Pathway to Japanese Literature

The story of the plovers begins with O-naga, the daughter of a horse trader. On a late autumn evening, the pale O-naga sat dejectedly under the eaves, having spread out a straw mat. On the dried straw stems laid out to dry, not even a thread of sunlight now fell. It was I who came up the hill in Western clothes. O-naga looked up at me with those teary eyes of hers. The thumb and little finger—and the sash-tying gesture was Hatsuya’s thing. She waved her hand to indicate that all three of them were out. I couldn’t understand what she meant by pointing inward with her chin while making a hand pillow gesture. The loosened strands of straw-tied hair would immediately tumble back down over her face even when pushed up.

Even when I went up to the tatami room, there was no one coming out, leaving it desolate. I went out into the corridor and plodded toward the detached room. From houses at the hill’s foot came the sound of unbleached cotton being woven everywhere, like bell crickets chirping. Along the corridor ran a flowerbed as wide as a woman’s obi. Two or three kinds of flowers bloomed. The flowerbed ended at a clump of narcissus; climbing the low steps brought me to a six-mat mezzanine. The printed picture I had left as a memento hung dimly on the wall. When this caught my eye, I felt nostalgic as if returning to my own home after long absence. On the alcove stood a small vase holding four or five gentian flowers. During my two-month summer stay, I had never let this vase lack fresh blossoms that changed with the seasons. From the closet beside the alcove protruded something like a red crepe silk obi sash. When I tugged it slightly, it slid out smoothly. When I kept pulling to see how far it would go, it slipped out entirely without resistance.

I folded it into several layers, wrapped it around the back of my hand, and fiddled with it. Then, from head to chin, I tied it like a hat string and gripped the dangling end while rising to a half-sitting position, staring at the print on the wall. It was a picture torn from Nations Picture. The single flower inserted in the woman’s white garment at her chest was seeping like blood. As I narrowed my eyes and gazed, the woman gradually seemed to emerge from the picture and draw nearer to me.

Then, before I knew it, a young woman was sitting behind me. She was a proper young lady. She offered a graceful greeting. Flustered, I untied and discarded the hat.

The woman was smiling as she

“My, we’ve been waiting day after day since you first mentioned coming,” she said. “Since this is such an inconvenient island,” she said nostalgically, “we thought that even though you had said so about coming, you might not actually visit us after all—and in the end, everyone became quite disheartened.” I felt as if a fox had bewitched me. In the dusk of the solitary house on the hill, a woman I had never imagined materialized and approached me as though we were intimate acquaintances. I had never seen her before, nor could I begin to guess who she was or where she came from. I kept fidgeting with folding the obi sash, when finally—

“I hear Auntie and everyone are out,” I said for the first time. “Well, today from past noon, everyone went to pull daikon radishes.” “Which field have they gone to? I’ll go take a look.” “No, they’ve already sent O-naga just now—they’ll be making quite a ruckus on their way back.”

"I thought no one was here earlier and came up here boldly all by myself," I said, recalling how O-naga had mimicked the hand pillow gesture. The woman said she had been lying down in the back with a slight headache when O-naga went around to the rear entrance, knocked on the shoji screen, and woke her up.

“It’s nothing at all now,” she said, lowering her eyes. It seemed she had gotten up, properly arranged her kimono, and come out. After a moment, “Are you feeling somewhat better these days?” she asked. She spoke as though she knew everything about me. “I’m afraid my head still isn’t clear. Actually, I’ve decided to take a year’s leave from school.” “So it’s true then. Auntie has been worrying about nothing but you every day, you know. Ever since it was decided you would come here again, she must have been overjoyed. ...When I think about it, what a mysterious bond this is.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it? What was it that made me suddenly decide to come here this summer for a retreat? —since I can’t stand bustling places. —I was well aware from the start that there were no inns here—but when I actually disembarked and tried asking at the houses nearby, they all turned me down, I suppose. I was really in trouble.”

The woman smiled. "So there was no other way—I trudged off to the village office." "The village mayor here is Curly, isn't he?" "Oh yes, ho ho ho." "Then that person kindly showed concern for me." "And then he said to Auntie here—'Since she has no mother, it would be good to have her stay in such a household'—or so he told me, you see."

“Hmm, was that how it went? Anyway, from the moment I first saw Auntie, I felt somehow nostalgic.” “Since he spoke so earnestly, Auntie came to think he was a sincere person and decided to take me in—or so she says.” “I now feel as though Auntie were my birth parent. Even when I’m at my own home, I somehow feel like I’m staying at some traveler’s lodging, you know.”

“Auntie even jokes that Mr. Aoki might be my secret child, you know.” “Oh, that cut Auntie got on her finger the other day—has it healed already?” “Oh, it’s just a small cut from a knife.”

The two waited while engaged in such conversation.

Horse bells descended along the base of Tsukiji. A woman leading a horse sang a song.

When I slid open the shoji screen, the mandarin orange groves at the foot of the hill spread out like chintz patterns. Women wearing white headscarves flickered through them. Four or five horses laden with mandarins emerged in a line. Women were leading them as expected. Across the way, a single column of smoke rose from mountain fields striped like fabric. Flames glimmered intermittently. The smoke fanned out diagonally, its edges dissolving into evening hues. The woman drew near and joined me in looking outside. Horses descended here and there across the terraced slopes, each smaller than a dog. Leaning out further, I saw the sea lying dark beyond the garden's pine tree where phantom-like fishing boats trailed homeward in single file. On the pale sand of the nearby tidal flat, black specks like scattered beans might have been crows settling. Following her gesture, I noticed a man with cheeks wrapped in cloth trudging along a ridge path beneath a towering load of pine boughs. By the time he turned his back to us and angled down the slope, he resembled nothing so much as a walking haystack with two trousered legs beneath. The pine needles darkened rapidly to blackness before vanishing behind mandarin groves, leaving no trace of passersby nearby. From valley shadows crept dusk's advance, hastened by the insistent clatter of looms.

