Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“We’ll divide the funds we carry on our person.”

“We’ll divide the funds we carry on our person,” said Kuranosuke.
Ōtaka Tadao took out a paper-wrapped object from the wrapping cloth bundle and placed it to his left and right.

“In order.”

he said and handed them over.
The people passed the money from hand to hand.
Tadao

“Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six!”

he said and placed the last one on his own right.
Behind Kuranosuke, Terasaka Yoshioemon, who had been sitting there, suddenly flushed red and lowered his head.
At the same time, Kuranosuke—

“That settles all remaining funds,” he said.

Yoshioemon was about to explode with frustration.

As the sole lowly servant among those of samurai status, he had followed until now—

(Even at this critical moment—you’re still treating me as a different class?)

he thought.
More than sadness, resentment—like a hot wind—whirled through his head.

(Don’t you understand my heart?
If that’s how it is, then the revenge is settled.—Or do you understand?
Master.
If you understand, then why won’t you treat me the same as the samurai-class?
Until today, being a lowly servant was acceptable.
I am undoubtedly a lowly servant—but tonight is the raid.
If the raid happens, I—a lowly servant—am not skilled in martial arts like samurai-class men, and I must be prepared to be the first one cut down.
Surely even a clever Master like you wouldn’t fail to grasp something so obvious—it’s a man’s final hour.
If they’d at least distributed the money equally with the samurai-class—then maybe—No. I’m done. I’m abandoning the raid.
Who’d show loyalty to a bastard like that? They’re mocking us—treating people like fools.)

Yoshioemon bowed his head, trembling from the depths of his being with rage.

“Then, to preparations.”

“Then, to preparations,” said Kuranosuke.
And then,

“Yoshi.”

He turned around and threw the paper bundle before him at knee level.
It was not gold coins but a small paper package that appeared to contain small granules.
Yoshioemon, keeping his head lowered, bowed deeply.

(Damn it—I don’t need this shit. Who the hell needs it?)

He thought, but pressed it to his forehead and tucked it into his robe.
Tomimori Sukeemon walked around distributing a bundle containing items like the chain for the obi, whistle, chain headband, and identification cloth.
And then, when he came before Yoshioemon,

“Yoshi won’t need any,” he said.

“Yoshi, you just need to stay with me,” he said.

Two

The moon faintly revealed its form among scudding clouds.
Not a single sound—whether in the sky, on the ground, or among the people—had arisen.
There was nothing left to say—they stood before Kira’s mansion.
With their spear tips glittering, the shadowy figures split into two groups.

“Father.”

When Chikara said this, Kuranosuke merely nodded, then immediately began walking toward the gate while gesturing instructions with his fingers to the person beside him.

Yoshioemon
(This is our final parting—and yet, how cold…)
he thought.
(Despite his own debauchery being twice that of others—he hasn’t even secured a bride for Chikara—maintaining a strict household—so that he becomes a completely different person at home versus the pleasure quarters—this man’s outward appearance and inner self are entirely at odds.
He likes women—no—rather, even when dismissing geisha of Gion, he did it as if discarding scrap paper.
Sending his wife back to Tajima was just like this moment.
His true nature is that of a cold-hearted person.
Even as the young master wept, his father showed not a shred of paternal affection.
It’s no wonder he treats me like a lowly servant.)

Terasaka Yoshioemon kicked snow into the mud ditch while considering a good opportunity to escape.
One person climbed along the ladder and ascended to the roof.
People were beginning to climb up the ladder one after another.
At the gate came a faint sound; as the wood creaked, white snow within appeared distinctly between both doors, and immediately the spacious entrance unfolded.
The people quietly entered.
One person thrust a bamboo pole with documents clipped to it into the snow at the entrance.

“You, stay here,” said Kuranosuke to Terasaka.
When they entered through the gate with the others—thwack!—the signal came as an arrow shot into the rowhouse door to intimidate those inside.
The wooden entrance door shattered with a thunderous crash under a single blow from the battering ram.
Thud! Clang!—the sounds of arrows striking doors, footsteps rushing through gardens, wooden panels splitting and shattering, thresholds tearing loose—all erupted at once as their work began.
And at that very moment, the front gate creaked and started closing.

