Pathway to Japanese Literature

In Lieu of a Preface

Teacher C.

Teacher C, in that "The Small Spring" of—

“O Teacher, O Teacher— How many times must one fall Must one rise again? Up to seven times?” Do you remember the Teacher’s words—those he spoke in answer to his disciple’s question—that said: “No! Even if you fall seventy times sevenfold, Still thou must rise again.” Having been told this, I have lately come to profoundly feel the preciousness of a disciple who can rise again.

First and foremost, one who can fall is strong. How splendid and precious I must consider the power that plunges onward, onward, even to the point of falling! If I fall this time—if I fall now—this time it might truly be the end.

But I cannot help but go. A heart that cannot rest without going. With truly resounding thuds, With truly resounding thuds—the greatness of those who walk with their own true "feet," fall with their own true "body," and rise again of their own accord—is it not something infinitely awe-inspiring?

How much do I—with my untempered heart and cowardly disposition—dread that in fearing the possibility of my own potential downfall, I might shrink what should be a full stride into eight-tenths or even seven-tenths of its length, walking timidly and spinelessly with shuffling, tentative steps?

I had already taken two steps. This manner of stepping—for me now about to take the third stride—was neither heart-leaping joy nor, needless to say, anything remotely satisfactory. But there was something within me that could not help but keep moving about.

No matter how much I may be laughed at or scorned, I have no choice but to advance along my path with all my might, to the very limits of my life. I, who am always, always tormented by my own pettiness and weakness—how many times must I fall? That is something I cannot know. But I earnestly wish to become one who can fall. I earnestly wish to become one who can fall with an earth-shaking crash. And then—even if I am wounded however badly—when I can grasp something to rise again, look up at that vast, that boundless sky, and smile from the depths of my heart! At that very moment, Teacher, please kindly nod in heartfelt approval together with me.

March 17, 1917 By the Author

I

Along the thoroughfare running north-south through the village, there stood a single farmhouse. The interior of the house—so filthy that it seemed less a human dwelling than some sort of animal's nest—was intensely dark due to its scarcity of windows.

In the three-tsubo dirt-floored entryway, household tools lay scattered about, while from the sweltering coop atop the beams came the cluck-cluck-clucking of a brooding hen. On the steps of the round-branch chicken ladder descending along the wall—steps soiled with white and yellow droppings and shed feathers—a scrawny rooster alighted briefly, keeping watch over the hen in the ceiling.

Amid all things squalid, stinking, and impoverished, three boys gathered around the hearth, wearied from waiting—now? now?—for their food to finish cooking.

One of them extended the hand that had been pillowed under his head and stirred the feeble fire with a smoldering branch before letting out a sigh. Another flapped his thin legs impatiently while furtively peeking into the pot from which not even steam had yet risen and at his brothers' faces. Yet not a single one spoke; with rough eyes gleaming in utmost fervor, they all thought solely of the potatoes about to boil before them.

With vigorous imagination, when they envisioned the color, shape, and smell of the food they were about to eat, their dormant salivary glands were abruptly roused; saliva immediately welled thickly at the roots of their tongues, and the area beneath their cheeks ached as if they might weep. They, with heads throbbing as if in pain, would occasionally gulp in unison, their throats audibly constricting. The children were constantly hungry. They, who had never once known what it was to feel full, were assailed day and night by the single desire of “I want to eat, I want to eat,” and when it came to food, they would lose all semblance of their true selves and wolf it down ravenously.

Even now, all three were thinking identically—"If only we could eat all these potatoes by ourselves"—and were deeply feeling how utterly bothersome their brothers, who were normally indispensable, became at times like these. And so it was that they never noticed how the chickens had thrust their beaks through a tear in the straw bale to peck at the rice grains—those very grains their father had strictly warned them never to waste even a single one of, lest their eyes be gouged out.

The chickens and children were each entirely preoccupied with their own food. Just then, the stray dog that had been intently watching this scene from the entrance since earlier—what came over it?—suddenly leapt into the flock of chickens with terrifying force, like a hurled stone. The chickens, utterly engrossed in the rare taste of rice, must have been terrified beyond measure by this unexpected enemy assault! Screeching—screeching—ear-piercing shrieks tore through the air. The futile flapping of wings—wild thuds—disturbed the air throughout the house, sending the settled dust swirling in all directions.

The commotion had grown so intense that instead, it was the dog who became flustered—rubbing its wet nose against the ground as it paced restlessly about, sniffing everywhere. Its tongue lolled sideways, and the ribs visible beneath thin skin quivered and heaved with each pant.

At this sudden event, all the children stood up. And then, no sooner had the eldest child lifted the tree stump blazing fiercely in the hearth than he hurled it with all his strength at the dog. The thrown tree stump, sputtering flames, tumbled with a loud crash and a spray of sparks right beside the dog’s hind legs—so letting out a low yelp of surprise, the dog stretched its body long and leapt away through the doorway in a single bound.

The fire in the tree stump went out, and intense smoke began to rise with a hiss. Amidst this small commotion, their long-awaited time crawled forward with agonizing slowness. But finally, when a bubbling sound began rising from the pot, their faces suddenly brightened, and with eyes crinkling in smiles, they lifted the lid again and again to peer inside. After a short while, the eldest brother brought bowls—still clinging here and there with remnants of the morning's food—and lined them up by the hearth. Now they were about to distribute these potatoes—steaming hot with a scent that sent their hearts soaring—it was said.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. He was distributing them in turns when suddenly seized by an impulsive temptation so powerful it obliterated all sense of consequence. Shooting furtive glances at his brothers' faces, he hurled an extra potato into his own bowl with lightning speed during the moment between placing one in theirs. Then, just as he casually began another distribution round— “Bro! Ours too!”

At that moment, the younger brother whose turn it was to receive shouted in a stubborn voice. The others too, imitating him, thrust their bowls forward as they pressed in on their elder brother. The elder brother, angry at his own mistake and wearing a frustrated expression, threw another small piece into the outstretched bowls.

However, the middle brother—who had first noticed—after intently comparing his elder brother's portion with his own, “We’re fed up! Yours are bigger!” No sooner had he said this than he thrust his chopsticks toward his elder brother’s bowl to stab that plump round one. Without letting him utter another word, the child’s face was slapped three, four times in rapid succession by his brother’s open palm. He burst into tears as if ignited. Then baring his teeth and clenching his fists, he lunged at “the one who tried to hog an extra potato.”

For a while after that, the three boys remained entangled in a three-way melee, crying and wailing as their fierce brawl of thrashing and kicking continued. In the end, they grappled with such ferocity that they even forgot why they had started this uproar in the first place, but as exhaustion set in, even their punches began to lose conviction. With an air of listlessness, each of them stood apart in random spots, acting defiantly as if to say they hadn’t lost—though with mutual awkwardness—while staring at the precious potatoes that had spilled out unnoticed, some crushed and others rolled into the ashes.

Everyone wanted to eat quickly, wanted to pick them up, but as they hesitated to reach out decisively, the child who had started the fight said in a strained whisper, “We’ll eat.”

With that, he started picking up the spilled pieces.

Seizing this opportunity, the others also hurriedly started picking them up. And when they checked the count again, their tempers having now completely mellowed, they began sucking as leisurely as possible on their irreplaceable bowlful of treasure.

This was an incident at the home of a tenant farmer named Jinsuke, who worked the landlord’s fields in town.

II

At that very moment, I was out in the field behind Jinsuke’s hut. As I strolled over there, I unexpectedly noticed the children’s movements and watched with great interest from the shade of a nearby tree. And so, from the potatoes to the fight, I witnessed everything in its entirety. At first, I simply thought it was disgusting and wretched, but gradually it became frightening, and then I found myself unbearably pitying them. How much power did all these potatoes hold over them? If it were within my power, I even felt like stuffing them full of feasts until they were sick of it—but in the end, I found myself utterly overwhelmed by an intense curiosity to somehow become acquainted with those children.

I even tried to enter alone right away, but somehow felt ill at ease. Even though they were just children, I still felt awkward. So I stood there vacantly, vaguely hoping someone would come to take me along. From the back entrance, I could clearly see the children rolling potatoes in their mouths and peering into one another’s bowls. Just at the opportune moment came an elderly relative of Jinsuke’s—the old woman who lived nearby and made daily rounds to check on the house left in the children’s care—flapping a single hand towel noisily as she approached from the other side as usual.

I promptly asked the old woman. And thus, for the first time, I entered Jinsuke’s house. The entire place was dirtier and more foul-smelling than I had imagined. When I stood at the entrance looking inside, the old woman—wearing a puzzled expression—bustled about attending to the children in a lively voice, though they kept staring fixedly in my direction. “Did they go to the fields again today, dear? “Stay quiet and mind the house.” “I wonder if they’ll buy us some more bullets (cheap candy).”

And even as she persisted in trying to get a word out of the children—who remained stubbornly silent no matter what she said—the obstinate boys merely continued brazenly staring without opening their mouths to speak a single word. Because everyone was glaring at me with what seemed like hateful eyes, I gradually began to feel that perhaps coming here had been a mistake. Even though the old woman kept fussing over them with pity and tried this and that to mediate, the children paid no mind whatsoever to such efforts, continuing their silence—what she termed "shyness."

I couldn’t understand at all why the children remained so stubbornly silent. Feeling somewhat pushed aside yet forcing a smile, I asked, “Your father and mother? You must be lonely?” When I said this to the eldest boy, the middle child—who had somehow circled behind me—let out an ear-splitting “Waaah!” and jeered. I felt both shock and such intense disgust that my chest churned. Still, I tried repeating it once more.

“You must be lonely, with no one here.” Though angered, I still retained enough composure to pity them. I had wanted to offer at least one kind word to these children who lived in perpetual poverty and grew up wretchedly. Yet despite this, “We don’t need your damn help!”

An unexpected voice of furious abuse was hurled at me with such sharpness that it rattled my very soul. I felt a dizzying sensation behind my eyes. In an instant, everything that had happened until now felt like a lie. I stood there, utterly helpless to do anything. However, when my heart settled slightly, such inexplicable fury and shame surged up so intensely I couldn’t remain still—and this wildly discordant emotional tumult made me feel as though physical pain were twisting through me.

I had to remain tolerant. The vanity that sought to maintain the composure of one who had gained a step over them lashed against my heart that had become utterly cowardly. But my head, which had turned hollow, lost all power to judge, and my teeth were chattering uncontrollably.

Faced with this unexpected turn of events, the old woman was completely flustered. And while vigorously pulling the child’s hand to make them sit down, she directed an apologetic gaze toward me, “We should be going now, young mistress. Ain’t got no manners or nothin’. Sorry ’bout that.”

She stood up. I too thought it was time to leave now. When I walked ahead of the old woman and turned my back on the children, I recalled those hate-filled eyes fixed upon me. As I imagined how cowardly, weak, and ugly I must have looked retreating before these beast-like figures, such shame overwhelmed me—shame so intense I wished to vanish on the spot—that fiery tears welled up until my eyelids brimmed with them.

I walked dejectedly along the cedar-lined path. As I dragged my feet along, unable to bear anyone seeing my face or speaking to me, a pebble suddenly came flying from behind with a whizzing sound, bounced at my feet, and clattered into the grass nearby. No sooner had the whizzing sound struck my eardrums than I reflexively twisted around to look—and there they still stood, clustered together right by Jinsuke’s house, those children.

The eldest child, when I turned around, raised the small stone he held in his hand and made a threatening gesture. While keeping my eyes on the children, I slowly drew myself into the shade of a cedar tree, attempting to ward off a second assault. Clutching the thick cedar trunk with its rough bark, I found myself spilling great tears for no reason at all.

III

"What have I done?!"

When I recalled that scene, my face turned crimson of its own accord. Why did I have to endure such humiliation? Had what I said to them been improper? I could only affirm that I had certainly said nothing wrong. I had been sympathetic. I had merely thought they must be truly lonely. There had not been the slightest falseness in my heart. Had I not been utterly honest in my feelings through and through?

I simply could not comprehend their state of mind. And so my resentment toward those insults only grew stronger and deeper. "I’m not someone to be pointed at by the likes of you!" "When someone had gone out of their way to speak kindly to them, they even threw stones—was that supposed to be acceptable?" "I truly detested those children." And then, imagining how—as usual—that incident would soon become village gossip, with my small ridiculous self being dragged about as a laughingstock among those mud-caked peasants, I felt such an urge to gather up both that matter and those children and crush them all at once. I was so depressed I couldn’t even eat.

However, as evening drew near, the fact that a tenant farmer named Ninta came and spoke with me for nearly two hours gave me the germ of an idea. He was a poor tenant farmer working our family’s leased fields—located in a village about two ri away—and so destitute that people said whenever this man came, he never failed to bring some desperate plea. As I gazed at his weakened physique and listened to his manner of speaking—resigned as if everything were simply fate—I suddenly recalled Jinsuke.

Jinsuke was, after all, a tenant farmer like this Ninta. Oh, they truly were the children of such pitiable tenant farmers! This realization gradually carried away from my heart the various resentments and such.

But later I would have to think carefully, for a profound sadness had taken root. For whom had those boys been watching their parents work all this time? What kind of people are they who, unable to wait for their harvest, carry off the bales of rice without a shred of compassion or mercy? The hearts of those boys—gradually coming to see and hear of the real world, beginning to grasp adult life—must have been filled with sympathy for their parents and with hatred and suspicion toward those who always possessed far more clothes and food than themselves, who carried themselves differently and spoke in different tongues.

Aren't they—those smooth-talking folks in sleek kimonos, always surrounded by fawning crowds—the ones making our precious parents suffer and shed tears? Having been half-intuitively taught since who-knows-when that kind-sounding words hide ambushes—they who'd been told time and again "Never trust town folk"—how could they possibly believe me when I suddenly appeared speaking gentle words?

In their heads, first and foremost, spite flared up.

"There she goes again with her smooth talk—tryin’ to trick us!" And so, to drive out this detestable intruder with her sniveling face as quickly as possible, “We don’t need none o’ your damn help!” they shouted.

They already knew that so-called kindness was never merely kindness. Knowing full well how bitter poverty could be, they felt a fervent sympathy—a sympathy intensified by raw affection for their parents and a unified spirit of rebellion against the enemy they now confronted.

Compared to them—faintly though they grasped at real life—how simple my own heart was! How cowardly and extravagantly swollen it had become!

I had been wrong. Toward all of them—the crowd of poor people—I had been mistaken. I had been kind. But I had held a measure of self-respect and scorn toward them. And could I deny that the more I contemplated how I myself had become distanced and removed from them, the more I felt a certain relief and pride—albeit something so exceedingly small as to go unnoticed—? Had I never once thought of myself as more splendid than them?

Of course, I do not believe I possess a foolish mindset that would consciously engage in arrogant acts, but the fact that I had come to regard needless self-deprecation and excessive politeness as matters of no consequence—as though they were long-ingrained habits—was terrifying. What difference could there be between us and them as human beings made to live? Moreover, when I consider that they live in poverty and ugliness upon the very foundation of anguish that allows us to lead lives free from material suffering to some degree—how could we possibly scorn them!

How could we possibly answer their weary gazes with haughty glances! We had to be their honest and sincere sympathizers.

