circled from the garden entrance to the rear grounds. There spread a broad clearing where an ancient well stood guarded by a solitary camellia tree. Osoyo crept toward the well’s edge and appeared to gaze into its moonlit depths.

Then, upon keeping a close watch every night, she found that Osoyo’s identical actions continued and were repeated for four or five days straight. Otsugi considered reporting this to their parents but, thinking it unwise to rashly expose the secret of her sister—with whom she had always been close—one evening stopped Osoyo as she was leaving as usual and demanded to know why she was doing such a thing. Osoyo replied that she had a prayer to make. Finding this rather suspicious, Otsugi pressed her sister further with relentless questioning until Osoyo could no longer contain herself and finally divulged the secret to her younger sister.

About a month ago, around noon, as Osoyo passed by that old well, two large, beautiful butterflies fluttered about entwined, and soon the pair fell into the well while still overlapping each other. Osoyo approached the well to ascertain their whereabouts and peered down, but the butterflies were nowhere to be seen. As she peered intently at the bottom, wondering if they had fallen into the water, two beautiful men’s faces appeared reflected on the surface. Startled, she looked around to her left and right, but there was no one nearby. It wasn’t as though the two butterflies had transformed into two men’s faces. As she continued to gaze in wonder, the men’s faces looked up at her and smiled sweetly, causing Osoyo to shudder and recoil.

However, the eeriness lasted only for that single instant, and Osoyo found herself wanting to see those beautiful men’s faces again. She peered left and right, stepped lightly closer to the well, and quietly peered into the water, but the men’s faces were no longer floating there. Osoyo felt an indescribable disappointment and dejectedly left the spot, but when she passed by the well again the next day, she saw two butterflies entangled and fluttering above it once more. The butterflies had vanished somewhere, but when Osoyo peered into the well again that day as if chasing their trail, the two faces reappeared. Osoyo gazed endlessly at those faces.

That was the beginning—Osoyo began going to peer into that old well several times a day. As this continued, the men's faces ceased to appear in bright daylight, their beautiful visages no longer floating upon the water's surface unless night had fallen. On moonlit nights of course, but even on pitch-dark nights, those faces appeared clearly, standing out even more vividly at midnight than during evening hours. The reason behind Osoyo's recent late-night escapes from bed became clear through this pattern, yet her younger sister Otsugi still couldn't fully believe it until she begged her sister to take her along. There on the old well's water surface indeed floated two pale faces—each resembling painted court nobles of an elegance never before seen in those parts—so Otsugi too gazed at them for some time with a dreamlike sensation. And thus she came to nod in understanding—no wonder her sister stole there faithfully every night without fail.

There were two faces reflected in the well’s water. Until now, only the elder sister had been gazing at them, but after that, there were now also two women’s faces facing those two. The sisters continued to visit the wellside every night, having arranged to go together. Of course, all they could do was gaze at those faces—there was nothing else to be done—but just as a monkey scooping at the moon’s reflection in water, these sisters too would sneak off night after night, impatiently waiting for the late hours, driven by a longing to capture those two beautiful faces reflected in the water. And so, they continued to be tormented by futile, inescapable longing, their bodies growing ever more emaciated.

Two

When Yui Kichizaemon and his wife summoned their elder daughter Osoyo for further questioning, since her younger sister had already confessed everything, the elder sister could no longer conceal anything. Osoyo also honestly confessed everything before her parents, but since her account did not differ in the slightest from Otsugi’s, the Kichizaemon couple had no room left for doubt. Just to be certain, the couple went to peer into the well late that night, but nothing appeared before their eyes.

“There must be something suspicious dwelling at the bottom of this well, deluding our daughters. Have the bottom dredged and inspected,” commanded Yui Kichizaemon. Though it was mid-December, the day had dawned clear and bright, with a bush warbler’s song trilling from somewhere among the bamboo grass. Nearly all the male and female servants mobilized to begin dredging the well around eight in the morning, but the water showed little sign of draining.

Within the Yui estate there were several wells, but this well was the oldest among them. It was said to have already taken the form of a well when Yui’s ancestors first settled here, so it must have been dug by people of the distant past. However, this well was the deepest, its water the clearest and purest, and it had never once dried up even in the worst droughts, which was why it was called the Clear Water Well in this estate. Since they were attempting to drain the well, it was perfectly clear that this would be no easy task. Drew as they might, drew as they might, the servants were utterly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of water that kept welling up from below. Yet even so, through their combined efforts, the water level had receded much further than usual.

What kind of monster lurked at the bottom—whether something like the lord of the pond, a carp or catfish, or perhaps a bullfrog or water imp—none of the forms that everyone had imagined seemed likely to be found, so Yui Kichizaemon issued another command. “Try lowering the rake.”

The iron rake was lowered to the bottom of the well with a thick rope attached. After raking through several times to see if anything would catch, 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, they found it was a small mirror. The mirror appeared quite old, and that it had likely been owned by a person of high status could be discerned from the exquisite carvings on it. Since they thought something else might still emerge, they lowered the rake again to search, and another mirror was hauled up. This was another piece similar to the previous one.

Since there seemed to be nothing else to unearth, they suspended the day’s dredging and turned their attention to examining the two mirrors. However, beyond concluding they were simply old artifacts, they could scarcely imagine from which era or by whose hand they had been placed there. Yet with two faces reflected in the water and two mirrors now retrieved, it was easy for anyone to imagine there must be some connection between those who bore the faces and those who had owned these mirrors.

Having been raised in a wealthy and distinguished family, Yui Kichizaemon possessed considerable scholarly knowledge and thus took no small interest in the discovery of these ancient mirrors. Moreover, having acknowledged that the mirrors seemed to harbor a mysterious and incomprehensible power that had bewitched his own two daughters, he concluded they could no longer be left unattended, and first securely sealed both mirrors inside a plain wood box. Afterward, he went out to the castle town and visited renowned scholars and appraisers to request historical verification and authentication regarding the era and provenance of the mirrors’ creation. However, beyond concluding that they were not made in Japan and were likely transmitted from China, no further discoveries were made—leaving Yui Kichizaemon disappointed.

Since the mirrors were retrieved, the men’s shadows no longer appeared in the well. Considering this development, it was believed that the mirrors must harbor some secret, so Kichizaemon extended his inquiries to neighboring provinces and investigated through every possible means. After all, being from an affluent household with no financial constraints and bearing the Yui family name renowned even in distant regions proved advantageous in many respects—yet despite these favorable circumstances, this particular investigation alone stubbornly refused to yield results, and the months passed vainly until around April or May of the following year. The sisters’ daughters themselves seemed to awaken from a dream thereafter, their inexplicable mysterious illness gradually fading away until they returned to their original healthy selves.

Since the daughters had returned to their original state and there had been no further incidents since, it would have been acceptable to leave things as they were; however, Yui Kichizaemon remained unsettled. Sparing neither money nor time—even if it took years—he resolved to uncover the mirrors’ origins at all costs. Summoning scholars from Kumamoto, Saga, Kokura, Nagasaki, and Hakata, he established a sort of research facility within his estate and continued his investigations zealously. Then at year’s end—exactly one year after the mirrors had surfaced—all secrets finally came to light for the first time.

The process of that discovery first unfolded as follows. The people gathered at the Yui residence deliberated and adopted a policy of first investigating when the well had been dug and who had resided there prior to the Yui ancestors' settlement, rather than pursuing inquiries into the mirrors' origins and other matters. This too proved difficult to ascertain, but by consulting old records and the oral traditions of elderly locals, they discovered for the first time that until the early Nanboku-chō period, a warrior named Ochi Shichirōzaemon had lived there. Shichirōzaemon had maintained his residence here since the Genpei period and appeared to have been a rather influential samurai, but upon discovering that he had been destroyed by the Kikuchi during the Nanboku-chō period and his descendants had departed somewhere, they proceeded to investigate the whereabouts of those descendants; however, given how remote the past was, that too proved difficult to ascertain. After exhausting every means of investigation, they discovered that the descendants of the Ochi family had migrated to Hakata and now operated a lacquerware shop called Tomoe-ya. To put it plainly, it was simply this process, yet confirming just this much had consumed nearly an entire year.

Then, upon investigating old records concerning the Ochi family at Hakata’s Tomoe-ya, they found that no separate records of any kind remained there either. However, the current master told us there was this sort of legend regarding our distant ancestors.

It remains unknown which generation this was, but during the Genpei period, the Ochi family appears to have been at its most prosperous. To that Ochi residence one spring evening came two young, beautiful women. They met with Master Shichirōzaemon—what words were exchanged remains unclear—but from that night onward, the women took up residence there, becoming members of the household. The master imposed a strict gag order upon his family and secretly sheltered those women within his estate. The women themselves avoided being seen and seldom ventured outdoors.

Judging from their demeanor and attire, they were people of the capital—likely Heike court ladies who had fled from Dan-no-ura and sought refuge there—so the household members secretly concluded. Master Shichirōzaemon was twenty-two or twenty-three years old at the time and still unmarried. Into his embrace came young women born in the capital, so the outcome was not difficult to imagine. Before long, the two women came to share his bed and board, living harmoniously with him for over three years. It was unclear which was the wife, but the retainers called one Ume-dono and the other Sakura-dono, treating them with respect.

While this was ongoing, an incident occurred there. It was that a marriage proposal had come to Shichirōzaemon from a samurai named Takizawa in the neighboring area. Takizawa was also an influential samurai in that region, and forming a marital alliance with him would be advantageous for the Ochi family. What particularly swayed Shichirōzaemon’s heart was that Takizawa’s daughter was a seventeen-year-old beauty. In reality, no matter what their relationship might have been, Ume-dono and Sakura-dono’s status was ultimately that of those living in obscurity, so they could not openly voice objections. The marriage negotiations proceeded without a hitch, and at last the auspicious morning had arrived—the day when the bride would be brought in that very night.

The retainers of the Ochi estate were shocked by an unforeseen calamity. Master Shichirōzaemon had been stabbed to death in his bed. He lay dead on his back, a blade having pierced through both sides of his chest. Neither Ume-dono nor Sakura-dono, who should have been sleeping in the same room, were anywhere to be seen. The entire estate erupted into chaos. As they scoured every corner in their search, the corpses of the two women were discovered in the garden well. Considering the circumstances, there was no conclusion but to acknowledge that Ume and Sakura, driven by resentment and jealousy over this marriage arrangement, had killed their master and then drowned themselves together. Of course, it seemed to be an undoubted fact.

Moreover, when they hauled up the two corpses from the well, the retainers were once again shocked by an unexpected fact: Ume and Sakura, whom they had steadfastly believed until then to be court ladies of the capital, were unmistakably men. They were likely scions of the Taira clan’s distinguished lineage who, taking advantage of their elegant, capital-bred demeanor, had disguised themselves as court ladies to escape. While it was only natural that to the eyes of country samurai raised in mountain villages, they would appear as genuine women, Shichirōzaemon should not have been deceived. He had known the true nature of the two all along—yet he made Ume and Sakura his own, indulging in secret pleasures. The crime was, in turn, avenged by the hands of those two.

It was in that clear-water well that Ume and Sakura had drowned themselves. The two mirrors had likely been held against their chests and accidentally let slip back into the well during retrieval—or perhaps the retainers had taken them and cast them in. After losing their master Shichirōzaemon, the Ochi family was inherited by a relative’s child. And then, as mentioned before, they perished during the Northern and Southern Courts period.

After several decades had passed with the site becoming a wild grassland overgrown with thick weeds, the ancestors of the Yui family came and settled there. When the later inhabitants cut down trees, mowed the grass, and built a new dwelling, they unexpectedly discovered an old well buried there and, delighted by its clear water, seem to have continued using it as they found it.

From the Genpei era to the first year of Tenpō, over six hundred years had passed. During that time, the two mirrors housing the spirits of the Taira nobles had likely lain sunken at the bottom of the old well as though asleep. Why they awoke from their long slumber to attempt bewitching descendants of later residents with whom they shared no connection remains an eternal mystery. The mirrors were enshrined at the Yui family's ancestral temple, where Kichizaemon presided as patron over a grand memorial service.

The mirrors became treasured artifacts at a certain temple, and even after the Meiji era were reportedly displayed during annual airing ceremonies, though their current status remains unknown. The Yui family home was destroyed during the Satsuma Rebellion for supporting Saigō’s forces, leaving no trace behind, though rumor has it the family relocated to Nagasaki and still lives comfortably there. As for that well—its fate too remains unclear. Now that the area has reportedly become quite developed, perhaps that clear-water well still serves as a convenient source for many.

The Haunted Kiln

I

The Seventh Man spoke.

It was the evening of August 29, Meiji 37 (1904).

At that time, I was working as a war correspondent for the Russo-Japanese War in the battlefields of Manchuria, and on this day, I arrived at a small village called Yangjiadian around three in the afternoon.

Ahead, the Battle of Liaoyang was raging, and the high ground at Shouyanshan had not yet fallen. The sound of gunfire resounded ceaselessly.

Having endured nights of hardships akin to rough camping, we decided to seek lodging in a house for tonight and split into groups of two or three, or four or five each to search for a place to stay.

Yangjiadian was literally a village abundant with willows. Threading our way through those willows, we—a group of four—found a fairly large house with a stone old well in front.

By the edge of the well, a young man of about eighteen or nineteen was lowering a bucket attached to a rope and drawing water into carrying buckets. When we asked in halting Chinese, “Are you from this house?” he shook his head fearfully. When we pressed again, asking what the family name of this house was, he picked up a tree branch lying nearby and wrote the character Xu in the dirt to show us. And then he asked in return, “What business do you Japanese gentlemen have going there?”

When we answered that we intended to stay at this house tonight, he shook his head again and waved his hands as if to say it wasn’t allowed. However, not only were we not proficient in Chinese, but the other party also spoke with a strong Manchurian accent, making their words unclear to us. He made threatening facial expressions and hand gestures that seemed to urge us against staying there, but since we couldn’t fully grasp his meaning, we grew increasingly impatient.

“Well, fine. Whatever it takes—let’s just go inside and see about negotiating.”

The three impatient ones took the lead and entered through the gate. As I was about to follow them in, the man grabbed the satchel attached to my waist and began repeating similar words in a rapid tone. I wordlessly shook off his hand and walked away.

The gate was open, but there was no sign of anyone inside. The four called out in unison, but no one answered. “Could this be an abandoned house?”

The four exchanged glances and looked around further, finding a small building on the right side past the gate. Beyond the trees ahead stood what appeared to be a large main house. We tried pushing open the door of the nearby small building—it gave way easily—but found no one inside. Utterly exhausted, we decided to rest there and sat on a floor covered with a torn mat. Though hungry, we had no food. At least wanting water, we took canteens from our shoulders and drank, but what remained from lunch proved insufficient. When I went out to draw water from the well before the gate, that man still stood beneath the willow tree.

When I asked him for water, he obligingly poured water from the bucket into my canteen but kept murmuring something rapidly under his breath as before. Since I couldn't comprehend this at all, he seemed to grow impatient and picked up a tree branch again to write "家有妖" (*This house is haunted*) in the dirt. This finally allowed me to grasp the general meaning. When I wrote the character for "demon" in the dirt to show him, he didn't recognize it. However, he insisted there was a yāo presence in that house. While I couldn't discern the exact difference between demons and yāo spirits, one thing became clear—this house seemed to be some sort of haunted mansion. In essence, he was warning us not to enter carelessly due to the haunting 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 our interpreter and explained things to us.

“This old man has served this household for thirty years, and there are four or five other servants too,” “Since the war began right before our eyes not long ago, all the family members are hiding in the inner quarters.” “Therefore, though we cannot offer proper hospitality, we have tea and sugar.” “There are vegetables in the back field.” “He says very kindly that if you wish to stay, you may lodge here freely.” “Why don’t we have them put us up?”

“Of course.” “Thank you, thank you,” we said in unison, expressing our gratitude to the old man. The old man left while laughing. Later, Mr. T said he’d go check what was in the field and left, but soon returned carrying five or six splendid ears of corn. Delighted at finding good ones, Mr. M ran out again to fetch more. As there was an earthen stove built in the dirt-floored area of the house, we burned dried sorghum branches beneath it to roast the corn. Since each of us had prepared salt in our satchels, we sprinkled it on and ate—true to its homeland, the delicious flavor bore no resemblance to Japanese corn.

As we took turns fetching more from the field and devouring it ravenously, the old man was having a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old boy bring a kettle of hot water while he himself came with paper-wrapped sugar and tea. We repeated our thanks yet again, promptly prepared the tea, mixed in the sugar, and began gulping it down. The old man watched with a smile as we ate our fill of corn and drank warm tea to greatly regain our energy, but soon he turned to Mr. T and began speaking in a low voice. He asked if anyone in our party had medicine.

In truth, the master and his wife had a daughter who turned seventeen that year, and she had fallen ill some time ago. In this area, they had to go all the way into Liaoyang's inner city to buy medicine, but due to the war, traffic between the inner and outer city had been completely cut off, leaving them no way to obtain it. He entreated, saying that if there was anyone among the Japanese gentlemen who had medicine, he earnestly wished to receive their benevolence.

