Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

On a hot June afternoon, Okumi sat in the tearoom with an unsettled expression.
In fact, though no one had noticed, she had seemed out of sorts since morning.
It seemed it wasn’t solely due to the heat.
A heavy mass like cotton clouds hung over her heart.
Okumi, comparing this environment where she wanted for nothing, quietly tried to consider what the cause might be with a feeling akin to placing a hand on her chest.

Indeed, Okumi had been told by others of her esteemed social standing and had come to accept it herself.
She was young.
She was beautiful.
She was also physically robust.
Above all, as mistress of Uwajō Textile Store—the wealthy silk merchant household in Shitaya Osuikemachi—she was not only respected by others and employed many maids and menservants, but her husband Shōkichi, with whom she had united in love, was young, handsome, kind, hardworking, and increasingly devoted to her.
And between her and Shōkichi there were even three lovely children.
It’s said there’s always something beyond one’s control, but as Okumi surveyed her circumstances she could find nothing lacking.
Wealth—all splendor wealth could buy—the love of husband and children—in fact complete happiness enveloped Okumi.
The heart was full.
She never failed to enjoy each day and live in gratitude toward fate.

Thus, Okumi—who was usually so cheerful it bordered on excessive—today sat withdrawn in a daze, like a completely different person.

She tried to grasp the true nature of this strangely persistent unease by mentally enumerating each radiant condition shaping her environment.
She didn’t know why, but she felt unsettled—this unpleasant sensation.
She thought how refreshed she’d feel if she could identify and cast it aside.
The weather might share some blame.
Edo’s heat these days defied comparison.
Days had continued with simmering air that refused to stir.
Yet truthfully, Okumi bore the heat relatively well.
It was Shōkichi who hated summer; he often marveled at—or found perplexing—how unfazed she remained by this swelter.

Okumi raised her chin from the collar of her summer kimono where it had been buried.
Her gaze became one that stared straight ahead.

What was blackly weighing on her heart—she had known since the moment she woke that morning.
Though she knew, she feared confronting it and tried to find another cause, but now that this effort had utterly failed, Okumi resolutely raised her face and had to confront the thing itself.

Feeling foolish, she was slightly embarrassed.
It was such a trivial thing.
It was incoherent and utterly trivial.
Yet that very triviality had evoked such leaden terror and gripped her all day long.

“Oh my, what have I done?”
Okumi muttered to herself.
“What could it be? How ridiculous.
But I must think this through carefully.
I must firmly convince myself that this is absurd—”

When she came to her senses, her mouth hung slack and her hands were clenched tightly.
Her palms were damp with cold sweat.

"There’s nothing to fear."
"Let me try to recall."

Her muttering trailed off.

Last night, she had dreamed.
It was that dream again.

She remembered it beginning years ago in her girlhood—last night after so long, she had seen that dream again, the one that once visited her every night with such familiar persistence.
But the dream itself remained unchanged.
Yet even this familiarity—born from nights when it came repeatedly to her small pillow with never-varying content—had made it feel almost like reality; no, rather something she had grown more accustomed to than reality itself, and Okumi hated that dream.
As a child, it had been terrifying without reason.
Night after night this dream would assail her until she thrashed awake screaming.
It had stopped coming nearly a decade ago, and she thought she had completely forgotten.
She hadn't truly forgotten.
Occasionally when others spoke of dreams she would recall it—but only as something hazy and distant that dissolved into other childhood memories.
Then without warning last night that dream returned.
And with many times its former strength and vividness—so intense it felt almost like a warning.
The deepest foundations of her mind were shaken violently loose, unleashing the vividly hued terrors of her girlhood.
For Okumi, this was a beauty so terrifying it made her hair stand on end.

That said, it was a simple dream—harmless enough in itself.
Atop the high cliff, patches of short grass lay flattened by the sea wind.
It was a wide field.
A single sandy path glistened in the sun as it twisted onward.
Okumi walked hurriedly along it alone, as though pressed by urgent business.
About twenty paces to her left yawned the cliff edge, where far below the white sea churned.
The path she followed had low shrub thickets flanking both sides as it climbed gently toward the mountains.
Here and there lay fallen logs arranged like crude stair steps.
From thickets scattered about, birds took flight calling overhead.