“Why is Auntie so late?” the woman said consolingly.

The surroundings grew dimmer as we watched. The woman went out for a moment, and when she returned and sat down this time, even facing each other, I could no longer clearly discern her features.

The woman stood up, took a bamboo oil lamp from the closet, shook it to check the oil, pulled out paper from her sleeve, and trimmed the wick. On the hat that had been placed below, a scrap of paper with something written was stuck. When I read it, written in what appeared to be Shōbō’s childish katakana script, were the words: FUJISAN GA MATA NAKU.

“Oh my,” the woman said with an embarrassed laugh as she peeled off the paper.

“Shō-chan is the one who plays such pranks.” “It’s all a lie, you know,” Auntie said as if dismissing it. “What on earth is this about?” “Ho ho ho.” “As for Fuji-san—” “That would be me.” “Ah, so you are Fuji-san?”

“Yes,” Fuji-san said with a smile, then stood up to search the closet.

It was in this way that I came to know the name Fuji-san.

“And why did you cry?”

“No, it isn’t true—nothing of the sort.”

"Are you looking for matches? “I have them.” “Oh my, it was merely a jest.” “That was Shō-chan…” she says, misunderstanding. When she took matches from her pocket and lit the oil lamp,

“Oh my, how kind of you,” Fuji-san said as she sat down. In the lamplight’s glow, she resembled a lustrous figure from an oil painting. Her cheeks held a faint flush.

“My legs are the coldest!” Shōbō cried as he rushed out clutching the kimono. Right as he left, Auntie came in and began putting the garment on over his shirt. “Here now, let me give you this,” Fuji-san said, untying her undergarment sash. After I tied it and emerged from the dim bathroom, Fuji-san threw a red-lined haori over her shoulders and moved behind me. “Are you going to make me wear something like that?” “But there’s nothing else available,” she said, placing it on my shoulders.

"Even so, Western clothes are comfortable and easy to manage," said Hatsuya as she stoked the konro stove. The haori was Yellow Hachijō silk. That it was Fuji-san’s went without saying. "The kimono’s a bit long—look how it completely covers my heels," I said. "It’s Mother’s, you know," Shōbō said from the kotatsu. "Is Auntie truly this tall?" "Nonsense—you’ve just grown a bit shorter yourself." "It’s all because you went and got sick," Hatsuya joked.

"Women fasten their undergarment sashes at the waist when wearing kimonos," Fuji-san said, adjusting my haori collar from beside me. "Why do they do that?" "Everyone does it that way. Oh dear, your haori has no cord." "No, that's quite alright," I said—whereupon Hatsuya—

“My, my, aren’t you two getting along well,” Hatsuya said, then suddenly began vigorously fanning the flames with a clatter. “My,” Fuji-san said, her face flushing red. If you painted a mandarin orange box with ink, drilled a round hole in the bottom, inserted an emptied-out tin can through it, placed it on a stepping stool, and draped a wrapping cloth over the top—that became Shōbō’s camera. “Are you going to turn everyone into toys again?” Auntie laughed. They said he’d begged the barber Tonkichi to make this contraption. Shōbō,

“I’m going to take your picture, Brother, so c’mon—get out from under the kotatsu,” he said in a wheedling tone. “It’ll be ready soon. It’ll be taken soon,” she said earnestly, acting as if she were a proper photographer. “Brother, you’ll come out better in the photo if you’re warming yourself at the kotatsu.” “But Sister’s in the way,” he said while ducking his head under the wrapping cloth. “Sister, if you keep dawdling like that, your back will end up in the photo!” “Okay, okay,” Fuji-san said with a laugh as she moved beside me.

“Brother, sit up straighter.” “Can you see my face?” “Of course I can see it—there you go, smiling away! Say cheese!” He rattled the box, then assumed an air of great ceremony and prepared himself. “Yes, I’m taking it now,” he said, staring intently this way. “Who would close their eyes?! …Alright, I’m taking it now! …And… now! Thank you very much.” He placed the cardboard lid he was holding onto the tin can, took out a piece of wood from the box, hoisted it up, and marched triumphantly over to the closet.

“Shō-chan, you shouldn’t be going into closets like that at night,” Auntie interjected. “But Mom—don’t you develop photos with chemicals?” he said, his face on the verge of tears. “Instead of that, Mr. Photographer—when will my photo from the day before yesterday be ready?” Fuji-san inquired. Auntie chimed in, “I’ve had my picture taken five or six times by now too, you know. I wonder when they’ll be ready? You still haven’t given me a single one, you know,” she pressed. Then Auntie began telling the story of when she crossed over to the opposite district and took a photo with Shōbō. Shōbō,

“This time it’s a telephone!” he declared, bringing out two cardboard tubes. The bottom of each tube was covered with paper, connected through the center by a long blue thread. They had apparently been bought at a promotional market. Shōbō made me hold one tube and chattered away for a moment, “See? You get it now, right?” he said. “Ah, I get it,” I replied, obligingly humoring him.

“Banzai!” he exclaimed with a beaming smile, darting over to push Fuji-san aside and plant himself next to me. “There. Sister too, you know,” he said.

“There we go.”

“What do you mean?” Fuji-san said with a smile.

“The telephone’s ringing now, you see…”

“Ah, you mustn’t say it now, Brother—because Sister isn’t supposed to be told that.” “What could it be? You’re being mean.”

In the midst of this exchange, Hatsuya came back from buying fox-shaped buns. When the small lantern was extinguished, white smoke wafted up softly from the candle. “Madam, this latest fox still looks just like her, I tell you!” Hatsuya boomed with laughter.

While eating buns and listening to the story, I learned that this bun shop had displayed at its entrance a papier-mâché fox transformed into a young woman with a hand towel covering its head. The fox’s face bore such an uncanny resemblance to that household’s young wife that it became the talk of the entire neighborhood. The wife herself had remained completely unaware of this resemblance until an experienced horse driver got into an argument with her over whether he’d repaid his bun debt or not, “You damned fox!” “Why in blazes would I be a fox?”