The world was unequal. If a genius appeared, more idiots had to be born. To create one prosperous multitude, it was certain that greater multitudes had to drift along starvation’s edge—living and dying. Precisely because the world was unequal—precisely because rich and poor were parallel lines that could never meet—we had to be their sympathizers. That wealth emerged while pitiful poverty arose was cosmic force’s doing. However wealthy one might flourish, they held no right to arrogance toward the poor.

Thus, I vowed to myself.

I reflected. I will swiftly bury that hateful chasm between myself and them, and without fail make a beautiful garden flourish!

IV

I felt that a reform of my own life was extremely necessary. And so, filled with a multitude of thoughts, I looked back upon the circumstances of my life up to that day.

Our ancestors were the pioneers of this K Village. The small village, located over a hundred ri from the capital and surrounded by mountains, ranked among the poorest of the villages within Fukushima Prefecture.

In the early Meiji era, this newly reclaimed land—which our grandfather had dedicated half his life to cultivating—was formed into a village by immigrants from various provinces. People from the south and people from the north, lured by the promise of newly opened land, gathered here after leaving their homelands while dreaming of happiness. However, even here these pitiful people not only failed to achieve the success they had hoped for but also found themselves forced to endure even harsher hardships than before; by that time, they had already aged and, having lost the courage to move elsewhere, had no choice but to end their lives as tenant farmers in town. Therefore, they have remained poor both in the past and now.

Not only that, but recently, since K Town—located a little over one ri away—became a branch point on the Iwakoshi Line, the entire state of affairs there changed drastically, and this village too was no less affected. And so, as urban-style sharper senses of self-interest that gradually seeped into the farmers’ hearts mixed with the various dispositions they had carried since childhood, their daily lives became more hurried and prone to stagnation. The state of the village could not be said to be favorable. The disharmony at the boundary attempting to shift from the long-maintained state to the next new state was making the whole extremely impoverished and unstable.

However, my grandfather had already passed away seventeen or eighteen years prior and had seen nothing beyond how, just as the settlers were beginning to settle into the village, life was gradually becoming easier. He built a house on the village's high ground—generally satisfied—where he and his wife lived out their days tending fields and composing cherished poems until his passing. Thus did my grandmother who remained uphold the deceased's wishes, dwelling in his bequeathed home while watching over the fields and maintaining her remove from an ever-changing world.

I, who spent the entire year in Tokyo, made it my habit to visit my grandmother’s house in K Village each summer. There I would live a life unimaginable in Tokyo for about two months.

I was known by nearly everyone in the village. To those who would bring vegetables, fruits, and the like while saying that the young mistress from Tokyo had come, I had to distribute souvenirs one by one. From morning, I would listen to tenant farmers’ complaints and consult on reducing their rice tax. And since going back and forth about it was troublesome, when I promptly persuaded Grandmother to grant their requests, they would praise us as if we were tremendously merciful benefactors. They flattered.

While being pampered by everyone, I spent my days making rounds of the fields twice daily, digging up arrowhead tubers from the pond, and roaming the hills all day—living utterly as the landlord's foolish grandchild. No one offered me a single meddlesome remark, and I expanded freely to my heart's content. Yet even so, that I reflect on having been treated with such reverence fills me with true shame now. I disgust myself. By any means necessary, I must make myself of some benefit to the villagers!

And so, I devised various plans within my heart. And then—questions arose incessantly: Could things like land reclamation truly be considered noble? Of course, it would be fine if the place were suitable for human habitation and held hope of prosperity—but even if a poor multitude were created in such a place, with its long winters and wretched soil, was it still to be regarded as something profoundly admirable? The pioneer himself may have fulfilled his hopes to some extent, been gratified, and even been celebrated as a historical figure of the village—yet what recompense have the multitudes of poor people received, those ephemeral immigrants who fulfilled the final most necessary condition for his enterprise?

Though they were indispensable to the pioneers, even now, nearly twenty years later, they remain just as poor as ever. They simply remain perpetually poor, forgotten by all, wasting away until death.

I must do something—anything—for the multitude of impoverished people who have existed since my grandfather’s time. The gnawing awareness that until today there had been so much I should have done, yet my cowardly self had kept pretending not to see—this awareness rendered my heart toward the farmers profoundly humble.

It was the day after Jinsuke’s child had played a prank on me. Having woken earlier than usual and made a round of the fields, how profoundly was I comforted by the faint rose-tinted mist enveloping heaven and earth, by the dew splashing against my bare feet and the vibrant touch of weeds, by the dawn fragrance of crops and trees!

In an exceedingly cheerful mood while being laughed at by the maid as I built a fire in the large hearth and pulled up vegetables I didn’t even need, a woman came calling at the earthen-floored entrance on the eastern side. That was Jinsuke’s wife. When she told me to come out and I went to look, there she stood barefoot—worn work clothes clinging to her frame, hair wildly disheveled. The woman, upon seeing my face,

“Good morning to you, ma’am.” “Yesterday, well, them brats from our house went and done some unbelievable disrespect.” “I come to make my apologies.” “Here!” “Get over here and apologize proper, you ain’t got no choice—”

As she said this and reached behind her back, a boy was unexpectedly pulled out from the shadow of her broad frame.

He remained silent, looking downward. He stood there meekly—not blushing, not fidgeting, showing not the slightest sign of relying on his mother.

The woman cast a complex sidelong glance toward the child while entreating me repeatedly—over and over—to forgive them, even going so far as to say their children were no better than beasts and that I ought to discipline them by giving them a proper thrashing.

However, I detested being apologized to excessively by others. When people would lay everything bare before me like that and say all manner of things, I would ultimately grow ashamed of myself. Somehow I felt as though I were playing the tyrant, only to end up becoming exactly what Mother always called me: "you good-for-nothing." Even now, as that habit resurfaced, I tried my best to forget which child had done what or how hateful it had been, and since I had actually ceased to care at all, being treated that way became even more unpleasant.

Even when I pleaded until I was hoarse for her to stop scolding him, she seemed to take it as sarcasm and only grew harsher with the child. “All you do is eat an’ fight—you ain’t never done a decent thing in your life!” “Here!” “Apologize.” “If you want mercy, you better say somethin’.”

Even as she grabbed the child’s arm and jostled him about, he too stubbornly maintained his mulish silence. I understood exactly how Jinsuke’s wife felt. Precisely because I understood, it was excruciating to witness this charade play out.

She, paying no heed to anything I said, kept shouting—

“Here!” “What’s the matter with you?” “Huh?” “Ain’t you gonna apologize?”

As soon as she said this, she suddenly jerked the child’s neck with her large palm so violently that I thought his spine might snap. And then, “Please do forgive him.”

No sooner had she said this than

“Git on outta here!” she shouted and shoved him away. I was so shocked I could hardly breathe. Yet the mother herself, smiling with satisfaction, bent slightly at the waist and “It was merely a way to pass the time, ma’am.”

She went out to the fields.

The maid watched her retreating figure, "That Mr. Jinsuke's wife sure is a clever one, ain't she? Plannin' out every little thing down the road right proper." the maid sneered.

V

A crowd gathered at the village crossroads.

In the midst of children, men and women shouldering hoes, even people from other villages leading horses—all jeering and clamoring with vulgar laughter—stood a man gripping a piece of fish in each hand, smirking as he stood pigeon-toed. He wore a woman’s kimono with a large keyhole-shaped tear at the shoulder, fastened only by a thin cord; through the seam that hung loosely down peeked slender shins.

His hair—grown long like coarse thread—had leaves and straw fragments dangling from it; semicircular pouches sagged beneath his lower eyelids, his pallid, bulbous eyes protruding as if about to burst from their sockets. His purple lips drew back to reveal buckteeth streaked with yellow; boils had erupted in the grooves flanking his nose, making the surrounding flesh swell crimson across the entire area. With every movement he made, the stench of fish combined with whatever foulness emanated from him into a revolting miasma that spread a sickening stench through the air. He was the madman called Zenbaka. For about five or six years by then—ever since his mind had broken—he had not stayed in any house within this village, but wandered throughout it instead, receiving a single straw mat wherever he went and living by sleeping atop it.

Whenever he found a place to his liking, he would sit idly in the shade of trees or such until driven away—picking fleas off dogs or pulling up every last blade of grass within reach while remaining seated. He was passionately fond of dogs, and since they never acted violently, the villagers would seize him whenever they caught sight of him and subject him to cruel mischief. At that time too, he had just managed to return after being away somewhere for four days. He felt utterly exhausted. When he arrived here with a desire to just lie down right there, his friend the dog found him and promptly licked his entire face. He seemed genuinely pleased by this and was silently watching the dog’s face when—

“Zenbaka! “Back again, huh?”

Shouting, five or six children came running. And in an instant, he was surrounded by a crowd of idle mischief-makers. While showering him with all sorts of arbitrary insults and jeers, they poked at the fish in their hands and egged on the dogs. “Ugh!” “Disgusting!” “Disgusting! The fish that dog’s been licking—Zenbaka’s the one who eats that!” “Ugh!” “Ugh!” “If you catch rabies, what’ll you do then?”

“He’s making fools of us all again.” “Been rotten with rabies since forever!” “You’d need two lives to deal with this mess!” “Bwahahaha!” “Ain’t that the truth.” “Tastes real fine, don’t it?”

“Whoa there!”

The villagers burst into sudden laughter.

Crawling beneath the swirling vortex of vulgar laughter came Zenbaka’s low, cloying— “Hee hee hee hee!” The sound flew apart and resounded unpleasantly. “Quit your disgusting antics already.” “Then go away. I don’t need you here... Hee hee hee.” “Look out! The salmon’s gonna fall! You idiot!”

“Hahahaha!”

The gathered crowd, driven by base curiosity, jostled and struck one another while shouting, swelling and shrinking in size for some time. However, as the crowd gradually thinned out, Zenbaka—his face more unpleasant than before—staggered toward the shade of a large oak tree by the roadside, nearly dropping the salmon he clutched, then flopped onto his back like an infant with a heavy thud. And with his mouth gaping open, he fell asleep snoring loudly through his nose.

As the dog cautiously stretched its neck and began to eat the salmon from one end while he still held it, the children set about trying to wake him up while mimicking the vulgar gestures he had made. One child tickled his nostrils with a blade of fox tail grass. Even when they kicked him or yelled, he didn’t stir at all, so the emboldened children began stripping Zenbaka naked. As they chanted and gradually forced him to strip down to his skin, the young man who had been standing there unnoticed all along, watching the scene, suddenly—

“You shouldn’t be doing such things. Heaven will send down its punishment on you, mark my words,” he interjected earnestly. Everyone was startled, stopped their mischief, and stared at the man’s face. Then, a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy who seemed to be their ringleader puckered his lips and began concocting arguments.

“You’re the one who gets yelled at by your mom every mornin’, yet you’re stickin’ your nose into our business? Huh?” “You know ’im?” When one child whispered this, the boy suddenly put on a triumphant face and shouted in an even more sneering tone. “Yeah, I know ’im alright!” “So you’re Mr. Shin the waterwheel man, huh? Came crawlin’ back to your mommy ’cause you couldn’t hack it in Hokkaido—that’s what your own ma said, ain’t it? What a spineless loser…”

Everyone laughed in unison.

However, Mr.Shin showed no change in expression. "You ought to think before you act." With those words, he walked away. For a good while after that, the children hurled every insult they could muster at the peculiar Mr.Shin until their rage subsided. Yet having once abandoned their mischief, they found no will to resume it—each instead turning their attention to the stripped-naked Zenbaka, "Ain't none of our damn business!"

Shouting as they each gave him a kick, they scattered every which way and ran off.

Six

Zenbaka’s mother, who claimed to be sixty-eight this year, rented a place resembling a farmhouse’s barn where she lived with her grandson. In exchange for not paying rent, the place was practically a pigsty, infested year-round with fleas and bedbugs. And yet even for that Baboon Granny—she whose wrinkled face was crowned with white hair, whose body bent from chest to waist gave her the appearance of a baboon in motion, which earned her this epithet—none among Zenbaka’s clan could be said to possess anything resembling human dignity.

The only son Zenbaka had begotten when he was still working as a full-fledged farmer before becoming like that—this child too was a true imbecile. Ever since his wife lost all affection and ran off somewhere, Zenbaka’s mother alone bore the burden of both him and his child through unrelenting hardship. Though already eleven years old, the child knew no words and showed no physical development. Perched atop a torso no larger than a five- or six-year-old’s sat an oversized head—twice normal size—its weight keeping the slender neck in perpetual wobble without respite through all seasons. He ate nothing but tofu year-round; no matter how delicious other foods might be, he never spared them a glance.

He knew only one word for his sole sustenance: “Tafu.” Since this was his entire vocabulary, all the villagers declared it must be some ancestral curse. Long ago—so the story went—a prayer woman of great repute had visited town. When Baboon Granny brought her imbecile grandson for examination, the woman claimed that generations past, an ancestor had traded in flaying horses’ hides, and that vengeful spirits of those skinned beasts now plagued them. For ten yen, she vowed to exorcise these phantoms—but Baboon Granny might as well have been asked for ten thousand. Thus denied purification, she consulted no doctors thereafter, striving instead to bury the memory through sheer force of will.

Under such circumstances, Baboon Granny had no choice but to secure her daily bread by going around to other households to help with chores and laundry. And since she took all three meals elsewhere, returning home only to sleep, she was despised by the entire village and held up as nothing but a bad example whenever anything happened. In order to be pitied, it was even rumored that she added two or three years to her actual age.

I pitied the old woman who barely sustained her meager existence through the villagers' own poverty. Given their circumstances, they had no choice but to live thus; one couldn't simply mock or berate them. Though she had grown frail with death approaching, whenever I imagined her trudging from house to house from dawn till dusk to eat meals steeped in obligation, pity overwhelmed me. So I gave the old woman as many errands as possible, let her take meals with us, and occasionally handed down old kimonos. She appeared grateful toward me, but her shameless greed—that destitute voracity indifferent to dignity or reputation—profoundly unsettled me.

Not only would she take the food I served her on the tray, but she’d also insistently carry off any leftovers on the grounds that they’d just rot anyway if I didn’t give them to her. If I were to say I wouldn’t give her anything in such moments, she would become thoroughly displeased and storm off without so much as a proper goodbye. If I were wearing a new kimono, she wouldn’t leave without tugging at every single part of it.

Such things were truly unbearable to me; yet even as I sought to walk among the poor, I endured—scolding myself again and again for putting on airs—until I gradually grew accustomed. As Baboon Granny began visiting more frequently than before, I gradually found myself given more opportunities to interact with the poorest of the poor throughout the village. A cooper’s family where the father was a drunkard, the stepmother a woman who used to be a barmaid, and the daughter had been suffering from tuberculosis for three years with no hope of recovery—such was their lot.

A man with apoplexy unable to stand; a deaf couple. Over these people—who ceaselessly voiced their complaints, miserable and despondent—I slowly began to sprinkle my faint sympathy. Of course, everything I did was truly insignificant. Even those things I did with all my strength—once they mingled with the world’s affairs, becoming something whose outcome I could no longer discern—this much I knew myself. But I was content.