She encountered not a single person. She had never met anyone there before. It was always just before sunset. Since evening approached, she needed to hurry. Thinking this, she quickened her steps as her long shadow trailed behind. She felt someone waiting ahead. She didn’t know who it was, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter who—that person—that man—had stood there motionless for years waiting for me. While lost in these thoughts and climbing the slope, Okumi emerged onto sandy ground where shore pines clustered madly, their branches stretching wildly in one direction. She had reached her destined place. Feeling this certainty, she relaxed. He must be hiding somewhere nearby. He’d likely jump out suddenly to startle her. Mischievous, wicked man! Okumi peered through the gathering twilight with equally playful eyes.

Two

The path passed through the pines and was dark.
Perhaps sunlight couldn’t reach there—dew had formed on the leaves of weeds at their roots, wetting her bare feet that appeared to float white.
At the edge where the pine grove ended stood an old small temple, its main hall’s roof tilting grayly.
The temple stood in the middle of a cemetery that seemed abandoned.
At the cliff’s edge, the priest’s quarters had lost its roof, leaving bare pillars exposed.
Grass grew on the tatami mats, and through the house, the frothing sea was visible.

The dream journey always ended there.
It was a heart-pounding, ominous scene.
The darkening sea, the bone-chilling old temple, and the flapping wings and cries of crows swooping high and low were enough to drive Okumi into terror—but even when she had experienced the dream night after night as a child, not a single blade of grass or stone had shifted position.
The color of the sunset, the shadow of the temple roof, the waves crumbling in terraced layers—each time she saw them, everything remained exactly the same.
Birds rose from the thicket; even the exact spot was fixed.
Even where dew wet her feet and felt cold, there was not the slightest deviation—it remained constant.
She even felt that her dream self was more accustomed to herself than her real self, behaving with carefree ease as predetermined.
And upon noticing that, she would startle, thrash about, and while crying out for help at the top of her voice, wake up.

The dream had revived last night for Okumi—now an adult, a wife, and a mother.

In every detail, it was the same dream as before.
Yet across the dreamscape too, ten years had flowed by.
The weathering of a decade could be seen everywhere in the dream.
Thus while appearing unchanged at first glance, down to each particular it vividly displayed nature's transformations wrought through ten years.
There was a place where part of the cliff had crumbled.
The jagged contours along the water's edge below had been gnawed by waves over ten years, eroded and violently reshaped.
The path's log steps had rotted away to lie half-buried in sand.
The temple roof had completely collapsed to sit upon the earth like some discarded ornament.
The priest's quarters retained only a few pillars; its walls had tumbled into nothing but an unsightly pile of ancient timber.
Only the mountain gate still stood unaltered.
The gravestones too remained jutting chaotically as ever.
Where a fence once ran, tall grasses now grew thickly, while moss layers had accumulated a decade's growth upon familiar discarded stones.

What had changed was not just the dream’s scenery.
Okumi, who was intently following the path, had also transformed from a girl to a wife, and then to a mother of three.
What remained unchanged was only that emotion—the feeling that someone waited near the old temple, that she was being called by that person, drawn in, and thus hurrying forward—a longing she wanted to clasp tight.

“Honestly—such an absurd dream—utterly preposterous.”

Like a lower-city woman, Okumi knit her brows—blue-tinged from freshly shaved eyebrows—with a touch of defiance.

"Why do I keep having this same dream?"
But it's just a dream—nothing more.
"And it's not like I'm leaping into the sea or ghosts are rising from graves—not an ill omen at all. Perfectly harmless."
"No sense fretting over it!"

Chiding herself this way finally brought mental clarity—but who was that man who seemed to await her in these dreams?
The sudden thought made her startle needlessly.

"I won't think about it," she resolved.
She had firmly set her mind against thinking about it.
No matter how much she pondered, understanding would never come.

When Okumi’s resolve had been so firmly set, the bamboo screen door slid open, and Shōkichi’s cheerful face entered the parlor.

He was the youthful, well-built Shōkichi.
He was an astonishingly real presence, utterly unrelated to dreams.

