Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Miyamoto Yuriko

In Lieu of a Preface

Mr. C.

Mr.C—within that *The Small Spring*— “O Master,O Master, how many times must we fall— must we rise again? Seven times?”

Do you recall the teacher’s words that answered the disciple’s question—the one that said,

“Nay! “Even if you fall seventy times sevenfold, “Yet thou must rise again.” Being told this, I had lately come to profoundly feel the preciousness of disciples who could rise again. First and foremost, those who could fall were strong.

The strength to push through relentlessly to the point of collapse—how splendid and precious I consider it to be. If I fall this time—if I fall now—this might truly be the end. But I cannot help but go. A heart that cannot rest without going. Truly thudding, Truly thudding, thudding—the greatness of those who walk with their true “own feet,” fall with their true “own bodies,” and yet rise again by themselves—is it not something infinitely awe-inspiring?

As someone still untempered in spirit and cowardly at heart—how greatly did I fear that I might shrink my stride from one shaku to eight or even seven sun, cowering spinelessly while shuffling forward with tentative steps? I had already taken two steps forward. This manner of stepping—for me now, poised to take my third—was by no means something heart-leaping with joy, nor of course anything remotely satisfactory from the outset.

But there is something within me that cannot help but keep walking about. No matter how much I am laughed at or scorned, I have no choice but to advance along my path with all my might, as long as I live. I, who am always, always tormented by my own pettiness and weakness—how many times must I fall? That is something I do not know.

But I do so wish to become someone who can fall. I long to become someone who can fall with a ground-shaking crash. And then, even if I am wounded no matter how grievously—when I can find something to hold onto and rise again—when I can look up at that vast, boundless sky and smile from the heart—! At that very moment, Mr. C—please nod in heartfelt agreement by my side.

March 17, 1917 Author

I

Along the north-south thoroughfare running through the village stood a farmhouse. The interior of this house—filthy enough to be better described as some creature’s nest rather than a human dwelling—was exceedingly dark due to its few windows. In the dirt-floored entryway of about ten square meters, household tools were strewn about, and from the sweltering coop above the beams came the clucking of a brooding hen. On the log-branch ladder for chickens descending along the wall—its steps smeared white and yellow with droppings and molted feathers—a scrawny rooster perched for a moment, keeping watch over the hen in the ceiling.

Amidst all things squalid, stinking, and impoverished, three boys gathered around the hearth, waiting in exhausted anticipation for their food to finish cooking. One of them, extending the hand that had been tucked under his head, stirred the feeble fire with a smoldering branch and let out a sigh. One of them, flapping his thin legs restlessly as if the wait were interminable, stole glances into the pot—from which not even steam had yet risen—and at his brothers’ faces. Yet not a single one of them spoke; with utmost intensity, their wild eyes gleaming, they remained focused solely on the potatoes about to boil before them.

With their robust imaginations conjuring the color, shape, and smell of what they would soon eat, their dormant salivary glands were suddenly awakened; saliva oozed thickly from the roots of their tongues, and the flesh beneath their cheeks ached as if they might weep. While enduring what felt like aching heads, they audibly gulped again and again, their throats rasping in unison. The children were hungry all year round. They, who had never once known the feeling of a full stomach, were ceaselessly assailed by the craving of “I want to eat, I want to eat” from dawn till dusk, and when it came to food, they lost all semblance of their true selves and devoured greedily.

Even now, all three of them—each identically thinking, *If only we could eat this many potatoes all by ourselves*—profoundly felt how their brothers, who ought to have been indispensable in ordinary times, became nothing but nuisances in moments like these. So absorbed were they that they never noticed the chickens thrusting their beaks through rips in the straw bags to peck at the rice grains—the very grains their father had sternly warned them never to waste even a single one of, lest he knock their eyes out.

The chickens and the children were each completely preoccupied with their own food. Just then, the stray dog that had been fixedly watching this scene from the entrance suddenly lunged into the flock of chickens with terrifying force, like a stone. The flock of chickens, utterly entranced by the rare taste of rice, must have been utterly terrified by this unexpected enemy assault! *Cock-a-ock-ock-ock, Cock-a-ock-ock-ock*—ear-piercing screeches. The sound of their frantic, futile wing-flapping shook the air throughout the house, and the once-settled dust scattered in all directions.

The commotion was so intense that the dog itself 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 its thin skin quivered and heaved.