(This is it—)

Yoshioemon bit his lip.

(How far will they go to humiliate me?)
How much more are they going to make a fool of me?
They think lowly servants don’t have human souls—who the hell would follow you bastards?
Damn you all—drop dead.
(Get yourselves cut down by your own retainers—damn you all!)

Yoshioemon glared at the closed gate for a while, then lowered his gaze and began to walk. Then, tearing off the identification mark cloths sewn onto both sleeves with all his strength, he slammed them into the mud ditch.

Three

Within the mansion grounds arose a deep commotion—sharp cries, shouts, the stomping of floorboards, crashes against shoji screens—and with these, noises began erupting here and there in the neighboring estate as well.
Yoshioemon,

(If I’m discovered, it would be disastrous.)

he thought.
Then he pulled the chain headband from his pocket and hurled it into the mud ditch, swiftly peeled off the identification mark sewn onto his haori’s hem, and cast it into the snow.
Keeping alert to every sound, he moved away from Kira’s mansion.

(If I’m caught loitering around at this hour and get suspected by patrols, it’ll be disastrous.)

With that thought, he slipped into the dark eaves.

(Once the commotion starts, I can slip away in the chaos.)

Hands and feet were growing numb.
When he put a hand into the pocket, it touched the money pouch Kuranosuke had given him.
Yoshioemon tried grabbing through the paper,

(If they’re small coins, there’s a decent amount here.)

He thought.
Then he placed it on his palm and tried gauging its weight.
(If this were gold, it'd be about ten ryo—has some heft to it.)

At the same moment he felt this, he cautiously checked his surroundings and opened the pouch.
White silver coins glinted.
They seemed to amount to more than ten ryo.

(Even if they gave me ten ryo, I wouldn’t be grateful—)

He rebelliously entertained that thought—but couldn’t understand why Kuranosuke had given him alone such a separate large amount.

(What matters to human beings isn’t money—it’s spirit.
Even one ryo would’ve been fine—I just wanted to be divided the same as everyone else. But that bastard Ōtaka refused, keeping me out of the forty-six.
I’m the only one not counted in their head count.
Damn them—looking down on people—)

A faint commotion began to reach him, growing gradually louder.

They’re really going all out—Kira’s got hordes of retainers himself.
Get yourselves slaughtered—damn you all! I’ll head back home and live easy in my later years.
Had my fill of samurai—)

Footsteps approached—people were running.
Yoshioemon pulled back his body and made himself small.
Adjacent to Kira’s estate, a large lantern stood atop a fence some distance away, voices murmuring.
A lantern flickered past, grazing him as it darted by.
The voices sped away into the night.

(Now’s my chance—)

With that thought, Yoshioemon stepped out into the snow.

“It’s a disaster! It’s a disaster!”

Muttering to himself, he started walking at a brisk pace.
From ahead, from the side streets, people occasionally came running out.
No one suspected Yoshioemon.
When he reached a spot where he could see the expansive sky over the river, no sounds could be heard, and there was no one running.

(Tonight, since evening, I’d been thinking only of dying—but seeing Edo like this, it’d be a waste not to live in such an interesting world.)
I must’ve been possessed by some samurai demon these past couple of years.
A lowly servant like me getting involved in a vendetta—and then being treated as a servant right to the end—what a ripoff, damn it all.
Even so, I’m glad I woke up.
Ridiculous.
Even if I had carried out the vendetta, I’d just be kept at the bottom again—or maybe someone like Yasubei would cut me down for the shame of having a lowly servant among them—what a terrible dream I’d been having.
Rather than resenting others—the real mistake was a lowly servant like me trying to join the samurai’s ranks.
If it were said they even resorted to borrowing a lowly servant’s help—that’d be shameful for them.
That must be it.
Maybe them giving me so many small coins was their cryptic way of telling me to flee—what a fine view.
If it clears up properly now, a good New Year will come.
Compared to this revenge raid, New Year’s far livelier anyway.)