Okumi felt reassured.
In the upturned gaze that met his, there lingered a soft coquetry.

“What’s the matter?”

“Because Eshima-ya’s delivery isn’t sorted out, I’m being driven to distraction.”

“Oh my, why don’t you have some tea first and attend to it afterward.”

“It’s hot.”
“No matter how much I wipe, this sweat just won’t let up.”

While sitting,

“Look at this.”
“This.”

He turned his back.
The upper cloth was wet in a perfect circle, as though water had been poured on it.

“Never seen such heat in Edo before.
Going mad.
What—Kiridoshi’s monkey candy?
Grateful.”

Being a teetotaler, he munched on Okumi’s ever-present sweets,

“Sloppy work! You call this candy impressive?”
“Impressive—this candy.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Where from?”

Okumi arched her body into a graceful curve and took a few scattered-looking sheets of paper from the shelf of the tea cabinet behind her.

“From Fushimiya—they came to pay their respects along with the Nichōmachi actor’s scripts.”

Alongside Tsuruya in Nihonbashi-dōri Aburachō, the illustrated bookshop Fushimiya—renowned for actor portraits—was located in Ikehata Nakachō, just steps from Kamishō in O-sukiyachō.

“I see.”
“That’s considerate.”

“They said they’ve assembled many rare theater prints—both new and old—so please do stop by when you find time.”

Beaming like a child, Shōkichi silently picked up and examined the newly released Ichimura-za actor’s script.

The term "actor’s script" referred to those items that each kabuki troupe produced for every play and sold through picture book shops and within theaters themselves.
For visitors coming from teahouses—whether in box seats or the pit—the role assignments and these actor’s script picture books were always provided; but other guests had to pay small coins to purchase them.
Vendors customarily walked about hawking sweets along with items called "Ōmuseki E-zōshi Banzuke."
The actor portraits had the play’s lines transcribed on them, prepared for those fond of vocal mimicry.
Throughout the provinces existed famous stones called Ōmuseki—Parrot Stones—so named because they echoed voices like a parrot’s mimicry. As these picture books served as tools for vocal mimicry, people naturally came to call them after those stones.
Generally consisting of about five sheets of paper, they typically featured a renowned ukiyo-e artist’s lightly colored portrait of an actor on one side of the first sheet, with woodblock printing that was often quite elaborate.

Kamishō liked kabuki actor prints, and collecting these actor’s scripts was his sole hobby.

Naturally, Okumi too often looked at such prints.

III

“It’s been a while since I’ve been to Fushimiya.”

Fanning his robe’s front with an uchiwa, Shōkichi said:

“After such long neglect, their threshold must feel intimidatingly high now, hohoho.”

“Oh my, that’s precisely the case.”
“What a pity—I don’t believe I’ll manage to slip away anytime soon.”
“Moreover, in this dreadful heat—however much I might enjoy it—I simply can’t find the spirit to go out picture-viewing.”
“Why don’t you go look in my stead?”

“Yeah, one day.”

Okumi answered absentmindedly,

“That’s a good idea.”
“Take Ken along with you for a change of pace.”
“If you find anything interesting, get it and bring it back.”

As if suddenly remembering, Shōkichi

“What about the little ones?”

“They’ve finally gone down for their naps, so I’m just catching my breath now.”

“They’re probably having some mischievous dream.”

The word "dream"—long forgotten—faintly changed Okumi's complexion.
Shōkichi did not notice.
"Well, time to get to work."

He stood up and left.

In that instant, she almost called out to stop him and thought to speak of the dream that had weighed on her heart since morning, but certain she would only be laughed at, she swallowed the "you" that had nearly escaped her lips.

“Oh my, you’re so quick to worry. You should change your clothes.”

“Nah. It’ll just get sweaty again right away.”

Even if she spoke and was comforted, it wouldn’t amount to anything substantial. Moreover, she felt as though someone was waiting in the dream. It would be like dousing Shōkichi’s affection with cold water—she couldn’t bring herself to go that far. After all, it was better to stay silent and avoid thinking as much as possible. She also felt a desire to steep her entire body in this terror of unknown origin and revel drunkenly in it as hers alone.

That night, Okumi fell asleep while repeatedly reaching out to touch Shōkichi’s sturdy arms and shoulders.