When we realized his kindness stemmed from ulterior motives, our gratitude had to be tempered somewhat; yet hearing the circumstances, we couldn't help feeling profound pity. The locals here seemed to regard all Japanese as doctors or pharmacists - whenever they saw us, they inevitably asked us to examine their ailments or give them medicine. Having encountered many such cases before, we didn't find this old man's request particularly unusual, but it was problematic to indiscriminately administer medicine without properly assessing the patient's condition. Indeed, back at our Haicheng lodgings, we'd once mistakenly given Seikisui eye drops to a gastrointestinal patient, only realizing our error later and scrambling to retrieve them in panic. Learning from that failure, we'd since resolved never to carelessly dispense medicine without first confirming the patient's state ourselves.

When Mr. T explained these circumstances to him and said we wanted to see the patient at least once, the old man made an exceedingly troubled face and seemed to agonize for a while. However, since our request wasn't unreasonable, he eventually said he would consult with the master first, then headed back into the inner quarters with another boy. We were of course not doctors, but even so, rather than haphazardly administering medicine, it would be safer to first observe the patient's condition ourselves, closely inquire about her symptoms, and then give what seemed appropriate medication. Particularly since we were still young at that time, the fact that the patient was a seventeen-year-old girl meant there was also a certain kind of interest mixed in—we wanted to see what sort of girl she was.

“What kind of girl could she be?” “She’s still young, man.” “What on earth could her illness be?” “If it’s a gynecological disease, that’d be trouble, man.” “None of us brought that kind of medicine.” “Might be tuberculosis if it’s bad, man.” “In China they call it consumption or something.” Amidst such talk, I remembered the “house is haunted” incident. “That man drawing water from the gate well...he said this place has monsters or some curse—anyway, it’s shady as hell.” “He wrote ‘家有妖’ (*This house is haunted*) right there for us.”

“Hmm,” the other three also tilted their heads. “Well then, that girl might be possessed by something or other,” said Mr. T. “If that’s the case, our medicine won’t do any good,” Mr. M laughed.

We all laughed together. Under normal circumstances it might have been different, but for us now—having passed through what they call the midst of gunfire and artillery shells, where a single misstep could mean receiving an artillery shell’s greeting—a house being haunted was hardly a concern. “Still, she’s taking her time.” “Since it’s said that Chinese women rarely show their faces to foreigners, she might be reluctant to come out.” “Especially since it’s us she’s dealing with, she must be even more reluctant.”

Before us, artillery fire roared incessantly, but by this time we had grown entirely accustomed to it—neither the rumble of heavy guns nor the streaks of tracer rounds particularly jangled our nerves anymore. As we lay sprawled unceremoniously, engrossed in constant chatter about the girl, the day too began to wane, and the early Manchurian autumn evening grew faintly cold. Snapping sorghum stalks piled in the corner of the dirt-floored room, we gathered around the stove like crickets dreading frost.

II “Won’t the enemy ever let up? I sure wish we could get to Liaoyang soon.” Just as we grew tired of discussing the girl and shifted to our usual war talk, the old man reappeared as if stealing his footsteps and said, “I will now bring the master’s daughter here, so I humbly ask for your kind consideration.” Hearing this, we rose as if waiting impatiently, followed the old man out to the entrance, and found outside had already grown dark—only faint shadows of large willow leaves swayed gently under starlight. There came stifled cricket cries from the darkness.

Soon, a lantern’s light dimly floated into view through the grove in the depths. It was a picture lantern commonly seen around here. I suddenly recalled "The Peony Lantern" from *Jiandeng Xinhua*. I also recalled San'yūtei Enchō’s *The Peony Lantern*. And imagining that the one bringing that lantern would be a beautiful, ghost-like woman, I was drawn into a mood of eerie and ghastly intensity. As the light gradually drew nearer, the shadows it revealed were not singular. The young woman who appeared to be the daughter in question was supported by an old woman, with another young woman holding a picture lantern beside them; both seemed to wear embroidered shoes as they walked soundlessly over earth where night dew had likely begun to form.

The old woman was not the girl's mother. That the young woman holding the picture lantern and her companion were likely servants of this household became immediately apparent from their attire, so we paid no further attention to those two and instead focused our collective gaze on the girl at the center, who appeared remarkably mature for seventeen. Though slender, she was on the taller side, wearing a pale pink silk kimono trimmed with verdant green at the hem. With one hand being led by the old woman, her other sleeve lay draped over her face as if burying half of it. From between the sleeves escaped occasional coughs of considerable force.

When the three shadows illuminated by the picture lantern came to a halt beneath a willow tree, the old man quietly approached and whispered something to the old woman. The old woman seemed to be his wife. The old man then turned to us and politely said that since the sick daughter had come, he would like to request an examination. Now that it had come to this—determining which of the four of us would step forward to examine the patient—we found ourselves hesitating somewhat belatedly. But after all, Mr. T was relatively proficient in Chinese, so there was no choice but for him to play the doctor. Mr. T steeled himself and stepped forward, finally proceeding to take the patient’s pulse. When Mr. T said to show the patient’s face, the old man whispered to the old woman as if interpreting his words, making them reveal the girl’s face—hidden in the shadow of her blue sleeve—under the picture lantern. The girl was, just as I had secretly imagined, a pale-complexioned woman of utterly ghost-like beauty. The female specter 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. Even during this time, the girl occasionally coughed violently as if about to vomit blood and was being tended to by the old woman. Mr. T turned to look at us and said in a low voice. “You. It’s definitely tuberculosis.”

“Hmm,” we all nodded in unison. That she was suffering from a respiratory disease left almost no room for doubt even to our layman eyes. “The fever stands at about eight point seven degrees,” Mr. T further explained. “If the medical corps were nearby, we could report her condition and obtain medicine for her, but there’s nothing to be done now." “Let’s at least give her some antipyretic as a temporary measure.”

“Well, that’s about it,” I said. Mr. T took out a white powdered antipyretic from his knapsack and explained its usage before giving it to them, whereupon the old man knelt and pressed his forehead to the ground in gratitude. Watching this, I felt profoundly sorry. Manchurian natives rarely took medicine—compared to us Japanese, its effects were remarkably potent. I had indeed heard stories of pneumonia being cured by Hōtan. But this girl’s illness—particularly at her age—being saved by ordinary antipyretics was beyond imagining. The sight of that old man—likely the family’s loyal servant—prostrating himself before an amateur doctor to give thanks for mere days’ worth of temporary palliatives filled me with such unbearable pathos that I instinctively turned my face away.

“It’s better not to stay out in the night wind too long.”

Cautioned by Mr. T, the girls bowed silently in reverence and turned back. The three women had not uttered a word from the beginning, but as the lantern's shadow faded faintly into the distance, only the girl's cough echoed intermittently. After seeing them off, the old man too saluted us and departed. “How pitiful.” “That girl won’t last much longer.”

Until now, we had been waiting with a certain curiosity about what kind of girl she might be, but upon being shown her pitiful state, we could no longer laugh. The four of us exchanged glances and sighed in unison. The sorghum under the stove had mostly burned out, so when we broke more to stoke it again, a laughing voice was heard outside the gate, and footsteps echoed toward here. Wondering who had come, we peered outside and saw a man standing beyond the door.

“Are the war correspondents here, gentlemen?” “Ah,” I answered. “It’s me.”

When we realized it was the interpreter Mr. S, we welcomed him cordially.

“Is that you, Mr. S? Please come in.”

Mr. S nodded politely and came to the hearth. Mr. S was an army-attached Chinese interpreter, but being an extremely earnest man who also kindly provided us with various communication materials, he was respected among us war correspondents. He had come to this village tonight for some requisitioning when he heard a strange story from a Chinese man, which led him here to ascertain who exactly was staying there.

“A young Chinese man from one household said there were Japanese staying tonight at the Xu family’s home in this village. Though I warned them, they entered without heeding,” he said. When I asked what sort of people they were, he told me they wore white cloths on their arms marked ‘newspaper.’ ‘Then they must be war correspondents,’ I thought, and came to see exactly who was here,” said Mr. S, his solemn face faintly smiling.

“A young Chinese man…” I immediately recalled. “Then does that mean they say the house is haunted?”

“That’s right,” Mr. S nodded. “The Chinese tried repeatedly to stop us, but…” “They did try to stop us, but since we couldn’t make sense of it just being called a haunted house, we didn’t pay much heed. But what exactly is this haunting about?” I asked. “So, you are unaware of the particulars, then?” “He kept talking nonstop, but between our inadequate Chinese and his thick Manchurian accent, we couldn’t make out a single thing he was saying.” "In short, it seems he was saying there’s something suspicious about this house and we shouldn’t stay here…"

“That’s right, that’s right,” Mr. S nodded again. “To tell the truth, even I couldn’t make sense of it just from ‘the house is haunted.’ Moreover, as you said, that young Chinese man had such a strong accent that even I couldn’t clearly make out his words. Fortunately, there was an old man who claimed to be his grandfather—he explained things thoroughly, so I finally understood the particulars of the haunting.”

When the attentive Mr. T prepared and served tea, Mr. S drank it gratefully, saying, “Ah, thank you for this kindness.” Indeed, even a cup of sweetened tea counted as a rare luxury on the battlefield. After finishing his drink, Mr. S resumed his characteristically solemn tone and began recounting the origins of the “haunted house.” The battle appeared to continue through the night. Artillery shells roared heavenward while rifle fire crackled like roasting beans across near and distant fronts alike. Undeterred by this cacophony, Mr. S pressed on with his eerie tale inside the shadowed dwelling. We four correspondents formed a circle around him, leaning close to the sorghum-fueled flames as we attended to his ghost story.

III

“The family here bears the surname Xu.” “Though speaking of five generations past makes it sound like ancient history, they say it occurred about forty years ago—which would correspond to Genji or early Keiō years in Japan, around the third or fourth year of Tongzhi in China.” “That would be around the time when that long-haired bandit Hong Xiuquan perished.”

Mr. S, impressively well-versed in Chinese history, first clarified the time period.

“Though this household is now a farming family, at that time it was a tile workshop.” “They set up a kiln in their own home to bake tiles.” “It was not a very large house.” “The master and his son were firing tiles together.” It was a winter evening—a snowy day, they say—when two travelers came calling. “Though they had come as visitors, they rushed in frantically as if being chased by something.” “We are being pursued by constables,” the travelers pleaded to the master. “Please hide us.” “In return, we’ll give you half of the money we have,” they said, producing a heavy-looking leather bag and handing it over. The master, blinded by greed, immediately agreed. However, having nowhere to hide them, they took advantage of the tile kiln not being in use and shoved the two men inside before shutting the door. Soon after, five or six constables came chasing after them and interrogated whether any suspicious pair of travelers had come there, but the master feigned ignorance and claimed to know nothing. “However, the constables would not accept this,” Mr. S continued. “Insisting they must have taken refuge here, they began searching the house.” Realizing they had done something outrageous, it was already too late for regrets. At the critical moment when all seemed lost, the master’s eldest son signaled his younger brother with his eyes and, feigning ignorance, lit a fire in the kiln. “Well,” concluded Mr. S gravely, “that truly is a horrifying tale.”

The constables thoroughly searched the entire house but found no trace of the men anywhere. Since fire burned in the kiln, they never imagined anyone could be hiding inside. In the end, they withdrew suspiciously, leaving the master momentarily relieved—yet now his mind fixated on those inside the kiln. "They can't be burned like tiles," he muttered. When he groaned, "We've done something monstrous," his sons countered, "Those two must have committed grave crimes." "If our sheltering them comes to light, we father and sons will face harsh punishment." "Now there's no choice—we must burn them dead to escape calamity." "They'd prefer swift cremation over being captured by pursuers and enduring torture or gruesome execution." "It's because we lit the kiln early that those constables left carelessly—otherwise they'd have checked inside first, and by now we'd all be shackled hand and neck alongside them."

Upon hearing this, the master could no longer bring himself to blame his sons for their cruelty, and resolved to burn them thoroughly—he too helped by piling on firewood until the two pitiful travelers were reduced to ashes. It remains unclear who these travelers were, but they were likely remnants of the Long-Haired Bandits. "It may seem strange for Jiangnan bandits to flee into Manchuria," he added, "but that's what people here claim."

In any case, the travelers died, and the money bag remained. “If they had safely helped the travelers, they were supposed to receive half of it, but since they all died, they took all of the money.” The exact amount of money remains unknown, but it is a fact that the Xu family’s financial situation suddenly improved—a development the neighbors privately found perplexing. From that time onward, various strange occurrences began happening at the Xu family’s tile kiln. “First and foremost, the tiles could not be properly fired, frequently resulting in them crumbling, but even more bizarre was the kiln transformation. As you may know, kiln transformation refers to shapes warping inside the kiln and taking on various forms—it’s said that among countless ceramic works, such occurrences are rare. Yet at the Xu family’s kiln, these transformations happened repeatedly. Though they intended to fire tiles, when retrieving them from the kiln, they found many tiles had transformed into shapes of human faces, hands, and feet.”

This too became the talk of the neighborhood, and as rumors spread that there must be some particular reason behind the kiln transformations at the Xu household, one day their younger son was found burned to death inside the kiln. It is said that the older brother, unaware his younger sibling had entered the kiln, closed the door from outside and lit the fire. Then that same elder brother went mad and died too—misfortune heaped upon misfortune.

Nevertheless, the master stubbornly continued his business, but since the kiln anomalies persisted unchanged, he could do nothing about it. In the end, worn down, he abandoned the tile workshop and bought land and fields to take up farming instead. After that, there were no further strange occurrences; rather, their household prospered increasingly until finally, a little over ten years later, the master died. It is said that in his final moments, he babbled various things that first revealed the kiln's secret to society—but since this happened over ten years prior and lacked concrete evidence, it was dismissed merely as the ravings of a critically ill man. However, whether regarding those kiln anomalies or the manner of the brothers' deaths, the neighbors still believe these to be undeniable facts.

Since the brothers' sons had died before their father, the Xu family adopted a girl and took in a son-in-law for her, but that couple too perished together within two or three years of the master's death. Next came an adopted son, then an adopted daughter—none lasted more than seven or eight years before collapsing one after another—so that in short order, it was said, the current master became the sixth generation head. The current master too was an adopted son and, being still young, relied on a man named Wang—who had served them for thirty years—to manage all affairs. This Wang was considered remarkably loyal, they said—aware of the supernatural presence haunting the household yet standing firm amid unending misfortunes to faithfully protect the Xu family. Thus while neighbors sympathized with Wang's devotion, they intensely feared and despised the Xu family as cursed by spectral forces. "That young Chinese man kindly warned you," continued Mr. S, "when he saw you all about to pass unwittingly through that gate. But since his words didn't properly convey, you departed without heeding him—and afterward he still seemed uneasy, they say."

“Ah, so that’s how it was.” “Actually, I’ve already encountered that supernatural presence,” Mr. T said gravely.

“You encountered the supernatural presence… What happened?” Mr.S asked gravely. “No, it was just a joke,” I said, retracting my statement out of compunction. “Well, when asked to examine the daughter’s illness at this house, Mr.T performed his usual beauty treatment.”

“Ah, I see,” Mr. S said with a smile. “The daughter is likely a bride.” “I heard about that daughter.” “Because it was said the Xu family was cursed, no one from nearby would come to marry into the household.” “The loyal servant Wang went all the way to Shandong Province and found a beautiful girl.” “That said, he probably paid a high price to buy her and bring her here.” “However, upon arriving there, she immediately fell ill and has yet to recover, causing them great distress.” “To outsiders, perhaps he avoided referring to her as the master’s wife and instead called her his daughter.” “What is the illness?”

“It is indeed tuberculosis,” Mr. T answered.

“How pitiful,” Mr. S said with a pained expression. “It’s not necessarily because she was brought here to this house, but sooner or later, another element contributing to its supernatural presence will multiply.” “Well, I’ve gone on far too long.” “Since you’re all staying here, you’d best be careful not to be cursed by the supernatural presence.” “For a female supernatural presence is all the more terrifying.” With a serious face while joking, by the time Mr. S left our gathering, the sorghum firewood had mostly turned to ashes, and a faint flame burned on with a lonely flicker. When the four of us went out to see him off to the gate, silver-like stars filled the sky, shining brightly, and all around us, the voices of crickets could be heard in a chaotic chorus. The heavy night dew appeared faintly white in the darkness, as though frost had already formed that night.

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

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

When we left there the following morning, the old man once again brought us hot water, tea, and sugar. He greeted us amiably, but perhaps it was our imagination—a dark shadow lingered on his face. When he had the patient take last night’s medicine, she said she felt very well this morning, and he repeatedly expressed his gratitude. Because the gunfire from the front was particularly intense this morning, we too hurriedly prepared ourselves as if urged by it. Without even time to reconsider Mr. S’s story from last night, we dashed off to the location of our division headquarters. The old man came out to see us off at the gate, bowing each time to us as we hurriedly departed.

We reached beyond Liaoyang's city walls three days later. Afterward, I never had another chance to visit the Xu residence—what became of that old servant? Of the ailing bride? Had that cursed household finally crumbled? Or did it still stand prospering? Even now, I find myself wondering.

Crab I

I

The Eighth Woman Speaks.

This is a story I heard from my grandmother.