At this sudden turn of events, all the children stood up. And then, the eldest child—as soon as he lifted the tree stump blazing fiercely in the hearth’s flames—hurled it at the dog with all his might. The thrown stump, spewing flickering flames, tumbled near the dog’s hind legs with a loud crash and a shower of sparks; letting out a low yelp of surprise, the dog stretched its body out and fled out of the house in one bound.

The fire in the tree stump went out, and with a whooshing sound, thick smoke began to rise. Amidst this brief commotion, the time they had been waiting for crawled by excruciatingly slowly. But when at last a joyous gurgling sound began rising from the pot, their faces suddenly brightened, and smiling eyes lifted the lid again and again to peer inside. After a short while, the eldest brother brought over bowls still caked here and there with remnants of the morning's food and lined them up by the hearth. Now these steaming potatoes with their heart-soaring fragrance were about to be divided.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. He had been dividing them in turns when suddenly seized by an impulsive temptation so strong it erased all sense of consequence. Darting a glance at their faces, he hurled an extra potato into his own bowl with tremendous speed during the split-second interval of placing one into his brothers’ bowls. And then, just as he was casually about to begin the next round,

“Bro, what about us?” At that moment, the younger brother whose turn it was shouted in a defiant voice. The next brother imitated him and pressed forward toward the eldest brother, thrusting out his bowl. The eldest brother, vexed by his own blunder and wearing a look of bitter frustration, tossed another small piece into the proffered bowl. However, the younger brother who had first noticed [the discrepancy], after intently scrutinizing his own [portion] and his elder brother’s,

“We’re sick of this!” “You’re the one who’s got more!” As soon as he said this, he immediately thrust out his chopsticks, aiming to stab the plump, round one from his elder brother’s bowl. Without letting him utter a word, the child’s face was struck three, four times in rapid succession by his elder brother’s open hand. He burst into tears as if ignited. And then, baring his teeth and clenching his fists, he lunged at “the one who thought to eat an extra potato.” For some time, the three of them remained entangled in a three-way melee, crying and shouting as their fierce fight of hitting and kicking continued. In the end, they grappled so fiercely that they even forgot why they had started such a commotion and what they had meant to achieve, but as they gradually grew exhausted, they also grew sick of hitting each other. With an air of deflation, each of them stood apart where they pleased, mutually ill at ease yet still acting defiant as if to say they hadn’t lost, all while staring at the precious potatoes that had spilled out unnoticed—some crushed, others rolled into ashes.

Though they all wanted to eat quickly and gather them right away yet hesitated to boldly reach out, the child who had started the fight spoke in a suppressed whisper,

“We should eat.” He started picking up the spilled ones.

Taking this as their cue, the others also hurriedly began picking them up. And when they counted them once more, their tempers now completely cooled, and they began to suck slowly and deliberately on each irreplaceable treasure in their bowls.

This is an incident that occurred in the home of a tenant farmer named Jinsuke, who had a landlord in town and worked the landlord’s fields.

II Just at that moment, I was out in the field behind Jinsuke’s hut. As I wandered over there, I unexpectedly caught sight of the children’s commotion and watched with keen interest from the shade of a nearby tree. And so I ended up witnessing everything—from the potatoes to the fight. At first, I had thought it all merely disgusting and wretched, but gradually it grew terrifying, until finally I became overwhelmed with pity.

How much power did those potatoes hold over them? If it were within my power, I even felt like feeding them until they grew sick of it—but in the end, I found myself utterly defeated by my own fierce curiosity that demanded I try to get closer to those children.

I tried to quickly go in alone, but somehow felt awkward.

Even though they were just children, I somehow felt ill at ease. And so, while wishing someone would come to take me along, I stood there vacantly. From the back door, I could clearly see the children rolling potatoes in their mouths and peering into each other’s bowls. Just at the right moment, an elderly relative of Jinsuke’s—who lived nearby and made daily rounds to check on the house left in the care of only children—came from the other side as usual, wearing nothing but a single tattered hand towel around her waist.

I promptly asked the elderly relative. And so, for the first time, I entered Jinsuke’s house. The entire place was more filthy and stank worse than I had imagined. As I stood at the entrance surveying the interior, the elderly relative—wearing a puzzled expression—busied herself energetically attending to the children who were staring fixedly in my direction, her voice lively as she fussed over them in various ways. “Did your dad go to the fields again today? “You brats stay put and mind the house.” “I’ll get you more cannonball candy (cheap sweets), okay?”