“You’re the fox!” “Don’t you know?” “Take out a mirror and compare it with this signboard.” “You idiot!” From such exchanges, when the wife later told her husband about it, he—apparently a man of unusually shrewd disposition for these parts—explained that this wasn’t some recent development. When he would quip things like wondering why their house’s buns had become so famous, and she then asked, “So you’ve been hearing people’s gossip about this all along?” he’d simply reply “Yeah” with perfect calmness. The wife burst into tears, resentful of him who had remained nonchalant about it until now. After all, he’d been looking down on her. Declaring she would go home to her parents’ house and die after this final time, she began pulling kimonos from the chest. Eventually they got into a full-blown fight, with the wife fleeing disheveled to the boatman’s house across the way—it turned into quite an ordeal—but in any case, the boatman mediated, saying, “You two—if we trace it back, aren’t you the couple who first linked sleeves at that dance night?” “Come on, dance it out and make up!” he said, bringing out about five gō of sake. Based on the agreement made then, the shop’s fox figure vanished from sight starting the next day.

It was only recently that another fox, brought from a doll shop in the castle town inside a box, once again stood at the shop. This one was only about the size of a weasel, and though they had likely ordered its face to be slightly altered in style, "No matter what sort of fox they make," said Hatsuya, finally cutting off her roundabout tale as she moved away, "it'll never work as long as Okō-chan's face stays the same, I tell you. Heh heh heh."

Fuji-san said that since she'd already heard the tale from their guide before, it wasn't particularly amusing tonight—but still she laughed as though hearing it for the first time.

The conversation lapsed.

Fuji-san picked up the red bean paste Shōbō had dropped onto the futon in her palm. A shadow appeared on the wall. The head moved. Once it settled neatly sideways, I mentally added eyes, a mouth, and eyebrows. Auntie’s arm kept flickering into view. She scratched her scalp with a hairpin.

Out back, Hatsuya was pounding rice.

I laid out bedding with Auntie and the others in the tatami room to sleep.

When I said I was happy because the pillow was large and soft, Auntie remarked that she’d been careless this summer, but that such a pillow would be bad for my head. Fuji-san said that after hurriedly preparing this pillow, she had spent over ten days waiting in vain. Fuji-san patted the hem of Auntie’s futon, then patted her own. She sat by my shoulders and pressed down the sleeve of the nightgown for me.

I somehow felt a tightness in my chest. Before long, I sensed Fuji-san untying her obi over there. Shōbō soon fell into soft little snores. I somehow found it regrettable to drift off to sleep.

“Auntie,” I called out again.

“Huh?” Auntie opened her eyes that had been closed. “Auntie, just what kind of person is Fuji-san?” I asked. “Why?” she said. When I asked about it, I learned that when this household had been at the official residence in Etajima, Fuji-san’s family had lived next door. It was still long before Shōbō was adopted, and Auntie doted on Fuji-san so much that later on, she would often have her stay by her side at night rather than send her home. It was perhaps the day after they had first moved there when Fuji-san suddenly peered over the hawthorn hedge,

“Auntie. Good day,” she began—and that marked the beginning of it all.

Fuji-san must have been no more than seven or eight years old at the time.

Four or five years later, the master of this house passed away, and Auntie decided to move here. At their parting, both Fuji-san and Auntie wept. After that parting, Fuji-san kept yearning for Auntie—Auntie—and to this day has never once missed sending her a letter once or twice a month. Fuji-san’s family home is now in Sasebo, and her father is apparently a colonel.

“So she came all the way from Sasebo?”

“No, that girl alone has been staying on this opposite shore for about two months now.” “You’re no different—once it reaches this point, the bond becomes exactly like real parent and child.” “And yet this summer, talk of that person never came up at all, did it?”

“Hmm, was that so?” “Oh my, was that really so?” “And it seems you’ve already told that person all about me.” “Heh heh heh, you see—at home your name comes up whenever anything gets mentioned. That person had already been saying ‘Mr. Aoki, Mr. Aoki’ before even laying eyes on you. When you arrived, she thought of you practically as a brother or something,” she said while adjusting Shōbō’s pillow.

“Just earlier too, Hatsuya teased her by saying something like ‘The young lady isn’t one to feel shy around strangers,’ didn’t she? So then she says something like, ‘But that person already knows me quite well, you see.’ And yet she still has quite childlike aspects, you see.”

“Even I don’t quite feel as though we’ve just met… Will you be staying much longer?” “That girl?” “Well… as for what exactly brought her here this time…” She began to say the last part along with a sigh, but when I saw her place a hand on the pillow, Auntie stopped speaking there and abruptly sank down until her eyebrows were buried in the bedding. Even after waiting a while, she did not readily show her face again.

The light from the Ariake lamp cast dimly upon the futon's printed fabric, and the red flower pattern appeared murky.

It all felt rather unresolved. What had brought Fuji-san here this time? Could there be some unpleasant circumstances involved? Auntie had started to say something but abruptly fell silent. Why had Fuji-san been away from home since September? What sort of person's place on this opposite shore could she possibly be staying at, I wondered.

The sound of mountain water falling into the pond could faintly be heard. Auntie had by now shown her face and was sleeping peacefully. Perhaps she was tired from pulling daikon radishes. As I kept staring at Auntie’s tranquil sleeping face, my own eyelids gradually grew heavy.

The tale of the plovers passed through a single night.

I was writing a long letter on the mezzanine.

Fuji-san,

“Brother,” she said as she entered. “The boatman has just brought the luggage,” she said. “That’s mine,” she said without pause，continuing to write steadily. “That may be so, but you’ll still need to have it brought here, won’t you?” “Yes.” “Now, since the lower part of this closet has a few of my things in it, you’ll have to make do with just the upper shelf for the time being.”

“...” “Say…” “Yes.” “Oh my, you’re completely absorbed in it,” she said.