My hometown is Kashiwazaki in Echigo Province. Until my grandfather’s generation, we operated a grain store, but when it came to my father’s era, we became involved in the petroleum business and sold the store to others. The person who took it over also underwent generational succession, and though it has now become a different business altogether, the store itself still retains some semblance of its former appearance, so whenever I return home during summer vacations each year, I always find myself glancing at that store with a sense of nostalgia as I pass by.

My grandmother passed away at seventy-six in the year before the Great Earthquake. Born in Kaei 1, the Year of the Monkey, and since she was eighteen at the time of these events, this would likely place them in the early years of Keiō. My grandmother was called Ohatsu, and Ohatsu’s father—that is to say, my great-grandfather—was Masuemon, who was the head of the household at that time and said to have been forty-three or four years old. It is said that our ancestors came from Dewa Province, and the family business was called Yamagataya. As an established family in the area, and since their business was quite extensive at the time, they generally entrusted shop matters to their clerks. Though nominally the master, my great-grandfather Masuemon spent half his life amusing himself—composing haiku, tinkering with art and antiques, and the like. Given this situation, it became customary for calligraphers, painters, and haiku poets traveling through the Northern Provinces to stay at my family’s house, with some said to have lingered for even two or three months.

At the time of this story as well, two guests were staying there. One was a haiku poet from Nagoya named Nomizu, and the other was a painter from Edo named Bun'a—Bun'a having arrived some twenty days earlier and staying for over a month already. Nomizu had come later and been lodging there about half a month. It was said to have been an evening in early September when Masuemon, the master, invited four acquaintances who shared his interests in haiku and antiques, then added Nomizu and Bun'a to make seven people in total—host and guests—who decided to hold a banquet in the spacious inner hall.

The four invited guests were neighbors who all gathered around six in the evening. Before laying out the meal trays, they first served tea and sweets. As the seven people were engaged in various casual conversations, a rōnin named Sakabe Yomoshirō happened to drop by. Though a rōnin, he was said to have cut quite an impressive figure rather than wearing anything like a dark brown haori. As you may already know, during the Edo period that area was an exclave of the Kuwana Domain, with the town housing a government office. The official Sakabe Yōgorō serving there was said to be quite reputable despite his youth. The rōnin Yomoshirō was his elder brother, but due to frail health since childhood—what today we might call disinheritance—the second son Yōgorō inherited the family headship and was assigned to this government office from their home 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 traveling through various provinces. Not only was he skilled at physiognomy, but he was also highly accomplished in divination. At this time, being around thirty-two or thirty-three years old, he wore a sword like an ordinary samurai, had splendid attire and demeanor, and to those unfamiliar with him, he appeared as a distinguished samurai—all of which made people respect him all the more.

That man had traveled through various provinces, entered Echigo Road from Shinshū, come to visit his younger brother at the government office in Kashiwazaki, and was staying there for a while. Since my great-grandfather Masuemon had long been acquainted with a man named Yōgorō, he naturally became familiar with Yōgorō's elder brother Yomoshirō through that connection, and Yomoshirō would sometimes come to visit our house as well. Tonight as well, he had come for a sudden visit. Although he had not been invited by us, Masuemon happily showed him to the inner rooms, saying it was perfect timing that he had come.

“I’m afraid I’ve intruded at a most inopportune time, with guests already present,” said Sakabe Yomoshirō apologetically as he took his seat. “Not at all—there’s no need for apologies. In truth, I had wanted to invite you myself but refrained from doing so out of concern that it might cause you inconvenience. Your fortuitous arrival here is most welcome.” Masuemon politely greeted him and introduced all those present to Yomoshirō. Of course, since there were people among them who were already acquainted from before, the group began conversing in a familiar manner.

The master was delighted that an excellent guest had arrived at an opportune moment, but with the sudden addition of one unexpected visitor, the kitchen staff became slightly flustered. Grandmother Ohatsu, who had been mentioned earlier and was still an eighteen-year-old girl at the time, was supposed to serve at that evening's banquet. To ensure there were no oversights, she went to inspect the kitchen. There, an elderly maidservant named Osuqi was in charge of preparing the food, directing the other male and female servants in their busy work. When Osuqi saw Grandmother's face, she spoke in a low voice.

“The number of guests has suddenly increased, and it’s causing trouble.” “Won’t the preparations be ready in time?” Grandmother asked, furrowing her brows. “No, we can manage the other dishes somehow, but the problem is the crab.” Masuemon had always loved crab, and large ones were supposed to be served at tonight’s feast. With seven place settings prepared for the host and guests combined—exactly seven crabs readied—the unexpected addition of another visitor left them at a complete loss.

They sent someone to inquire with their regular fishmonger, but there were none of the desired kind. Given the nature of crabs, mismatched sizes would be quite unsightly. They were sure to be scolded by the master afterward. All the kitchen staff were worried; a young man named Hanbei had gone out some time ago saying he would find some somewhere, but he still hadn't returned. Osuqi grimaced and explained that they couldn't recklessly serve the other dishes without first seeing the crabs, which left them 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 loved it so dearly, she knew he would surely be displeased if they carelessly left it out. As Grandmother pondered this, the sound of someone clapping their hands came from the inner hall. When Grandmother turned back and went into the inner rooms, Masuemon emerged into the corridor as if he could wait no longer.

"Hey! What are you doing? Hurry up and serve the meal!" Seizing the chance when urged, Grandmother quietly raised the crab shortage, but Masuemon dismissed it entirely. "What? How could we possibly lack one or two crabs? If there are none in town, comb the whole shore! I already told our guests I'd treat them to fine crab tonight." He jabbed a finger at the unseen kitchen staff. "No crab means no feast!"

When told this with no room for objection, Grandmother had no choice but to return to the kitchen, where the staff grew increasingly anxious. As they craned their necks awaiting Hanbei's return, time steadily passed. In the inner rooms, impatience mounted and demands for service intensified.

Everyone was beside themselves with worry, pacing restlessly, when Hanbei came rushing back, out of breath. When they heard he had returned, everyone rushed out to check, and there was Hanbei with an unfamiliar boy in tow. The boy was fifteen or sixteen years old, wearing short, dirtied sleeves that reached his knees and clutching an old fish basket. Upon seeing this, everyone at last breathed a sigh of relief, it was said. The fish basket contained three crabs, so they tried to buy one crab of similar size by comparing them with the seven crabs they had prepared. However, since the boy had been brought all the way from a distant place, he insisted that they buy all three.

Given that they were in a hurry themselves, there was no time for prolonged haggling—they decided to purchase all three as he insisted and handed over the price he demanded. The boy then left clutching his now-empty basket. “This should do for now.” Everyone suddenly regained their energy and immediately began boiling the crabs.

II Sake was served, and dishes began appearing one after another. As Masuemon and his guests relaxed and drank in good cheer, the crabs were arranged on large platters and brought before each attendee. "As I mentioned earlier," Masuemon declared, "tonight's feast consists solely of this." "Please partake freely." With these words, Masuemon urged his guests onward. The crabs commonly found in my homeland are called thornbacks - their triangular carapaces and thorn-covered legs resembling bramble patches. Those served this evening were helmet crabs, their rhomboid-shaped shells reddish-black with white mottling. Though said to be the finest among sea crabs, I cannot personally attest to their merit.

After all, serving this crab tonight was the host's pride and joy. Just as Masuemon was urging others to partake and about to set his own chopsticks upon it, Sakabe Yomoshirō—who had been waiting quietly in the seat of honor—suddenly called out.

“Master, a moment.” The voice carried such grave implication that Masuemon instinctively lowered his chopsticks and turned toward its source. Yomoshirō sat with his brow deeply furrowed, fixing an unwavering gaze upon his host’s face. He then took a candlestick in one hand and methodically illuminated each guest’s countenance. Afterward, he produced a small mirror from his breast pocket and studied his own reflection. After a prolonged sigh and moment of contemplation, he finally uttered these words.

“Hmm, this is most peculiar,” he said. “Among those seated here, there is one whose face bears the mark of death.” The assembled guests turned pale. Coming from this man—renowned for his skill in physiognomy and divination—such a grave pronouncement could not help but shock them. Everyone sat motionless, staring silently at Yomoshirō’s somber countenance. Grandmother, who had been serving them, later recalled feeling as though her entire body had turned to ice.

Then, as if suddenly noticing something, Yomoshirō turned toward Grandmother. Until now, he had been inspecting only the master’s and guests’ faces, having overlooked that of the sole young woman present at this gathering. When he became aware of this and directed the candlestick toward Grandmother’s face, she reportedly felt as though she had died. Yet there appeared nothing unusual about Grandmother herself, and Yomoshirō too nodded silently. Then he began to speak again in a low voice.

“Though this feast was prepared with great care, it would be wisest if none of you were to partake of these crabs.” “Have them removed exactly as they are.”

When they did so, there was undoubtedly something amiss with these crabs. Who was the person bearing the mark of death? Though none spoke the name aloud, all understood it must be the master, Masuemon. Grandmother in particular had realized something. The seven crabs prepared earlier had been served to the seven guests, while the single crab procured later had been placed on the master's tray—making it only natural for anyone to suspect this particular crustacean might contain poison.

Upon hearing this, the master immediately ordered that the crab be removed. As Grandmother began clearing the tray bearing the dish with practiced efficiency, Yomoshirō issued another warning. "You must not let even the kitchen staff eat that crab. Discard them all." "Understood." When Grandmother relayed this to the kitchen, all present turned pale. Hanbei grew especially distraught—he had personally procured those crabs. To confirm their suspicions, they fed one to the house dog. The animal convulsed violently and died instantly, making everyone shudder. Next they tried neighboring dogs on other crabs, which showed no ill effects. Now all doubt vanished—the later-purchased crab contained poison. When the master had nearly eaten it, death's shadow had indeed crossed his face.

Thanks to Yomoshirō's intervention, Masuemon had narrowly escaped mortal danger—an outcome that would normally call for celebration. Yet given these extraordinary circumstances, the banquet grew strained; the sake lost its warmth, the revelry its sparkle, and though the feast had been meticulously prepared, it now lay ruined before them. One by one, the guests rose from their seats and took their leave. While one might pity the guests' experience, Masuemon's own shock and fury at being nearly poisoned by that suspicious crab defied all measure. The entire kitchen staff were promptly summoned and subjected to intense questioning, but given the inexplicable nature of events as previously described, they could only stare at one another in mute bewilderment. As the responsible party, Hanbei was meant to rise at dawn and begin searching for that mysterious boy—to investigate where exactly he had procured those crabs—and so that night he simply went to bed.

Since the boy had forcibly sold three crabs, two still remained. They needed to test whether these two also contained poison, but as the night had grown late, they decided to leave that for the next day. When they tossed them into a corner of the kitchen's earthen floor, both crabs vanished before dawn broke. The crustaceans they had believed dead were in fact still alive—whether they had crawled away unnoticed or been carried off by a dog or cat remained ultimately unknown.

After all, crustaceans like shrimp and crabs can sometimes cause poisoning. While one might argue there was no particular need for astonishment at the crab being poisonous—for crustaceans can sometimes cause such poisoning—at this moment, with everyone from the master down to the lowest servant already in an uproar over this strangeness, news that the remaining two crabs had also vanished caused the commotion to grow even greater. Thus Hanbei set out at dawn with a young man named Isuke to search for that boy's whereabouts.

Of course Hanbei—and indeed, none of those present in the kitchen—had ever seen the boy’s face before. If he had been a fisherman’s child from the harbor, someone would surely have recognized him—so they began speculating he might be from another region altogether. Having never imagined such a turn of events—the hour having been dark, and they themselves having acted in haste—they had in truth failed to properly note the lad’s features or appearance, rendering their current search an extraordinary challenge.

Fully prepared for hardship, the two men set out early. Afterward, Masuemon, their master, went to the government office to visit the residence of Sakabe Yomoshirō. When he met with Yomoshirō and earnestly expressed gratitude for narrowly escaping death the previous night thanks to him, Yomoshirō reportedly said: “First, your safety brings me profound relief.” “Yet by my reckoning, I cannot yet say the true calamity has passed.” “In days to come, some misfortune may yet befall your household.” “You must take utmost caution—this I declare.”

Masuemon was startled again. He consulted whether there might be some way to avert that calamity, but Yomoshirō apparently did not teach him any such method. He merely admonished him never to eat crabs again after this. Forbidden from his beloved crabs, Masuemon was somewhat troubled, but under these circumstances, he could hardly voice such concerns; thus he swore before Yomoshirō that he would never eat crabs again for the rest of his life and returned home—yet still he found no peace of mind. That said, since he did not know what to do, he could not give any warnings to his household members. Even so, it is said that he whispered to Grandmother alone about the warning from Yomoshirō and instructed her to be cautious in all matters for the time being.

As for Hanbei and Isuke, who had left at dawn, they still had not returned even by noon, so they were growing concerned about what might have happened when, around nine and a half—which would be about one o’clock in the afternoon today—Isuke returned alone, his face pale. Even when asked about Hanbei, he could not readily answer. Everyone was startled again by his pallor and demeanor.

III

Surrounding the dazed Isuke, the crowd gradually pressed him with questions until they learned that such an incident had occurred at the site. Hanbei had rushed out last night and visited fishermen’s homes where he was usually welcome, but none had crabs. Even where thorn crabs or long-legged crabs existed, there were no kazami. From one place to another they made inquiries, gradually moving northward until they found a boy standing by the roadside.

Therefore today as well, along with Isuke, they headed northward—in the direction of Izumozaki—inquiring as they went, but found no trace of the boy-like figure from last night. Before they realized it, they had made their way to the banks of the Sabagawa River—as you might be aware, this river flows into the sea. There stood a boy by the seaward shore, rigidly gazing at the water—his back matched the description so perfectly that Hanbei rushed after him in haste.

With the sea on one side and the river on the other, Isuke followed leisurely from behind under the assumption there was no escape route. Hanbei—who had rushed ahead first—grabbed the boy from behind and exchanged brief words when suddenly Hanbei appeared dragged into the water by him. Seeing this shock made Isuke too dash frantically toward them—yet both Hanbei and boy seemed swallowed by currents with no trace remaining. Utterly panicked now he burst into nearby fishermen’s huts pleading “Someone from Yamagataya’s shop drowned! Retrieve them quick!” Since our establishment’s name held renown here seven-eight men gathered instantly searching waters—yet neither could be found. Given this river-mouth’s fierce outflow toward open sea they might’ve been swept away—leaving Isuke helplessly stranded with no recourse left. At least he’d urged exhaustive searching before turning back solely to report these developments.

The household members were also shocked to hear this. Particularly, Master Masuemon—having been cautioned by Yomoshirō—grew increasingly distressed and promptly dispatched a head clerk with five or six shop employees to accompany Isuke. The painter Bun’a also went out. As I had mentioned earlier, the haiku master Nomizu and painter Bun’a were staying at my house, though Nomizu had gone out to the neighborhood and was absent at that time. Bun’a had been painting in his assigned eight-tatami room within his quarters. He was said to be a later disciple of Bunkō and, though young, a painter of considerable renown even in Edo.

The master asked Bun'a to paint a hundred crabs during his stay out of fondness for them; however, Bun'a felt his unpracticed skills were unequal to such an ambitious task. Having proposed instead to attempt a ten-crab composition, he had shut himself in that room days prior and been painting with single-minded focus using various crabs as models. Nine crabs were already completed when this incident occurred during his work on the final one, prompting Bun'a to set down his brush and rise.

“Are you also going out, Mr. Bun’a?” Masuemon said, attempting to stop him. “Well… I can’t help but be concerned.”

“Well… I can’t help but be concerned.”

Having said that brusquely, Bun’a left with the crowd. Since it was futile to try stopping them, he let them go—and upon hearing this news, a large crowd from the neighborhood came swarming after them. Reinforcements also set out from the fishing town. It became a tremendous commotion indeed, but there was no way the master could go out himself. He remained at home doing nothing but fret.

Grandmother and all the others had gone out to the shopfront and were anxiously awaiting news when the aforementioned Sakabe Yomoshirō arrived. It appeared he had heard the rumor along the way, as he already seemed to know about the Hanbei incident.

“This is truly an extraordinary calamity.” “The master has not gone out, I trust?” “Yes, Father remains at home,” Grandmother replied.

With a look of initial relief, Yomoshirō was guided to the inner rooms by Grandmother. "This is truly an outrageous..." Yomoshirō repeated. "But no matter what occurs, Master, you must not go out!"

“Understood,” Masuemon answered with deference. “You had forewarned that calamity would befall my household—it has unfolded precisely as you predicted, leaving me utterly astounded.”

“Who from your shop has gone out, I presume?” “I dispatched Clerk Kiuemon with five or six store employees.”

“Is there anyone else who has gone?” Yomoshirō asked again, as if to confirm. “Other than that, the painter Mr. Bun’a…” “Ah,” Yomoshirō exclaimed in a low voice. “You must send someone at once to call him back—only him.” “Yes, yes.” Terrified, Masuemon rushed out to the shop and was in the midst of ordering someone to immediately call Mr. Bun’a back and bring him quickly when one of the store employees came running home with a changed complexion.