The mere fact that I was thinking of them brought me no small measure of satisfaction.

Day after day, I immersed myself in the new work I had discovered and spent my time content. But there was one thing that truly pained me. That was seeing the face of Zenbaka's child. Whenever I saw him leaning dejectedly against a tree by the roadside with no playmates, I felt truly pained.

I wanted to say something—to do something for him. I truly did think so. But when I saw his emaciated body and that strangely grim expression on his ugly face, even before doing anything, an overwhelming, indescribable feeling would well up within me. His gaze filled me with utter dread. I couldn’t even pass by his side with composure. Somehow, I felt as though he might leap at me and strangle my neck at any moment. And so, sneaking past while avoiding his gaze as much as possible, within my heart raged a great storm—a chaos of emotion insisting I must do something for him, mingled with the utmost revulsion.

If—through some means—there existed within this child deemed an imbecile some glimmer that ought to have been discovered, yet those around him abandoned it through neglect, leaving him to end his days in a world of darkness—that would be truly dreadful.

Seeing that he had not died until now, he must possess some vital force somewhere. The vital force that had sustained him for eleven years was a formidable thing. This was all the more true in a place like this, where every condition seemed truly ill-suited to fostering human growth. It may have been a fantasy, but I thought there must surely be something connecting to his spirit, and that perhaps he held some intelligence in relation to that.

His father was considered insane among humans. But how well dogs and he understood each other’s hearts! The mind of the imbecile was a mystery to me. The less I understood, the more I couldn’t help but feel there must be something there—that somehow, things could be set right.

Seven

My, how marvelous!

Morning!

The boundless expanse of the sky's deep azure, the soft silver-blue chain of mountains. The mist glowed opalescent at the farthest edge of distant fields. How beautifully the amiable dew adorned all the leaves of every tree that laughed and chirped their song above! Look! How magnificently your beloved Lord Sun shines resplendent! Truly splendid is your noble form.

When I saw how you moved round and shone resplendently just as yesterday and today，I became unbearably happy. “Good morning，Lord Sun！” “You always appear to be in such splendid spirits.”

I too, thanks to you, am able to remain in good health and have the honor of meeting you like this—for that, I am truly grateful. Please, I humbly ask for your continued favor today as well. "My splendid Lord Sun!"

The wind swept the dew from the leaves of the trees and blew in from the distant sky carrying a bracing fragrance that caught in the throat. In the forest trees small birds sang while poultry's morning songs echoed from household plazas. In roadside thickets snakeberries ripened red, wild rose blossoms reached into nearby shrubbery, and dew-dampened insects crawled about. The rustle of young mulberry leaves. A flock of wild birds took wing courageously.

Everything awakened and stirred into motion. What a lovely morning! I walked on, my heart leaping with joy. Crossing the fields and passing along the grassy path, after some time I emerged beside the village's sole elementary school. There, classes had already begun, and from outside one could see a few small, dark-skinned children packed into the narrow, crude classroom.

I sat on the lawn of the deserted garden and recalled my elementary school days. As various memories vividly brought to mind the faces of many friends and teachers' appearances through association, I recalled how around age four—whenever I came here—I would often borrow this school's organ. While thinking those must have been the rooms over there, I gazed into a classroom where a single child stood frozen, at a loss for an answer, staring vacantly at the blackboard.

As my memories gradually revived, the scene from when I first borrowed the organ came vividly back to my mind.

At that time, I had tied a white translucent ribbon around my head like a headband and was wearing a pale green kimono. I took the music score book that my father, who was abroad, had sent me and went to the elementary school. And I asked the only young teacher present to please lend me the organ. Even now I remember the round-faced, small-eyed teacher—who seemed kind-hearted and looked to be in his early twenties—as he stared down at me and flatly refused, saying he couldn’t lend it.

If he lent it to even one person, he wouldn’t be able to refuse when others asked. He explained various reasons for refusing—that if he did, within less than an hour an organ or so would end up smashed to pieces—but I wouldn’t listen. I stood silently. The teacher too stood silently.

And after standing there for some time, the teacher finally spoke in a voice that sounded slightly irritated,

“Just where are you from?” he said.

“I? I’m from Kishida…” What on earth was I, only about ten years old at the time, thinking?! “I’m from Kishida…”

How calmly and confidently I must have spoken! Wasn't I even smiling with a rather overbearing air, clearly convinced that if he heard my name, he would surely lend it?

“Ah!” “I see.” “Then it’s no trouble at all.” “Come up now.”

And then, being led by him, with what satisfaction did I place my fingers upon those keys! Now I feel intensely sorry for that honest young teacher while at the same time cannot help feeling unbearably ashamed and remorseful over my own attitude at the time. When I think how much that teacher—who, despite his youth, had retracted his reasonable statement even to someone as small and clueless as me—must have been routinely accustomed to bending himself from the very beginning, it becomes truly unbearable.

If I were that teacher now? I would never comply, no matter what. Moreover, were I to see someone take such a condescending attitude toward him, I couldn’t fathom how enraged I’d grow. I’d likely berate them relentlessly—scold them straight out the door— Tears welled in my eyes. Though riddled with flaws, being hounded by such shameful memories felt wretched beyond measure.

With a heavy, sunken heart, as I gazed out the window, I noticed a single face looking at me over the swell of children's heads. The face had a jawbone protruding so sharply it approached squareness, flushed red and bloated with flesh. A nose thick as a mountain ridge gave an impression of utter innocence. Eyes with eyelids like plucked chicken skin twitched restlessly, wedged between swollen lids and puffed cheeks as though crammed into place.

As I stared fixedly at this honest-looking face—one that could even be called obstinately simple—it increasingly seemed to resemble that teacher who had bent himself to my selfish whims.

And then, I stood up. And, with a smile, I gave a polite bow. I was satisfied. However, the young man seemed extremely flustered. Making a strange face, he hurriedly moved away from the window frame and disappeared into the distance. He might have thought I was joking.

But now, I felt as though I had finally fulfilled what I needed to do for that young teacher from that day—who was still living under some part of the sky, bathed in the same sunlight as this very day. I felt somewhat more at ease again. And I returned along the path I had come and went to see the stream. At that spot where someone was always scooping fish, today Jinsuke’s children were there. The children were working eagerly, but it seemed the flow was unfavorable, and all that ended up in their net was debris.

Having remained silent for some time, I suddenly—

“You’re not catching anything at all, are you?” I said.

At that moment, the children—who seemed to have just noticed my presence—were all smirking and exchanging glances when one of them, in a peculiar accent, “Ain’t catchin’ nothin’ at all, are ya?” he mimicked. This mischief thoroughly delighted me. The thought that they had grown so familiar with me as to do such things made me happy, so I praised them repeatedly. The children were smirking at my smiling face, but suddenly grabbed the pots and nets they had brought, exchanged signals in unison, and all at once—

“Heave-ho! “Heave-ho!” “Heeave-hooo!”

they shouted. Then, bursting into laughter, they slipped into the horse’s hoofprints deeply embedded in the clay bank and briskly ran off.

I didn't quite understand what was happening but gazed absently at the river surface while repeating their vivid and pleasantly resounding chorus in my heart. “Heave-ho! Heave-ho! Heeeeeave-ho!”

I returned home muttering the chant in a low voice. And when I sat down in my empty study, I tried shouting with my mouth wide open, just as those children had done.

“Heave-ho! “Heave-ho! “Heave-hooo!”

Just then, Grandmother entered with a strangely displeased expression—a rare sight—and said:

“What on earth are you saying?” “Aren’t you too old to be playing the fool?” I didn’t know at all. The term “hoito” was a dialect word meaning “beggar.”

VIII

The farmers of this village gave no thought at all to things like children's education. The children were left to their own devices from birth, growing up naturally to become men and women.

Of course, they too found their children dear. But they, being entirely governed by simple emotions, even in raising their children—when they found them endearing, would dote on them so blindly they might smother them with affection. But if the children did anything displeasing or hateful, their very fondness would curdle into a hundredfold hatred. Throwing, kicking, and hurling abuse was commonplace, and when things got worse, they wouldn’t even hesitate to inflict injuries.

In such moments, they no longer saw them as children; there was only loathing, only rising fury.

Therefore, unless children were born exceptionally healthy, most would end up dead or otherwise gone before reaching ten. And thus people grew up who could eat any manner of tree nuts or wild berries to their heart’s content—who might go naked under blazing skies or douse themselves with water in midwinter—without once catching so much as a sneeze. When they fell ill, rather than taking them to a doctor, their parents would first resort to incantations—they would be made to drink putrid water or forced to swallow mysterious pills—and not a few ended up sacrificial victims to their parents’ superstitions.

Even if their bodies grew sturdy, because the parents were driven to live hand-to-mouth, they couldn't really send their children to a place like school—a mere way to pass the time. The girls had to take over their mothers' roles early on and manage household affairs, while the boys were put to use looking after their younger siblings and handling small fieldwork tasks. Because tenant parents could not equip their children with enough strength to escape the bounds of tenancy, it had become an established rule that tenant children would end their lives as tenants.

The teeming children were being raised to replace their gradually declining parents, as if to fatten the landlords’ tables. Given such circumstances, children with slightly unusual dispositions would quickly fall to wherever they were meant to fall, and once they grew a bit older, they would fly off to some place they fancied. Moreover, those with low intelligence or idiocy were utterly disregarded. They were nothing but playthings for the village bullies.

Therefore, Zenbaka and his children were at most a source of laughter for the villagers; the thought of showing them concern never even crossed their minds. Zenbaka’s nameless idiot child had no choice but to endure having horse dung pressed on him by other children whenever he ate tofu or having straw scraps tied to his overgrown hair. As days passed and my wish began to seem increasingly likely to be granted, I found myself growing more and more unbearably preoccupied with the idiot child.

And so I tried to approach him somehow. But this proved no easy task—my peculiarly timid state of mind simply wouldn’t let my feet settle beside him. Four or five times I began approaching only to halt, began again only to halt once more, until at last one evening I came to stand still beside him.

As if undertaking some great task, my heart pounded. While gazing at the face of the child who paid no heed even when people approached nearby, I agonized over what to say and how. But not knowing what could capture the child’s attention, I struggled desperately until finally— “How are you doing?” I said. Before this phrase had even fully left my lips, I had already become aware of my blunder.

Anyone whose eyes and mind were vacantly fixed on nothing in particular would inevitably find themselves at a loss for words when asked, "How are you doing?" As I watched him while thinking I'd made a mistake, he slowly turned his face toward me after some time. Then with his protruding eyes that rarely blinked now fixed in place, he settled into a position that seemed to stare directly at me.

I was also watching him. I was truly paying attention, observing him closely.

As this continued, his expression gradually grew more intense until I began feeling as though his very presence was slowly creeping over to inhabit my own face. I had lost all stubbornness and endurance. Then when I dashed home in one breath, scrubbed my face with all my strength, and stared into the mirror, my mind finally settled. That first attempt had ended in utter failure through my recurring hallucinations. But by the second and third attempts, I gradually grew accustomed to him.

But whether I still stood silently beside him or merely tried testing his attention by saying something, there was no progress whatsoever. I found myself circling around him in what seemed a grand, deliberate manner.

As for Zenbaka’s Child, I could do absolutely nothing; however, other matters gradually began to improve. The peasant who had been suffering from a boil on the sole of his foot went to see the town doctor and was healed. To the cooper’s daughter, I sometimes had things like milk and fish sent. And, though it was truly trivial, seeing the healed man out in the fields or seeing Jinsuke’s children wearing the clothes I had sent made me inexpressibly happy. Just as a child taking its first steps forgets to sleep at night in its delight of walking, I too found my spirits rising higher the more people I could help, even if just one by one.

Moreover, in reality, things were so scarce and insufficient that I couldn’t foresee how much doing would suffice.

I endeavored to do everything within my power. However, since I possessed not a single coin or grain of rice that I could call “my own,” whenever I wished to do anything for anyone, I had to beg my grandmother each and every time for whatever was needed.

As the number of things I attempted to do increased, the more frequent my requests became, and consequently, asking gradually grew painful. But even so, there was no helping it. I truly wanted endless wealth. And I could not help imagining thrusting it before this startlingly well-ordered village—this assembly of those comfortable to some degree, these people who did not even consider the poor human.

Nine

While various new experiences were delighting or astonishing my heart, the ceaseless force of time began diligently nurturing every aspect of midsummer. The sunlight grew intensely hot, and the white dust accumulated on the thoroughfare became ever thicker, stirring up gray whirlwinds each time a gust of wind swept through.

Smoke from burning wheat rose into the vividly blue sky, and across the fields there were visible sheaves darting over brilliant flames alongside numerous faces flushed red with heat. At the pond in front, a ceaseless crowd of bathing children sent sunburned arms and legs plunging in and out of the water's surface—overflowing with intense sunlight—amid violent splashes, while sharp cries mingled with the splattering sounds of leaping water that echoed far into the distance.

The forests were deep green, the mountain ranges bright; lightning bolts, delighting the peasants, stitched through the mountain peaks from the ever-changing gaps in the evening clouds. (They say that frequent lightning is a sign of a bountiful year.) And the cultivated fields around the house reached their splendid peak. Almost all the crops ripened.

In the fields visible from my study alone, beans, corn, sesame, melons, and others all ripened, while the shadows of passing clouds alternately shone upon and dimmed the dazzling silver of the buckwheat flowers. Beside the apricot and fig orchards whose fruits had become edible; the pumpkin field on a gentle slope, its large fruits glowing red beneath broad leaves; and the potato fields which reached harvest time.

Two tenant farmers, carrying straw bales, three-pronged hoes, and bamboo baskets, had gathered from early morning. They pulled out stems with withered leaves and turned over the soil behind them with three-pronged hoes. The short, one-eyed man gently lifted the deeply embedded hoe upward and pulled, and large and small tubers enveloped in fresh, damp soil danced out as they tumbled. As this happened, the small grubs that had been unexpectedly unearthed began scrambling about in a comical panic—some clambering up the men’s work pants, others flipping upside down to plunge back into the soft mud.

I too removed my shoes and tucked up my hem, then began digging for potatoes with all my might.

Because it was a day with relatively cool wind, the work was quite enjoyable. As I kneaded clumps of mud in my hands and tossed each unearthed potato into the basket, I inadvertently grasped something horribly peculiar in my palms. I involuntarily let out a loud cry. With an unstoppable force, as I kneaded the squishy mass, a rotten potato—crushed, oozing out slimy smoothness—ended up covering my hands completely.

From the bluish-yellow viscous liquid rose a nauseating stench that became unbearable, so I hurriedly thrust both hands into the crunchy mud and tried to rub it off. But since the existing soil had completely hardened into that sludgy mess, scrubbing alone wouldn’t remove it. I was utterly fed up and on the verge of tears when a man came running over laughing, laid a piece of wood sideways, and scraped it off as if peeling congealed arrowroot gruel from a teacup.

“It’s alright, young mistress. It ain’t nothin’ life-threatenin’.”

Around me, even the tenant farmers who had been working in the neighboring fields had gathered alongside the household members, laughing. As various minor crops came to harvest time, we lived each day in a relatively farming-oriented manner. We were busy distributing the yield to the tenant farmers, pickling and drying produce, and packing bales.