Having just reached a natural stopping point, I turned around. Fuji-san was kneeling a short distance away.

“Your clothes have arrived, haven’t they?—Then hurry and change. It’s odd for you to be wearing a woman’s kimono,” she said with a smile.

I laughed and held up my sleeve.

"Earlier, you know," said Fuji-san as she slipped her hand into her sleeve and approached the brazier.

“Look at this,” she said as she took out from between the red silk lining of her sleeve a single white flower with a long stem. “Lately there have been flowers like this…” “Is this a dandelion?” she asked, taking it in her hand. “Where did you find it? Was there only one blooming?”

“Well, you see...” “The girl who brought eggs earlier gave it to me before leaving.” “They say it was blooming on some stone wall.” “Hatsuya said since it’s been so unseasonably warm lately, this one got deceived into coming out.”

Fuji-san spun the returned flower between her fingertips. “It truly feels like spring here already, doesn’t it?” “It is a warm place.” I gazed fixedly at the sunlit shoji screen until my mind grew hazy like heat shimmer.

“Am I not intruding at this moment?” “What do you mean?” “Isn’t the letter urgent?”

“Yes.—The postal ship departs at noon.” “Yes. Then I’ll have the luggage brought here shortly,” Fuji-san said listlessly as she stood up and left. “Ah—what about this flower?”

“Huh?” She turned around at the doorway, “That was something I gave to you.”

After Fuji-san left, there seemed to be an inexplicable void. I place the dandelion on the desk. I don’t want to write any more letters. I wonder if Fuji-san will come back. I pick up the torn scribbled characters—crumple them into a ball and spread them out again—smooth the wrinkles and fold them—spread them out once more—then this time bite off pieces from one end and roll them into spheres in my mouth. Before I know it, I begin to dream various dreams. —I am awake yet dreaming. I myself call it a dream.

The sound of a horse's bell approaches. I can hear a woman chanting.

I suddenly stood up and stepped out into the corridor. Fuji-san was crouching by the pond, “Have you already finished?” I called out. I gave a half-hearted reply.

At the veranda of the main house, several canaries were chirping fervently at one another. The garden brimmed with yellow sunlight that seemed to spill from their throats. “Why don’t you come over here for a moment? There are ever so many little crucian carp,” Fuji-san said, squinting toward me as she spoke. “But I don’t have any geta.” “I’m still wearing my tabi too.” I stepped down all the same and crossed the flower bed. My hem caught on some fragile late-blooming flowers—whatever they were called—sending their white petals scattering. The garden lay entirely covered in browned grass. Beside the annex’s second floor grew a cluster of pine trees—two large female pines among them. Between these stood a small pool of water.

All of this had been left in its natural state when developing the residential land. Fuji-san was crouching on a moss-covered stone by the water’s edge. At the water's edge, young haze saplings scattered here and there with three or four leaves each were dyed a vivid crimson. As I approached, the water’s surface rippled as if someone had scattered fine sand.

“Oh my, they’ve all sunk,” Fuji-san said. I crouched on the lawn diagonally facing her across the water. Had I reached out, my hand would have barely touched Fuji-san’s knee. The water was murky and dark, yet held the color of Fuji-san’s sleeve where she shaded it. My figure was reflected blackly, cut through by the shadows of pine trunks.

“They’ll float up again,” Fuji-san said. As I kept watching where she pointed, tiny crucian carp of faint color swarmed upward, stirring the water moss at the bottom like miso soup. As they rose toward the surface, they gradually darkened into a dusky hue, as though awakening from illusion to reality. For a while, they huddled motionless together. Eventually, two or three at a time from one end emerged, formed a line, and swam swiftly toward where sunlight fell. Some flickered as they turned their bellies. At the water’s bottom, leaves of aquatic plants covered in mud appeared as though carved into sediment. After a while, just as I thought the school of crucian carp had blended into the water’s hue, large black ones swarmed through the depths.

“There are big ones too, aren’t there? Ah, over there!” I pointed. “Where?” Fuji-san asked. But that was merely a reflected shadow. The crucian carp still moved small and upward. I gathered up the pine needles at my feet and threw them. The crucian carp sank as if struck by a sound, scrambling over each other to flee into what looked like miso soup.

Fuji-san laughed.

Five or six domesticated white doves descended from the roof of the detached building to the lawn with a flutter of wings. “That seagull is a beautiful bird, isn’t it,” Fuji-san said.

“Isn’t that a dove?” “Hohoho, that’s not it at all.” “Well I... Hohoho.”

“What’s wrong?” “No, I just remembered something absurd,” she said with a solitary smile.

“What was it?”

“It’s nothing important. “The other day when I was crossing over here, a seagull perched on a little broken branch and floated lightly upon the waves. “It looked just like a specimen from some school that had been set adrift.”

As if suddenly aware of something, I gazed out toward the sea. In the far distance, distant mountains were faintly visible. In the shadow of a small island, clam-gathering boats formed a cluster of sails. “Look, the doves are picking up the feed, are they not?” Fuji-san said. “Is there something on the lawn?” “I scattered some feed there earlier. I always scatter feed there.” “Ah, that one seems to have something wrong with its leg.”

Hatsuya came walking briskly over. She had tied an apron over her navy work coat and was rounded out in a plump shape.

“Young mistress.” “What?” “Nah, I’m talkin’ ’bout the young mistress here—the male one.”

“Well... You’re changing now.” “What’d I do?”

“Let’s set aside the jokes—have you ever eaten crab?” “When?” “Hohoho, a story like seagulls, isn’t it? So you’ll buy some if we’re having crab?” “Yeah, I’ll buy ’em for ya.” “Figure I’ll boil ’em come noon.” “Well, noon’s ’bout here already.” “So you’ve never eaten any?” “I do eat them, but they’re nothing but trouble.”

“They are delicious, though.” “They’re truly delicious though.” “And what’s more—’specially ’cause these days are moonless—makes ’em even tastier.” “No, it’s really true, I tell ya.” “On moonlit nights, see, they get all jumpy ’bout their own shadows and end up slimming down, they do.” She wore the same solemn expression as when expounding the virtues of the village’s Suitengu-sama.