“Mr. Bun’a…” “Huh? Mr. Bun’a….” Without waiting to hear the rest, Masuemon lost consciousness. In today’s terms, it would be cerebral anemia. Since he had turned pale and collapsed, another commotion erupted there. They immediately called a doctor and administered treatment. Fortunately, he regained his senses, 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 disturbances breaking out both inside and outside, it became truly overwhelming.

As for what had become of Mr. Bun’a—he had gone to the Sabaishikawa riverbank with the crowd and was watching the fishermen conducting their corpse search when, through some misstep, the ground beneath his feet abruptly crumbled away, and before anyone could react, Bun’a plunged into the water.

There too another commotion broke out as fishermen rushed to pull him up from the water—but his form had already vanished from sight. While Hanbei's case had been one matter entirely—this time with numerous fishermen and boatmen working at full strength—they could find neither where Bun'a had sunk nor where he'd been swept away; no trace of his figure remained visible at all—leaving everyone dumbfounded by this mystery. When he received this report—Yomoshirō heaved an immense sigh.

“Ah, if only I had come a little sooner.” “Even so, the fact that the Master did not go out was at least a blessing.”

With those words, Yomoshirō left. The master regained consciousness about an hour later, but Bun’a and Hanbei could not be found anywhere. As the autumn day grew dark, they resigned themselves to the inevitable, and both the shop workers and fishermen reluctantly decided to withdraw for the time being. Since they had returned, the shopfront was in chaos. Grandmother had also come out to the shopfront and was listening to the crowd’s accounts when Nomi the haiku master came running out from the back and called for someone to come quickly.

The man called Nomi had returned a little earlier and, surprised by the various incidents that had occurred during his absence, went to the back under the pretense of paying a visit and spoke with the master Masuemon about something. Since he had come rushing out in such a flurry, the crowd—startled again—asked for details. It turned out that while they had been talking with the master in the inner reception room just now, they heard a rustling sound in the garden. When he absentmindedly peeked out, two large crabs crawled out from under the veranda and raised their claws toward them. When he caught sight of them, the master lost consciousness and collapsed.

Deeming this an emergency, they started making a commotion and once again sent for doctors. One commotion after another came pouring down, and each person’s soul was so strongly threatened by anxiety and terror that it felt as though there was no room left to live. It was a chilly autumn evening, and even now when she thinks of that time, it sends shivers down her spine—Grandmother would often say.

One can well imagine it must indeed have been so.

Masuemon regained consciousness through the doctor’s treatment, but having collapsed twice in a single day, the doctor declared subsequent recuperation crucial. As he himself complained of feeling unwell, he remained bedridden for about half a month thereafter. Whether the two crabs had truly appeared or whether Masuemon’s frightened eyes had seen some sort of illusion remained unclear. However, not only he himself but Nomi also insisted they had indeed seen them. The group divided up to search, thinking the two crabs that had gone missing since last night might be hiding under the veranda, but found no trace of them within the garden. The house being large, they couldn’t fully search beneath the veranda; perhaps they had fled deeper inside.

From our present-day perspective, it indeed seemed likely to have been a hallucination experienced by the master and Nomi. However, we cannot definitively conclude this to be the case, for here lies yet another incident. As previously mentioned, Bun'a had left after starting his Ten Crabs painting, leaving the room exactly as it was. When later re-examined, the paint dishes had been overturned from one end to the other, while on the large silk canvas depicting nine crabs remained scattered ink, vermilion, orpiment, and various other pigments—with numerous tracks resembling crabs crawling sideways left behind. Upon considering this, it appeared those two crabs had crept into Bun'a's vacant quarters and trampled across the silk painting of Ten Crabs.

About a week later, the corpses of Bun’a and Hanbei surfaced. Both had their faces and torsos devoured by something—their limbs and rib bones exposed—leaving them in such a ghastly state that none could bear to look twice, or so it was told. According to the fishermen’s account, they had likely been eaten by crabs.

With this, the two corpses had at least been found, but the whereabouts of that apprentice ultimately remained unknown. When they asked around, no one in the area had seen such an apprentice, so it was concluded he must have been from another region. That was probably the case. It was not as though he could have emerged from a river or the sea. From that time onward, Masuemon not only ceased eating crabs entirely but also discarded all crab-associated items—whether scrolls, folding screens, alcove ornaments, or tobacco case metalwork—without exception. Even so, during dimly lit hours, there were times when they raised a commotion over two crabs allegedly crawling out into the garden. Since sea crabs cannot survive long under verandas or such places, this was naturally considered a kind of hallucination.

The One-Legged Woman

I

The ninth man narrated.

I am from Chiba. The Satomi house, made familiar by Bakin's *The Eight Dog Chronicles*, passed through nine generations—Yoshizane, Yoshinari, Yoshimichi, Saneyoshi, Yoshitoyo, Yoshiyoshi, Yoshihiro, Yoritaka, and Yoshiyasu—before perishing in the tenth generation under Tadayoshi. It is said to have occurred in Genna 1 (1615)—the summer of the year Osaka Castle fell—when the Satomi clan's marital ties to Ōkubo Sagami-no-kami brought about their ruin. Ōkubo Sagami-no-kami Tadanori was the lord of Odawara Castle in Sagami Province and one of the most prosperous among the Tokugawa family's hereditary daimyō, yet his house was abolished in a single day. The cause remains unclear. Some say it was due to being implicated in the crimes of Ōkubo Iwami-no-kami Nagayasu; others claim suspicions of collusion with the Osaka faction; still others attribute it to slander by Honda Sado-no-kami and his son. In any case, since Satomi Tadayoshi had married the daughter of Ōkubo Sagami-no-kami Tadanori, not long after his father-in-law's house perished, he too had his domain confiscated, was sentenced to exile in Hōki Province, and the renowned Satomi family of Bōshū came to an end. Had the Satomi house continued unbroken, *The Eight Dog Chronicles* would never have been published. Bakin would have had to select another subject.

If I were to imitate Bakin's style—to return from digression—what I am about to recount concerns the events surrounding the fall of that Satomi house.

Tadayoshi's predecessor Yoshikore, known as the Chamberlain of Awa, died on November 16, Keichō 8 at the age of thirty-one. This was said to have occurred about one or two months before his third memorial service, which would place it in late autumn or early winter of Keichō 10. Among the retainers serving the current Tadayoshi was a samurai with a stipend of one hundred koku named Ōtaki Shōbei. Though called one hundred koku, it was said to actually be one hundred bales. There were one hundred of these hundred-koku samurai, who were called the Awa Hundred, and they held considerable influence among Satomi’s retainers. Shōbei went on a pilgrimage to Enmei-ji Temple in Tateyama’s castle town with his wife and a servant, the three traveling together. Enmei-ji Temple was the Satomi family’s ancestral temple. On their return journey, the couple saw a girl crouching by the roadside.

The girl appeared to be a beggar. When she saw the couple passing by, she silently bowed her head to the ground, and they instinctively stopped in their tracks. It wasn’t that they intended to give alms upon encountering a beggar while returning from Buddhist services. Since Tadayoshi’s accession, giving charity to beggars had been strictly forbidden. Beggars were deemed a drain on the nation’s resources. For it was precisely through such charity that beggars multiplied; thus, it had been decreed that not a single grain of rice or copper coin should be given to them. Though Shōbei and his wife were bound by this ordinance—and should have passed by this bowing beggar with feigned indifference—they found themselves involuntarily pausing, for the girl appeared strikingly beautiful and pitiable.

The girl was only about eight or nine years old, wearing a thin, unlined Kazusa cotton kimono with narrow sleeves—so soiled that its striped pattern was indistinguishable—as though chilled by the cold. The hair was of course disheveled. From within that tangled mane emerged a face like an unpolished gem.

“Oh, how adorable,” Shōbei’s wife murmured as if to herself. “Mmm,” her husband sighed. Setting aside the question of alms-giving, the couple found it unbearable to abandon this pitiful girl. The wife approached and asked her age and name, to which she replied she was nine and did not know her name.

“Where were you born?” “I don’t know.” “What are your parents’ names?” “I don’t know.”

That a girl with such a background knew neither her birthplace, her parents' names, nor even her own was not particularly uncommon. The girl, in response to his wife's questions, explained that she had been abandoned on the roadside as an infant and picked up by someone, only to be abandoned again at three years old. Then she was picked up by someone else, but this person too abandoned her after about a year. Picked up only to be abandoned, abandoned only to be picked up—after passing through two or three more hands in this manner, the girl had somehow reached seven years old. She explained that until now, if she grew up, even as a beggar she could somehow survive, and so she had clung to people's pity to sustain her fragile life until this day.

“Oh, you poor thing…” Shōbei’s wife said tearfully. “Why would someone as lovely as you be abandoned everywhere you go?” “It is because I am a cripple,” replied the girl, her beautiful eyes brimming with tears. “Who would take in and care for a cripple as rare as I? They may pity me at first, but soon grow weary of me.”

She spoke with a maturity beyond her years. Yet from their observation, her appearance far surpassed ordinary people's, showing no signs of disability whatsoever - leaving both his wife and Shōbei perplexed. Whether from shame or sorrow, the girl hunched her shoulders and trembled, merely sobbing quietly as the couple gently coaxed and questioned her until they finally uncovered the reason for her impairment. Since she had been sitting on the ground, they hadn't noticed until now - the girl possessed only one leg. She retained her left limb alone; her right leg had been severed above the knee. This wasn't a congenital deformity. Nor had it been amputated due to illness. Examining the wound's characteristics, Shōbei concluded she'd likely been abandoned roadside for some reason, where wild dogs or wolves had gnawed off her leg.

Under these circumstances, the couple's pity deepened further, and they could no longer bring themselves to abandon her as she was. Not only was it heartrending to leave such a beautiful, touching girl as a beggar, but since the aforementioned decree had been issued, she could no longer receive alms from anyone and would have to either quickly depart for another domain or starve to death right there before their very eyes. Shōbei tentatively asked the girl.

“Do you not know there’s been a decree issued forbidding giving alms to beggars?” “I don’t know,” she answered as though she truly knew nothing. Shōbei’s wife was made to cry again. She invited her husband to a shaded spot and whispered that they should find a way to save the girl, to which Shōbei had no objections. However, being himself in service to the Satomi family, he thought it unwise to openly protect a beggar at this juncture, so he called Yoichi, the servant he had brought with him today, to consult.

Yoichi was from Nishizaki, a village not far from Tateyama’s castle town. His family were farmers, but desiring to serve in a samurai household, he had been working at Shōbei’s residence for the past two or three years. Though young, he was honest and dutiful, and at his family home were a mother and a brother. Shōbei thought to temporarily entrust the girl to Yoichi’s family home and secretly consulted him about it, whereupon Yoichi readily agreed. “Then take her there 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 by this, Shōbei and his wife returned directly to their residence. As dusk fell, Yoichi came back 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, the girl was living safely. Yoichi's mother and brother were honest and dutiful people who not only strictly observed their master's instructions but also seemed to be sincerely caring for the crippled girl with kindness despite the inconvenience she caused, so his wife returned home feeling fully reassured. Two or three months later, as the year drew to a close, an even more shocking decree was issued by Lord Tadayoshi. Despite having previously issued a decree strictly instructing that no alms be given to beggars, yet beggars still wandered about the castle town and surrounding areas—whether because there were those secretly violating the prohibition to give them charity or because they resorted to stealing food—Lord Tadayoshi declared it regrettable that the intent of the earlier proclamation had not been fully realized. He therefore commanded that all homeless persons and beggars within the domain must depart for other territories within three days. Those who still lingered in the area even after the deadline had passed were to be beaten to death on sight.

Terrified by this strict decree, the beggars all scattered and fled in haste; but among them were those who remained unaware of the decree, or were captured after fleeing too late, and they were beaten to death as per the law. There were also those who were buried alive. Thus, beggars and vagrants within the Satomi domain were 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, unable to walk freely, would have likely fallen behind in fleeing and become the first sacrifice in this situation. Fortunately, no one discovered that the couple had saved the girl. Of course, they had strictly silenced Yoichi.

Part Two

The fortunate girl was being kindly raised at Yoichi’s family home. Shōbei’s wife also stealthily visited her from time to time, bestowing clothes and pocket money. Since they had to give her some sort of name, they decided to have the girl called Ofuyu. Five years passed, and Ofuyu eventually reached her sixteenth spring.

Even when exposed to rain and wind, covered in dust and sand, crawling on the dirt of the roadside—a girl who had caught Shōbei and his wife’s eye—her gem-like brilliance shone ever brighter as she gradually grew. Having been accustomed to it since childhood, she could walk around the neighborhood without trouble when leaning on her cane. Intelligent and dexterous by nature, her needlework and other skills surpassed what was typical for her age. “If only she had both legs, there’d be nothing to fault—” Yoichi’s mother and brother lamented her misfortune all the more.

Though disabilities varied in nature, being one-legged made securing marriage prospects particularly challenging. Especially in this area where all were farming households requiring both men and women to labor, no matter how comely her features or keen her mind, it seemed improbable anyone would take a one-legged cripple as a bride. The notion that she might spend her days like a flower withering in shadow despite her youthful beauty cast gloom not only over Yoichi’s mother and brother, but also Shōbei’s wife who visited periodically.

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 mingled with the childless couple’s fondness for children. Thus, while harboring a heavy heart on one hand, his wife also took secret joy in watching Ofuyu’s face grow ever more beautiful over time, quietly visiting her on occasion. She had sometimes consulted Yoichi’s mother and brother about whether there might be a household somewhere that would take Ofuyu as a bride, even offering to provide a dowry if necessary, but given the circumstances previously described, this matter was unlikely to be easily resolved.

Thus, as another year or two passed, Ofuyu blossomed into a beautiful young woman in the full bloom of her youth, and was always the talk among the neighborhood’s young men. Among them were some who playfully tugged at her sleeve, but the clever Ofuyu did not so much as turn her head. She respected Yoichi’s mother and brother as her masters, regarded them as her own family, and lived quietly and modestly.

In the nineteenth year of Keichō, when Ofuyu reached her eighteenth spring, dark clouds began to gather over the house of her great benefactor Ōtaki Shōbei's master. Ōkubo Sagami-no-kami Tadachika had his Odawara domain of fifty thousand koku suddenly confiscated by order of the shogunate, and Odawara Castle was demolished as well. Unaware of the details, the entire Kantō region was thrown into turmoil by this event that could be called a bolt from the blue, but especially in the Satomi household, which had ties to Ōkubo, they panicked as though they had lost their lamp in the pitch-black night. Rumors spread one after another that they might suffer the same fate as Ōkubo—confiscation of their domain, destruction of their house—and an air of unease filled the castle.

Shōbei too seemed to be one who felt this anxiety, and lately he had taken to visiting Suzaki Shrine. Suzaki was where Yoritomo first landed after losing the Battle of Ishibashiyama and retreating to Awa, and since it was a shrine long revered by the Satomi family—who shared descent from the Genji line—it was only natural that Shōbei would visit it to pray for his lord’s household’s safety. As the shrine stood at the edge of Nishizaki Village, Shōbei stopped by Yoichi’s family home along the way for the first time in years. He saw Ofuyu in the bloom of her youth and marveled at how her beauty intensified with each passing year. From then on, he began visiting Yoichi’s house whenever he made a pilgrimage. As various reports leaking from Edo gradually made clear that the Satomi family would likely not escape retribution through guilt by association, the anxiety permeating the entire household grew ever greater. Shōbei commenced nocturnal pilgrimages to Suzaki Shrine.

His nocturnal pilgrimages began in March and continued until May. Unless there were unavoidable circumstances such as official duties, he never neglected his pilgrimage even for a single night. It was reasonable for him to worry about his lord’s house, but since he began making nocturnal pilgrimages, the fact that he never took attendants along caught his wife’s attention. It appeared she had something else in mind as well, for the wife called Yoichi and whispered to him. “There’s something about Master Shōbei’s recent behavior that doesn’t sit right with me, so today I intend to quietly follow him.” “Won’t you guide me?”

Yoichi agreed and ended up guiding his master’s wife. Though it was called nearby, the distance was considerable, so Shōbei set out as though he could hardly wait for the sun to set. When the wife and Yoichi set out a little later, along the way the May day had completely darkened, and the village ahead was enveloped in the darkness of fresh leaves, so they lost sight of the figure they were following. “What should we do?” said the wife, stopping to ponder. “In any case, why don’t you go all the way to Suzaki and see for yourself?” said Yoichi.

“Let’s do that.”

Since there was truly no other way, Shōbei’s wife resolutely started walking again, but as it was extremely dark, he became unsettled. As Yoichi was a man and well-acquainted with the area, he did not face much difficulty, but Shōbei’s wife found herself greatly troubled by the perilous footing. Since they had come out intending to follow her husband, they naturally had not prepared any torches or fire cords. The wife could no longer endure it and called out.

“Yoichi.” “Won’t you take my hand?” Yoichi appeared to hesitate briefly, but when his master’s wife repeated her request, he could no longer decline. He grasped her hand with one of his own and began feeling his way through the darkness. Before they had gone twenty yards, a figure emerged from beneath a roadside tree and thrust a hooded lantern—the sort used by covert agents—directly before their faces. They froze in shock as the figure addressed them sharply.

“Yoichi? Leading the master’s wife by the hand—where are you going?”

It was the voice of their master, Shōbei. Shōbei continued speaking.