And yet, even as she strove to elicit some response from the children—who remained obstinately silent no matter what she said—their shameless stares persisted unbroken, not a single word passing their lips. As they all stared at me with hate-filled eyes, I gradually began to feel that perhaps I shouldn’t have come. Though the elderly relative kept pitying them and tried every which way to mediate, the children paid no heed whatsoever to such efforts, persisting in what she called “being bashful”—a stubborn silence.

I couldn't understand at all why the children remained so stubbornly silent. Feeling somewhat pushed aside yet forcing a smile, I asked the eldest child: "Where are your father and mother? You must be lonely?" No sooner had I spoken than the middle child - who had somehow slipped behind me - let out an ear-splitting voice,

“Waaah!” he jeered. I was utterly shocked and simultaneously felt such a churning disgust in my chest that it sickened me. But once again, I repeated. “You must be so lonely, with no one here.” I was angry, but I still had enough composure left to pity them. I wanted to offer even a single kind word to these children who lived in poverty year-round and were growing up so wretchedly. But despite that, “We don’t need your damn help—!”

An unexpected voice of furious abuse—one sharp enough to convulse my very soul—was hurled at me. I felt a dizzying sensation behind my eyes. In an instant, it seemed as though everything that had happened until now was all a lie. I stood there, unable to do anything at all. But when my mind calmed even slightly, an inexplicable rage and shame surged up so violently that I couldn’t stay still—the chaotic tumult of these wildly discordant emotions made me feel physical pain as though my body were being wrenched apart.

I must be tolerant. The vanity of trying to maintain the composure of one who stood above them lashed at this heart rendered utterly cowardly. But my head lay emptied of all capacity for judgment, teeth clattering uncontrollably. At this unforeseen development, the old woman fell into complete disarray. While roughly yanking the children's hands to force them down, she fixed me with a look of apology—

“We’ll be goin’ now, ma’am. They don’t know nothin’ ’bout manners or nothin’. Well, sorry ’bout that.”

She stood up. I too thought all I could do now was leave. As I turned my back on the children and walked ahead of the elderly relative, I recalled those hate-filled eyes fixed upon me. When 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 scalding tears welled up until they brimmed at the edges of my eyelids.

I walked dejectedly along the path lined with cedar trees. I was trudging along slowly, unable to bear anyone seeing my face or speaking to me, when suddenly a small stone came flying from behind with a whizzing sound, bounced at my feet, and tumbled into the grass nearby. The moment the whizzing sound struck my eardrum, I reflexively twisted around to look and saw the children still crowded together right in front of Jinsuke’s house nearby.

When I turned around, the older child raised the small stone he held in his hand and made a threatening gesture. While keeping my eyes on the children, I slowly edged closer to the shade of a cedar tree, trying to prevent a second assault. I clung to the thick, rough-barked cedar trunk, and without knowing why, large tears began streaming down my face.

III What have I done?!

When I recalled that scene, my face burned crimson of its own accord. Why did I have to suffer such disgrace? Had what I said to them been wrong? I could only affirm that I had certainly said nothing wrong. I had meant it sympathetically. I had genuinely believed they must be lonely. There hadn't been the slightest falsehood in me. Hadn't I been completely sincere from start to finish?

I simply couldn’t comprehend their feelings. Therefore, my anger toward those insults only grew stronger and deeper. I am not someone to be scorned by the likes of you all! Even though I spoke to them kindly, they threw stones—how could that be right? I truly detested those children. And then, imagining how—as usual—that incident would soon become the talk of the village, with my pitifully small and ridiculous self being dragged about as fodder for those mud-caked peasants’ mockery, I felt such an urge to crush it all at once—both that incident and those children—that it nearly overwhelmed me. I felt so disgusted I couldn’t even eat.

However, when evening drew near, the fact that a tenant farmer named Nita came and spoke with me for nearly two hours gave me the germ of a certain thought.

He was a poor tenant farmer working at our family’s field—located two ri away in the next village—and was said to be so destitute that whenever he came, he never failed to bring some request. As I gazed at his emaciated body and listened to his manner of speaking—which suggested he had resigned himself to believing everything was simply fate—I suddenly remembered Jinsuke.

Jinsuke was, after all, a tenant farmer like this Nita. Oh, they were indeed the children of such pitiable tenant farmers! This realization gradually stripped from my heart those various resentments and other feelings.