But along with that, truly unpleasant things began to occur. Before we knew it, our fields were being raided by thieves.

Of course, this was an annual occurrence. It was by no means unusual, yet it left everyone feeling uneasy. Though only small things were being stolen, having the care and effort we'd poured in taken away made it all the more infuriating. So we spent a whole day labeling each frequently disappearing pumpkin with large, bold numbers. Their swollen red faces completely covered with thickly painted numerals like '8' or '11', lying about in such a state, made for quite a spectacle. But it all proved futile—by morning, even the largest among them would be gone.

The maids resented this most bitterly, shouting indiscriminately at anyone who so much as wandered through the fields and hurling pebbles their way. The honest one kept constant vigil over the fields whenever she sat down. This vigilance meant even someone like me—out for a nighttime stroll to clear my head—would be met with booming shouts if I carelessly paused among the crops: “Oy! We’ll tan yer hide!” I’d even been scolded this way myself.

However, it was a morning of exceptionally thick fog.

It was probably around four o'clock. I was sleeping unaware as usual when a low yet urgent voice— "Wake up quickly! Hey! Get up right now!"

I was awakened by my grandmother’s voice calling out.

I jumped up in surprise, my eyes still not fully open as I staggered about. “What!?” “Huh?” “What’s wrong?” Grandmother pulled me by these words and stood me before the glass window set into the storm shutters. At first I saw nothing, but as my eyes gradually focused, through the dew-fogged glass I discerned a human figure moving through the pumpkin field. “Oh!” Pressing my forehead tight against the pane, I watched him stretch and bend as if selecting his plunder.

"And yet it's already morning." "Goodness, how bold!" After a while, his body stretched to its limit as he emerged onto the path. In his hands, he held a large round object.

The pumpkin thief began to walk. And just as he was about to exit the field, another figure approached briskly. I knew at a glance that it was Grandmother. I gasped. What on earth were we trying to accomplish here? I hurriedly took off my nightclothes. And when I went out to look - what on earth was this?! That I became filled with an indescribable feeling and came to a standstill was by no means unreasonable.

Before me lay a Western pumpkin with red ground and white stripes, and standing there with his head hung low—wasn’t that Jinsuke!

I couldn't believe my eyes. I didn't want to believe it again, but sadly, it was unmistakably Jinsuke. I timidly looked at his face. And then, I became even more surprised by his seemingly unperturbed demeanor. He simply stood there, truly appearing as if nothing were amiss. He was simply bowing his head. He stood silently, looking up through lowered eyes at Grandmother's furious face with mocking defiance.

I was filled with a dreadful feeling. He stood like that. But what on earth were we to do now?

I felt certain that both Grandmother and I were indeed trying to say something to him. Moreover, I noticed how we stood there as if we held some absolute right over everything, as if we wanted to brandish that authority. We must be going to say something. The one who discovers someone engaged in what is deemed wrongdoing will likely do as anyone would—slowly, almost soothingly scold and threaten them, as if taking peculiar comfort in the act.

But he had been caught where he never wanted us to see him. Wasn't that alone sufficient? What more needed saying? What could linger in our hearts even if we droned on with those stale words—phrases a thousand souls had worn thin through endless repetition—while letting our tempers flare? The same worn-out sensation would just gnaw at us without achieving anything meaningful. There remained only one thing for me to do.

Pulling Grandmother aside—she who was feigning uncertainty about where to begin—I pleaded desperately. “Please let him go back exactly as he is. That’s better.” “But... you!” “No! That’s fine as it is. You must hurry and do it—it’s certainly better this way. Now. Hurry!”

Grandmother seemed displeased but listened to my request. “Take that and go home. But you must never do this again.” That was all she said. Jinsuke—wearing a face so devoid of emotion he might have anticipated this outcome from the start—bowed his head once, then cradled the pumpkin as casually as if he’d bought it himself, walking off down the still-empty road.

I found myself in a state of mind that could not be called either sad or angry. However, with some relief,

"I cannot call someone a thief over a single pumpkin." I repeated to myself.

10

What I had done for Jinsuke’s family until then was nothing more than handing out old clothes or giving meager portions of food and money. It was truly a trivial matter, utterly insignificant. From a third party’s perspective, everything would appear as commonplace actions—the kind of thoughts and deeds anyone even slightly troubled might entertain or perform—neither rare nor noble. As for myself, I had never once harbored thoughts of gaining grand rewards or receiving gratitude through these paltry acts of charity.

But what Jinsuke had done could not help but make me feel a slight disappointment. I felt a kind of wretchedness. Nevertheless, there was one thing that comforted and strengthened me. That was the fact that, for the first time, I had been able to handle myself exactly as I had intended. I am short-tempered. I am quick to anger by nature. That is why lately I cannot tell how much I have been wishing to avoid getting angry too much and to remain in a tolerant state of mind. However, when I am at home and my brothers do something that upsets me, the mutual lack of restraint between us inevitably provokes anger. The fact that this time I managed to come through without feeling much anger truly made me happy.

And so, this time, I immediately thought only of the brighter side. It now seemed not entirely a fantasy that those we called field thieves would vanish without a trace from now on.

However, as days passed one after another, I came to understand that what I had envisioned was after all merely an "unattainable ideal"—a "young mistress’s fancy."

In the cultivated fields, thefts began occurring more frequently than before, often involving large quantities each time. There were fresh cornstalks trampled down brazenly; even the edamame plants that had remained untouched until now were uprooted entirely; and from the pond far beyond the house, every last arrowhead had been stolen. Faced with this state of affairs, I became utterly bewildered. I wanted somehow to settle things without a single person suffering unpleasantness.

However, when it came to what should be done about this, I did not understand a single thing.

It was as though I were fumbling in pitch darkness for matches and a hand-candle whose whereabouts I couldn’t discern; my inexperienced heart grew thoroughly unsettled and became frightened.

Moreover, each time something was stolen, Grandmother would—with such a pained and sarcastic air— “There weren’t any before now. “Oh, there truly were none before now, were there?” And so it was that I had to listen to Grandmother mutter these words each time. I could assert that what I had done was not wrong. And yet, on the other hand, I thought it by no means unreasonable that they had been led in their hearts to become like this. If that were the case, in the end, whose approach had been wrong? I did as my heart commanded. They too were in circumstances where they had no choice but to act out of necessity. Was it not that both of us had acted simply because “we had to”? They must have been compelled to act this way, just as I was compelled to act that way. Perhaps, since it was I who had provided the opportunity for things to turn out this way, I did consider that I might have been mistaken—but I could not definitively say that was the case. As for whether they were in the wrong, not even an assertion as definitive as “But it’s obvious, isn’t it?” could be made. In other words, I cannot comprehend it.

This incident made me ponder many things. And I came to find it terrifying how the world's countless incidents were being settled through so-called clear judgment—brusquely disposed of with what could only be called reckless abandon. Yet I concluded it was ultimately a good thing that these varied matters arose, compelling me to think. And I resolved to honestly accept whatever came my way, to sincerely contemplate and feel each occurrence.

That evening too, I sat alone in my study, thinking this and that. Outside, the moon was exceptionally beautiful. And, as usual, I turned off the light and was gazing from the pitch-darkness at the cultivated fields and mountain range that appeared differently beautiful—as if the world had transformed. Then, after some time had passed, a faint noise came from beyond the lawn. It seemed to be some kind of footsteps keeping a rhythm. And then, that sound—like grass blades rustling, like a crushing weight pressing down—gradually drew nearer.

As it drew nearer, I finally realized that it was a human sneaking in. But I was completely relieved. Because there, swimming through the radiance, I found a small child entering stealthily—tiptoeing with a long pole clutched to his chest. In the direction he was heading hung clusters of our house's most delicious apricots. Now I understood everything. I moved back a little further from where I had been. And then I watched what the child would try to do. The child who had sneaked up to the tree carefully scanned his surroundings. He even kept watch toward the main house separated by the hedge.

However, he—not being a cat—never could have imagined that I was there in the pitch darkness, watching his every move. At last he extended the pole as far as his arm could reach. Tilting his face completely upward, taking aim at the ripe fruits, he gave the tip of the pole a small clattering shake—and two or three came tumbling down. He repeated the same action two or three times. Each time he tried, the results were favorable, so he gradually grew more vigorous, taking on a thoroughly absorbed, childlike demeanor—by the fourth attempt, he was putting far more strength into shaking the branch than before.

The tree's crown swayed violently. And with a clattering racket, a great number of fruits scattered down onto the face and shoulders of the boy standing below. He became utterly ecstatic at the unexpected result—a mixture of astonishment and delight— “Whoa!” he unconsciously let out this exclamation from the depths of his chest. However, before that voice had even faded, he became aware of his own carelessness. Suddenly, what he had been doing became utterly terrifying to him.

He, now certain someone would emerge at any moment, hurriedly glanced around before suddenly whirling around and fleeing toward the fields with loud footsteps. Seeing this, I involuntarily smiled. Seeing him flee in panic at his own voice, having left all the fruits he’d worked so hard to knock down right where they fell, I found myself unable to feel anger. Though I knew not whose child he was, when he arrived home with panting breath, all that would remain with him was the joy of being showered with fruit and the unbearable fear that followed.

Beloved adventurer! Sleep well. Tomorrow’s weather should be fair too.

However, the fact that he too was one of those field destroyers who caused me such bitter anguish—how utterly wretched it all felt.

Eleven

One day, I was suddenly approached by the cooper for a loan. He had always been quite poor, so my grandmother had been looking after him in various ways; but they found his sickly daughter unsettling and rarely allowed him near the house. He seemed to be suffering from alcoholism—his hands perpetually trembled, and all the muscles in his face sagged downward toward his jaw. When drunk, he would grow bold and hold court like a feudal lord, but when sober, he turned utterly foolish and spineless—meekly taking orders from a second wife nearly twenty years his junior—which made him everyone’s laughingstock.

It was he who came while Grandmother was away visiting the grave. How many times a grown man bowed and pleaded for pity just to receive a mere five yen! He spoke in a cringe-inducing tone of flattery—swearing he’d beg with his life, vowing to never forget this favor— “For your sake, young mistress, I’d walk through fire and water—yes, it’s the honest truth!” he repeated over and over.

I, witnessing the words and demeanor of extreme self-abasement from a person attempting to borrow money directly for the first time in their life, was tormented by an inexplicable sense of awkwardness and my own absurdity. There I sat—this penniless nobody of a me—listening with feigned composure to all that worthless flattery and cajoling, powerless to respond or even know how to respond. How utterly absurd and pitiful I must have appeared to any observer who understood the truth of it. I had long heard from the maidservants that even the leftover food we provided would mostly be eaten by that couple themselves, rarely reaching the crucial patient—so no matter what I did for them, I felt it would ultimately end up being drunk away.

Moreover, even when asked what he needed the five yen for, he gave no clear explanation, so my suspicions only deepened. And so—since I was but a penniless parasite without a single coin of my own money—I refused, stating I couldn’t possibly give him anything right away. Yet he—apparently thinking his flattery wasn’t landing effectively—began rambling on so absurdly, exaggerating even trivial matters with excessive gratitude and feigned surprise to the point of making me want to burst out laughing, that I could no longer listen in earnest.

I laughed and laughed until I could laugh no more—whereupon he too seemed to realize his own fabrications, leaking a vague, awkward smirk before retreating in a muddle of aborted speech. This affair had been absurd from start to finish—but when I realized he’d tried to wheedle money he didn’t desperately need at present through ulterior motives akin to “if luck would have it,” it ceased to be merely laughable.

If I were to start handing out money, everyone would likely become adept at deception. The fact that everything I did produced nothing but unpleasant results grew increasingly painful.

Anyway, after these sorts of incidents began occurring, more and more of those who "had to obtain" something began gathering around me. Those sufficiently aware of the disadvantage of being removed from the narrow world perceived by a small girl would find some pretext to visit. The clamorous sycophantic laughter and flattery of wives who seemed reduced to little more than their sex.

Children who had been running barefoot outdoors now had their mud-covered bodies rolling about the house, creating chaos. This chaos—utterly devoid of order or restraint—not only left my days cluttered and unsettled but transformed the entire house into something like one of those makeshift exorcism huts commonly found in rural villages. The complaints of Grandmother and the rest of the family were heaped upon me alone—the child overturning water into the hearth, the trivial grievances I had to listen to from morning onward—all were declared to be because I was like this.

Amidst all this, I endeavored to maintain as much goodwill toward them as possible. However, during times when I had pressing work to do, having to sit there listening to their gossip and complaints—which I’d grown weary of hearing and knew better than the very people involved—truly became unbearable. Watching them drink tea and nibble snacks until their bellies sloshed—as if everything laid out was theirs for the taking—I felt utterly at a loss.

With a heart half-resigned yet somehow hopeful, I felt myself growing uncertain of my own actions—dyeing and tie-dyeing the fabric for the kimono Grandmother had resolved to make—as the autumn wind began to rise.

Twelve

While my surroundings were in such a state, a certain plan had arisen among the townswomen. In the northeast corner of the town stood a Protestant Christian church. Though not many years had passed since its founding, in terms of prosperity, it had been successful. During the tenure of the first foreigner who came here, it had been an utterly inconspicuous affair—nothing more than a few earnest believers gathering little by little. But the pastor who immediately succeeded him was an exceedingly casual man who would say things like, “Oh come now—we’re only human too, you know.”

This, having gained the sympathy of the town’s so-called ladies through remarks like “What an amusing Pastor he is!”, led to the church becoming markedly livelier. And now, the third-generation pastor—a man so terribly good-natured as to border on simple-minded—was managing a church that seemed sustained almost entirely by these women’s patronage.

The previous pastor, who had been valued in many respects, died of a cerebral hemorrhage last summer in a manner that seemed truly worthy of entering heaven. The group of women—still relatively young and perpetually preoccupied with their Tokyo-inspired outfits—had turned the church into a social venue. There were times when scrutinizing each other's attire took precedence over sermons, and contemplating kimono patterns while receiving divine blessings became paramount. Thus were held gatherings that epitomized "every quintessentially feminine quality."

However, the fact that August 24th marked the first anniversary of the previous pastor’s death became a prime opportunity for these women who had been yearning for some novel diversion. These were people who—though their hearts raced upon hearing of such gaudy events as Flower Day Services—had kept their composure; thus when proposing commemorative work, they approved it without a second thought. After much deliberation, it was finally decided to provide “alms,” however meager, to K Village’s poor where the late pastor lay buried.

The late pastor had devoted great effort to poverty relief, but being preoccupied and lacking funds, it had ended without going as he wished; therefore, they declared it only natural that they should carry on his will.

The women all became emboldened. And so, they promptly printed leaflets and distributed them to everyone in town who could be called a person of consequence, soliciting charitable contributions. Those who obtained this rare printed material were each struck by various thoughts. Some rejoiced, while others—though it didn’t concern them personally—were tormented by the anguish of not wanting to be left out by their peers. The entire town buzzed with this rumor, and in this land where women’s work was scarce—so much so that one might say it was the first such occurrence since the town’s founding—the commotion was as if the Sun God himself had risen from the earth.