Yoshioemon leaned against the bridge for a while, lost in thought.

(It must be about time for the early-rising travelers to pass by.)

Yoshioemon, to avoid suspicion from the bridge checkpoint, decided to wait for foot traffic and slipped into the shelter of a house’s eaves.

Four

“Grandpa, it’s cold.”

Yoshioemon entered the stew shop.
An old man stood in the dimly lit dirt-floored area, his face illuminated by the hearth fire.

“My, you’re here early on such a cold morning.”

“Just give me a bowl of whatever—”

Yoshioemon held his hands over the fire he’d brought out from beneath the pot, then removed his wet straw sandals and stepped up into the shop’s interior.

“Alone today, eh?”

“Hmm—returning from an errand to Kasai.”

“In this snow...”

Yoshioemon sat before the herring, miso soup, and sake.

(Delicious—ah, delicious.
After so long, I could savor it deeply and unreservedly.
Even while drinking sake—the vendetta.
Even while eating a meal—the vendetta. What would carrying out the vendetta even accomplish?
If it were samurai, fine—but a lowly servant like this?
I’d just been a monkey mimicking humans—if they called it that, there’d be nothing to be done.
After all, I was utterly useless—would I just get cut down by their retainers, or end up in some scuffle with Kira’s underlings and have the tip of my nose bitten off?
——A lowly servant should act like a lowly servant—)

The sake flowed pleasantly through his stomach and into his bloodstream; he smiled and tilted his head.

“Damn good.”

Just as he said this,

“Old man,”

Shouting this, a young man stood beneath the eaves.
And, hurriedly,

“A great man’s passing through! Hurry, go see!”

“What’s all this?”

“What do you mean? Look—there was the Asano assault in Harima Province, right?”

“Yeah, there was.”

“Those retainers went to attack Lord Kira Kōzuke-no-suke last night and are now returning.”

“Granny, mind the shop!”

“What’s wrong, old man?”

“Men from Uesugi are out—they’re about to fight right around here! You’ll never see this again!”

The young man started running.

“Granny, hurry up, will ya?”

With that, the old man shouted and ran out into the snow.

(Did they do it—)

Yoshioemon let out a sigh,

It's fine if they all get slaughtered; it's fine if they kill Kira. Their path remains theirs; mine remains mine.
Samurai stay samurai; low-ranking servants stay low-ranking servants—

Yoshioemon drank the sake in one gulp, but it wasn’t tasty at all.

(I want to go take a quick look—but no—if they were to spot me—)

“Good morning.”

With that, the old woman came out.
Yoshioemon merely nodded.

“What’s the old man gone out for?”

“Who knows?”

Just as he said this, people running through the snow outside—one, then two—swelled rapidly in number.
While murmuring something to each other, they fixed their eyes ahead and ran with all their might.

“What’s all this?”

Muttering this, the old woman went outside and looked to the right.

“Oh my, the spear tips are gleaming!”
“Sir, won’t you come out and see?”
“This is huge, I tell you!”
“Sir.”

Yoshioemon stood up and went outside.
People were streaming by.
When he looked to his right, there was a dense crowd, and above their heads and shoulders, the heads of people withdrawing and spears were moving.

(A lot of them were still here.
About thirty of them left, I suppose—seems they managed to kill him—but none of that concerned me anymore.)

Yoshioemon,

“Granny, another bottle.”

With that, Yoshioemon went back inside.

5

When he reached Kanagawa, the winter sun had grown dim.
Moreover, trudging along the thawing road to Totsuka was a pain.
Yoshioemon stayed at Matsuya.

On the pillars there were only two oil lamps with wicks, their light blending with steam and shadows into a murky haze.
It was a cramped, grimy bathhouse.
Yoshioemon stepped inside.

“Coming through,” he announced.

But no one responded.

“Damn impressive work—true loyal retainers those men are!”