“I have indeed witnessed proof of your misconduct!” “Prepare yourselves.” “What? That’s absurd…!” the wife cried out in shock.

“Yes, you wandering hand in hand through the dark night with this young menial is all the proof I need.” There was no time for argument.

Shōbei’s sword flashed in the darkness, and with a one-handed strike he slashed down at the wife’s shoulder. Yoichi tried to flee with a cry but was similarly struck on the shoulder from behind. Even so he frantically fled until he found himself before his own house. “Thank goodness!” he tumbled inside where both mother and brother were startled by his blood-soaked appearance. Yoichi gave a brief account of tonight’s events and breathed his last.

The next morning, Shōbei submitted an official notice. It stated he had intercepted his wife committing adultery with the manservant Yoichi as they attempted to flee to Yoichi's family home, and had executed both on the spot. The wife's natal family doubted this. Yoichi's mother and brother naturally refused to accept it. Yet as the wife's family, they could not produce definitive evidence disproving the impropriety. Faced with the grief of their differing 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 Shōbei arrived at Yoichi’s house, declaring that they could not leave Ofuyu in the care of such an unscrupulous household, and thus had her board a palanquin to take her back. From that day on, the beautiful one-legged woman was taken into the inner quarters of Shōbei’s residence. Given that it was a crisis of survival where even whether their master’s house would stand or fall—or whether they themselves would live or die—remained uncertain, no one troubled themselves with such matters.

Three They spent a year in anxiety and turmoil, and then came Genna 1 (1615).

In May of that year, Osaka Castle fell, and at last the Tokugawa family's unified reign began. Seeing that they had remained unharmed until now, they had perhaps thought they might be spared as things were—but this proved a vain hope. Not long after Osaka’s fate was sealed, in late May, the final judgment was handed down. The Satomi house had its territory confiscated, and Tadayoshi was sentenced to exile in Hōki. With their master’s house destroyed, all Satomi retainers became sudden masterless samurai. Among them, Ōtaki Shōbei—who had no family beyond his wife and had always been prudent—still retained some savings in his household. As becoming a ronin posed no immediate hardship, Shōbei dismissed his few retainers and withdrew from Tateyama’s castle town. Yet he could not travel alone. The woman Ofuyu clung to him. Shōbei had no intention of casting her aside either. While tending to her disabled gait, he resolved to head toward Edo regardless. Securing passage on a boat bound for Kazusa, he continued his sea journey from Kisarazu until reaching Edo without incident.

It had been one year since Shōbei had executed his wife and manservant as adulterers. That summer, Shōbei was forty-six years old, and Ofuyu was nineteen. They were now openly a married couple. Having found temporary lodgings near Sensōji Temple, they spent their days with little to occupy them. The Satomi of Awa were indeed a distinguished family, but in recent years their martial prowess had not been much heard of in the world, so there were no households that would gladly take in Satomi rōnin. Ofuyu also disliked serving in samurai households. Shōbei felt somewhat ashamed about bringing a one-legged woman—one who differed from him in age as much as a parent and child—into samurai residences by declaring her "this humble one's wife," so he decided to postpone seeking another lord for the time being. However, as he could not idle about forever, he began working as a calligraphy instructor at a neighbor's suggestion. That neighbor kindly arranged matters and promptly gathered seven or eight disciples for him. In that case, Shōbei could no longer help with household chores either. Since Ofuyu, with her disabled leg, found everything inconvenient on her own, they decided to hire a kitchen maid, but every woman left within a month or two.

Because the servants were replaced too frequently, the neighbors began to find it strange. When they quietly questioned one of the maids who was leaving after giving notice, she said: “The young mistress has such a beautiful face, yet she’s somehow a frightening person. On top of that, the master and her are far too intimate—I simply couldn’t bear to watch.” The neighbors had acknowledged that the couple—with an age difference akin to parent and child—lived harmoniously together, but it was somewhat unexpected that their affection proved so intense it drove all the servants to leave, unable to endure witnessing them.

Upon closer observation, they found Shōbei and his wife's intimacy surpassed all imagination—even the slightly older disciples would frequently blush crimson. Some twelve- or thirteen-year-old girls began declaring they no longer wished to attend that calligraphy master's lessons. With their already meager number of disciples dwindling further and their savings nearly exhausted, even this affectionate couple began feeling household hardships keenly after little more than a year.

“Since I was originally a beggar, I can just return to my former place.” Ofuyu seemed unperturbed, but Shōbei could not bring himself to take his beloved wife begging. On a night in the twelfth month of Genna 2, as he walked through Asakusa’s tree-lined streets, he came upon a man approaching from the opposite direction. The man appeared to be a merchant’s servant on his way to collect payments. Acting on sudden impulse, Shōbei stepped into his path.

“As this twelfth month draws near, I, a ronin, find myself in dire straits.” “I beg for your assistance.”

Perceiving this as a form of robbery, the man did not let down his guard. Without uttering a word, he suddenly removed the zōri sandal he was wearing and struck Shōbei's face forcefully. Then, seizing the moment when his opponent faltered, he attempted to flee at full speed.

Struck squarely by the mud-caked zōri sandal, Shōbei flushed crimson. Having killed the man yet feeling no present inclination for remorse, he steeled his resolve with the adage “in for a penny, in for a pound,” snatched the purse hanging from the corpse’s neck, and fled. When he reached Sensōji Temple’s periphery and stealthily inspected the purse, he found merely two kanmon coins inside.

“I’ve committed such a grave sin over just this,” he regretted more deeply than ever. However, given his current circumstances, even two kanmon coins were precious. Shōbei put the coins in his pocket and returned home, but since this was the first time he had ever committed a murderous robbery, he couldn’t help feeling guilty. Fearing that any evidence might remain should an investigation occur, he was carefully wiping the blood from his sword by the lamplight when Ofuyu peered in from beside him.

“Pardon me, but would that not be human blood?”

“Hmm, I encountered a robber along the way and drove him off with a single strike,” Shōbei said, reversing his own account. Ofuyu nodded while gazing at it, then asked him to let her taste the blood on the sword. Though somewhat startled by this, Shōbei couldn’t refuse his bewitchingly beautiful wife’s demand. He obliged by letting her suck at the human blood. What demand his wife made that night in their bedchamber remains unknown, but thereafter he began sneaking out at dusk to roam the streets, cutting down people roughly once every three days. Ofuyu delightedly licked the blood from the sword. The money taken from the corpses’ pockets became their household funds. One night when he found no chance to kill a human and returned after slashing a roadside dog instead, Ofuyu tasted it and her face grew pallid.

“This isn’t human blood. It’s a dog’s.” Shōbei did not utter a word. Not only that, but Ofuyu would even meticulously distinguish whether it was the blood of a man, woman, or child each time, startling him. As this gradually escalated, Shōbei began concealing a small jar in his sleeve to collect fresh blood flowing from his victims’ wounds.

He could not help feeling occasional pangs of conscience over his cruel acts, but such anguish would vanish like dew under the morning sun whenever he encountered his wife’s beautiful smile. He became a murderous fiend, roaming Edo and slashing men and women. Not only did this please his wife, but having her discern whether it was a man’s blood or a woman’s also became a peculiar fascination for him.

However, even in this era, they could not forever overlook the rampage of such evil fiends. Particularly as the realm was finally unified and the Tokugawa shogunate was devoting all its efforts to governing Edo during this period, they by no means neglected policing in the city. In response to the rampant street slashings occurring around this time, the town magistrate’s office resolved to cast a strict investigative net. Shōbei was not entirely unaware of this, but now found himself unable to stop no matter what. As he persisted in his street slashing, he was apprehended by town patrol officers at the foothills of Ueno.

While spending three or five days chained in jail, his maddened heart gradually calmed, and Shōbei became like a person awakening from a dream. In response to the officials’ interrogation, he honestly confessed to all his crimes. When he was in Awa, he even admitted without concealment that he had brutally killed his wife and servant.

“Why did you commit so many crimes?” “Even to myself, it all seems like a dream.”

He said that while he couldn't recall each one individually, he had apparently slain around fifty people from the winter of Genna 2 through the following summer. And now that he thought about it, he also said that Ofuyu—that one-legged woman—might not be entirely human after all. As evidence, he was said to have enumerated several suspicious facts, but they were kept secret and never made public.

In any case, since it was recognized that Ofuyu also required at least some interrogation, four or five constables headed to Shōbei's vacant house. Sending four or five officers to apprehend a single woman seemed somewhat excessive, but it appeared the magistrate's office had grown cautious due to Shōbei's testimony. It was dusk at June's end when Ofuyu went out to the bamboo veranda to burn mosquito-repelling incense. But through gaps in the smoke, the moment she glimpsed constables' figures, she sprang up and—before one could register her movement—had leapt into the garden, torn through a sparse hedge, and fled into the street. The constables immediately gave chase.

Despite having only one leg, Ofuyu ran so swiftly that even men's strides could not match her speed. At that time, several ditch-like streams meandered through the area. Ofuyu vaulted from one to another as though flying, leaving even the constables astounded. Still they pressed their pursuit relentlessly until she twisted her body and plunged into the Sumida River from its bank. Along the way, some attempted to aid the constables by blocking her path, but upon glimpsing her terrifyingly enraged visage, all recoiled in retreat.

“Hurry, get a boat out!” The constables boarded a small boat tied to the shore and rowed out, whereupon Ofuyu’s figure sank once before resurfacing. Whether she had stripped herself at the river’s bottom or her garments had slipped away naturally, when Ofuyu resurfaced she was utterly naked—not a stitch upon her—and there, upon waters not yet fully darkened by dusk, they saw it clearly: the pale form of a one-legged woman kicking through the waves. As they rowed toward it—perhaps having damaged their oar in their haste—the small boat was struck by a side wave and capsized before even reaching midstream. The constables, being skilled swimmers, all fortunately emerged unharmed, but in the commotion, they lost track of Ofuyu’s whereabouts. In any case, they investigated the embankment on the opposite bank, but since no one in the area had seen such a woman, the constables withdrew in vain.

In jail, upon hearing that story, Shōbei sighed as if it had finally dawned on him. “Truly, that woman was no mere mortal,” he said. “That must be what the world calls a demon woman.” About ten days later, Shōbei requested the jailers to carry out his execution soon. The truth was that last night Ofuyu had come to the jail and persistently tried to lure him out, but he had firmly refused and not gone. Though he clearly recognized her as a demonic being, whenever he saw her face, he found his resolve dangerously close to crumbling. Even if he refused once, should it happen again and again—two or three times—there was no guarantee he wouldn’t lose his mind once more and attempt to break out of jail. When he thought of this, he found himself so terrified that he pleaded to be executed as soon as possible.

As he wished, two days later, he was crucified in Senju.

Yellow Paper

1.

The Tenth Woman speaks.

“In recent years, it has been truly fortunate that cholera outbreaks have become rare,” she began. “Even when epidemics do occur, prevention and disinfection measures are now so thorough that at most a hundred or two hundred patients are reported during any single outbreak.” She paused, her voice lowering slightly. “But in earlier times, matters did not progress so smoothly. As for the great cholera of the Ansei era—what horrors it brought—I can only repeat others’ accounts, never having witnessed it myself. But since the Meiji era began, they say the nineteenth year’s outbreak was by far the worst.”

I was born in the first year of Meiji and had just reached my nineteenth summer at that time, so I remember those days well. The epidemic was truly dreadful—even within Tokyo City alone, patients continued to emerge at a rate of one hundred fifty to two hundred per day, creating an utterly terrifying situation. What I shall now relate is a story from that time. My family name is Kotani, and we had been physicians for generations since the Edo period. My father had gone to Nagasaki for training when he was young, and after the Meiji Restoration, he volunteered to become a military doctor and served in the Seinan War. During that campaign, a stray bullet struck his left leg at Nobeoka in Hyūga. Though it initially healed without complications, trouble later developed in that leg—not quite a limp, but an odd stiffness—until he finally resolved to resign his post starting in Meiji 17. Even so, with some savings and a pension, living modestly would not have been particularly difficult. However, to continue living without employment required proper arrangements. My father consulted with my mother and purchased a house with land in Shinjuku’s Banshūmachi.

As you may well know, Shinjuku has now been incorporated into Yotsuya Ward and become a thriving area beyond recognition, but in those days Shinjuku—particularly around Banshūmachi—could almost be called rural; though houses were indeed being built there, it remained an exceedingly lonely place.

The house my father purchased was an old samurai residence, its gate flanked by large bamboo groves on both sides, with a seven-room dwelling standing beyond them. The grounds were said to measure around five hundred and twenty tsubo, their rear portion converted into farmland while still retaining vast stretches of open space. This area was known to harbor raccoon dogs and badgers, their presence marked by occasional fox cries piercing the night air. For these reasons, Father praised the tranquility of our new home, though Mother and I found its stillness verging on desolation. We kept one maid named Otomi—a sturdy woman of twenty-four or twenty-five—who assisted Father with work in the fields.

The third year since coming to Banshūmachi was the nineteenth year of Meiji—that is to say, the year of the Great Cholera. The heat was fierce, and living in such a remote place as we did, we seldom went out to the city center, so we remained largely unaware of worldly affairs. Yet when we looked at the daily newspapers, we saw that cholera in the city only burned more fiercely, showing no signs of subsiding easily.

It was the evening at the end of August. Mother and I went out to the wide veranda and were discussing the cholera rumours in the city, saying things like “It must be about time for it to end,” when Otomi, who had been sitting on the edge of the veranda, came out with this remark. “But Madam, I hear there are people around here who actually want to catch cholera.” “Oh, what foolishness…” Mother couldn’t help but laugh. “Who would want to get cholera….” “That’s beyond a joke.”

“No, it truly does seem to be real,” Otomi said earnestly. “You know the Iida house on the side street to the right here, don’t you? It’s the Mistress of that household.” In this era—lingering from Edo times—the term ‘Mistress’ was still used. It ranked below ‘wife’ yet above ‘proprietress.’ Thus while the Iida household maintained quite an impressive lifestyle, their female head—appearing to be a kept woman—led neighbours to address her neither as ‘wife’ nor ‘proprietress,’ settling instead on ‘Mistress’ as the intermediate term.

“Why on earth would that Mistress say such a thing? It must be a joke after all,” Mother still laughed.

I too had naturally assumed it was a joke. However, upon hearing what Otomi had to say, it became clear this was indeed no mere joke.

The Iida house was located such that if one were to enter my side street and proceed halfway before turning right into another side street, there stood this large residence on the southern side. Its gate was flanked by cedar hedges on both sides, while the rear held an equally large bamboo grove. Both the gate and buildings appeared to have been maintained in recent years, making them far more impressive than our old home. The Mistress was a refined woman of about twenty-eight or twenty-nine—perhaps around thirty—and there were rumors she had once worked as a geisha in places like Nihonbashi. This woman was the mistress of the household, with two maids named Ogen and Onaka in her service. Ogen was an elderly maid already over fifty years old, while Onaka remained a young woman of eighteen or nineteen, but the fact that the Mistress wished to contract cholera was something Onaka had reportedly told Otomi.

For reasons unknown, the Mistress had lately taken to repeating like a mantra that she wanted to contract cholera. She would wonder aloud how one might catch cholera. This obsession gradually intensified until she began eating sashimi and raw meat, disregarding old Ogen's attempts to stop her. She ate tempura. She ate salted cucumber—foods people in that era claimed would bring on cholera. To see her consume these things so calmly yet deliberately made clear this was no jest or idle talk; the Mistress genuinely desired to contract the disease—so fervently that young Onaka could bear it no longer. Should cholera take hold of the Mistress, it might fulfill her deepest wish—but unlike ordinary troubles, those around her would suffer terribly. Onaka was said to have worn a tearful expression, insisting that if the Mistress fell ill and infected them all, disaster would follow—she wished to take her leave and depart at once.

Hearing that story, both Mother and I developed an unpleasant feeling. “It’s not just the servants of that house. If cholera breaks out in that house, it’ll be trouble for the whole neighborhood,” Mother said, frowning. “Even so, why would that Mistress say such things? Could she have lost her mind?” “That’s right,” I agreed. “It does seem rather strange. It simply couldn’t be considered the act of a sane person.”

“However, according to Ms. Onaka’s account, there’s no sign she’s acting strangely at all,” Otomi said. “Apparently, there’s a highly revered ascetic in Asakusa, and it seems the Mistress recently went there to request some prayers, after which she began saying she wants to contract cholera.” “Could it be that ascetic told her something strange?” “But isn’t it strange for her to say she wants to contract cholera?”

Mother seemed to doubt it. I too couldn't quite grasp the reasoning behind it. In any case, having someone living right nearby in our own neighborhood who wished to contract cholera was thoroughly unnerving. "In any case, it's just awful," Mother said, frowning again. "It's truly dreadful. Ms. Onaka insists she'll take her leave by month's end no matter what, but I wonder if the master will consent," said Otomi with an uneasy expression.

Around that time, Father came out from his bath, and when Mother told him about it, he immediately burst into laughter. “That maid must have made some blunder and is about to be dismissed abruptly, so she’s spouting all that nonsense to cover her tracks.” “She could at least come up with a more believable lie...” “It’s because she’s still young, after all.” Since Father dismissed it out of hand from the start, the conversation ended there for the time being.