However, various complaints soon arose, greatly troubling those involved. The issue stemmed from grievances like “Why am I excluded when such women are being gloriously listed as committee members?”—necessitating the assignment of clear official titles ranging from chairperson and vice-chairperson down to errand-runners, rather than indiscriminately listing names without distinction between individuals. In particular, the self-assured ladies who had included themselves among the candidates fervently advocated for this necessity.

Since it is said that women’s work tends to be unbusinesslike and lacking a sense of responsibility, the argument that "we must strive to do things as perfectly as possible in light of current circumstances" gradually grew louder, until it was finally decided to formally elect everyone to positions. This made the town all the more extraordinary. Those without hope of becoming chairperson or vice-chairperson strove to outrank others by even a single step. Where A desired, B likewise coveted; thus their demands clashed. The more serene the surface appeared—modestly veiled by so-called feminine propriety—the more violently they seethed internally, turning pale and flushing as they exploited even the most trivial privileges in the cramped county office’s second floor, insisting *their husbands outranked that woman’s*. After much turmoil, roles were finally assigned and matters settled somehow. Of course, minor grievances remained unresolved. The woman selected as chairperson was called Mrs. Yamada, wife of the town’s largest hospital director. Though she possessed no particular competence for the role, the greatest reason was that failing to satisfy her ambitions would invite dreadful retribution.

She was an extremely fat, short-statured woman in her forties. The mirror she used for makeup only reflected up to about chest level, so above and below her obi, she appeared as if they belonged to two different people. Her large chignon, along with her mottled earlobes and neck, received meticulous attention despite their blemishes—her "It doesn't matter at all." When seated with her makeup and grand obi, Mrs.Yamada made a truly splendid figure—yet should she attempt to stand, her massive upper body would sway off-balance like an unstable load, the scurrying steps of her legs appearing wholly inadequate to support such weight. Her habit of swinging her shoulders alternately back and forth might have seemed awkward when passing through formal settings, but when particularly pleased, it grew so pronounced—her breathless head swaying unsteadily, her body lurching as if about to tear itself apart—that even the most hostile observer's heart would soften. Once firmly established as the indisputable Madam Chairperson, she settled down completely, contentedly nodding whenever she caught snippets of her unparalleled reputation being mentioned in people's conversations.

And that the mayor’s wife had died two years prior—what a blessing to be thankful for—she made secret pilgrimages to her grave. "If that woman hadn’t met with some mishap, how could I have attained this position today!" "Truly, what an incredibly fortunate person I am!"

Thus, what had initially not been intended to be so grandiose gradually grew larger, until it finally became too much for the townswomen to handle. The pastor was kept so busy from morning till night—with no time to pray—being driven to handle storing money and organizing paperwork, “That too is for the cause, Pastor.” With these words always appended, every last disagreeable task—as if sweeping debris into a river—was foisted upon him.

With three white whiskers swaying on his chin and an adzuki bean-sized wart on the back of his left hand that he fidgeted with every time he spoke—he who had grown considerably in recent days—lived each day in such haste, wearing a frayed white cotton kimono with a tasuki sash tied across it! Every time the Group of Townswomen exchanged glances, “Until that matter settles, how dreadfully busy we’ll all be with one another!” they would converse in coded language meant only for themselves and laugh merrily.

With hearts inexplicably buoyant as if preparing for a sightseeing excursion, in this restless state of mind where they busied themselves needlessly, a truly dire predicament had arisen. This meant that no matter how hard they tried, it was impossible to complete everything by the 24th.

This left everyone perplexed. Whether they wept or laughed, they could no longer catch up. Thus, it was decided that even if nothing could be perfectly completed by that day, so long as they achieved the best possible outcome, the late pastor would surely not take notice of a few extra days—and so a one-week extension was granted by the benevolent spirit of the late pastor. The townswomen were occupied for a time extolling the deceased’s noble virtues and busily asserting that he was undoubtedly resting in heaven.

As the day finally approached, on the donation deadline they hung papers on the church’s inner walls and listed each contribution amount in detail. And beneath them, they crowded together, “Oh! “My, do take a look.” “She has contributed such a substantial amount—” “As expected, someone of your means is truly different!” Through the midst of these admiring townswomen, at the head, “A sum of one hundred yen. “Her Excellency the Chairperson” Mrs.Yamada—with this inscription beneath her name—walked about shaking her shoulders like a madwoman, and whenever something was said,

“Oh, it’s nothing at all. “I am deeply embarrassed.” While saying this, she glared up at the “One Hundred Yen” notation. Everything proceeded with astonishing noblewoman-like decorum.

Thirteen

The rumor of this plan among the Group of Townswomen soon reached our ears and then spread throughout the entire village. As days passed and that matter gradually solidified into fact, the parched village air grew restless with an indefinable tension. There was no place where this rumor wasn’t being discussed. The poor people, carrying over their Bon festival diversions, were already agonizing over what to buy with money they hadn’t yet received; in some households, driven by envy that “those folks over there have more brats than us—they’ll get plenty,” they even began saying they wanted to multiply their own nuisance children five or tenfold overnight. And they, who were not particularly hardworking to begin with, had their hearts eased by the thought that something several times what they could earn through a day’s sweaty labor would soon arrive—thus a lax mood began to spread throughout the entire village.

However, at my house, from morning till night, those who said, "If we go, we’ll get something," kept coming without cease. It was as if they had made it some kind of side occupation—grumbling and seeking pity—for in receiving alms, they neither considered what would become of themselves through this nor could they even think about it. When I saw them like that, I was compelled to ponder many things. Will this endeavor yield good results?

This was my foremost doubt—moreover, a doubt that tormented me directly. They were satisfied simply to receive; whatever was given, they never voiced dislike. Yet when granted a single kimono, they would promptly wear out and discard their previous one. If extra money came their way, they eagerly bought trifles—silk garments they never wore, shoes, hats—these extravagances letting them fully indulge in the suppressed thrill of spending money to acquire things.

Therefore, whether it was five yen or ten yen, it ultimately amounted to nothing—and even the items bought with that money would be sold off in town once they fell into dire straits. Money and goods merely paused briefly in their hands as they circulated. Being poor all year round, all that remained for them were vague memories—had they ever bought such clothes? Had they ever possessed that much money?

Lately, I had come to think deeply that this was truly difficult. If treated leniently, they grew presumptuous; if treated strictly, they cowered and ceased to respond to anything said—this was their common trait. If the Group of Townswomen were to succeed in bestowing alms upon them? If it could truly supplement their livelihood? That would indeed be a splendid thing.

But for me, it could not be dismissed as merely a splendid thing.

I considered myself someone deeply connected to this village, someone with many duties I must fulfill here. And the work I had begun even in small increments was now teetering on the verge of failure. If actions by those distant people—each acting on their own without suffering or particular passion—could have such profound effects upon them, then how utterly insignificant and meaningless must I myself have been. I waited for what they called "the divine sunrise of the god of fortune" with feelings entirely divorced from theirs.

Just then, an unexpected incident suddenly arose that stirred the hearts of everyone in the village. It was that Mr.Shin of the waterwheel mill had taken out and sold the sacks of beans. Those two sacks of beans had, of course, been entrusted by someone else to be ground into flour. Given that there wasn’t a single villager who hadn’t once or twice taken their parents’ money or stolen from their own home, such an incident alone would have vanished without becoming tea-time gossip. However, Shin-san was renowned for his honesty, and his mother—a woman notorious for her greed and already the subject of various rumors—ignited everyone’s curiosity. Claiming there must be some ulterior motive behind this, nearly everyone who came to my house ended up gossiping about Mr.Shin.

I had only spoken to that man called Mr.Shin twice before. Therefore, though I couldn’t clearly discern what sort of man he was, I thought him someone who spoke in a shy low voice with great politeness. Even I believed that man wouldn’t—couldn’t—do such a thing, but each time his real mother came to the house she would grow truly furious, her face flushing crimson, “Our good-for-nothin’ wretch has got me—Ah’m truly at mah wit’s end.” “Ah reckon you heard ‘bout it—but that worthless lout went an’ pulled some unthinkable stunt...”

she loudly berated that Mr.Shin had squandered five or six days at a town brothel with the money he got from selling those beans. And so, unable to dismiss her own flesh and blood’s words as outright lies yet equally unable to believe that Mr.Shin had done such a thing, I kept watching how this matter unfolded in a state of half-belief and half-doubt.

Ever since its master died two years ago, the waterwheel mill had been nothing but a subject of bad rumors. From that time onward, even without summoning Mr.Shin—who had gone off to work in Hokkaido—and managing everything alone, there had been someone pulling strings behind the scenes; that Denkichi, a fellow waterwheel miller from the neighboring village, was trying to take over everything down to the meager peach grove and drive out Mr.Shin was something known to every single person.

It was said that Mr.Shin had been sent to Hokkaido at sixteen and worked for seven years until this May without a single act of mischief—saving earnestly to return home once he could afford a wife, let his mother live comfortably, and set his household in order, clinging solely to these hopes. However, having unfortunately developed kidney disease and been advised by doctors, when he finally returned after long years away, he had brought eighty yen with him. Despite his youth, he was so admired throughout the village that even my grandmother had held a celebration in his honor.

However, ever since she had once become obsessed with debt matters to the point of near madness, his mother would lose all sense of reason over even five rin or half-rin concerning money—so when she heard he was ill, she treated him like an unwelcome nuisance who had come for no good reason. Because this was unbearable, Mr.Shin paid all his medical expenses in town and his own pocket money from his own funds, and even went so far as to give his mother around forty yen.

However, it reached our ears that whenever he carelessly left his money pouch lying about, its contents would gradually dwindle, and that his mother would seize the grown man to beat or berate him over some trifle. Because of this, the villagers sympathized with Mr.Shin, and since unpleasant rumors inevitably spread about his mother, he found himself caught in a painful predicament.

However, one day, Mr.Shin suddenly found himself being vehemently accused by his own mother of stealing and selling off beans.

Honest as he was, he became utterly flustered and bewildered, completely unable to comprehend what had happened to whom or how. Before he could even form a response, his mother had already taken to spreading the story throughout the entire village. No matter how much he thought about it, Mr.Shin couldn't understand the matter. Even when he tried to recall whether such a thing had ever occurred, he found no memory of it. Feeling as though he were walking through smoke, he spent his days in unease—as if some shadow truly clung to his very being.

Given this situation, all the villagers were eager to uncover what lay hidden behind the incident with great interest. Since I knew nothing about them, I couldn’t imagine anything, but the kind of busybodies you find everywhere began eagerly making inquiries here and there as if it were their profession. Then, to everyone’s surprise, rumors began to spread as fact that those controversial sacks had been baseless from the start—a fabrication devised as a pretext for everyone to seize the money Mr.Shin now possessed as compensation.

Mr. Shin, thinking it an outrageous matter, defended his mother and repeatedly tried to quash those rumors. But Mr. Shin’s heart grew darker. His own existence felt pitiful, and he began to doubt whether he was truly his mother’s biological child. Whenever I saw Mr. Shin—his pale, gloomy face rendered even more haggard by worry—plodding heavily along the village path under the scorching sun without any covering, I truly felt sorry for him.

Yet whenever I saw a man of twenty-three—fully grown—being subjected to the whims of a mother who understood nothing of reason, enduring her abuse and humiliation without uttering a single word of protest, only defending her at every turn, I couldn’t help but feel a peculiar emotion.

Somehow, I felt he possessed a dignity beyond ours, and no matter how deeply I pitied him, I couldn't bring myself to offer him even meager bits of food as I did with others.

Whenever we met on the road, I would greet him with genuine sincerity and politely inquire about the state of his illness. Even when he had a face that looked quite unwell, he— “Thanks to your kindness, I’m gradually feeling better.” he never said anything beyond that.

Fourteen

Because of what had happened with Mr.Shin, the 31st arrived quite early. On that day two hundred and ten days before, the morning was intensely hot from dawn onward, and a sluggish south wind occasionally drifted through the tree leaves as though drowsy.

Having woken up earlier than usual, I walked around the village as part of my morning stroll. The households had already finished even their meals entirely. At the front square and crossroads, crowds of adults and children had gathered, clamoring noisily in commotion.

However, to my astonishment, their clothes and other belongings were dirtier than yesterday’s, as if they belonged to entirely different people. The women all had disheveled hair and wore work coats so grimy it was impossible to tell when they’d last been washed. The bare-bodied, barefoot children were frolicking as if a festival had come; the feeble elderly and sick people—who had been kept hidden away in the back without ever showing a trace of themselves—had all come out to places visible from the main road.

The cooper’s family too—who treated their daughter as though she were already dead—had today specially brought her out front and were shamelessly displaying their tattered bedding; this sight I could not comprehend in the least. The entire village had made themselves as filthy as possible, yet it was more bustling than I had ever seen before. However, as I walked around observing, I gradually began to understand their intentions. And then, as I realized just how wretched a human heart could become, a feeling both terrifying and pitiful welled up within me.

I felt as though something beyond my control had begun to occur and returned home. The interior of the house remained as peaceful and clean as ever, with the old-fashioned furniture neatly arranged in its compact space. I stood on the veranda from time to time, watching the dust rise on the street beyond. Those who came to this village from the town could each be seen individually from here. However, until nearly noon, not a single person who appeared to be from the town passed by.

However, around eleven o'clock, a long line of rickshaws hurried past, sweating under the heat. Inside them, kimonos of various colors could be seen. The work of the townswomen was now about to begin. At the village entrance, the townswomen alighted from their vehicles. Then, around Mrs.Yamada—as she stood encircled by committee members clamorously discussing their procession route—bare-skinned childminders carrying infants on their backs and tenant wives began forming a tight ring, gradually pressing inward from the periphery.

The poor women looked at the town's "ladies" in surprise.

They gazed at hair adorned with gleaming combs, collars embroidered to excess, and fingers ablaze with red, blue, and white rings. Not a single one lacked rings. They all had small, beautiful bags dangling from their hands. My, how magnificent their obi were! What sort of face powder clings so smoothly without streaking? My! And they even have Western parasols like that! The women felt such bitter envy it made their heads ache. To think that while some women must wallow in filth until death like us, others can powder their faces and scatter money about.

How splendid they were! But... It was only natural for the women to find it strange. The town ladies were resplendent with gold elsewhere, yet their kimonos were all mere merino cloth. This was because there existed a stipulation stating, "Modesty shall be our principle; garments must be of merino or below," which these prudent women had most fittingly and scrupulously observed.

Soon, the townswomen began walking. Gaudy Western parasols formed an astonishing procession along the dust-choked country road. Their first stop was the cooper's house. The rabble trailing behind now jostled to block the entire entrance, plunging the room into an unnaturally dark and airless state. Within this stifling space stood the cooper clad only in work pants and his wife wearing a tattered quilted jacket, their ghostly daughter between them bowing in perfect unison.

Mrs.Yamada explained their current purpose in a hushed voice laced with difficult Chinese-derived terms. The cooper’s couple had absolutely no idea what this was about, but as they could do nothing but keep bowing repeatedly, Mrs.Yamada gave a slight signal with her finger. Then one of them placed a large package tied with ceremonial cord on a red-lacquered tray and presented it; amidst the envious whispers of the gathered crowd, it was set before the cooper.