“Hohoho.” “That’s interesting.” “Then are ya gonna eat ’em?” “I’ll eat them.”

“Well, that’s good then,” she said, and briskly walked off in that direction, her short shadow trailing at the heels of her wooden sandals.

The pigeons showed not the slightest fear of people.

I felt like going outside.

Fuji-san was alone in the tatami room sewing. When I invited her to go out toward the beach together, “Yes,” she said with a smile, yet there was a hint of hesitation in her expression. I thought that even if we went together, no one would find fault with us. “But that would be too much,” she said after a moment’s pause. “What?” “But I’ve only just started this now.” “Do you want to finish it while you’re at it?” “No, that’s not it, but I feel bad toward Auntie... But I do want to go...”

“Then why don’t you go?”

“I don’t mind that part, but ever since coming here, I’ve done nothing but mope around—haven’t properly helped with a single thing, have I?” I sat with one knee propped up, holding a ruler as I methodically tapped at the needles in the pincushion, gradually working them deeper inside—until one careless strike drove a needle completely out of sight. Luckily, a stray thread remained attached to it, and when I gave a firm tug on that thread, the needle slipped out cleanly.

“Even though it’s been nearly a month now, I’ve been like that all this time—but today I’m feeling better, so I was the one who brought it up and even got told to mention this.” “I don’t mind any of that.”

"But a woman can’t just…" she said, threading a needle.

I obediently stood up and went down to the entrance alone, but feeling somehow deflated, stood blankly at the threshold for a while. And then—

“Brother,” Fuji-san emerged.

“You can see Suitengu-sama over there, can’t you? There are lots of pretty shells on that beach over there—please go collect some.” Though not particularly enthusiastic about it, he couldn’t bring himself to refuse anymore and ambled out through rows of dried stalks laid out to dry.

After taking five or six steps, Fuji-san called out again.

“You’ve got some cotton fluff stuck on your back, I think.”

“Where?” “Lower down.” “Is it around here?” “No.” “Is it large?” “Ah, a bit higher,” she said, coming out to pluck it off. A piece of silk floss entangled with red silk thread had been clinging there.

Fuji-san was kneading it in her hands, “It’s lovely weather today,” she remarked. The desire to go together showed itself in her every gesture. When I turned back upon exiting the gate, Fuji-san was still standing there, pacing restlessly. “Please do come back soon.” “Yes,” I replied, completely unaware of what was to come as I went out clomping along while swinging my cane—but this would ultimately become our long farewell.

Of course by this time I had already changed out of the borrowed clothes. Until changing clothes I had been completely indifferent, but when I realized I'd become a guest at this island lodging and worn a woman's borrowed kimono, a kind of alluring sensation arose as I began to undress. Somehow I even felt like I wanted to keep wearing it a little longer. And for a while I watched the red lining of the haori that had been turned inside out. In my own home one would never see such colorful garments left discarded like this. My older sister died at eleven. After that there was never so much as a scrap of red cloth anywhere in our house. I came to think deeply that my home was like a winter-withered field. Suddenly the image of a snake's shed skin floated into my mind. When I began pondering such an absurd thought—how a snake must view the skin it sheds after shedding it—Hatsuya came and took away the changed clothes.

Now I was spiraling down the hill path that coiled like a serpent around a plate. With each turn I descended, the woman’s singing grew clearer and clearer. “Sleep now, sleep tight. When the rooster crows, rise and shine,” she sang. It was a mellifluous voice.

“Be off with you now, dawn breaks in the east. The roosters crow at every mansion,” I heard as I descended the hill—it turned out to be O-sen from the corner tofu shop who was singing. All the women on this island sang often. Whether they wove cloth, plowed fields, rowed boats, or led horses, they always sang while working. They sang from morning till night. If you came upon a place where no songs rose, you knew there were no young women there. All young women sang. And O-sen’s group seemed to be the most skilled.

O-sen was grinding beans with her back turned to the outside.

Two young men in work trousers had left their farm tools rolled by the entrance and were crouching before the soot-blackened hearth, smoking tobacco. Behind the torn karakami paper, an old man wearing a Daikoku hood sat hugging a brazier, looking like a doll. The pure white long beard was too stylish for the tofu shop’s old man. "How strange! The oak leaves are white." "The teeth of today’s girls are white."

O-sen was singing proudly because there were young men present.

Upon reaching the house and turning,

“Mr. Aoki!” she called out. Her forehead—much broader than average—was plastered thickly with headache patches. She resembled the crows on yesterday’s tidal flat. “You didn’t come yesterday.” “I was just off changin’ the horses,” she said, pausing her work. “Go on and ride.” “This one’s as gentle as can be, I tell ya!” No sooner had he spoken than he broke into song again.

“The parent’s twenty, the child twenty-one. Where in the world did the math go wrong?”

“Heave-ho, heave!” one of the young men in work trousers chanted. I peered into the stable next door but found no horse inside. From the stable’s edge stretched a long row of fig trees lining one side of the road. I walked on, treading their shadows. On both sides lay wheat fields sunken a step lower. O-sen’s song gradually faded from hearing. Suddenly, Fuji-san came to mind. They said she had already been staying over a month. And that she remained despondent every day. There must be some reason for it. Last night when Auntie abruptly fell silent—it likely wasn’t mere sleepiness. I kept puzzling over what this meant.

From behind came the sound of a bell. I wondered if it was echoing within my own thoughts. A man carrying straw on his back approached from ahead. Later, “Pardon me,” he said. When I turned around, a horse’s nose was peeking over my shoulder. I hurriedly took shelter under the eaves of a farmhouse. There on the earthen floor, a woman was weaving cloth. She was singing in a soft voice.

The man leading the horse called out, “Hey there,” and came to a stop. The straw-carrying man quickly took shelter under the same eaves. The horse passed through. They were loading mandarins.