The dream came immediately.

She stood on a coastal cliff, buffeted by the wind.
The tide was out.
In the twilight turning into night, the sand—usually submerged under water—shone silver far into the distance.
Seaweeds and strange marine creatures lay scattered about in garish, flower-like hues.
Though this phenomenon was new, the location remained unchanged from her usual dreams.
On one side of the temple roof resting on the ground, dusk was deepening.
The grass and gravestones were breathing yet lay utterly still.
In the background of the standing trees, the white sky was sinking.
A row of shore pines stretched out their branches like arms on one side, beneath which the small path she had just come along was dimly visible.
Okumi took in those things with a glance and felt that he had indeed come.
And with the heart of one waiting for someone who had been waiting there for over a decade for her, she squatted down in the grass and began to gaze out at the sea.
The anticipated fear failed to well up, leaving her with an oddly mechanical feeling.
Before long, something would emerge.
At last, it appeared.
Yet there was something that kept insistently telling her so.
From her girlhood until last night, she had thrashed and struggled to escape the dream before that man could appear, but tonight—even now—though the desire to flee was strong, her feet sank into the sand like iron and would not move.
That, to her, was strangely pleasant as well.
Even so, she tilted her head two or three times and looked behind her.
On the mountain side, night had completely crept over, while only a pale white light wavered upon the sea.

Sensual desire was beginning to take hold of Okumi.
It was something sexual—This can’t be happening—so unexpectedly intense that through her shame, it angered her.
Okumi started.
When she tried to resist the surging emotion and stand up, she saw a man’s face before her eyes.
The man too appeared crouched, his face level with hers.
It was a face she had never seen before.
It had distinct contours.
Against faintly green-tinged, transparent skin, his white forehead stood chillingly clear.
Almond-shaped eyes held a gentle smile within them.
He stared fixedly at her.
His small chin—delicately shaped like a woman’s—drew slightly inward.
A nose so sharply high it made her shiver.
Small pursed lips twisted as if suppressing laughter.
A face that felt nostalgically familiar, like someone known since before her birth.
A young man of slender build.

Okumi remained perfectly still.
She was smiling back.
She felt the man’s breath on her cheek.
She felt lips on lips.
She felt no fear.
Is this what they call infidelity? she wondered, savoring it as if tasting every nuance while waiting for the sensation to pass.
But suddenly—This is wrong, such things shouldn’t happen—a powerful awareness surged through her, and summoning every ounce of her soul and body, she struggled to break free from the man’s embrace.
She thrust both hands against his chest, and no sooner had she pulled away than she screamed at the top of her lungs and ran—through bushes, across rocky fields—heedless of obstacles.
In the darkness ahead, a light appeared, and a voice calling her sounded by her ear.

“What’s wrong?”

Because of the heat, the mosquito net swayed in the moonlight from the open veranda.
Shōkichi’s face loomed large above Okumi.

“That person... that person came again.”

Shōkichi cast his eyes around the room.

“That person?”
“No one’s come, I tell you.”

“It was a dream,” she said with a smile. “What time is it?”

“What time? Doesn’t matter—we just went to bed.”
“You’d no sooner laid your head on the pillow than you started moaning.”

“What an unpleasant dream.”
“He’ll come again night after night from now on.”

Something resembling jealousy yet deadly serious came over Shōkichi’s expression.

“Tell me about it.”

In the semi-conscious state of having just awoken, Okumi realized what she had said.

“It’s nothing at all. A ridiculous dream.”

Shōkichi continued staring at Okumi with his penetrating gaze but made no move to press further.

After checking on the children sleeping with their pillows arranged, Okumi silently went back to bed.

IV

The next morning, Okumi rose with a pallid face. After Shōkichi had gone out to the front shop, she sat in the tearoom with the same sensation as yesterday—as if sitting face-to-face with herself.