Indeed, now that one thought of it, such things could not be said to never occur. Even if servants were dismissed due to their own faults, it was their custom to spread word that their master had been at fault, so one could not know how much of the Mistress of the Iida household’s cholera story was true. Thinking this way, we too gradually stopped dwelling too deeply on the matter.

Two

Three days later in the evening, I took Otomi and went out shopping to Shinjuku’s main street. Though it was evening, the hour was still bright, and the cicadas’ cries—as if lamenting the passing of the sweltering day—buzzed busily around us. As we were about to exit the alleyway in another five or six ken, two women entered from the opposite direction. When Otomi called out “Miss” in a hushed tone to get my attention, I too noticed and looked closely—it was none other than Mistress Iida and her maid Onaka.

Though we lived nearby, having never interacted particularly closely, we merely exchanged silent nods as we passed each other—but Onaka, the maid trailing behind her mistress with a face so despondent it seemed on the verge of tears, appeared somehow pitiable. “Miss,” Otomi said, glancing back in a hushed voice. “Look at that Mistress’s face...”

Just as Otomi had said, Mistress Iida’s countenance had drastically withered away in a short span of time, transforming her into a shadow-thin figure who could no longer be mistaken for an ordinary person. "Might she not already have cholera?" Otomi said.

“Surely not.” I had said as much, but I couldn’t help feeling a certain unease about Mistress Iida’s circumstances. Even if the cholera was a lie, I imagined she must have contracted some grave illness. I wondered if it might be a gynecological illness or tuberculosis. I considered that perhaps she, finding no hope of recovery from such an illness, had vented her grievances about wanting to die—to contract cholera and die—and that the maids had taken this despairing lament at face value, consequently spreading rumors that the Mistress wished to contract cholera. However, given that she was eating raw fish and tempura so recklessly, one might consider that she truly intended to contract cholera and die.

Even as September arrived, the cholera showed no signs of abating, resulting in most schools postponing the start of classes from September 1st indefinitely. Moreover, cholera cases—previously relatively scarce in the Yamanote area—gradually began increasing, and houses affixed with yellow paper began to appear from Yotsuya all the way to Shinjuku. At that time, it was decided that houses where cholera patients emerged would have yellow paper affixed in the manner of quarantine notices, so walking along the streets and passing before houses with yellow paper attached became truly an unpleasant experience. Thus, as the terrifying cholera gradually pressed closer to our very doorstep, we timid souls found ourselves utterly on edge, praying for nothing but an early arrival of cold weather.

“It seems Ms. Onaka at the Iidas’ has ended up staying in service after all.”

One day, Otomi reported to me. Onaka had been determined to leave service by the end of August, but the Mistress confronted her: "Are you truly resolved to abandon this household? I myself will not last much longer—please bear with me." "If you insist on tearing yourself away despite my pleas like this, know that I will curse you without fail," she glared with a terrifying expression, so Onaka shuddered and had no choice but to endure it a while longer—or so it was told.

Otomi told us another such story. “It seems the Mistress killed a tanuki cub last night.” “A tanuki… Why…,” I asked.

“Apparently yesterday evening, when it was already growing dark, a tanuki cub had come crawling out from somewhere…” “It was apparently the smallest cub—feebly crawling into the garden—when Mistress spotted it and ordered the old maid and Ms. Onaka to catch it quickly. They reluctantly captured it, and then Mistress brought out a grass-cutting sickle… she severed its neck with all her strength…” “Ms. Onaka apparently shuddered in horror at that.” “That Mistress has truly lost her mind.” “This is by no means an ordinary matter.”

“That may well be.” As Mistress Iida’s illness worsened and her nerves grew increasingly agitated—perhaps driving her to commit such deranged acts of violence and cruelty—I found myself feeling strangely pitying toward her. Yet if such violence were to escalate further, there was no telling what she might do. If someone were to set fire to my own home—I even began to entertain such thoughts.

It was around eight o'clock in the morning on September 12—a day I will never forget. Otomi, who had been out on an errand, returned with her face drained of color and breathlessly reported to us once more. “Mistress Iida has finally contracted cholera.” “Since midnight last night, she’s been vomiting and having diarrhea…” “It’s not a lie!” “The police and town office officials have come—it’s a huge commotion.” “Oh! This is terrible…” “This is terrible…!” Startled, I too rushed out to the gate to look and found a large crowd clamoring at the narrow alley’s entrance, the stench of carbolic acid stinging my eyes. It appeared the patient was to be sent to the quarantine hospital, as a stretcher bearing a yellow paper flag had also arrived. Somehow feeling terrified, I hurriedly fled back inside.

Mistress Iida was taken to the quarantine hospital with confirmed cholera and reportedly died around ten o'clock that evening. While this outcome might have fulfilled her own wishes, the neighborhood suffered great inconvenience from road closures and disinfection measures. Had her illness occurred naturally, it would have been an unavoidable misfortune for all. But rumors spread that she had deliberately sought infection, making her bitterly resented and despised throughout the community.

"She's an utter lunatic," my father said. However, afterward, facts conveyed through the maid Onaka's own account left us thoroughly perplexed. As previously mentioned, during that period it was customary to write "cholera" in black ink on yellow paper and affix these notices to the gates of houses where new patients had emerged. Mistress Iida had apparently prepared two such yellow notices in secret—one for her own residence's gate, and another she requested the police post on the gate of a certain establishment in Yanagibashi—or so it was reported.

Though they wondered what she meant, when the police inquired with Yanagibashi as a precaution, it turned out a new cholera patient had indeed emerged at that residence too—so much so that even the officers were reportedly stunned. The new patient was said to be a Yanagibashi geisha.

III Onaka had entered service with Mistress Iida after she moved to Banshomachi and knew nothing of earlier events, but Ogen—an elderly maid who had served long before that—was fully aware of all circumstances. Given the nature of the disease, no one came to offer condolences, leaving Ogen and Onaka to conduct a lonely funeral with just the two of them. On that wake night, it was said Ogen first disclosed Mistress Iida's secret to Onaka.

Mistress Iida had indeed been a geisha in Yanagibashi as rumored, and after becoming the favored companion of a certain distinguished government official, she was ultimately taken as his mistress. This government official gradually rose in prominence and lived until the final years of Meiji, his household remaining prosperous to this day. As disclosing his name here would be imprudent, we shall simply refer to him as an eminent government official. the government official’s kept woman—the term goken (mistress) being then in vogue— thus becoming [his mistress], she had him purchase land and a house in this Banshomachi district, whereupon the master would periodically steal away to visit her, or so it was told.

Thus, four or five years passed without incident, but from around this spring, the master’s carriage began visiting less frequently, and by June his visits had ceased entirely. When Mistress Iida grew concerned and made inquiries, she discovered the master had formed a new connection with a geisha in Yanagibashi. Moreover, it emerged this geisha was a young woman whom the Mistress had once treated like a younger sister and mentored during her own service days. Upon learning this, Mistress Iida reportedly gnashed her teeth in bitter resentment.

To be sure, the master continued sending her monthly allowance without fail, so she never faced financial hardship. Yet having her patron taken by the very woman she had treated like a younger sister left her with deeply bitter resentment. While this was only natural, the Mistress appeared to possess a disposition far more jealous than others, and she could not help but despise that geisha. The reason the master had distanced himself from Banshomachi was, as I had surmised, due to the Mistress’s stubborn gynecological condition. Though she had undergone various treatments over time, not only did it refuse to heal, but it grew more severe each year—a state of affairs that led the master to return to his former haunt in Yanagibashi and form a new acquaintance there. One could hardly blame him for this course of action. Even so, since the master never failed to provide her monthly allowance and never let her want for anything, the Mistress did not resent him. Yet no matter how she thought about it, she found that woman detestable—utterly loathsome. Meanwhile, one of her illnesses gradually grew more severe. As Mistress Iida grew increasingly frantic, constantly voicing her desire to simply die or even contract cholera, her nerves may have already begun to fray—for she started disregarding the old maid Ogen’s attempts to restrain her and began indulging without restraint in foods considered dangerous during such times.

The act of gruesomely decapitating the tanuki cub with a sickle was likely due to her deranged state of mind—but whether she mistook the tanuki for that geisha, or whether she likened the tanuki to the geisha in some vengeful fantasy akin to Yu Rang’s disguise (a legendary act of retribution), that much remains unclear. In any case, Mistress Iida ended up contracting cholera just as she had desired. I do not know what sort of person this eminent ascetic of Asakusa was or what prayers he performed, but it seems Mistress Iida had entrusted him with some secret prayer and came to believe that when she died, she could take that woman with her.

Therefore, it’s believed she had prepared two sheets of yellow paper in advance, deciding to request that one be posted on the gate of a certain house in Yanagibashi when the critical moment arrived. Whether cursed by Mistress Iida or mere coincidence, the fact remained that this geisha too contracted cholera on the same day and died that very night, so it was said. Ogen, the elderly maid, received all belongings from Mistress Iida’s clothing through her will and returned to her hometown. This maid had been a loyal servant since Mistress Iida’s Yanagibashi days, her birthplace rumored to be Sagami Province. Onaka received some keepsakes from Ogen and apparently reentered domestic service elsewhere. The remaining land and house were inherited by Mistress Iida’s younger brother—a man running a harness shop in Honjo, notorious as a pleasure-seeker—who transferred everything to others within half a year.

When that happened, people had nothing favorable to say. There are those who spread groundless rumors about that house—that Mistress Iida’s ghost appears there and whatnot. However, it remains a fact that after this, the wife of a man called Mr. Fujioka who moved in next died of influenza in the fifth year—Meiji 24, 1891—and then an army lieutenant-colonel who came after perished in the Meiji 27, 1894 Sino-Japanese War, followed by a man named Matsuzawa who subsequently moved in and committed suicide due to stock market failures.

I too vacated that place about twenty years ago, so I do not know what has transpired since. In recent years, that area has become remarkably developed, making it utterly impossible to determine where exactly the Iida house now stands. It was likely demolished when the bamboo grove was cleared away.

Flute Mound

I

The eleventh man spoke.

I am from the northern provinces, but such ghost stories have been passed down in my domain. No—before recounting that tale, I should first introduce a passage from *Mimibukuro*, a collection of essays penned by the renowned Edo magistrate Lord Nezumi Hizen-no-kami.

In *Mimibukuro*, such a story is recorded. When the house of Kanamori Hyōbu-no-shō of Mino was abolished by the shogunate, a certain chief retainer was ordered to commit seppuku. The chief retainer addressed the inspecting official: “As I now take upon myself the crime of my lord’s house through seppuku, there is absolutely nothing for which I feel guilty.” “Rather, as a samurai, I consider this my true aspiration.” “However, to tell the truth, I have a hidden sin.” “When I was young and traveling, I stayed at an inn where a mountain ascetic sharing my room drew out his sword during conversation and showed it to me.” “As it was a celebrated blade, I grew intensely desirous and pleaded to purchase it at fair price, but was refused for being a family heirloom.” “Still unable to relinquish desire, next morning I accompanied him to a deserted pine grove and suddenly cut him down to seize that sword.” “That incident from long ago remained undiscovered until today—now reflecting, it was deeply sinful. Declaring this end fitting even for that sin alone, I performed seppuku properly.”

What I am about to relate bears some resemblance to that tale, but I would have you regard it as an even more complex and bizarre story. In my domain, Noh chants and Kyogen farces have been popular since ancient times. Therefore,there are also many Noh and Kyogen masters. It is likely due to their influence as well that among samurai,there are those who can perform Noh chants,and even shimai dances. There are also those who play flutes. There are also those who beat drums. Among them was a man named Yagara Kihee. Though his name carried an elderly air,Yagara was still nineteen years old at that time,a young samurai serving as mounted guard. His father too had been named Kihee,and when this elder Kihee’s sixteen-year-old heir succumbed to illness one summer,the sole remaining son—having just undergone his coming-of-age ceremony—inherited his father’s name and assumed succession without incident. Over four full years thereafter,the young second-generation Kihee discharged his duties flawlessly without incurring any ill repute.His mother and relatives grew so assured that they began privately planning to secure him a suitable bride upon his twentieth birthday in the coming year.

As previously mentioned regarding our cultural customs, Kihee had practiced the flute since his forelock days. In another domain, he might have been derided as unmanly, but here in this domain, those with such artistic refinements were rather regarded as more samurai-like compared to those wholly lacking in arts—thus none censured his frequent flute playing. An old superstition held that those born in auspicious years possessed teeth well-suited for flute playing, and this Kihee—born in February of such a year—had shown remarkable skill from childhood. Others praised him; his parents took pride in it. This artistic indulgence alone he never abandoned.

It was an autumn night in the first year of Tenpō.

Lured by the moon's glow, Kihee left his residence. In his hands he carried his cherished flute. Treading through night dew to the riverbank outside the castle town, he found silvergrass and reed plumes swaying white beneath the bright moon. Insect chirps drifted from somewhere. As Kihee played his flute while making his way far down the riverbank, another flute's sound reached him from ahead. Convinced this wasn't his own melody echoing over water—someone else must be playing—he paused to listen intently. The flute's notes rang clear and distant through the night air. Though the player showed skill, what truly captivated Kihee was the instrument's exceptional quality—a realization that kindled his desire to meet its owner.

It was not only autumn deer that were drawn to the sound of the flute. Kihee too, his soul seized by his passion, found himself pulled toward the flute—its notes now filtering through reeds growing thick along the lower riverbank. Was there another soul who, like himself, had wandered out bewitched by tonight's moon to play joyously while soaked in night dew? Admiring such cunning artistry, Kihee crept on silent feet toward the reed thicket's edge—where he discovered a low hut draped in tattered screens. This was what people called a reed-screened hut, and Kihee knew its inhabitants to be homeless beggars.

Finding it quite unexpected that such a tone would emanate from there, Kihee came to a suspicious halt. "Surely foxes or raccoons aren’t trying to trick me here." Though he suspected foxes or river otters might be exploiting his curiosity to play some malicious trick, Kihee was a samurai. At his waist was the family heirloom Nagasone Kotetsu. Steeling his resolve that if it were some supernatural apparition, he would simply cut it down in a single stroke and be done with it, he pushed through a thick clump of silvergrass, lifted the reed screen at the hut’s entrance, and found a man sitting there playing a flute.

“Here, here.”

When called out to, the man stopped playing his flute. Then, assuming a guarded stance, he looked up at Kihee standing there. Though his appearance under the moonlight was unmistakably that of a beggar, Kihee saw at first glance that this man of twenty-seven or twenty-eight years seemed fundamentally different in character from the ordinary homeless people and beggars who nested in this area, and thus his manner of address naturally became more formal.

“Are you the one playing the flute there?” “Yes,” replied the flute-playing man in a low voice.

“The tone was so clear that I was drawn here to seek it out,” Kihee said with a smile. The man had already keenly noticed the flute in his hand as well, and with his wariness seeming to ease somewhat, his words took on a more open tone. “My playing is truly clumsy; I am deeply ashamed.” “Not at all. From what I hear as I listen, it appears you have trained quite extensively. If I may be so bold, would you show me that flute?”

“It is merely a thing I play with for my own amusement.” “It is by no means something worthy of being presented for your esteemed viewing.” Though he said this, without any sign of refusal, he carefully wiped his flute with silvergrass leaves growing nearby and respectfully presented it before Kihee. That demeanor—how could it belong to a mere beggar? Surmising that the man was likely a fallen ronin from a samurai family who had met with some misfortune, Kihee greeted him with even greater courtesy.

“In that case, allow me to examine it.”

He received the flute and held it up to the moonlight to examine it. After first declining out of courtesy, he tentatively blew into it, and upon finding its tones far surpassing the ordinary—a rare and exquisite flute unlike any in this world—Kihee became thoroughly convinced the man was no ordinary vagrant. His own flute was certainly a fine instrument, but it paled in comparison to this one. Kihee grew curious about how such a man came to possess this treasure and resolved to learn its history. Driven by curiosity, he returned the flute and sat down beside the man, spreading silvergrass stalks as a makeshift seat.

“When did you come here?” “I arrived here about half a month ago.” “Where were you before that?” Kihee pressed. “Given my present circumstances, I have no fixed place to call my own. I have been wandering from Chūgoku through Kyoto-Osaka, along the Ise Road and Ōmi Road, drifting through various regions.” “You are of the samurai class, are you not?” Kihee suddenly asked. The man remained silent. In this situation, offering no denial was taken as acknowledgment. Kihee edged closer and pressed further.

“With such an extraordinary flute in your possession, there must surely be reasons compelling you to wander like this. If it’s no trouble, would you permit me to hear them?” The man remained silent, but when Kihee pressed him repeatedly for an answer, he reluctantly spoke. “I am indeed cursed by this flute.”

Two

The man was a samurai from Shikoku named Iwami Yajiemon. He, like Kihee, had enjoyed playing the flute since his boyhood days. Yajiemon was nineteen years old on that spring evening. While returning 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 a man nearing forty, tormented by illness. Yajiemon fetched fresh water from nearby and made him drink, took medicine stored in his pill case and administered it, and tended to him in various ways, but the man only grew increasingly distressed until he finally drew his last breath there.