And then—

“Well now, who’s there?” exclaimed the woman weaving at the loom in a shrill voice. The straw-carrying man was blocking the entrance, looking at me and laughing as he inched backward, pushing the straw on his back inside. “It’s dark in here,” the woman said. The man chuckled. They might be on familiar terms. Once again thinking of Fuji-san, I walked on. Hatsuya might know the circumstances. I wonder if I should get her to talk.

This entire area consisted of fishermen’s residences. There was a woman who had placed her baby in a bamboo basket, hung it swaying under the eaves, and was mending a torn net while occasionally raising her hand to poke at it. There were cut potatoes spread out on a straw mat at the edge of the veranda, where flies gathered in such a thick black swarm that it looked as if someone had laid out flies to dry. Yet the idea of asking Hatsuya felt strange—as if I’d be sneaking around to uncover what Auntie chose not to say. I wouldn’t ask. The truth would come out when it was time. Why did I care so much about Fuji-san? Could it be nothing more than mere curiosity?

At that moment, I walked through a stretch where dried miscanthus grass taller than my height grew densely without gaps along both sides of the beach embankment. Waves lapped rhythmically against the stone cliff. After some time passed, O-naga came leading a white horse up from the side path. Gesturing that she was carrying something round, she asked if I wouldn't come along. I felt inclined to follow. The horse's belly rustled through the miscanthus leaves.

When I emerged from there, it was Suiten-gu Shrine.

In hindsight, had I simply turned back there it would have been better, yet I kept following the horse’s hindquarters across five or six mountain fields until I reached wherever O-naga was going.

In the valley fields were O-naga’s parents and her brother Tsunekichi. They were digging potatoes between rows of wheat that had grown a few inches tall.

“My, you came all this way for us!” they all rejoiced. The old man’s face creased with wrinkles,

“We kept talkin’ ’bout nothin’ but you long after you’d gone,” they smiled.

“Why, I thought we’d never see you again until we died,” said the mother. I felt as though I’d met my childhood wet nurse again. For a while, we talked about various things.

Before long, the parents began digging. When they thrust a hoe into the roots of the withered stems and pulled up, a glimpse of a color like a monkey’s buttocks peeked out from within. When they grabbed the stems and pulled them up, beneath lay potatoes piled red. Tsunekichi plucked them off from behind with a series of snaps and put them into the basket. When one basket was full, he hefted it up and transferred the contents into the net bags hanging on both flanks of the horse tethered to the ridge. The horse cast its shadow over the field as it ate bamboo grass leaves. I sat alongside O-naga on a straw mat at the edge of the field, smoking tobacco. The parents turned toward me and spoke each time they paused from hoeing. O-naga also occasionally pulled on a sleeve and spoke through gestures. They pointed out the boats dredging for trough shells offshore, each of which had three sails set sideways. Since two anchor ropes were extended from both ends, even when the sails caught the wind, the ships did not move. Because the sails were taut, the anchor ropes did not slacken. They said things like drying the trough shells in the sun and packing them into straw bales. Waves broke against the cliff beneath the fields. The sunlight seeped steadily into my hair.

Before long, Tsunekichi’s young bride came leading a red horse. That horse belonged to the tofu shop. The bride joined in digging. I said I wanted to try digging too, but the mother refused, saying my kimono would get dirty. The bride sang a song. The mother sang softly too. O-naga, unable to sing, crouched down and picked at the edge of the straw mat.

When Tsunekichi clapped his hands, O-naga stood up and led the white horse away. The net bags were filled with potatoes. When the white horse returned, the bride's red horse went out. When the red one returned, the white one went out.

“Pa, let’s call it a day here,” Tsunekichi said as he removed his headband—by then, the horses’ shadows were no longer cast upon the ground. I had no idea how many hours I had been there. The white sails of the trough shell boats had also completely vanished.

“You should’ve gone on ahead already. “Hatsuya should’ve gone out to look for you,” the mother said. I remembered the shells for the first time and hurried back to Suiten-gu Shrine.

The evening sun was sinking into the shadow of the distant opposite island.

I thought about stopping with the shells, but feeling somehow unsettled, resolved to gather at least three or four more and went down to the tideland. Shells called “bride’s plates” lay scattered everywhere. Once I started picking them up, I couldn’t bring myself to stop. I kept gathering them until one sleeve was nearly full.

When I climbed back up, the trails of my geta footprints stretched in two winding lines between two fishing boats that had settled in place. When I returned, Fuji-san would likely be the first to come out and say, "Oh my, what have you been doing?" And when I transferred the shells to the entrance, she would likely exclaim "Oh my" at the many shells and look delighted. I hurried back, clutching my sleeve as I thought of it all as something that had already happened. When I came in front of the tofu shop, O-sen was refilling the oil in the lantern at the entrance.

While climbing the hill, though I had just had the geta bought this morning, the front thong snapped with a pop. It was likely because they were cheap and flimsy to begin with, but according to Hatsuya and others, this marked an omen that something disagreeable would occur. With no alternative, I removed one tabi sock and ended up half-barefoot.

When I returned home, I called out to Fuji-san from the entrance and lingered around the entryway for a while, but there was no response. I called out loudly once more, this time trying "Auntie," but still there was no response. The entire house was deathly still, and I could almost see the path my voice took as it traveled inward. I went around to the kitchen and called for Hatsuya, but Hatsuya wasn’t there either. Thinking it strange, I carried some nearby geta and went out to the wellside to wash my feet when I heard someone sobbing quietly behind the shoji. When I slid open the shoji, there was Shōbō. He sat with his legs stretched out, looking dejected.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, but he didn’t answer, merely wiping away tears. “Is your mother not here?” When I asked this, he shook his head.

"Are they here?" I asked, but he still shook his head sideways. "What’s wrong? When I asked, 'Where did Sis go?', Shōbō widened his tear-filled eyes and, "Sis already went home, ’cause!" he burst into tears.