She felt as though she had committed an unforgivable sin before Shōkichi, and she could not help but think of herself—her own body—as something unclean.
Shōkichi too seemed to have vaguely sensed that dream—could it be that a rift had suddenly formed between them since last night?
Anxiety and melancholy lashed her like a whip.
It felt as though she had been made to bear a shameful, enormous secret without ever knowing.
Okumi grew angry at that unfairness.
At the same time, the face of the handsome man from her dreams would suddenly sprout in a corner of her mind as something irresistibly dear.
She told herself she feared nothing except her own abnormal terror.
That face had appeared for the first time last night—a face that had tried to emerge since childhood yet never manifested until now.
Even without seeing it, she felt it was a face she knew well.
No matter how many times it might appear henceforth—she tried to consider—what relation could that bear to her real life?
She herself knew best that she harbored no wanton mischief in her heart.
If only that were clear—she had nothing left to fear.
As for some unknown dream-man coming to toy with her senses—that should have been none of her concern.
Okumi was protected by her husband’s love, guarded by wealth, living through her children’s affection.
Even as she chastised herself for thinking childhood dreams’ return held significance—steeling her nerves—she recalled last night’s man and turned over in her heart the sweet emotions he stirred, savoring them again and again.
For Okumi, dreams were no longer dreams.
A second reality—and more real.

"When I was a child—did I ever see that face in my dreams?"
Somehow, she also felt she might have seen it before.
“When Okumi-chan grows older, I’ll come for you”—had I heard such a voice before?

Over ten years, natural changes had become visible in the patterns of the mountains and sea.
The man’s face, too, seemed to have aged.
And now that I had become a wife, a mother, a proper adult—had he come to fetch me as promised?
No matter how much she thought about it, it came back to the same thing.
Thinking only served to deepen the impression of that unwelcome dream and left her with nothing but the dread of being tormented by it night after night.

With a clatter, Okumi tossed aside her pipe and stood up.

She clapped her hands.

“Ken—well—I’ll be going out for a bit.”

Outdoors, the sunlight glared white.
People hurried through the streets, untouched by any ridiculous dream.
Okumi felt she’d stepped into another world; the terror that had gripped her now seemed like some dark, foolish pit she could look back upon with a wry smile.

Resolved to trample these phantoms underfoot, she walked with brisk, purposeful strides.

Beyond the side street, Shinobazu Pond blazed painfully bright beneath the scorching sky.
Her favorite maid Ken trailed behind, geta clacking rhythmically as she prattled on about some amusing trifle.

Recalling yesterday’s conversation with her husband, Okumi let her feet carry her naturally toward Fushimiya in Ikenohata Nakamachi. The idea was that looking at her favorite theater prints might lift her spirits.

She didn’t want the clerks and shopkeeper to rush out to greet her or fuss over her. Fortunately for that purpose, Fushimiya was crowded. Various actors’ portraits, likenesses of beauties, and alluring standing figures of women hung on every wall of the shop—spread out and stacked up. Some lay in paulownia boxes piled high. An apprentice reverently brought out prints sandwiched in tissue paper to show customers.

In one corner stood two or three samurai who appeared to be on official duty—likely selecting Edo souvenirs. While choosing beauty prints, one seemed to mutter something lewd under his breath, provoking raucous laughter from the group. A retired-looking old man flipped through famous place prints while tilting his head with an air of plausibility. Shop patrons who had quickly purchased what appeared to be comic prints were hurrying out as if fleeing.

The samurai all turned their eyes toward Okumi as she entered, so she—as if the pride of an Edo woman had been wounded—drew herself up slightly and looked toward the side wall.
The painting was hanging there.

She gazed vacantly and stood facing it.

The heart leapt up; she felt a choking sensation in her throat.
The blood had indeed stopped momentarily.
And immediately, it began to surge violently.
Psychological nausea surged through Okumi.
What she was seeing was that man's portrait.

The outline was clear.
Against skin faintly tinged with green and translucent, the white forehead appeared coldly clear.
The narrow eyes—gently holding laughter—stared back intently at her from the painting, perhaps a trick of perception.
With a feminine, well-shaped chin slightly drawn in and a nose so strikingly high it chilled her.
Even in the painting, depending on how one looked, the small mouth seemed about to twist as if to spurt out laughter.
To Okumi, just as in her dreams, it was a face that felt unbearably nostalgic—as if known since before birth—one she couldn't help but recognize.
He was a gaunt young man.
He was an actor.
He was unmistakably an onnagata.