They were so happy they could have leapt for joy. However, forcing themselves to stay calm, they bowed repeatedly while expressing as much gratitude as they could muster and uttering flattery. In the end, they grew increasingly irritated, “They’re looking down on us and trampling us! “Get lost already!” Until they nearly felt like shouting this, the group of townswomen had silently kept making them bow up and down while watching. Finally, the townswomen began to move. They breathed sighs of relief. And despite one or two women still lingering before their eaves, the cooper’s couple pulled at the package from both sides and hurriedly fumbled to open it.

Inside was a single five-yen bill. The moment the two of them saw the bill's face, they looked at each other as if recoiling and grinned. "We can take it easy for a while now."

“Really now! We can even buy fancy obis without any trouble.” The wife gasped after saying this and turned to see her daughter sitting dazed and exhausted, staring at the crumpled ceremonial cord and wrapper marked “Sickbed Condolence Money” in block letters. She clicked her tongue and whispered to her husband. He looked at the paper, then at their daughter. “Don’t matter none. She ain’t got a clue.” After a moment, the girl staggered up, dragging her stinking bedding back into the dark, damp recesses of the room.

The Group of Townswomen repeated the same phrases at each house, graciously inclined their heads, and expressed measured sympathy that neither elevated nor diminished their own dignity. And above all, Mrs.Yamada—who would normally bend her neck to her chest while replying, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, that’s right”—today merely remained silent, offering only solemn nods. And all the while murmuring to herself, “There, there...” The group were thanked, respected, and met with astonishment wherever they went.

The townswomen were all satisfied with their work.

"How delightful it is to bestow charity upon others!" But as weariness crept in, they grew tired of hearing the same bows and expressions of gratitude, and sickened at having to meticulously display sympathy or offer explanations each time. In the end, they began simply tossing money packets through doorways immediately after Mrs.Yamada paused to give a curt nod, then hurrying onward to the next house. Those following behind gradually grew bolder too, now hurling insults loud enough for the townswomen to hear and making disparaging assessments, until the women found themselves increasingly revolted.

When the group—their throats parched, bodies sweltering, and growing increasingly anxious about their melting makeup—approached a certain farmhouse in collective irritation, a figure suddenly blocked their path and sat down on the scorched earth. Startled by the suddenness of it all, the group of townswomen tried to step back—but immediately, hands seized the hem of a woman standing nearby with both hands, “This ain’t nothin’ to fear. Please just hear my plea!”

The one who had mustered that tearful voice was none other than Zenbaka’s mother. Behind the old woman stood Zenbaka and the idiot child, standing vacantly. The townswomen faltered; the rabble following behind came to a halt, laughing. Baboon Granny raised her screeching voice. “Oh, you compassionate ladies! Please take a good look at this lunatic son of mine and this brat who can’t even speak!” “Please, ma’am! It’s folks like us you oughta pity! Where else’d you find souls more wretched than ours? Have mercy on us, I beg you!”

The woman whose hem had been seized let out a tearful cry, “Oh my, what has come over you?” “Now, let go of that!” “I’m not going anywhere!” “Hurry up and let go already, I said!” Even when she pulled it toward herself,

“No! I won’t let go!” “Never! I’ll never let go!” “Please listen.” “Truly, folks like us…” She clung even tighter to the ground. Faced with this extremity, the townswomen collectively tried both threats and coaxing, but the old woman showed no sign of relenting. The sight of them all struggling desperately—tugging at each other’s kimono hems as they grappled with the situation—proved so absurdly comical that the surrounding crowd erupted in raucous jeers.

Then, suddenly parting through the crowd, a boy burst out dog-like,

“Hey! Hey! Look at this disgrace!”

he shouted while flailing his arms and legs.

It was Jinsuke's child.

At that cry, the mouths of the other rascal brats—who had been itching to say something—all opened at once. “Weaklings! What can your fancy-pants dumbasses even do?!” “You helpin’ ’em out there, Granny?!”

Amidst the tumultuous uproar, mingled with yellow sand and dust,

“Oh, so compassionate you kind madams! “Please listen.” “How in blazes are we supposed to keep livin’ with this lunatic and idiot bastard of ours... I ask ya!” The old woman's voice resounded in fragments, like a broken song. The townswomen had completely lost their composure. Though they wanted to flee, being routed by those beasts was too mortifying. As everyone grew hysterical—ready to scream at the slightest provocation—Jinsuke’s son whispered something into Zenbaka’s ear while he stood vacantly nearby, then shoved him forward with an odd gesture.

Shoved forward, he plunged straight into the midst of the townswomen, “Heh….” “Heh…” Laughing, he began to act in a way that was unbearable to watch.

The townswomen turned bright red with shame and anger, pressing their sleeves to their faces, “How utterly rude!” “This is too much!” “What do you think you’re doing?”

and tried to walk away while shouting. At this point, the beastly nature of the paupers became utterly exposed, with even the adults hurling indecent jokes too vile to hear. Mrs.Yamada seemed on the verge of losing her mind. And with tears brimming in her eyes, she snatched a money pouch from someone nearby, pressed it hard against Baboon Granny’s face, and screamed. “Ha—hurry up and leave!” “Too awful—too awful! Now!” “Now!” “Hurry up already!” “Too...”

Baboon Granny finally stood up and, shoving Zenbaka away, very calmly said, “Thank you ever so much. Thanks to your kindness, three lives’ve been spared. We’ll never forget your kindness.”

With that said, the three of them clustered together and departed with satisfaction, and the people's commotion subsided considerably.

Even the townswomen stood dazed for a while, utterly unable to do anything. But before long, Mrs.Yamada barely managed to regain her dignity and glared at the entire crowd with a terrifying look. And, remaining silent, she took the lead and started walking.

What a wretched homeward path it was! Jinsuke’s son followed from afar, hurling old horseshoes and siccing dogs on them as they went.

Fifteen

The group of townswomen came, scattered money, and left. That was all there was to it. But because of that, every corner of the small village had been thoroughly stirred up. The children, dressed in festival clothing, had gathered in front of the village’s sole cheap candy store and were making a racket. The adults fought with their spouses and children over how to use the money they’d received, and their mutual jealousy sowed discord among neighbors on both sides and across the street.

However, my household alone continued to "prosper" as always.

Just as they had come the day before yesterday, today too they came. However, most were dressed neatly and even wore geta that weren’t too shabby. And they recounted every last detail of what had transpired from the townswomen’s arrival to their departure, mocking how utterly cowardly and spineless those women had been during that uproar—so loud it had reached even this house. Baboon Granny, who had clung to their hems and refused to let go, thereby extorting some money, and Jinsuke’s son, who had incited Zenbaka—these incidents seemed to delight them as if they were amusing and valiant deeds.

“That old hag’s got a surprisingly sturdy build for lookin’ so shriveled up!” “We sure wanted to show y’all that disgraceful spectacle of theirs!” They all competed to tell us how much money they’d received. “We got five yen!” “Then you ain’t bein’ tightfisted! We only got three ryō ourselves!” And so complaints arose—that despite comin’ with such grand fanfare, they’d handed out mere pittances while expectin’ gratitude; that their money distribution was unfair—which only deepened the villagers’ ill will toward the townsfolk even more than before their visit.

I asked each person who came whether receiving such sums this time had brought them some relief, but not a single one said “Yeah.” “What difference d’you think three ryō or five ryō makes to folks like us stuck in poverty’s deepest pit?” “What’s this buy us? What’s our households get with this?” “Then right off they start fightin’—husband and wife beatin’ each other—and that cursed money all disappears somehow.” “Three days pass and we’re back where we started, still caked in mud same as always.”

That was indeed the truth. Within less than a week, the money that had come from town was sucked back to town, and they were back to having no lump sum of even three yen, just as before. If even a little extra came in, they promptly bought something. Without understanding why, they just kept buying recklessly until they ended up repaying the town with some interest added on top of the principal. Since they had no habit of saving, they simply could not bring themselves to accumulate anything. Moreover, places like banks and post offices were thought of as nothing more than institutions that took your money and handed you a single ledger book in return, so almost no one deposited anything there.

Therefore, even if we told them to save, it was not something that would be heeded. Even as they received money, they still ate and drank among themselves and nonchalantly demanded things like "Give us more" or "Do something for us." I could not help thinking that what I was doing was extremely minimal—for instance, when giving money, not handing over even a single yen all at once, and when giving clothes, not providing only new ones—and that consequently, it did not exert any particularly harmful influence on their lives.

If I were to give them a hundred yen per capita, they would idle around without working until the money ran out, and once they found themselves in trouble again, they would inevitably come to depend on me, demanding that I do something for them. There was never any end to what needed to be done for them. Even if I were to try to help their livelihoods to the point of struggling to make ends meet myself, they would still try to get something from me. If they thought this was a place that gave them things, they would come swarming in diligently every day.

The townswomen's work had failed as expected, leaving me with this terrifying question: What on earth should I do? This feeling had tormented me even during the Jinsuke incident. Yet back then, I'd held considerable confidence in my actions, which had somewhat bolstered my resolve. But now, I couldn't shake the conviction that what I was doing wasn't truly good at all.

When people show pity or give alms to those weaker than themselves, don't they harbor even a shred of vanity? Of course, those who have attained complete enlightenment about the world may be exceptions, but at least for people of our standing, isn't it nearly impossible to bestow charity upon others with pure selflessness?

When I considered what the townswomen had done, charity appeared in some cases as nothing more than a means through which benefactors freely wielded their own money while reveling in their flourishing power and influence. At the very least, between "those who give" and "those who receive," an unbridgeable gap of power would arise, and from our respective positions, various emotions would inevitably well up. Therefore, no matter how earnestly I strove to be courteous and humble toward them, there must inevitably remain within me somewhere the attitude of "those who give."

I simply cannot become one of them. I know full well that by reaching out from the shore with a bamboo pole to catch things drifting past, I am never truly trying to grasp them while being swept away together.

Even if, on the surface, I went out to the fields, helped with the harvest, sympathized, and felt a certain resonance, I could never become one of them. Then what if I were to drift within that same current myself! In struggling not to drown myself, I would no longer be able to spare a glance for others. Even now, as I extended this bamboo pole from the shore, I had grown weary of it all. To bathe together in that muddy water, clawing desperately until my arms and legs failed me—that this should occur merely once in my entire life was too wretched.

So, how can I truly become humble and courteous, and what must I do to eliminate these current complaints and fears? I ended up feeling utterly wretched.

Somewhere, "What's become of your flower garden? At least some sprouts should've come up by now!"

I also felt as if I were being ridiculed.

But I am stubbornly persistent. I simply cannot "abandon" things, settle down quietly, and then forget about it all the next moment.

Therefore, I could not resign myself to thinking "The world is just like that anyway!" and so I always harbored complaints, sorrows, and hardships—receiving strange sympathy from "wise people" as a result.

Even now, I could not resign myself to thinking, "It's nothing—just that I'm small!"

Though I was indeed one who emitted only a tiny, thin voice while mumbling about something or other, I keenly felt that there must be something tremendously good right nearby—something so good that it was growing impatient waiting for seekers to find it, yet remained undiscovered. Truly, in trying to seek that something beyond the single layer that was merely being felt, I was widening my eyes, moving my hands, and straining my ears intently.

While I was assailed by these newly surging hopes, the village bustled with that absurd liveliness that always came before its relapse into poverty.

At the edge of the village stood a single liquor store. Until then, it had never thrived particularly well, but recently its customers had multiplied abruptly. Come evening, farmers returning from the fields would cluster around figures like Isshou—the cooper nicknamed after a sake measure—and Jinsuke with his sons, gathering at its heart. They hauled benches out front and sang and danced with such boisterous vigor while smoldering mosquito repellent that even women and children from nearby came to linger at the edges, cooling themselves as they watched.

Zenbaka was always subjected to cruel pranks as entertainment during their drinking.

That evening too, as usual, the liquor store was in an uproar. Amidst those lying on benches and flapping fans to swat mosquitoes drawn by the scent of sake, Mr. Shin was uncharacteristically present among them. Amidst everyone clamoring with their chatter—picking at pickles, passing around cups, badmouthing the townswomen and spouting nonsensical banter—Mr. Shin sat silently, staring at his cup where a mosquito had drowned. “Oh, so Mr. Shin was really here after all. You’re being too damn quiet—I’d almost forgotten you were here! Hey! Have a drink. Get drunk and the whole world’ll open up wide for ya!”

Mr.Shin did not even attempt to drink the sake.

However, mingled with the guilt of having neglected him until now, everyone suddenly started saying all sorts of things to Mr. Shin. They urged him forcefully—"Don't worry about those monster beans! Go play somewhere else on your own!"—while berating him with remarks like, "Just throw out that demon granny who doesn't even treat her own child as a child!"

Jinsuke swung his fist around, “If you just say yes, I won’t keep quiet.”

he went so far as to say. While taking small sips of sake and listening to what everyone was saying, Isshou waited for a lull in the conversation before speaking gravely. “Look here, Mr.Shin. “You’re actin’ all high ‘n’ mighty thinkin’ your mother’s some kinda god or buddha, but that’s your first mistake. “Whether it’s your momma or anyone else’s mother—they’re all women. “There ain’t no difference ‘tween women nowhere in the world. “Even the bad ones ain’t no different. “If you’re gonna be a nuisance, I’ll boot you out!”

“That’s right, ain’t it?” “But startin’ a big parent-child squabble like this—you can’t face your old man.” “If we’d just keep our mouths shut, that’d settle it all, huh?” “We ain’t got no intention of doin’ such things.” “That’s why you’ve got Buddha-nature—a once-in-a-lifetime innate quality, huh?” “It’s exactly what your dead father said—I’m tellin’ ya.” “From that angle, you’re the real scoundrel here, Isshou.”

From nearby, Jinsuke interjected. "Honestly now. A scoundrel like you’s got his future pretty much set in stone." "You lot actin’ like this now, spoutin’ such nonsense?" "Damn right!" "Look—hell’s already clingin’ right to our sides." "Ain’t nowhere else for us to go, damn it all!" Isshou pointed to his wife—a former barmaid—who was sitting beside him trying to eat some pickles.

“Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!” “When you get all high-and-mighty and start spoutin’ nonsense—that’s what makes it so damn terrifying!” “That’s right—this high-and-mighty feelin’s only good while we’re stuck in this shaba world, eh Mr.Shin? What happens after we die? Like we’d know!” “After this, let it all be fields and hills… yeah!” “Hey! Show us your stuff!” “Huh?” “How ‘bout it? Show us your moves!” The crowd erupted into raucous cheers. Mr.Shin laughed strangely.

“This is entertainin’! I wanna see you dance! You!” When Jinsuke’s child staggered to his feet, from the opposite direction came Zenbaka, also slightly drunk. With this, everything became just as lively as before.

He was called by everyone and made to drink two or three more cups. “You’re real chummy with us, huh? Zen! Ain’t you gonna dance? This’ll be entertainin’!” Jinsuke’s son dragged Zenbaka around the bench while pulling his earlobe. “This is damn good! Now, dance! I’ll make you drink more!” “Dance already, your partner’s willin’!” “Ha ha ha ha!” “There! He’s dancing! He’s dancing!” Jinsuke’s child, his simple mind shattered by alcohol, became like a madman.