As one man shouted in a loud voice,

“I mean, there were seventy or eighty of Kira’s retainers, but they cut down Lord Kōzuke without a single one of ’em getting killed! Ain’t that some incredible skill, I tell ya—eh, sir?”

“Truly—”

“And get this—they say there’s even a low-ranking servant mixed in with those forty-seven men!”

Yoshioemon jolted.
Then he shrank down and slipped into the corner of the bath.
Dimly, the shadows of four men could be seen.

"Even though he only gets two ryo a year, he's throwing away his life to serve—so this guy's practically the commander of loyalty!"

"Who's the commander?"

"They say Ōishi's the chief retainer."

"Hmm, solid-sounding name for a commander, I tell ya."
"So this 'forty-seven men'—is it really forty-seven men?"

“At Kira’s mansion entrance, they’ve left behind the raid’s formal statement with all their names written proper.”
“In Edo, news sheets are already circulating – got their full names and stipends listed and everything.”
“Come tomorrow, it’ll all be clear as day.”
“Or maybe them latecomers are carrying copies.”

“Kira Kōzuke’s headless bit – damn, went and spilled it all while st-st-stammering.”
“Head’s spinning like a top.”

A man vigorously splashed through the water and leaped out.
And to Yoshioemon,
“Pardon me.”

called out and

“Sir, you don’t happen to have a news sheet, do you?”
“I don’t have one, but I do know a bit.”

“Do you know?”
“Hmm—what sorta man’s this Ōishi, eh? The commander?”
“Ōishi Kuranosuke Yoshio—”

“Yes, yes—that’s right, that’s right.”
“Ōishi Kuranosuke Yoshio.”
“And what about the loyal low-ranking servant?”
“Low-ranking servant? — That’s — Terasaka.”
“Hmm… Terasaka Urano-suke Yoshio, huh?”
“I see. That’s a fine name.”
“A solid name, fitting for a low-ranking servant.”
“And then—”

Four men gathered around Yoshioemon.
Yoshioemon was wiping only his face with a hand towel.

VI

Yoshioemon returned to Edo.

At inns, bathhouses, and barbershops—everywhere—the talk was of nothing but the raid.
The news sheet vendors printed out freshly gathered accounts and concocted tales one after another, hawking them through the streets as they went.

“At Master Horinouchi Gentazaemon Masaharu’s residence in Banchō—they say six of his disciples numbered among the loyal retainers! Today they’re holding a grand drinking feast—”

“I should think so.”
“They must be overjoyed.”

In the barbershop, men of low station were conversing.
Yoshioemon listened with eyes closed as they combed through his hair.

“So, what do you make of this Terasaka Yoshioemon guy’s comrades?”

“They’re something else, ain’t they?”

“You ain’t quite cut from the same cloth.”

“What the—you lot, always squanderin’ coin on cheap whores! If you’d heard ’bout the raid, you’d’ve pissed yourselves!”

“How ’bout that?”

“Ain’t wrong. By the way, that Terasaka bastard ain’t among the graves at Sengakuji Temple, I hear.”

“That’s the considerate part—whatchamacallit.”
“The mansion’s attendant said he’d gone to inform the home province—and that’s probably right.”
“A low-ranking servant ain’t a samurai, so even the authorities’ll turn a blind eye.”
“Moreover, if word got out that a samurai went missing, they’d surely spread rumors he’d fled to save his own skin—and no one would actually go back to the home province anyway.”
“After all, it’s all high-ranking folks, see? So they went and asked Terasaka—‘You’re alive and kickin’ as Terasaka! Head down to Shinagawa and you’ll have women fawning over ya.’”

“But it’s always those types who ain’t much to look at, I tell ya.”

“What’s with your face? How do you even look in the mirror without burning up?”

“You’ve got a face that’d startle even a monster. O-tama down at the docks was yapping about it. When you see Jinnai’s face, you start trembling all over.”

“Hmph. You’re the one trembling. You’re getting all excited. You blockhead!”

“A blockhead for life, huh? Even I’d go on a raid if my master got killed, you know.”

“To the brothel, you mean?”