He had finally ceased to exist solely in dreams.
He had come into reality as well.
"The boundary between dream and reality had vanished," Okumi suddenly thought.

Because she staggered, Ken, startled, tried to support her.
She brushed away that hand almost as if striking it and approached the painting.

Written there were "Iwaizumi Hansaburō" and "that onnagata."
He was not an actor she had heard much about.
The artist was attributed to Katsukawa Toyoharu.
This name too—perhaps because he was deceased or second-rate—was entirely new to Okumi, who should have been quite knowledgeable.

In her dreams, Iwaizumi Hansaburō’s attire was always indistinct, but the portrait was a blue-printed death portrait.
Considering this, both the depicted Iwaizumi Hansaburō and the artist Katsukawa Toyoharu must have been people of the past.
The painting too was covered in dust, aged, and bore the marks of frequent handling.
Okumi observed this and, ignoring even Ken’s astonishment, stared coldly at the face in the painting.

V

It was a battle requiring every ounce of her mental fortitude.
To succumb now to this overwhelming terror would mean being tormented ceaselessly - day and night - driven nearly to madness from that moment onward.
Okumi, fiercely scourging herself, stared at the painting with a will that seemed determined to glare it into submission.
The painting's quiet eyes caught her gaze and reflected it back.
As the face in the painting faintly spread its smile, Okumi too found herself unable to resist smiling.
In the narrow E-sōshi Hoshi shop crowded with customers, she found herself facing Iwaizumi Hansaburō alone.

Okumi smiled.
One of the clerks had come near.

“Welcome.”
“This is Katsukawa Toyoharu’s death portrait of Iwaizumi Hansaburō.”
“It’s quite old—I would say about seventy years.”

“Ken, let us depart.”

They left Fushimiya’s shop as if fleeing.

A death portrait was a portrait of a deceased actor.
The pale indigo printing was characteristic, and this Katsukawa Toyoharu portrait of Iwaizumi Hansaburō depicted him standing forlornly in white mourning robes.
In the background, stakes of the Sanzu River could be seen, creating a desolate scene.
As the Fushimiya clerk had said, both Iwaizumi Hansaburō—the subject of the portrait—and the artist Katsukawa Toyoharu had died about seventy years prior.

It was the face of an actor from seventy years ago.
Why does it torment me so—someone with no connection or ties to it at all?
Having regained her composure, Okumi moved beyond wonder and could only perceive it as something utterly foolish.
Could it be that she had seen that painting somewhere in her childhood, and the terrifying impression from that time had layered beneath memory, lying latent in the depths of consciousness?
And that, like a dark stream flowing underground, continued on, occasionally surfacing in her psyche as dreams.
Could such a thing be possible?
However, Okumi had no recollection of ever seeing that painting, no matter how she thought about it.

The dream came to her again that night.
The next night too, she had the dream.
To the extent that Shōkichi began to worry in earnest, Okumi visibly wasted away.

In front of the haggard woman sat the doctor Shōkichi had summoned.

Shōkichi wore a smile on his face—that of a sensible man utterly removed from all such things as the world’s dreams—

“Okumi, you should have them examine you thoroughly.”
“Try telling the doctor in detail about how you’re haunted by nightmares.”
“I don’t know what it is, but I can’t help feeling I’m worrying about something foolish.”
“It’s one of those mental fixations, isn’t it, Doctor? That must be what this is.”

The doctor remained silent, looking at Okumi’s face.

“So you’ve become frightened too, haven’t you?”

When Okumi quietly turned around, it was Shōkichi’s booming laughter erupting like a geyser.

“Don’t be absurd.
What’s there to be scared of!
But if I’m woken by screams every night, my body can’t take it.
Since I’m busy all day, I need proper sleep at night.
Hahahaha.”

The doctor’s diagnosis was exactly as she had known from the beginning.
Okumi’s body—her mind—nowhere showed any abnormality.
She had simply been overstraining herself mentally and grown fatigued.
Those persistent anxious dreams were not a result of her physical state but rather their very cause.
To remedy this, it had been decided that first changing her surroundings and idling about for a time would be best.
The foremost measure was removing her from Edo’s heat to convalesce somewhere cool.
It was undeniable truth that this recent madness-laced swelter was starting to warp people’s nerves.
Change the environment completely.
This was what the doctor had meant to say.