“Oh? When?” “An uncle from elsewhere came to take her away, ’cause.” “What kind of uncle?”

“It’s an uncle from elsewhere,” he sobbed through tears.

I felt as though I had been left alone in the depths of a valley.

Fuji-san had suddenly gathered her belongings and returned home, it was said. The uncle was said to be a rather elderly man with pockmarks dotted on the tip of his nose. Auntie and Hatsuya had apparently accompanied them all the way to the wharf in the neighboring village. Evening ships did not depart from this village. Hatsuya had carried off a large bundle wrapped in a furoshiki cloth. It was said to have happened a bit earlier. The uncle had apparently arrived by the time Shōbō returned from school. I imagined Fuji-san's circumstances swirling through my mind like shadows from a revolving lantern. If I rushed to the wharf now, perhaps the ship hadn't yet departed. Though it must have been about two kilometers to the neighboring village's center, borrowing a farmer's horse would make it feasible. Somehow I wanted to meet her just once to exchange farewells. This ending felt incomplete. It seemed cruelly abrupt, as if I'd been deceived. I considered rushing there, but dreaded being seen by her companion. I couldn't shake the conviction that he must have an unsavory appearance. The thought of him glaring at me with those suspicious, contemptuous eyes was unbearable. And if the ship had already left, I'd look utterly foolish. Moreover, I cringed at Auntie possibly thinking I shouldn't have come. Thus wavering, I couldn't decide. For some time I stood vacantly, attempting to reconstruct that uncle's face.

I took out all the spiteful, unpleasant faces I’d ever seen, fitted them beneath a white-haired wig, and sprinkled pockmarks across the nose.

Before long, I lumbered toward the storage shed and then from there began briskly scrambling up the lightning-shaped path that clung to the mountainside, remaining half-barefoot all the while. When I stood on high ground, I could see far out to the open sea. And if there was a sail departing from the wharf in the neighboring village, it was because I thought that would be Fuji-san’s ship. I climbed as high as I could—even a single step higher—forcing my way through the thicket to the base of the bamboo fence marking the boundary, grabbed the trunk of a small pine, and let out a breath.

A white sail came into view. In the dusk-lit sea, clear as a pond, a single white sail floated motionlessly. That had to be Fuji-san's ship. Ships without sails were all fishing boats. I could picture Fuji-san sitting slightly tilted there, lost in thought. The man who had come with her seemed to be sitting wordlessly picking at his pockmarked nose with a pinky nail. What must Fuji-san have been feeling? Why had she been taken away so abruptly? Why had she stayed at Auntie's for a full month? Countless questions swirled through me at once, leaving an unsatisfied irritation prickling in my chest. Though by eye the distance from ship to neighboring shore seemed much farther than from here to our own bank, it hadn't yet sailed one ri out. If only I hadn't lingered so long in the fields - I might have returned in time to see her off. Or why hadn't I tried stopping her from leaving altogether? While we'd been together it hadn't mattered, but now I felt I should have at least told you how achingly dear you'd become. To part like this forever felt hollow somehow. You likely didn't know what I was feeling. If after parting you thought of me as just another stranger again, what meaning would any of this hold? I found myself unbearably worried about you.

The view across this area seemed to hold some special meaning only at this moment. The darkening sky and water, the shadows of islands that might or might not exist, the mountains and mandarin fields, the forests and houses—every visible thing made me feel as if Fuji-san's white sail was whispering words to me one after another. Then unexpectedly, there appeared another white sail. At the distant mountain's bend, a white sail faded into the mist as it departed. Wondering if my eyes deceived me, I strained them—but it was indeed a sail. Yet I had to conclude Fuji-san's ship must be the earlier white sail. The distant portion remained unclear. And soon, it would vanish completely into the mist.

The one that remained clearly visible and did not fade away had to be Fuji-san’s ship.

Despite the absence of wind, pine needles fluttered down. The sound of looms from various places seemed to listen to distant insects. I looked down at my lodging beneath my feet. The lodging was like an empty cage from which a small bird had fled. On the detached roof, leaves blanketed the surface, rotting away. In the storage shed’s attic, a pigeon hooted softly. A female orb-weaver spider descended from the withered branch before my eyes. When I raised my hand to brush it off, the spider smoothly returned to the branch. At that moment, the shells in my sleeve rustled. I had completely forgotten about them until now, but thinking there was no point in keeping these shells any longer, I took them out one by one and hurled them toward the detached roof. Not a single one reached the roof. They all fell midway. When they fell, the leaves rustled faintly. Just when I thought there had been no response to that one—after a while—there came a rustling sound as if remembering. Closing my eyes, I hurled one sideways with force and tried to guess where the sound would come from. If I didn’t succeed, I would throw until I did. In the end, I grabbed three or four at a time and threw them recklessly. Finally, only parched seaweed fragments and small pebbles remained at the bottom of my sleeve.

I gazed at the white sail once more. Fuji-san’s remained in one place all this time. The distant one had already vanished. And there was yet another sail returning this way near the edge of the pampas grass along the nearby shore. At first I wondered where it had returned from. Before long, I began to suspect that this one might actually be the first sail approaching closer. It rapidly drew closer to shore. In that case, could it be that the ship I had thought was Fuji-san’s was actually one returning this way? Could it be that Fuji-san’s current ship was actually emerging from the mist toward me? I felt an unpleasantness, as though my theory had been dismissed with scorn. If even that distant sail were also returning here, then which one would actually be Fuji-san’s ship? In the current situation, sails weren’t effective for heading out there. But there were no ships without sails heading out that way. I searched thoroughly from right to left and left to right, but there wasn’t a single one. I was growing irritated. Then,the one that had disappeared into the mist earlier was Fuji-san’s. And having already rounded the mountain，it was now running toward the regional cape. I had to settle on that one definitively; otherwise，there would be no resolution. Even if it was unreasonable，that must be the one，I persisted in my own theory with authoritarian insistence，and began furtively descending the mountain.