He was deeply grateful for Yajiemon’s kindness—that an unknown samurai lord would show such compassion to someone like himself. He had no way to express his gratitude for such profound kindness. "Though terribly rude of me, I would like to offer this as a token of my gratitude," he said, taking out a flute in a bag from his waist and presenting it to Yajiemon. “This is an object without equal in the world, sir. “However, take utmost care to ensure you do not meet an end like mine.”

He died leaving behind a cryptic phrase. Yajiemon asked about his birthplace and name, but he shook his head and did not answer. Thinking this must be some twist of fate, Yajiemon took care of the corpse and buried it at his family temple. The flute left as a memento by the Shikoku pilgrim of unknown origin was truly a rare and peerless instrument. Yajiemon found it quite suspicious why he had possessed such an item, but regardless, rejoicing at having obtained an unexpected treasure from this chance occurrence, he kept the flute carefully stored away—this being about half a year later. Yajiemon had once again visited his family temple 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?” the young samurai addressed as he approached. When he answered that this was indeed so, the man stepped closer still and said, “According to rumors, Lord, you recently tended to a Shikoku pilgrim in this very place and received a bagged flute as a memento. That Shikoku pilgrim was my sworn enemy.” “I came all this way to take his head and the flute in his possession, but since my enemy himself has already died of illness, there was nothing to be done. Thinking to at least claim the flute alone, I have been waiting here for you since earlier,” he said.

Being suddenly confronted with such a demand out of nowhere, Yajiemon had no reason to hand it over obediently. He replied to the young samurai that unless he first learned who he was, from where, and for what reason he bore enmity toward that Shikoku pilgrim, he could not possibly respond—but the man pressed him relentlessly, refusing to explain in detail and demanding only that he hand over the flute. At this turn of events, suspicion finally arose within Yajiemon—he wondered whether the man had fabricated this tale to swindle him out of the precious flute. Thus, he resolutely rebuffed him: unless the young samurai’s true identity and the particulars of his vendetta were made clear, he could not possibly hand it over. Upon this refusal, the young samurai’s countenance changed.

“Then I too am resolved,” he declared, gripping his sword hilt. Seeing further discussion pointless, Yajiemon braced himself. After trading several more heated words, their blades flashed free—and the young samurai of unknown origin collapsed before Yajiemon’s eyes, drenched in blood. “That flute will curse you.”

Having finished speaking, he died. Having killed the man without understanding why, Yajiemon remained in a dreamlike state for some time. But upon promptly reporting the incident—given the circumstances as described—no blame fell upon Yajiemon, and the matter was settled with the man’s death being deemed inconsequential. Who the Shikoku pilgrim who had bequeathed him the flute truly was, who that later young samurai had been—these things of course remained unknown. The matter of slaying his opponent was settled for the time being, but now a new difficulty arose. This was because the incident had become the talk of the domain, reached his lord’s ears, and an imperial command had been issued for him to present this so-called flute. Were it merely a matter of presenting it for inspection, there would be no particular issue—but Yajiemon knew full well His Lordship cherished flutes and acquired fine specimens regardless of cost. Should he carelessly present this flute, there loomed the risk of it being seized by His Lordship’s attendants under pretext of fulfilling His Lordship’s desire. Yet being but a retainer, he could not possibly refuse what was after all His Lordship’s explicit command. Yajiemon found himself perplexed by this dilemma, but however he considered it, parting with the flute seemed unbearable.

Thus, there was no other course of action. The young man absconded from the residence, clutching the flute. Due to his obsession with a single flute, he had abandoned his ancestral stipend. Unlike in former times, the private finances of all daimyo during that period were strained, so taking on new retainers was a rare occurrence. Yajiemon had no choice but to become a ronin, clutching that flute. He crossed to Kyushu, wandered through Chūgoku, drifted across Kyoto and Osaka, and while seeking his livelihood—falling ill here, suffering theft there—misfortune followed misfortune until Iwami Yajiemon, a once-respected samurai, finally ended up among beggars.

During that time, he had even relinquished his swords, but that flute alone he would not part with. And so, having wandered now to this northern province, the melody he played joyfully beneath tonight's moon was unexpectedly heard by Yagara Kihee. Having told his story up to this point, Yajiemon let out a sigh.

“As the Shikoku pilgrim stated before, it seems there is some curse upon this flute.” “I do not know who its previous owners were, but even from what I know—the Shikoku pilgrim who possessed this died by the roadside.” “The traveling samurai who came to seize it was struck down by me and perished.” “I too have met this fate because of the flute.” “When I think of that, my future seems dreadful. Countless times I resolved to either sell this flute or break and discard it—one or the other—yet I find it too regrettable to simply sell it off, and even more so to break and throw it away. So I keep it with me still, though I know it brings calamity.”

Kihee, too, could not listen without letting out a sigh. Strange tales of fate surrounding swords were not unheard of since ancient times, but he had never imagined such mysteries could exist concerning a flute as well.

However，being young，he immediately denied it. Probably this beggar samurai，fearing that he would be asked for the flute，had deliberately told such a mysterious fabricated story；he thought there likely had been no such actual incident. “No matter how precious an object may be，knowing full well it brings calamity upon oneself，I cannot comprehend clinging to it and refusing to let go.” he said accusingly.

“That is something even I do not understand,” said Yajiemon. “Try as I might to discard it, I cannot. Is this what they call one’s personal calamity—or a curse? For nigh on ten years now, I have been ceaselessly tormented by it.”

“I am ceaselessly tormented…” “This is not something I can speak of to others. Moreover, even were I to tell you, you would never accept it as truth.”

With that, Yajiemon fell silent. Kihee also remained silent. Nothing could be heard but the sound of insects. The moonlight illuminating the riverbed was white as if frosted over.

“The night has grown late,” Yajiemon said at length, gazing up at the sky. “The night has grown late.” Kihee parroted back mechanically. He came to his senses and stood up.

Three After parting ways with the ronin and returning home, Kihee reappeared at this riverbank about half an hour later. He wore a mask and had attired himself lightly for swift movement. In imitation of the Daianji Embankment scene from the kabuki play *Adauchi Ranru Nishiki*, he crept toward the fish-paste shack with soundless steps.

Kihee wanted that flute so badly he could hardly bear it. However, judging from the ronin’s tone, it seemed he would never willingly relinquish it, so he resolved that his only recourse was to ambush him in the dark and seize it by force. Of course, he had hesitated many times before solidifying that resolve, but no matter how he thought about it, he wanted that flute. Though he was a ronin, his opponent was merely a homeless beggar. If he were to kill [the ronin] secretly, there would be no particularly difficult investigation to deal with. With this thought, he fully embraced his inner demon. After once returning to his own residence to prepare himself and waiting for the night to deepen, he came back there to attack.

It was unclear whether this was false or true, but according to his earlier account, Yajiemon appeared to be quite a skilled swordsman. There was no sign of anything resembling a weapon, but even so, Kihee thought he must not let his guard down. He had trained in swordsmanship to some extent, but after all, he was young. He had of course never experienced a real life-and-death fight. Though it was a cowardly night ambush, he thought substantial preparation was necessary—cutting a bamboo stalk from a thicket along the way, he fashioned a spear and crept forward with it at the ready. To avoid rustling leaves, he quietly parted the silver grass and peered toward the hut: the flute’s sound had ceased. A straw mat had been lowered over the hut’s entrance, and the interior lay hushed.

Just as he thought this, a low groaning came from inside. The sound gradually grew louder, and Yajiemon seemed to writhe in distress. This wasn’t physical suffering—it looked more like a man caught in a nightmare’s clutches. Kihee paused, his resolve wavering. That earlier story about the flute tormenting Yajiemon for nearly a decade resurfaced in his mind, sending an eerie chill down Kihee’s spine.

As he held his breath and peered in, the agonized thrashing sounds from within grew increasingly violent until Yajiemon tore at the entrance mat with clawing hands and flung it aside, tumbling out of the hut. And then, as if the terrible dream had finally lifted, he let out a relieved breath and scanned his surroundings. Kihee had no time to conceal himself. Tonight's moon shone with unfortunate clarity, illuminating in stark detail his figure standing rigid with bamboo spear clutched underarm—vividly exposed before the ronin's eyes.

Now that it had come to this, Kihee panicked. Once discovered, he could no longer delay. He readjusted his grip on the spear and thrust straight forward, but Yajiemon swiftly dodged, seized the spearhead, and yanked forcefully. Caught off guard, Kihee staggered and dropped to one knee in the grass. Because his opponent proved tougher than expected, Kihee grew increasingly flustered. He discarded the spear and reached for his sword when Yajiemon immediately called out.

“Wait, just a moment—” “Is your lordship so deeply enamored with this humble one’s flute?” Exposed under the starlight, Kihee had nothing to say. As he withdrew his half-drawn hand and hesitated, Yajiemon spoke quietly. “If your lordship desires it so ardently, I shall relinquish it.” Yajiemon entered the hut, retrieved the flute, and placed it in the hands of Kihee, who knelt silently. “Do not forget our earlier discussion, your lordship.” “Exercise utmost caution to avoid calamity.”

“Th-thank you,” Kihee stammered. “Return quickly while no one sees you,” Yajiemon said in a cautioning tone.

Now that things had come to this, he had no choice but to obey the other’s command. Kihee received the flute and stood up almost mechanically, then silently bowed with utmost courtesy before taking his leave. On his way back to the residence, Kihee was struck by a sense of shame and remorse. While feeling the joy and satisfaction of having obtained a flute considered unparalleled in the world, he also deeply regretted his own shameful actions from that night. Precisely because his opponent had so readily surrendered that flute, the weighty guilt akin to killing and robbery inflicted an even stronger sense of remorse upon his heart. Even so, he thought it was at least some small comfort that he hadn’t mistakenly killed the man.

When day broke, he resolved to visit the ronin again to apologize for that night's discourtesy and offer some token of gratitude for the flute. With this determination, he quickened his pace back to his residence, but that night his eyes remained strangely wakeful, and he found himself unable to sleep peacefully.

Impatient for night to end, Kihee set out early for last evening’s location. In his pocket, he carried three koban. At the riverbank, the autumn morning mist still lingered hazily, and from somewhere came the cry of wild geese. Parting the silver grass as he approached the hut, Kihee was suddenly startled. Iwami Yajiemon lay dead in front of the hut. He held the bamboo spear that Kihee had abandoned in both hands and thrust it through his own throat.

The following spring, Kihee took a wife, and the couple lived harmoniously, blessed with two sons. And so they lived without incident, but in the autumn of the seventh year after that event, he was compelled to commit seppuku due to a failure in his duties. He began preparing for his end at his family residence, but upon requesting permission from the witnessing official to play one final tune on his flute at the last moment, the official granted it.

The flute was one that had been received from Iwami Yajiemon. As Kihee blew calmly upon it, just as he was about to finish a piece, the instrument emitted an eerie sound and suddenly split in two. Finding this strange, he examined it closely and discovered these characters carved inside: 990 years – End – Hamasu Being a researcher of this art, Kihee knew Hamasu’s name. Hamasu of Owari was revered as the founder who first introduced flutes to our imperial court. This being Tenpō 9, calculating back 990 years brought one to Kashō 1 of Emperor Nimmyō’s reign—equivalent to the fourth year after Jōwa 12, when Hamasu was said to have performed the flute in court. Though Hamasu played flutes, he had initially crafted them himself. Given his name carved here, this flute was likely his work. Yet while engraving its surface would be ordinary, how he had managed to carve such numerous characters within its slender bore remained perplexing.

What was even more mysterious was that this nine hundred and ninetieth year—said to mark the curse’s end—appeared to correspond precisely to the present year. Had Hamasu himself crafted this flute and determined its accursed lifespan? Reflecting now, it seemed Iwami Yajiemon’s tale of karmic bonds had not been false after all. This flute, bearing an ominous fate, brought calamity to each successive owner, and when its final keeper perished, it too appeared to have reached the end of its nine hundred and ninety-year existence.

Kihee was astonished by the sheer wonder of it all, and at the same moment realized that sharing his fate with this flute was an inescapable karmic bond. He faced the witnessing official and, after revealing every past secret concerning this flute, performed seppuku in the customary manner. When this was conveyed through the officials’ accounts, all who heard it were struck by a sense of the uncanny. Someone from the domain who had been close to Kihee during his lifetime consulted with the bereaved family, repaired the flute that had split in two, buried it at the location where Iwami Yajiemon was believed to have committed suicide, erected a marker stone, and had the characters for “Flute Mound” carved upon it. The mound remained at the riverbank even after the Meiji era, but I hear it has now vanished without trace due to two floods.

Ryūma's Pond

I

The twelfth man spoke.

I was a photography enthusiast—though really just a dilettate with more enthusiasm than skill—but once something became a hobby, I simply couldn't be satisfied snapping away only within Tokyo's city limits or nearby suburbs. So I stole time from my busy work to wander extensively through different regions. During that time, there were various misadventures and tales, but the story that would suit tonight's topic concerns an autumn about four years ago when I planned a photography trip to Fukushima Prefecture.

At that time, I set out alone. In the town of Shirakawa, there was a man named Mr.Yokota. Though I was meeting him for the first time, my friend Mr.E had known this person beforehand and insisted, “You must visit him if you go to Shirakawa,” even writing me a polite letter of introduction. So on my return journey, I called at Mr.Yokota’s place—a seemingly old-established kimono shop locally renowned, with a thriving business operating on quite a large scale. The person to whom I was introduced was the young master there, and as he too was a photography enthusiast, he warmly welcomed me despite our first meeting, putting me up in a separate inner guest quarters and treating me to various delicacies. It was almost embarrassingly generous.

After sunset, Mr. Yokota came to my guest room and talked with me until late into the night, when he brought up the following matter. "There really aren't any particularly picturesque spots around here that would make good photo subjects." “However, since you’ve come all this way, I’d like to take you somewhere unusual.” "About five and a half to six ri from here lies a place called Ryūma's Pond." "It’s a bit far, but since there’s a stagecoach that goes part of the way, you’d only need to walk about half the distance." "How about going there once to see it for yourself?"

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

“Rather than being scenic, it’s a place where large trees densely cover the area, making it somewhat dim and eerie.” “They say it was once a very large pond, but nowadays, well... I suppose it’s just a bit wider than Tokyo’s Shinobazu Pond.” “In ancient times, a dragon dwelled there—though it was likely just a large snake or some kind of spiny fish. Regardless, people said a dragon lived there, so they called it Dragon Pond. Then around the mid-era, the name changed to Ryūma’s Pond.” “A strange legend remains concerning it.” “The truth is, that’s precisely why I wanted to show you around this time…” “Are you perhaps tired or sleepy?”

“No, I don’t mind staying up late at all.” “What kind of strange legend is this?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. “Well, if I don’t tell you that story now, there would be little point in showing you around later, so I think I should at least let you hear it.”

Tonight too, past ten o'clock, the garden echoed with the feeble chirps of crickets. Even at the end of September, here in these parts, the night chill pressed in so keenly that one felt compelled to draw a brazier close. Mr.Yokota took a breath and began to explain further the secrets of Ryūma’s Pond. “It is said to date back to the heyday of Hidehira of Ōshū, so that would be about eight hundred years ago. About one chō away from that Dragon Pond, there lived a wealthy farmer named Kurodayū. It’s not ‘Kurō’ but written with the character for ‘black,’ you see. As you know, Oshu was a horse-breeding region—so much so that a large horse market was held in nearby Miharu—and thus Kurodayū’s household kept many horses. And also, there was an old shrine by Dragon Pond. No one knows when it was built, but it was said to be an exceedingly old shrine. The locals called it both the Dragon Deity’s Shrine and the Water Deity’s Shrine. Before this shrine stood a wooden horse. Typically, they would enshrine a sacred horse by keeping a real, living one there, but the one at this shrine was a wooden horse of the same size as an actual horse. Though no one knows from what ancient time or by whose hand it was made, its carving was so masterfully crafted that it seemed almost alive.” Therefore, various rumors spread—that this wooden horse would occasionally venture out to drink from the pond’s waters, or that it would neigh three times on New Year’s morning—and the locals believed them all.

"However, that wooden horse vanished without a trace one day," continued Mr.Yokota. "Given the prior legend, people assumed it had wandered off somewhere and would return—but three months passed, then six, with no sign of its reappearance. Since it was originally a small shrine without priests or custodians, naturally no one could determine how the horse had disappeared. It wasn’t as if someone stole it—what use would that serve anyway? The prevailing theory held that the spirit-possessed wooden horse must have sunk to the pond’s depths. They left matters unresolved until autumn brought a violent storm that overflowed the pond, flooding all nearby villages. Other terrible diseases broke out too. Ever since the horse vanished, calamities kept occurring—the locals grew deeply uneasy."

Kurodayū in particular grew deeply concerned, for given the extensive lands he owned and the large size of his household, each new calamity struck him with disproportionate severity. After conferring with the villagers, they resolved that Kurodayū himself would carve a new wooden horse to dedicate before the Dragon Deity’s Shrine. Yet in those days, Oshu possessed no sculptors equal to such a task. While Hiraizumi certainly housed skilled Buddhist sculptors, precisely because the original work had been so masterful, finding any artisan whose ability might approach that standard proved exceedingly difficult.