Stripped to the waist and with straw sandals on both hands, he began dancing while striking Zenbaka’s entire body and shouting incomprehensible things. “Hey! This is damn good!”

“There we go, come on! You got that? “Sing now!” “There! In our fields, yooou… “There! Step to it!…” “Wahahahaha!” “Ha ha ha ha! That’s the stuff!” “There! Steady now, steady!” Zenbaka, while being struck with wet slaps from Jinsuke’s son’s straw sandals, grabbed his kimono hem with both hands and began dancing—starting with his feet in rough, scraping steps.

Sixteen

A week quickly passed since the townswomen came. And then, the village gradually began settling back into its original gloomy poverty. As work in the fields grew increasingly urgent, the bench at the sake shop naturally became desolate, and petty quarrels dwindled. However, as the townswomen's legacy, Zenbaka had turned into a full-blown alcoholic. This was likely because he became everyone's plaything and was made to drink everywhere. We came to see his slovenly drunk body—caked in mud and drenched in sweat—staggering around the village from morning till night.

He would enter any house without hesitation, “Gimme some booze!”

he begged. There was not a single house along the village road that he did not pester for alcohol. Yet in most homes, they would give him water mixed with just a drop or two of liquor; still he would grow happily drunk.

One afternoon, we were sitting by the veranda of the tearoom, grinding walnuts.

Then, from the direction of the cultivated fields, a man swung around and slunk in through the garden gate. Startled, I looked and saw it was Zenbaka. I felt an inexplicable unease and shuffled a little further back into the room. As my grandmother, who had been inside, and the others came out and watched Zen standing silently in the garden—half in disgust and half in curiosity—after a while, he began to speak in a low voice, quite clearly: “Gimme some booze!” he said. The maid promptly stood up and left, returning with water faintly scented with alcohol in a chipped rice bowl. And then, stretching out her hand from a distance,

“There. I’ll leave it right here.” and placed it for him at the edge of the veranda. Zenbaka snatched the bowl as if pouncing the moment the maid’s hand began to withdraw—or perhaps even before it had fully retreated. Then, huffing through his nose and making his Adam’s apple bob with each gulp, he drank every last drop before thoroughly licking the bowl clean. He remains standing there indefinitely, holding the empty bowl. "The maid said, 'He’s filthy—let’s drive him out quickly,' but Grandmother insisted that if you treated a madman or such harshly, they would surely take 'revenge' (あた) later, and so let him stay."

I gazed intently at Zenbaka’s face for the first time in ages. Today he appeared oddly presentable—far neater than usual, neither particularly foul-smelling nor unkempt. Yet the characteristically disjointed movements of his limbs and unsettling eye motions peculiar to the mentally ill seemed more pronounced than ever. He had grown utterly emaciated compared to before, his cheeks sunken into hollows. Wrinkles now creased his face abundantly, his whole body weakened. Clearly the constant state of agitation from perpetual drinking had exacted its price.

How pitiful! What would we do if he were to become violent? I was vaguely recalling stories I had heard from my mother about lunatics in Hokkaido. Then suddenly Zenbaka, grinning slyly, "I wanna eat... I wanna eat so bad..." he muttered. The way he said it was so childlike that we all burst out laughing. However, I—together with the maid—heaped rice along with vegetables simmered at noon and pickles into a bowl, then placed it once more at the edge of the veranda.

He immediately took it. Then he plopped down on the ground, placed it between his legs, and began eating with both hands. Staring fixedly at the bowl’s contents, he wolfed it down like a starving mountain dog, shoveling the food into his mouth. As I watched, I became wretched myself. He looked even more pitiful than a beast. If one were to be born as such a pitiful human, who could say how much happier it might have been to have been born a cat instead. For him—and for those around him too—that would have been far better, I earnestly thought. And unable to bear watching any longer, I turned away and began grinding walnuts once more. From the crackling shells that split open, I extracted pale yellow kernels and crushed them in the grinding mill.

After a while, Zenbaka finished eating and seemed to stand up. And then, staggering under the weight of the empty, chipped bowls and dishes in both hands, his retreating figure heading back toward the cultivated fields—I watched him go, clinging to the handle of the millstone, with an indescribable heaviness in my heart. Autumn-like, gentle afternoon sunlight quietly drifted over his bushy head.

Due to the heat, mental strain, and inadequate care, Mr. Shin’s illness worsened drastically when the season changed.

His entire body swollen to the point where even standing brought agony, yet finding it unbearable to stay home and endure his mother’s harsh words, Mr.Shin would drag his lame leg through the woods while lost in thought—and whenever the villagers saw him like this, they would whisper among themselves with genuine pity, saying they wished they could somehow make things right for him. However, in the past two or three days, he had become unable to even do this, so he now spent most of his time lying in a dim, four-and-a-half-mat room where sunlight barely reached.

From right in front of the room, stretching over the mulberry fields and across the vegetable plots, beyond them lay a cemetery enveloped by woods that could be seen.

Mr.Shin lay with his arm for a pillow, feeling a prickly, itchy numbness in the soles of his feet as if jabbed by a bundle of needles while gazing quietly. The sound of trees' tender leaves rustling under raw sunlight and the babbling of the nearby ditch stream each resonated deep within his heart—stirring ineffable yearnings and overwhelming him with helplessness until tears welled up. Dad is there in the shadow of that grove.

When Mr.Shin thought this, memories from when his father had still been alive came back to him like a distant dream. When he remembered how happy they had been—how they had reverently worshipped Lord Sun in those days when his father, so hale and kind-hearted that early death seemed unimaginable, would carry him piggyback through peach orchards urging "Eat all you want!" during his seventh and eighth years—he felt a nostalgia so fierce it made him want to tear through time itself.

And yet in this vast world where we were mother and child with only each other, when he thought about how they kept misunderstanding one another over incomprehensible matters these days, and considered his illness now surely beyond recovery, he felt there was truly no worth left in living. If me being here gets in Mother's way, I'd leave right this instant—but since I'll die soon anyway, how happy I'd be if just once she'd call me "Shin!" like she did seven years ago!

Mr.Shin vividly recalled the circumstances when，while staying with a man named Tokizo in Hokkaido，a nineteen-year-old comrade had suddenly fallen ill and died in just three days. That man，until the day he died， “Mom! Mother，why haven’t you come? I’ve been waiting，Mom!”

While saying this, he spoke endlessly of his gentle mother—who from his birth until their parting had never once raised her voice—and nothing else. And then, at the critical moment, he opened wide the eyes he had kept closed and stretched both arms to their fullest extent, "Mom!" When he had shouted this so clearly and finally breathed his last, that piercing voice and those emaciated hands remained etched in Mr.Shin's eyes.

No matter where one perishes—in mountain wilds or field margins—how truly fortunate are those who can cry "Mom!" in their final moments. Mr.Shin was earnestly contemplating his own death.

On a particularly sweltering day, Mr.Shin had been so weakened since morning that he couldn’t even move. While swatting away the swarming flies and gazing with clouded eyes at the endlessly vast sky stretching high above, it struck him with sudden clarity—he truly felt he could no longer go on living. Mr.Shin, laughing oddly while fidgeting restlessly and stroking his face, “Mom!”

“Mom!” he called in a gentle voice. The sound of water at the back door ceased, and with her hands still wet, Mother entered wearing a stern expression. “What?” “I know you’re busy, but won’tcha sit a spell an’ talk? I really gotta tell ya somethin’.” “What? Spit it out already.”

“C’mon, sit for a bit.” “We really got so much we wanna talk about.” Mr.Shin gazed intently at his mother’s seemingly angry face with eyes filled with calm affection. And then, he smiled quietly and moved his head. “Hey, Mom! “We... there’s somethin’ we gotta discuss with you...” “………” “If we go and say somethin’ like this outta nowhere, Mom—might put you off—but we figure we’re beyond savin’ now.” “So, decide on someone to handle the household work proper soon—anyone’ll do.” “Just pick whoever you think’s good—we figure that’s best.”

Mother made a strange face but suddenly shouted in a loud voice. "What’re you sayin’ with that damn sarcasm to provoke me?!" "Quit meddlin’ in what don’t concern ya and stay put, you fool!" "Do you think we don’t understand what’s in your heart?" "Come on, don’t get so mad, Mom!" "It ain’t sarcasm or nothin’—we just said what we was thinkin’." "...When we think about how it was before we ever went to Hokkaido... makes now feel so damn hard." "We’ve been thinkin’ of stickin’ by you through thick and thin." "No matter what happens—won’t you just lay everything you’re thinkin’ bare to us?" "Hey Mom—we can’t go on livin’ much longer... That’s what he wished." "Won’t you remember the old times?"

“What’re you tryin’ to threaten me with?!” “It ain’t no use.” “You think I’m gonna fall for your tricks? Do ya?” “Go wash your damn face and come back with some sense!” “That’s not it, Mom! “No matter how I try—with this body I just can’t do it—ain’t that how it is?” “I just want to die.” “Please, let me part ways with you like we did in the old days—won’t you, Mom?” “Even this recent bean business—I just can’t wrap my head around it.” “So it don’t make sense—what of it?” “I don’t understand a damn thing you’re sayin’.” “Idiot!” “Having a son who tries to paint his own mother as the villain—that’s my cursed fate.” “This ain’t funny.” “Go on and say whatever you want then.” “If I end up the only villain here, you’d be just thrilled, wouldn’t ya, hey!” “You’d be thrilled, wouldn’t ya!”

she began shedding tears hysterically.

Mr. Shin watched this scene with a look of resignation, remaining silent, but soon took out a money belt from beneath his futon,

“Mom! “It’s just a tiny bit left, but I’m leavin’ this with you.” “Use it to cover what’s needed.” “Ain’t no use me holdin’ onto it anyhow.”

and thrust it against his mother’s lap. Mother’s eyes lit up slightly. And then, looking slightly awkward, “Is that so.” As she said this and promptly took it, stood up, and began leaving with satisfaction, Mr.Shin watched her go, smiled happily, and closed his eyes. “Mom! “You ain’t a bad person either.” “But we can’t take it no more.” “Remembering the old days is painful, ain’t it, Mom!” “What a harmonious pair we’d been, weren’t we?”

From Mr.Shin’s eyes spilled a waterfall of tears. The sound of stifled, anguished sobs echoed sorrowfully through the quiet room.

Seventeen

Encompassing the various events occurring in a small unnamed village far removed from the city, autumn arrived just as it had last year, and the same as it had a hundred years before.

The autumn climate that had become evident in the mountain ranges and the leaves of trees clashed against the lingering vestiges of summer still remaining here and there, and the weather over these past two or three days was exceedingly foul.

Rain clouds drifted across the vast expanse of the sky, and the unpleasant humidity tangled with the lukewarm swirls of the south wind beneath the sagging clouds. The sunlight, often obscured, gilded the edges of dull-hued layered clouds and etched onto the parched ground—in crisp, unharmonious forms—the shadows of trees, houses, and the dark-purple mountain range.

A wind crawling slantwise from the mountains suddenly whipped up a swirl of sand, and the heavy-headed crops swayed with a dreary rustling... swish... as they undulated across the fields. From the dark indigo sky visible through gaps in the clouds, thin bolts of lightning occasionally flashed, while deep within, low thunder rumbled with a continuous drone. All things passed with ferocious intensity from dawn till dusk.

That day brought particularly fierce weather, and when evening came, a terrifying wind began to blow, so the farmers were all assailed by intense anxiety. The fact that all crops now striving to complete their final growth encountered rough winds and were battered by heavy rain was a distressing matter. And so, they busied themselves with patrolling the rice paddies and such tasks, while our fields too were sufficiently secured by three tenant farmers—surrounded and fitted with support poles. Having shut ourselves in our rooms early and listening to the sound of the rain outside growing increasingly violent, we all felt somehow uneasy and found ourselves unable to remain settled in our separate rooms.

Everyone in the house gathered in the tearoom. The wind rattled against the shutters, clattering and receding, mingling with the shrill creak of something straining somewhere—and the mournful howl of a terrified stray dog, chilling everyone’s hearts with its eerie intensity, tore away into the distance.

The wind grew gradually stronger. As the pace of clouds racing across the dimly lit sky quickened, the southeastern storm began to blow as though it would not rest until it had felled every last tree and every last house. Sand and dust swirled up in short whirlwinds, scurrying here and there across the deserted road. All the trees thrashed their crowns as if maddened; small branches had their pale bark savagely torn off and sent flying; trunks creaked and groaned in agony while swaying with shrill screams. At the corners of houses, the wind crashed and howled; leaves flipped to reveal their pale undersides were tossed and crushed as they cried out in myriad voices.

——

In the midst of the night’s tempest—as though heaven and earth were being crushed in a single knead of a giant’s palm—a single slender figure calmly settled into place and emerged from the corner of the road.

The black shadow moved calmly through the tumult. How solemn and dignified must that figure have appeared amidst all these cowering surroundings—keeping its head perfectly straight, limbs moving with mechanical precision, walking in measured strides like a puppet being mechanically propelled on some unseen carriage? To the storm that reveled in its cruel pleasures, it was an astonishing act of rebellion. His grown-out hair stood on end; each gust of wind sent it tumbling across his face, while the hem of his kimono flapped noisily against his legs, clinging to them. Yet these things did not seem to hinder him in the slightest, as the figure continued advancing with utmost composure and deliberation.

No matter how much the sand and soil whipped up by the fierce wind struck him, his raised head never lowered, nor did his face turn away. Debris bit into his exposed thin shins, while his kimono—caught in the whirlwind’s vortex—swelled and deflated across his entire body, flapping violently. But he just walked on. He walked with such momentum as if there were no obstacles ahead—or as if any that existed could be effortlessly subdued. And when he came to a bend in the straight road, another black shadow appeared before this mysterious figure.

Amidst the swirling mist of dust and debris, that small, hunched figure—ah, with what frailty did it stagger forth! Indeed, that figure came staggering forward. When a fierce gust of wind swept across the ground with a dreadful roar, the figure—tossed like a plaything among dead leaves, flung upward and downward and jostled in all directions until it staggered about as though about to collapse—paused momentarily before swaying unsteadily once more, moving like someone in a trance with uncertain footing.

The figure—who had been firmly covering their face with both hands while being buffeted back and forth across the entire road—seemed startled by the unexpected sound of approaching footsteps. They withdrew their face from their palms and peered through the swirling curtain of darkness and dust, attempting to see who was coming. How terrifyingly magnificent must the first figure have appeared before the one who had been staggering ceaselessly yet barely managing to endure! The second figure staggered unsteadily into a thicket of trees in a patch of shade.

The second figure had tried to let the shadow pass by. However, for some reason, when the first figure—who until now had been looking only straight ahead—came before that cluster of trees, he abruptly stopped walking. And with intense earnestness, he kept watching the opposite direction. There, though obscured by the branches of many trees, the village office’s lights were twinkling with a conspicuously vivid red glow. The first figure, having focused his entire attention for some time on that single point of light, suddenly leapt up—throwing both hands into the air in a springing motion—and let out an extraordinarily high-pitched, sharp sound that mingled extreme jubilation with astonishment,

“Waaah!!” No sooner had he let out that cry than he started running like a rubber ball. His body bent double, his head—mouth agape and teeth bared—thrust forward, he ran through the swirling sand without blinking, gaze fixed straight ahead. Around him, swift gusts of wind hissed and swished past in fragmented bursts, leaving them behind as he charged onward. The second shadow began shuffling forward once more. The small figure, covering its face with both hands and staggering, became a plaything of the wind as it gradually grew more distant.