On the way down, the shells I had thrown earlier lay scattered here and there along the path. Because they were beautiful shells, I found myself wanting to pick them up again out of lingering attachment. I gathered every last one that was there, but in the end, there was only enough to fill one hand.

When I went down, Shōbō was standing there looking lonely, peering into the goat pen.

“Where did you go, Brother?” he asked. When I said, “Hey, want some shells, Shōbō?” he curtly refused.

I must now take my sudden leave. The reasons shall be made known to you in due course. It is my belief that we shall not easily meet again. You shall forever remain my cherished elder brother. I pray most earnestly for your peaceful convalescence. That I depart without properly conveying my sentiments weighs heavily upon my heart. I humbly beseech your kind forgiveness.

This was the letter I had composed in my heart while washing my feet. And I truly thought such a letter might actually have been left behind. Just as she was about to leave, Fuji-san hurried into the detached room with quick steps and hastily wrote a single brushstroke. At the main house, they called out "Fuji-san." Muttering "Yes, yes," she scribbled something in haste, placed the inkstone lid as a weight, and departed—if I were Fuji-san, I would absolutely have left some written words behind at such a time. If I went to check, I felt there might actually be something left on the desk.

But after all, there was no such letter.

But when I suddenly opened the desk drawer, an unexpected item came out from within. A single underkimono sleeve—twenty-one inches long with scarlet monhane double-layer fabric and crimson silk lining—had been folded eight times and stuffed deep into the drawer. From the start, I couldn't make sense of why such a peculiar thing would be there. With no particular evidence to go by, it was hardly believable that this could be a memento Fuji-san had secretly left for me. Yet just this morning, I'd had Hatsuya clean the drawer before putting away items from the trunk myself. The sleeve must have been placed there afterward. And this sleeve undeniably belonged to Fuji-san. Auntie and Hatsuya—women who'd been young twenty or thirty years ago—wouldn't possess something so vibrant now. While I couldn't state definitively that Fuji-san had put it there, there was no conceivable reason anyone else would mistakenly place such an item in my drawer. It had to be Fuji-san's doing. If so, then this wasn't some careless act without meaning. She'd given it to me with deliberate intent. To draw that conclusion wasn't unreasonable. Holding up the sleeve, I felt a sudden pang of emotion.

However, this was ultimately all I knew about Fuji-san. As for why she had returned so abruptly like that—I hadn't even thought to ask about such matters. Where she might be now or what she was doing—that too remained unknown to me. I knew nothing at all.

To put it that way might make it somewhat hard to comprehend, but it was I who deliberately fretted and ended up shaping things this way. It was because the story of the plovers mattered so deeply.

The story of the plovers is this two-day memory: beginning with O-naga the mute’s arm pillow, continuing through a painted woman drawing near me, foxes shrinking to weasel size, chintz-patterned futon flowers stagnating in water, crucian carp sinking and needles burying themselves, my geta strap snapping as a nephila spider descended, until finally that single sleeve emerged from the desk drawer. I kept the sleeve placed on my lap and sat motionlessly until darkness fell, tormented by various thoughts, until finally I arrived at this conclusion. The story must conclude precisely with these two days to retain its poignancy. I thought that if it were to leave lingering traces behind, it would become uninteresting.

In a lodging on a small island in a western province, I met a young woman called Fuji-san. After two days of conversations lighter than water, she left behind a single sleeve as a memento and vanished without warning. I never learned what became of her afterward. That suffices. All things are better left unquestioned beyond what manifested in those two days. Were I to pry into needless matters and risk blemishing her presence within the plover story even slightly, it would be an irredeemable loss. This conviction made me uneasy that evening about encountering Auntie and Hatsuya. I agonized that their accounts of Fuji-san's circumstances might fracture the plover story.

No sooner had Auntie returned than—

“You must be hungry.” “I was worried and hurried back,” she said while giving Hatsuya instructions about the side dishes, “From now on, things will feel rather lonely for a while, won’t they? “It all happened so suddenly,” she began, as if about to say more—so I quickly “What could that tofu shop owner possibly be thinking, growing such a long beard like that? It’s quite a long beard, isn’t it?” I said, nipping the conversation in the bud.

From then on, whenever Auntie and the others began to speak even slightly of Fuji-san, I would immediately retreat while clinging to those two days' memories. In every situation, I would retreat at once. When retreat proved impossible, I desperately kept thinking of other matters in my mind, not allowing a single word of conversation to reach my ears. Later, Auntie too—since Fuji-san’s side avoided the matter—stopped mentioning her affairs entirely in my presence. Hatsuya as well—perhaps having been coached—oddly refrained from even speaking Fuji-san’s name. I thought perhaps the two of them had conspired about this arrangement, but such considerations meant nothing to me. So long as I wasn’t subjected to hearing about it, nothing else mattered. Even in the letters Auntie had sent since then—though she often reminisced about various matters from my stay there—to this day not a speck of mention regarding Fuji-san ever arrived.

Ever since then, I did not think of Fuji-san at all for a long time after that. I often think about it—but that isn't thinking about Fuji-san. I think of Fuji-san within the plover story. Even now, there are times when I take out that sleeve. On sleepless nights, I always take it out. To look at this sleeve holds no meaning unless night has deepened. When night deepens, I pinch both corners of the sleeve, hold it up diagonally before the lamplight. The lamplight permeates the red sleeve's color, and when the flame at its center dims, I find myself entering the plover story, moving with Fuji-san like figures in a flickering silent film. I watch my own performance. Until I have watched every detail of the plover story from beginning to end, I remain unaware of my upraised hands growing weary. When I fold the sleeve, I think: Within this sleeve, I believe seventeen- or eighteen-year-old Fuji-san and twenty-year-old myself are sealed forever without aging. It doesn't matter where Fuji-san is now or what she's doing. My Fuji-san is the Fuji-san in this sleeve. Fuji-san can always be seen vividly within it.

When people repeat "plovers, plovers," they refer to that monpa futae pattern.