With Kurodayū also troubled by this situation, one evening a mountain ascetic came seeking lodging for the night, so Kurodayū kindly provided him shelter. Then, when he brought up the wooden horse in conversation, the mountain ascetic said there was a good solution. Now, regarding the upcoming construction of what was called the Golden Hall in Hiraizumi of Oshu, a great number of Buddhist sculptors, master builders, and various artisans were coming down from the capital. Among them was a renowned sculptor named Yukei. "Since this man is known not only for Buddhist statues but as a master sculptor of flowers, birds, dragons, phoenixes, and all manner of carvings," he said, "why not wait for him to pass through and try asking him for help?" "I met him in Utsunomiya," he added, "so he will likely come here within a day or two."

Hearing this, Kurodayū was overjoyed. The mountain ascetic departed the next morning, but Kurodayū immediately made preparations and went out to wait along the highway with four or five household members in tow—and sure enough, that man named Yukei came passing by. Contrary to Kurodayū’s expectations, he was a young man of only twenty-four or twenty-five—so youthful that Kurodayū briefly doubted if this could truly be such a renowned person—but regardless, when he stopped him and requested the wooden horse carving, Yukei refused, saying he was in a hurry to move on. He pleaded with him in every way possible, insisting that he at least come see the site once, and thus ended up forcibly bringing him back to his own residence.

Yukei was guided to the Dragon Deity’s Shrine, where he went and gazed for a while at Dragon Pond’s surroundings. "If you insist so earnestly," he said, "I shall create it." However, he reportedly cautioned that if only the horse were carved, there was a risk it would depart again, so they must absolutely include someone holding its reins—and pressed them to confirm whether this arrangement would still be acceptable. Of course, they could only say there would be no issue and thus entrusted everything to him, whereupon Yukei requested that they lend him a living human and a living horse as models for the carving—in other words, what we would call models today. As I mentioned before, Kurodayū’s household kept many horses. From among them, Yukei selected a large white roan horse. When deliberation arose as to who should hold the reins, Yukei chose a boy named Sutematsu from among the many grooms.

Sutematsu was a fifteen-year-old boy this year. As an infant, he had been abandoned before the Dragon Deity’s Shrine and taken in by Kurodayū’s household. Being a foundling, they named him Sutematsu—literally ‘Abandoned Pine’—and had raised him to this day, making him a truly homegrown servant. Given these circumstances—he had no known parents or origins—Kurodayū took pity on him and kept him employed. The boy himself worked diligently. Strangely enough, Sutematsu handled horses with remarkable skill; despite his youth, he could splendidly calm even the most unruly steeds, becoming the most praised among the many grooms. These circumstances may have led Yukei to select him. In any case, at the end of the seventh month by the old calendar—when autumn had fully settled there—the young sculptor finally began crafting that wooden horse, using the boy groom and white roan horse as models.”

II "The exact manner in which Yukei carried out his work remains unrecorded in detail, but he had a new workshop built within the estate's forest, permitting no one to enter except the model Sutematsu and the white roan horse." Even Master Kurodayū could not peer inside. Thus, after seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven months—a period spanning over five months—the sculpture of a man and horse was completed. At times he seemed to work through entire nights, for late into the dark hours faint chisel and hammer sounds could be heard—an eerie phenomenon that unsettled those who heard it, or so people claimed.

At last, with the work completed, Yukei emerged from the workshop for the first time in five months—his hair and beard grown long, cheeks hollowed, and eyes sunken—so that he suddenly appeared to have aged ten years. Yet those eyes still shone vividly. Since both the model boy and horse were in good health, the Kurodayū household could finally breathe a sigh of relief. The completed wooden horse, of course, and the figure of the groom holding its reins were exact replicas of their models, appearing so lifelike that all who saw them gasped in amazement.

Kurodayū, overjoyed, presented lavish gifts, but Yukei declined and accepted nothing. He trimmed a portion of his long-grown beard, buried it in the nearby mountains, and set up a small stone marker, instructing them there was no need to inscribe it as anyone’s grave. With these words, he promptly departed. Though they thought it strange, they did as instructed and erected a small stone marker. Before anyone knew who had started it, people began calling it Higezuka.

Thus it was decided to install the wooden horse before the shrine on an auspicious day in early December, with all nearby villagers set to gather—when suddenly, from midnight of the eve before, snow began to fall. Snow in December was hardly unusual there, but from dawn onward it intensified into a blinding blizzard so fierce they could barely open their eyes. As Kurodayū's household hesitated over what to do, people from the area—whether accustomed to snow or driven by fervent faith—began streaming in undeterred by the storm, not just from nearby villages but distant regions too, leaving no room for further delay. As noon approached, those at Kurodayū’s house resolved to transport the wooden horse out. The snow had eased to a manageable fall when the people regained their vigor. They loaded the wooden statue and horse onto a large cart and were just hauling it through the estate gate—when a piercing whinny erupted from the stable. The white roan horse that had served as model reared up as if demon-possessed, snapped its reins, and burst through the gates.

The people were startled and had just begun exclaiming "Ah! Ah!" when Sutematsu came chasing after them. The horse dashed headlong toward Dragon Pond. Sutematsu also continued chasing after it. The snow intensified once more, engulfing both man and horse in a white vortex where they would appear and vanish intermittently. Sutematsu seemed to have grabbed the reins midway, but today he could not easily subdue it; dragged along by the frenzied runaway horse, he ran through the blizzard, tumbling and rising as he went. The other grooms, intending to back Sutematsu up, chased after them from behind. However, between the fierce snow and the horse’s swiftness, none could catch up. They could only call out "Hey! Hey!" from behind.

Before long, the blizzard grew fiercer still, and as if a great white wave had engulfed both horse and man, their figures vanished in an instant. It seemed they had been swept into the pond. The commotion intensified further still, and though many investigated every possibility, both Sutematsu and the white roan horse ultimately disappeared without a trace. Resigning themselves to the likelihood that they had sunk to the pond’s depths like the previous wooden horse, they installed the newly carved statue and wooden horse before the Dragon Deity’s Shrine and managed to conclude that day’s ceremony. Yet fearing these too might break free, Kurodayū’s household began dispatching watchers morning and night to check. Finding both statue and horse standing steadfast as shrine guardians brought some relief—yet this only renewed their grief over Sutematsu and the white roan’s deaths.

No matter who looked upon them, the wooden statue and horse bore such a striking resemblance to Sutematsu and the white roan that some began to speculate: perhaps the master sculptor’s skill had drawn their very souls into his creations, leaving their physical forms to vanish without a trace. From there, people began drawing further connections, spreading various rumors—like how this wooden horse would occasionally neigh, or how the wooden figure of Sutematsu had spoken. As for what became of that master sculptor, his subsequent whereabouts remain unclear. It seems he was killed in Hiraizumi. After all, he had spent five months there creating the wooden statue and horse, which caused his arrival in Hiraizumi to be greatly delayed. Not only did this offend Hidehira’s sensibilities, but even after beginning his work, Yukei made no progress whatsoever. It is rumored that he appeared utterly listless, which further displeased Hidehira, leading to his eventual execution. Considering that he had left his beard behind at his departure, he may have privately prepared himself for this outcome all along. "They say that pond was once simply called Dragon Pond, but after this incident occurred, they added the character for ‘horse,’ and it came to be known as Ryūma Pond."

“So，are the wooden statue and horse still around today？” I asked，unable to wait for the story to conclude.

“There is another story to that,” Mr.Yokota said quietly. “Later I heard that Yukei the sculptor wasn’t Japanese—he’d come from Song. Considering how he’d trimmed his beard instead of cutting his hair as any Japanese would have done, one could indeed see why he appeared Chinese. Over seven or eight hundred years, the land underwent many changes until Kurodayū’s household vanished completely, leaving only the name Kuroyashikiato behind. Ryūma Pond too changed shape repeatedly through landslides and floods, dwindling to less than half its former size. The Dragon Deity’s Shrine alone survived until Edo’s end, but when Shirakawa became a battleground between Eastern and Western armies during the Boshin War of Meiji’s first year, even that shrine burned down. No one rebuilt it—the ruins remain buried in weeds to this day.”

“So, that wooden horse was burned along with it, I suppose.” “Well, everyone thought so. Therefore, no one investigated its whereabouts—until some forty years later, after the Russo-Japanese War had ended. A man named Horii, originally from Shirakawa who now ran a sundries shop in Nanjing, traveled up the Yangtze River to Shu on business. Beyond Chengdu’s city walls—a village six or seven ri away—there stood a Dragon King Temple by the river in that desolate village. Before the old temple grew a large willow tree, and beneath it sat a wooden horse. What puzzled Horii was not so much the horse itself but the wooden statue of the boy holding its reins—unmistakably Japanese in features and attire.”

Of course, Horii was a man born after the Meiji era and had never seen the wooden statue or horse from Ryūma Pond. Yet not only did they closely resemble what he had long heard described, but the statue’s facial features and attire being unmistakably those of a Japanese boy greatly captured his attention. He made various inquiries with the locals, but he could not ascertain in the least when or how it had been brought there.

"In the end, he returned without gaining any clear understanding," Mr.Yokota continued, "but Horii insisted it was unmistakably Japanese in origin. If this were true—since wooden horses and statues couldn’t naturally travel to China—one might imagine someone had taken advantage of wartime chaos to spirit them away and sell them to Chinese merchants in Yokohama or such places. Yet how could life-sized statues and horses be transported unnoticed? That remains deeply puzzling. Just because their sculptor was Chinese doesn’t mean they’d drift back to China centuries later on their own. After all, Horii had never seen the actual pieces from Ryūma Pond—no matter how fiercely he claimed otherwise, their authenticity remains doubtful."

I could do nothing but listen silently to the strange tales that spread from one to the next. Finally, Mr.Yokota said once more.

“I’ve recounted this lengthy tale thus far, but in recent years, a new mystery has been discovered at that Ryūma Pond.” I too felt some surprise that more mysteries remained, yet kept silent while gazing at my companion’s face. Neither of us noticed the fire in the brazier between us had long turned to ashes. “That’s precisely why I wish to show you,” said Mr.Yokota. “This occurred about seven years ago. When a middle school teacher from Miyagi Prefecture brought students to Ryūma Pond’s edge and took photographs, they say he was astounded upon developing them later—the clear image of a boy holding horse reins appeared floating on the water’s surface.” After this rumor spread, various people came afterward to take photographs. Three or four arrived from Tokyo too. Local professionals naturally came, and amateurs like ourselves flocked there repeatedly attempting shots, though success proved rare. “You might think none succeeded at all, but about one in ten captures indeed shows the horse and boy floating plainly.”

“How truly mysterious indeed,” I sighed. “And so, did you succeed?” “Ah, no—unfortunately, it was unsuccessful. “I’ve tried going six or seven times, but I always ended up repeating my failures, so I’ve given up by now. But your arrival here is most fortunate. “By all means, I shall accompany you tomorrow.”

“Ah, by all means—I would very much appreciate your guidance.”

My curiosity had grown even keener. Another reason was a certain pride—the determination to splendidly capture with my own camera those mysterious photographs said to succeed for only one in ten people—that made me yearn for tomorrow's arrival.

III

The following morning was fortunately clear, so I prepared from early dawn and set out with Mr.Yokota. Mr.Yokota also carried a camera and took along a single shop boy from the store. Since there were no houses nearby the pond where one could get a meal, we packed lunch boxes and beer into a basket and had the shop boy carry it.

For about three ri, we rode jolted along in a stagecoach, then crossed farm paths, forests, and hills on foot for another three ri or so until gradually reaching an area near the mountains. Mr.Yokota and the shop boy, being locals, were unfazed by a journey of this distance. As I was accustomed to traveling, I wasn’t particularly surprised either. The shop boy was named Shōkichi and was said to be sixteen that year. For his age, he was large-framed, visibly sturdy, and seemed quite clever for a boy his age. Therefore, he seemed to be favored by the young master, Mr.Yokota, and whenever Mr.Yokota went out anywhere, he always took him along as his attendant.

“This Shōkichi also shares circumstances similar to the model for the wooden statue we spoke of last night,” said Mr.Yokota as he walked. “In this case too, the parents are unknown.” The boy named Shōkichi was also a foundling, and neither his parents nor their whereabouts were known. It was said that they took him in at Mr.Yokota’s house and had raised him from the age of three. Having been told this, I too recalled the old tale of Sutematsu the stablehand, and though I couldn’t help but feel a certain karmic connection in bringing him along on today’s photographic expedition, Shōkichi proved thoroughly capable, attending to us diligently without fail even during the journey.

We arrived at our destination around noon, but it differed considerably from what I had imagined based on Mr.Yokota’s descriptions. While there were indeed large trees, it was not some dim, shadowy place even in daylight; rather, it was an open area with a pleasantly bright atmosphere. "They’ve cut down more trees," Mr.Yokota muttered to himself. Recently, they had been felling trees around here so frequently that the surroundings had gradually grown brighter, and the mystical atmosphere of old had significantly diminished, or so it was said. It’s the same everywhere—this is unavoidable, I suppose. However, the site said to be where the Dragon Deity Shrine once stood was buried in weeds taller than a person, making it seem anything but easy to step into.

The three of them took a brief rest under a large tree by the pond, then Shōkichi set about diligently preparing lunch. It appeared Mr.Yokota had come prepared with various items, for he took out a kettle from the basket with the intention of boiling water and making tea here. The clear morning sky stretched high and pure in indigo above, without even a whisper of wind. Large dead leaves occasionally fell soundlessly from the treetops, and the pond water lay still and stagnant. Parts of the shore were thick with reeds and pampas grass, but no other water plants were visible, making it a rather clear pond overall. When I thought this was the legendary Ryūma Pond which held various tales, I felt slight disappointment and somehow felt as though I had been deceived by Mr.Yokota.

"I'll go fetch water." Having said this, Shōkichi took the kettle and left. At the north of the pond, beneath a large cherry tree, there was a place where clear water sprang forth. "That water flows into this pond," Mr.Yokota explained, "and even in summer it's as cold as ice."

“Well, while the tea brews, shall we begin our work?”

Mr.Yokota took out the camera.

I also took out my camera, and from various positions we took four or five shots, but Shōkichi did not return for quite some time.

“What’s he up to, I wonder.” Mr.Yokota called his name loudly, but there was no response. When we noticed, the kettle had been placed beside the basket filled with clear water. While we were engrossed in photography, Shōkichi must have already fetched the water—yet now his figure was nowhere to be seen. As we could wait no longer, Mr.Yokota gathered dry branches and fallen leaves from around there. I helped light the fire, boiled water and made tea. In this way we began eating our lunch, but Shōkichi still had not returned. The two of them gradually began to feel a certain unease and exchanged glances.

“What could have happened?”

“What’s wrong?” Having quickly finished eating, the two began their search for Shōkichi’s whereabouts. They circled the pond once before combing through nearby forests and grasslands. Pushing through the weed-choked ruins of the Dragon Deity Shrine, they continued searching for nearly two hours, yet Shōkichi remained nowhere to be found. Both Mr.Yokota and I sank down onto the grass in defeat. “There’s nothing more to be done. “Let’s return home and try again properly,” said Mr.Yokota.

Leaving the basket and such there as they were, the two of them quickly prepared to leave. When they returned to town as dusk was falling and reported what had happened, the shop people were also astonished. Together with employees, regular patrons, and neighbors, about twenty people set out for Ryūma’s Pond. Mr.Yokota also took the lead and set out once more. “Since you must be exhausted, please take a bath and rest well.”

Mr.Yokota left after saying this, but there was no way I could sleep. I spent the time waiting for the search party’s return in a restless state of mind when, around midnight, Mr.Yokota and the others came back.

“Shōkichi simply couldn’t be found.” Having heard that report, I too became thoroughly disappointed. At the same time, it occurred to me that Shōkichi’s disappearance might very well share the same fate as Sutematsu’s. I remained there the following day as well, intent on seeing how things would unfold for Shōkichi, but though the police and youth group had arrived that day to conduct an extensive search, the boy’s whereabouts ultimately remained unknown. Since I could not remain being a burden there indefinitely, I departed the following day, spent one day in Utsunomiya, then returned directly to Tokyo. However, as Shōkichi’s situation weighed on my mind, I sent a letter to Mr.Yokota inquiring about subsequent developments, and after two or three days, a reply arrived. The wording was roughly as follows.

After the customary salutations were omitted: Though you had graciously honored us with your visit, this unforeseen calamity has caused you considerable concern, for which no apology could suffice. Shōkichi's whereabouts ultimately defied all attempts at discovery, yet no circumstances suggesting elopement existed - it remains nothing short of a mystery. Though we attempted an underwater search of Ryūma's Pond for what might be called a second Sutematsu incident, this too ended in futility. Another perplexing matter has come to light: among the five photographs I took that day, one faintly shows what appears to be the boy's figure. It manifests with shadow-like faintness; while naturally one cannot discern it distinctly, it nevertheless bears some resemblance to Shōkichi's form.

"As for your photographs, I would be most grateful if you could inform me of the development results. Since the letter was essentially to this effect, I promptly developed the photographs I had taken, but nowhere could I find anything resembling a human shadow. As for what sort of figure appears in Mr.Yokota’s photograph, I cannot say for certain without seeing the actual image."