Eighteen The midnight gale had brought a sudden downpour as dawn approached. The rain, starting and stopping intermittently, battered the road quite fiercely, leaving several small streams along both sides. In the grooves of the two cart ruts running down the center, brown muddy water gurgled as it flowed away. The farmers were all holed up in their homes, spending their time making straw sandals and twisting ropes, but a group of children who couldn’t bear to stay idle had ventured into the mixed woods at the edge of the village.

There, since early autumn, nameless mushrooms had sprouted in abundance, and occasionally yellow nameko mushrooms would send their little gatherers into raptures with their vibrant appearances. So today too, despite the forbidding weather, the children deliberately began their mushroom-foraging. They all searched desperately. Feeling the stubble of cut miscanthus grass tickling the soles of their bare feet, they pushed deeper and deeper into the woods. Pushing through fallen leaves layered like dampened thin paper, their nails packed with mud, they threw earthworms caught by chance at each other and tickled one another with pine needles as they vied to take the lead. Then the child who had been at the forefront, entering the area behind the woods-adjacent cemetery, abruptly stopped as if suddenly spotting something and peered intently ahead.

Startled by this, the children all rushed over and peered through the swaying treetops at the indicated spot. There—amidst the foliage collapsing like foaming waves—a black cloth with white patterns could be seen flapping like a flag. “What’s that? “The hell’s flappin’ over there?!” “For real—what is that? Should we go look?” “Yeah, for real—good idea. C’mon, go check it out. We’ll wait right here. Hey, Gen!”

“Aw, c’mon, you go check it out.” “We’ll wait right here.” “What? I’m s’posed to go alone?” “No way! I ain’t doin’ that kinda thing! Quit it! Y’all come with me!” “We ain’t wantin’ to go, see. “Ain’t like you brought it up first.” “Right?” “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Damn straight. Ain’t you the one who said to check it? Go check it out!” “You go check it out. We’ll be waitin’ right here!”

The one who had suggested going to look was now completely at a loss. And even when he proposed that whoever lost at rock-paper-scissors (chitchi-no-hō) should go—no matter how vehemently he argued—his companions refused to listen. In the end, it was decided he would take the lead with everyone trailing behind. His small heart strained taut with curiosity and terror, his pulse throbbing loud in his ears. Though every fiber screamed to flee this creeping dread, he resolved that now—having come this far—he must at least feign enough strength to make “those weaklings” gasp in awe. Squaring his shoulders with forced bravado, he marched onward.

But what use was this astonishing warrior's resolve the moment he discovered two bluish human legs swaying limply high up on the red-barked trunk of a pine tree! He turned deathly pale and, leaping back toward his companions, "It's a hanging!"

No sooner had he shouted than he slipped through the tombstones as if kicked and fled toward the main road. At this unexpected cry, how astonished must the other children have been! Forgetting themselves, they let out all manner of screams as they jostled each other along the narrow path, scrambling to flee this unthinkable place. Suddenly, a hush fell over the area—only the groves rustled now. A few stalks of bamboo grass pierced with mushrooms lay discarded beneath the swaying pair of legs, buffeted by the wind.

Led by the children, almost all the village men gathered at the cemetery. Forming a large group, they forced themselves to muster false courage while approaching as if it were all a lie—only to find—what in the world?!

It really was a hanging. A man with his face wrapped in a hand towel hung from a single rope, his head slumped dejectedly as his entire body swayed limply like a broken doll! Through the rain-soaked kimono clinging tightly to his skin, the unnervingly solidified muscles revealed their distinct contours. Clumped in groups of seven or eight strands, his hair stood upright like a brush, leaves and debris clinging to its tips.

They were now struck to the core. “Who on earth is this?” They all tried desperately to recall, but neither the kimono’s pattern nor the body’s shape held any familiarity. Seven years had passed since these farmers last witnessed such a horror—when a peasant woman hanged herself in this very cemetery—and now, confronted with this terror anew, they were utterly at a loss about what to do first or how to proceed. The crowd, having prepared for rain with straw raincoats and conical hats, turned back in silence and stared blankly at the human body being tossed about by the wind as if it were nothing more than a plaything.

Where the red soil had been washed away by the rain, forming numerous striped gullies, lay a kicked-back tree stump splattered with mud and a single sodden straw sandal. Three or four feet above ground, droplets falling from the corpse’s hem had pocked the earth below with countless small, round holes. “We gotta take him down quick.” They all thought the same thing, yet all waited for someone else to speak up. Each time the wind swept through from treetop to treetop with a roar like great waves, the fear that under the weight of that violently swaying body, the thin rope might snap with a crack and send the corpse crashing down in a thud had them all utterly terrified.

The children, who had been acting so triumphant, were utterly astonished by the strange sight of their terrifying fathers and older brothers—who usually hit or scolded them—merely standing there today without lifting a hand. They gathered in a corner, “Even proper-lookin’ adults get scared too, huh…” “Honestly… they really do look scared too, huh…” While whispering such things, they compared the grown-ups and the dead man.

The man’s corpse was taken down only after some time had passed and a policeman and gravedigger had come to the village. The rigid body was placed on a plank, and when someone painstakingly removed the hand towel—now stiffened and difficult to undo from being soaked—one of the men standing nearby instinctively recoiled, “Ain’t this Mr.Shin? Huh? Ain’t this Mr.Shin?!” he cried out in a voice like a madman’s. Suddenly, the surroundings stirred, and many heads peered over shoulders at a single face.

“Good God! “It’s Mr.Shin!” “It’s Mr.Shin! This here’s Mr.Shin!” “Let me see—” “Move aside a bit—let me see.” “Good God!” “Good God Almighty!” “What in blazes has happened here?!” “That ogre of a hag has finally done it—driven such a filial son to this heartless end!” “Drop dead already, you shameless old hag!” They all—with their simple hearts that feared death above all else—became utterly disheartened seeing how Mr.Shin, that kind mother-devoted man who’d been speaking just yesterday, had been reduced to such a pitiful state in mere hours. Their hatred for his mother now knew no bounds. In unison, they praised how Mr.Shin—still in his prime—had remained devoted to his mother despite her cruel treatment.

"If we report her, what kinda criminal charge would that be, I wonder? It ain't even death from assault either…" The spokesperson among them said this with apparent confidence, but the young policeman—seeming inexperienced—just kept flustering about, his voice gone hoarse as he urged them to call the family quick, paying no mind to their talk.

One man promptly rushed toward the waterwheel miller's place, his large straw raincoat rustling noisily as he crossed the fields. Although the waterwheel miller's house appeared small in the distance, the man who had gone there showed no sign of returning. While talking about his father—who, like Mr.Shin himself, had been born with a similarly unassuming nature that made it hard to think ill of him—they occasionally shielded their eyes with their hands and kept watch on figures moving along the farm paths. Because it was taking too long, they were just about to send a second messenger when— From beyond the highway came an old woman running in half-mad frenzy, tumbling headlong as she raced forward.

“Who’s that there?” “She’s running like mad!” “Honestly! For a granny, she’s got one hell of a sprint!”

The one who came sprinting into the midst of the crowd’s attention was Zenbaka’s mother. My, what in the world had gotten her into such a state? Her white hair stood wildly disheveled, and as if unaware that one sleeve of her kimono had been torn off, she gasped hoarsely at her throat... “Well now,” said one villager, “Zen’s ma ain’t here.” “What’s got into ya?” “Why you runnin’ ’round like a headless chicken?” “Who is it?” she demanded hoarsely. “Who done hung ’emselves? Who?” The old woman pushed through them all—her face deathly pale—and tried to tear off the straw mat covering it.

“That’s him.” “Mr.Shin!” “Mr.Shin the waterwheel miller’s come to such a wretched end!”

“Calm yourself down—even if we talk slow, you ain’t gonna get it.”

Everyone tried to calm the trembling old woman. “What’s that? “Mr.Shin? “Mr.Shin the waterwheel miller, is it?”

She let out a disappointed sigh. And then she remained silent for a while, but suddenly furrowed her brow, “We don’t know where our Zen has gone either. Moreover, this morning some fella from who-knows-where came tellin’ us he saw that idiot of yours actin’ all strange by some swamp in the next village…” As she said this, tears streamed down her face. No matter how much they tried to comfort her by sayin’ he couldn’t be dead and she should rest easy, she kept insistin’ somethin’ terrible must’ve happened this time—beggin’ them through her prostration to at least find his corpse.

“If y’all had just tended to ’im proper-like, we wouldn’t be stewin’ like this! But you didn’t even feed ’im right, so we’re scared stiff! If he dies, we’ll put a curse on ya for sure! Please—I’m beggin’ ya like this! Just hear me out!” Everyone finally understood—this weather these past two or three days hadn’t been natural at all.

“Two people kickin’ the bucket in one night—what kinda hell’s breakin’ loose here?” “Some cursed fate from past lives we can’t shake loose—downright bone-chillin’, that.”

“It’s downright terrifying.” “But there ain’t nothin’ we can do with our own strength… Namu Amida Butsu…” “At least let him attain rebirth in paradise, I pray.” Half of the gathered crowd took the old woman with them and plodded gloomily away. Whenever the wind blew, lifting the edges of the straw mat to reveal glimpses of the corpse’s drenched clothes or the tips of its feet, those left behind in the graveyard—keeping watch with solemn hearts—began to think that Mr. Shin, who had endured everything in silence while alive, might now be recounting every last thing he had witnessed and endured to someone—anyone at all—since mere humans could no longer restrain him.

And just as good rewards would come to those who had been kind, so too would terrible retribution—commensurate in scale—seem poised to rain down upon those who had acted cruelly. Moreover, Mr.Shin seemed to possess the power to bring this downpour. "Heaven will surely rain punishment upon you!" These words he had so often repeated now rose vividly in their minds.

Everyone became unbearably guilty and terrified when they realized how poorly they had served Mr.Shin despite his greatness. "Mr.Shin." "You better remember this good—we did pity you alright? But we're poor folk; there just warn't nothin' we coulda done 'bout it."

Toward the unmoving mound of straw mats, each and every heart timidly whispered.

Nineteen

The entire village was in complete chaos. A revolting suicide by hanging! Moreover, that Mr.Shin—who didn't have a single bad quality worth mentioning—would choose such a pitiful way to die...

Moreover, it seemed that even Zenbaka had died. What in the world had happened? Now that things had come to this, that strange weather from days prior appeared indeed to have been an ill omen... They all kept repeating the same words.

And Death comes for people when least expected, claiming those you'd never imagine. The terrifying Death that surely sometimes targeted even them now felt so close at hand that they grew reluctant to even step outside.

When I heard this story, I couldn't bring myself to accept it as real.

Among the people I had known, those who had died up to that day were few enough to count on my fingers. Those who knew me from birth still thought of me as an infant and doted on me. And weren't they robust and working vigorously? Yet both Zenbaka and Mr.Shin—whom I had only truly come to know barely two months prior—were already dead. And so suddenly, so unnervingly...

Until the day before yesterday, I had seen Zenbaka walking about. Until just recently, I had been greeting Mr.Shin with "Good morning. How are you today?"—yet now that same Mr.Shin lay dead, cold and stiffened, about to be buried at any moment.— I thought about my recent life—one where no matter how painful or unbearable things became, I never once considered dying, nor could I even conceive of such a thing. In this vast world, how many hundreds of people must die each day? Ten might die, a hundred might die, a thousand might be dying. Yet amidst this, I live. And yet here I am—healthy, with so much to do and so loved as I live on.

I am incapable of entertaining any pessimistic thoughts. No matter what troubles I encounter—though of course these are mere trifles, these insignificant matters that bubble up and vanish within my small world—I somehow manage to get through them. Rather than thinking of dying, I first think about how to break through. And I have resolved that until my head dries up and grows dull, until there truly remains no meaning in living, I will survive by any means necessary. Therefore, I cannot, no matter what, bring myself to abandon my life as women of old did.

As long as my life has meaning, I cannot die.

But right here beside me, two people lay dead like this. And yet, hadn't they both died in such unnatural ways? What if I had gone to that woods that night and tried to stop Mr.Shin as he sought to die?

I would desperately try to stop him. I would tell him to recover and work again. But could I truly claim to have saved him then? To me, no matter how I look at it, it was nothing more than having pulled Mr.Shin away from that tree branch at that moment—wasn’t it? I cannot live my life protecting Mr.Shin’s entire existence. I cannot keep providing constant encouragement year-round. And even if he were treated a little, given some money, and thrust back into this poor, harsh, and lonely world—what would there be to rejoice about?

"I was saved. But what am I supposed to do? I don’t want this at all—to be kept alive just to suffer more than before and writhe in agony! You may find satisfaction in having saved one person and delight in it forever, but I will always have to regret thinking, ‘If only I had died then.’" Truly, even if I had saved Mr.Shin back then, unless I could have ensured he lived his entire life strong and free from oppression, it would have amounted to nothing.

Is it not that I—dominated by the conventional sentiment that those who try to die must be saved—satisfy my own heart before even considering that person’s entire life? When I arrived at this thought, everything up until now seemed to crumble in jagged fragments.

When I think about it, wasn't most of what I'd done until now just feeding a heart starved to bestow charity? I gave them clothes, gave them money, gave them food, sympathized—but what meaning did any of that hold for their entire lives? If I'd truly wrapped them in great love and tried to lift them up with deep compassion, I could have kept Mr.Shin from dying! I could have kept Zenbaka from becoming a drunkard. ——

But they were about to die and be buried before I could manage to do anything. Truly, even as I did nothing at all, everything that needed doing had already been neatly wrapped up. It had never once crossed my mind that I might empower Mr.Shin to recognize the preciousness of his own life. I cannot truly love them. Nor can I love them! What should I do? Though I have ultimately failed, how this very hope—that I must do something for them—fills me with wretched despair!

In your eyes, I was but a mere speck of a human being. To you all, I may have done many things that were displeasing or foolish. I, solely out of concern for you all, thoroughly smashed to pieces what had been revered until now as so-called charity and acts of kindness done for appearances. I drove them away. But where is there anything I can give in return?

My hands are empty. I have nothing. This small, pitiful me is truly at a loss, bewildered, and can do nothing but mutter, "What on earth should I do?"

But please don't hate me. I will surely seize upon something before long. I will find something—no matter how small—that we can rejoice over together. Please wait until then. Stay strong and keep working! My sorrowful dear friends! I will study even through tears. I will strive with all my might. And how joyous it would be if we could share a truly unreserved smile—even at the very moment of our deaths! How greatly would Heaven itself rejoice?

How my beloved Heaven, who nurtures me, would say "Good, good!"! That good Heaven…

Zenbaka’s corpse was found at night.

In a swamp at the edge of the neighboring village, he had drowned while clutching a dog. A multitude of tiny shrimp were said to be weaving through the strands of lengthened hair—entering and exiting.