“A change of dwelling shifts one’s spirit,” he said with formal deference.

Having said such things, he left.

Okumi immediately envisioned the cold, new coastal air. Wandering aimlessly by day, she would undoubtedly sleep soundly at night. Through dreamless slumber, she would gradually recover from these suffocating torments. Just imagining this became her greatest joy and temptation—more than anything else at this moment. That she needed to go alone went without saying.

Shōkichi found it mildly surprising how readily Okumi agreed to this plan. What simultaneously occurred to both spouses was Taniyuhama—a small fishing village in Sanuki district of Kazusa Province, situated about a hundred meters inland from the sea. This was the hometown of Ohisa, who had retired several years earlier after long serving as head maid in Kamishō; her family home belonged to one of the area’s most prominent fishing households.

The people of Edo were quick to act.

Early the next morning, Okumi set out for Taniyuhama in Kazusa Province accompanied by a construction worker from their regular contractors. From Edo, it was a journey of twenty-three ri.

Needless to say, Ohisa welcomed the mistress of her former master’s household with boundless joy.
The almost comically simple sincerity of the country people enveloped Okumi, and she often found herself smiling involuntarily.
Separated by a sandy beach with windbreak pines stood Ohisa’s house—a section of black plank fence.
The not-too-shabby detached house was designated as Okumi’s quarters, and every possible hospitality had been prepared.
Since it wasn’t the fishing season, there was nothing in the houses, the village, or the beach besides a gentle breeze, sunlight, and silence.
That had soothed Okumi’s heart beyond her expectations.
She walked along the shore all day long with a light feeling as if a battle had ended.
There was neither fear nor anxiety there.
It felt as though the dark hand that had been restraining her had been lifted.
Unconsciously moving as that dream onnagata desired—as though temporarily satisfying him—even her dreams had entered a state of suspension.
It seemed they would no longer appear, and she was secretly relieved.
She was grateful.

Her life in Edo, her husband, her children—they came to her heart like memories of a distant past, and those alone were her companions.
At the same time, she was growing weary of the daily tedium.

Six

The village was situated facing the sea at the foot of a hill.
As her body regained strength, such curiosity seized her: what lay beyond that hill?

It was late in the afternoon.
She had gone alone to walk over there and look.

It was a day when the sea lay still, smothered under stagnant air.
The scent of scorched sand hung heavy as leaves gasped pale beneath the sun.
On the southern horizon stood ash-gray cloud peaks heralding the storm's approach.
Okumi hurried forward with inexplicable urgency—her kimono hem unconsciously hitched up—as though keeping some vital appointment.
When she crested the shrub-choked sandy hill, she emerged onto a broad field edging a sheer cliff.
A serpentine path stretched ahead like a beckoning guide.
It sloped gently upward toward another knoll, resembling a makeshift plank bridge laid across the terrain.
Rotten logs lay scattered here and there, forming crude steps in the earth.
Climbing absently yet breathlessly upward, Okumi—
Startled by her presence, a bird burst from the grasses.
A row of shore pines came into view, their branches stretched eastward by ceaseless sea winds.
Next she saw: before a desolate graveyard lay the cruelly collapsed roof of an ancient temple; between cliff's edge and ruin rose a timber pile stacked like corpses where monastery kitchens once stood.
Far below, white waves gnawed ceaselessly at black rocks.

Every stone, every blade of grass—it was identical to the scenery from her dreams.
The place she saw in her dreams was here in reality.
A profound wonder and a mysterious relief—that she had finally reached the destined place—swirled within Okumi.
The dew of the pine grove touched bare feet.
As she listened to the crows exchanging cries overhead, she squatted among the weeds with one cheek dyed crimson by the setting sun.
On the discarded stones behind the fence, the moss was wet and glistening.
Her heart alone returned to Edo, where she fixed her gaze intently on the image of Iwaizumi Hansaburō’s death portrait she had seen at Fushimiya in Ike no Hata.
For a long time, she remained perfectly still like that.

Okumi was smiling brightly.