“If you really think it’s a lie, then try killing me.”
“If you’re born a man, you’d want your name remembered for generations—turned into news sheets—‘Suzuki Kinsaku’s Honjo Vendetta,’ two volumes complete for ten mon! The women’ll swoon, and even mistresses’ll beg to be killed—”
“Go ahead then—see if you can actually kill anyone like that.”
“This is the plan to deceive the enemy.”

“Even among low-ranking servants, there’s a world of difference.”
“Right, Ebizō?”

The barber, while shaving a beard,

“We spend our whole lives fiddlin’ with folks’ heads just to earn our rice—that’s how people are.”
“A man like Terasaka comes once in a century—no sense covetin’ his lot.”

“Damn right! Low-rankers oughta keep to their station.”

“Quit dreamin’ of makin’ O-tama your missus.”

Yoshioemon—

(I wonder if anyone will talk about me vanishing from the gatefront?—They probably will—No—maybe they won’t.)
The Master wouldn’t talk.
First off, I’m just a low-ranking servant.
Even those samurai-class bastards had four or five who fled at the last moment.
What’s cowardly about that?
If they stay silent—one possibility—did I slip away alone to report the raid’s outcome to the home province?
That’s a slick excuse—what if everyone got pardoned?
Either way, since I’m useless here, I could say I saw the raid through before reporting home—or if they all ended up committing seppuku or getting executed, even better.
No matter what anyone says—my silver tongue can spin it any way.
There’s that properly signed document in the authorities’ hands—pardon or seppuku.
Should I wait to see which way it goes before running home?
Or make a break for it now?)

Terasaka began to want to include himself among his comrades.

(All forty-six made it through unscathed.
Had I known that, I would've joined the raid after all.
No—if I'd actually participated, I might've ended up gutting myself alongside them—but nobody witnessed me slipping away that night.
Excuses can be spun any which way—alright then, I'll insert myself into their ranks.
I'll grant myself membership.
Without that move, there'd be no patching over the gaps.
They treat us like vermin—but now those very insects stand to claim the winning ticket.)

Yoshioemon smiled, his heart now bright.

Seven

“Oh, Yoshioemon—what’s the matter? You should come up now.”

Ōishi’s wife came out to the entrance and said happily.

“No word yet?”

“About what?”

“We have succeeded in vanquishing Lord Kira—here is the…”

“What?”
“Lord Kira Kōzuke-no-suke—”

Yoshioemon took out three news sheets.

“There are some typos here and there, but Master sir—all forty-seven members, every last one of them, are safe and sound—”

The wife had gathered faint tears and her face had turned pale.

Yoshioemon—

(Even if they find out I ran away—if I’m the first to report it like this, it’ll erase my guilt.)

he thought.

“You’ve gone and joined them too, haven’t you.”

“No, I was merely accompanying—”

“Let’s hear the details properly—come up now. You there—hurry with the rinsing.”

“No, I’ll first visit Sengakuji Temple and then return to Edo.”

“To Edo?”

“I wish to witness how matters will be settled—to see through everyone’s honorable final moments.”

“Even so, do come up for a moment. And did Chikara do his part?”

“Yeah.”

Yoshioemon nodded.

“After all, there could be no greater joy than everyone being safe and sound. Edo is already abuzz with this rumor—that they are Japan’s most loyal retainers. Madam, in time, it will become known here as well. You have endured considerable hardship, but—”

Yoshioemon said this while—

(This person and the low-ranking servant—they’re exactly the same.
Both of us—not treated as human… And because we weren’t, we’ll end up drawing the best lot.
What a strange twist of fate humans are—)

he had been thinking.

Before he knew it, the wife had pressed her hands to the floor, lowered her face, and was wiping her tears with her sleeve.
As he watched this, Yoshioemon found himself growing inexplicably sad.

Eight

“Yoshioemon, the seppuku has been decided.”

With that declaration, the Chief Priest entered.

“Yes.”

“A messenger came with word—the notice has arrived.”
“I shall recite sutras.”