Chased by the storm, Okumi returned to Ohisa’s detached house and hurriedly began preparing for her journey back to Edo.

But it was this sudden rain and wind.
Immediate departure was impossible.

“Anyway, let’s wait until morning.”
“And tonight, I’ll stay awake the whole time so I don’t sleep and dream.”

The lantern was dim.

The storm that had struck from the south moved swiftly.
It transformed into a ferocious spectacle—as if slamming heaven down to earth.
Large raindrops pounded the eaves while black patches rapidly multiplied across the parched road.
Beneath the clouds, thunder rolled low—lightning flashes like white cloth being shaken.
Water seemed to have flooded the sunken houses; frantic shouts and lantern lights portentously crisscrossed through the pitch darkness.

"There might be a landslide."
"At that temple’s graveyard."

Okumi paused her hands—which had been arranging leg wraps and other items for an early departure—and thought this.

The untouched dinner tray had been placed in the shadow of the veranda’s shoji screens, left as it was to be taken down.

“Oh, this driving rain!”

To retrieve the meal tray, Ohisa came rushing in from the main house.

“Oh my, do look at this state I’m in! The umbrella can’t be used because the wind would take it.”

Having said that, she removed the cloth she had been wearing over her head and laughed—

“Oh my, are you feeling unwell? You haven’t eaten a single bite.”

“What do you mean? It’s just that I’m full.”

Not wanting to disappoint Ohisa, when Okumi tried to add something more—

“A guest at the annex!”

A loud voice came flying in.
It was one of the fishermen from Ohisa’s household.
From Edo had come Master Shōkichi of Kamishō to fetch Okumi—he had just arrived—an utterly unexpected piece of news.

“I was about to go help with the flooding, putting on a straw raincoat in the earthen-floored entryway when—suddenly he pops his face in through the front entrance and says, ‘I’m Shōkichi—come to fetch Okumi,’ can you believe it? Without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ he’s standing under the eaves waiting, he is.”

Okumi stood frozen for an instant, then dashed across the garden toward the main house without caring that the rain drenched her.

"If he was coming, he might have at least sent a letter beforehand."

Stumbling on a stone and staggering, she thought.

"He must be planning to surprise me by arriving unannounced."

And then, unbearable joy welled up inside her. When she rushed in through the back entrance, beyond the long earthen-floored entryway—with the household lamp at his back—stood a black figure.
Though his face wasn’t visible, he seemed to be staring fixedly at the rain.
A bolt of lightning flashed by, and the man’s outline became clearly visible.
He wore crisply tailored travel attire, holding a sedge hat tucked under one arm.

Okumi ran toward him as if to throw herself into his embrace.

“Oh, you!”

She called out. She wanted to cling. The man’s arm came around Okumi’s shoulder, and he turned his face slightly. The outline was distinct. A chillingly cold forehead; skin so translucent it appeared greenish; narrow eyes brimming with laughter. It was a high nose—piercing enough to make one shudder. His small mouth contorted into a smile. It was that face. It was Iwaizumi Hansaburō.

The moment she gasped, Okumi was already being led by the hand through the rain by that figure. They disappeared into the swaying depths of darkness. What Ohisa saw as she rushed out was only Okumi’s white foot, glistening as it was swallowed into the rain.

The storm arrived swiftly but departed just as swiftly.
Dawn broke to reveal the moon.
Because Okumi had gone out during the heaviest rain and not returned, Ohisa’s household and all of Taniyuhama village were thrown into uproar.
Fishermen went out to search for footprints by moonlight.
The footprints of a man and woman climbed from Ohisa’s house up the hill, tangled their way across the cliff-top field, emerged from beyond a knoll through pine woods—and there ceased.
Beyond that point—where until yesterday had stood Mujū Temple’s graveyard—the cliff collapsed in last night’s storm, leaving a great mass of earth protruding like viscous liquid at the distant water’s edge far below.
Neither temple nor graves retained any trace of their former shapes.

“Mr. Iwaizumi Hansaburō, who once performed in Edo, was from this village—and now his grave is gone too.”
“What a shame.”

One of the search party members said.

He was chosen and departed from the scene as an urgent messenger to Kamishō in Edo.