As the Chief Priest spoke these words, the village headman’s voice—

“Here’s one for you, Mr. Yoshioemon.”

The voice saying this could be heard from the priest’s quarters.

“So it’s seppuku after all.”

Yoshioemon hung his head.

“Yoshioemon, don’t do anything rash.”
“Your paramount duty now is to properly mourn the samurai’s souls.”
“Rather than following them in death—rather than anything else—mourn them.”
“A single prayer from you will bring more merit than a hundred prayers from others.”

Yoshioemon thought to himself
(Now he was relieved.)

As he settled completely,

(Somehow, he felt remorseful—)

He also felt this.

(They probably hadn’t talked about me.
Even if they had talked—the opponent was dead and I was alive—no matter what the others said—since Master had told me alone—not telling anyone else—to inform his wife back home—that was all I needed to say—but once seppuku had been decided—with my name listed too—the punishment for me—)

As he thought this, anxiety began to well up within him.

“Come, Yoshioemon, let us go together.”

“I—”

“If you did something rash, Yoshioemon—”

“No, there is the matter of going to Edo now to take care of the aftermath.”
“As Master and I had discussed earlier.”
“Right now, I’ll depart immediately and—”

“That’s—that’s going too far—”

“Not at all.”

Yoshioemon stood up.

“If that’s how it must be, I won’t stop you—though it’s a long way to travel back and forth.”

“I’ll return shortly.”
“I beg you—this concerns the village’s honor.”

Yoshioemon took out leggings from a small trunk and fastened them while—
(If it’s been decided there’ll be no punishment—then it’s mine.
The villagers even offered to build me a house, and I’d become a peerlessly loyal low-ranking servant—That’s right.
I’m not of samurai status, and though I went along with the raid, since I didn’t even enter the gate, I probably won’t be considered guilty.
The crime of forming a band—that’s right, there’s that one.
Anyway, whether they arrest me or not—once I hear the rumors—I’ve got money—I’ll travel out, hear the talk, then make my judgment—)

Yoshioemon prepared his things and stood up.

“Where to, at this hour?”

A villager called out.

“I’ll be going to Edo.”

Yoshioemon answered politely and bowed deeply.

“Well...”

The villagers said nothing more beyond that.

Handling these villagers is no trouble, but the Edo officials must have heard I fled.
Because I fled?
Won’t that be considered a crime?
Has word of my escape leaked from the magistrate’s office to all of Edo?
This time, the rumors in Edo will decide my fate—if being praised too much leads to my escape being exposed, what if the opposite happens? No—I’m alive.
I can document everything.
No matter what they say, since I know everything, I can explain it any way I want from my side.
There’s nothing to worry about.
Since the samurai-class people are committing seppuku, I don’t have to.
Not seppuku?—That’s right, Edo’s exclusion order—that’s the gist of it.
That’s right.

Yoshioemon felt as though everything had become clear.
Smiling, he quickened his pace and set off in the direction of Edo.

(Loyal retainers—Terasaka Yoshioemon—they treated me like a low-ranking servant through and through, but those forty-six made me the happiest man alive.)
Therefore, they are loyal retainers.
Ahahaha.
That’s right.
(For me, they are the true loyal retainers.)

Yoshioemon laughed out loud.

Yoshioemon laughed out loud.

This story is not the author’s fantasy.

It is an established fact that Terasaka Yoshioemon deserted on the night of the raid; however, popular legend has included him among the forty-seven ronin.
To briefly cite the evidence: in Mr. Tokutomi Sohō’s *Kinsei Nihon Kokuminshi* (“Modern Japanese National History”), Genroku Era, Middle Volume, page 311, it states: “There is not a single thing that can be called a mission for Terasaka.”
“As for what is called the details of that matter, they remain ultimately inexplicable.”
“However, if one insists on seeking an explanation, his circumstances are identical to those of Mōri Koheita—that is to say, they were overcome by cowardice and fled solely to preserve their own lives.”

Apart from that, while various credible documents mention it, I don’t think there’s a need to write about them in detail.