But later, I would have to think carefully—for a sorrowful feeling had taken deep root. Had those boys been watching all this time—seeing for whom their parents had been working? What manner of people are these, who impatiently wait for their harvest only to haul away the rice bales without a shred of compassion or mercy? As they gradually began to observe and hear about the realities of the world, coming to understand adult life, the hearts of those boys were likely filled with sympathy for their parents and with hatred and suspicion toward those who always possessed far more clothing and food than they did, who carried themselves differently and spoke in different ways.

Isn't it those people—the ones always using smooth-talking voices, wearing sleek kimonos, being fawned over by crowds—who make our precious parents suffer and spill tears? They—having been half-intuitively taught that behind kind-seeming words lie ambushes, and having heard endlessly that "ya can't lower yer guard round town folk"—had no reason to trust me just because I suddenly appeared speaking gentle words.

In their heads, first and foremost, resentment flashed.

“There you go again with your smooth-talking shit!”

And so, to drive out this hateful little intruder as quickly as possible, "We don't need your fuckin' help!" they shouted.

They already knew that so-called kindness was never just kindness. They knew full well how bitter poverty was, and they felt a fervent sympathy for their parents—a sympathy intensified by raw affection and a rebellious spirit that united them against their enemy. Compared to them, who were dimly yet earnestly striving to grasp true life, how simplistic my own heart was! How timidly, how extravagantly swollen it had become!

I had been wrong. I had been wrong in regard to that entire group of poor people. I had been kind. But I had held a degree of self-respect and contempt for them. And the more I thought of myself as someone who had distanced and removed myself from them, could I deny that I had felt a kind of relief and pride—though it was an exceedingly, exceedingly small thing, so slight as to go unnoticed? Had I never once thought myself superior to them?

Of course, I don’t think I possess such foolish sentiments as to consciously act arrogantly, but the fact that I had come to regard unwarranted self-abasement and deference as mere habit over time was terrifying. What difference could there be between us and them in being human beings created to live?

How could we possibly scorn them when considering that it is precisely the foundation of our own lives—lives free from material suffering to some degree—that forces them to live in such impoverished and wretched conditions!

How could we return their weary gazes with haughty glances! We had to become their honest and sincere sympathizers. The world is unequal. If a genius emerges, more idiots must be born. To forge a prosperous few, multitudes must surely linger on starvation’s edge—living and dying in hunger. It is precisely because the world is unequal—precisely because the rich and the poor are parallel lines that can never converge—that we must stand as their sympathizers.

The emergence of the rich on one hand and the pitiable poor on the other is a force of the universe. However wealthy and prosperous one may be, they hold not a single right to act arrogantly toward the poor. Thus, I swore to myself. I recalled. I will quickly fill that loathsome ditch between myself and them and make a beautiful garden flourish without fail!

IV

I felt that a reform of my own life was extremely necessary. And while filled with various thoughts, I reflected on my circumstances up to that day.

Our ancestors were the pioneers of this K Village. The small village, situated over 250 miles from the capital and surrounded by mountains, ranked among the poorest even within Fukushima Prefecture’s villages. In the early years of the Meiji era, this newly reclaimed land—which my grandfather had devoted half his life to cultivating—was formed into a village by immigrants from various provinces. People from both the south and the north, lured by the name of newly opened land, came gathering here after abandoning their homelands, all while dreaming of happiness. Yet there, these pitiful people not only failed to achieve the success they had hoped for but were forced into even harsher struggles than before; by then, having grown old and lost the courage to move elsewhere, they had no choice but to end their lives as tenant farmers in the town. Therefore, they have remained poor from past to present, unchanged.

Not only that—recently, since K Town, located about a quarter of a *ri* [~0.6 km] away, became a branch point of the Iwakoshi Line, the entire state of things had drastically changed, and this village too was no small exception to its effects. And then, as the urban-style sharp sense of profit and loss—gradually seeping into the farmers’ hearts—mixed with the various inherent traits they had carried since childhood, their daily life grew more hurried and prone to stagnation. The state of the village could by no means be said to be favorable. The disharmony at the boundary of transitioning from a long-maintained state to a new one rendered the whole exceedingly impoverished and unstable.

However, my grandfather had passed away seventeen or eighteen years prior and saw nothing of how the immigrants had begun settling into the village as life gradually became easier. He built a house on the village’s high ground—generally satisfied—lived there with his wife, tended to the farmland, composed poems he enjoyed, and thus ended his days. And so, the grandmother who remained behind continued living in the house he left behind, upholding the deceased’s aspirations, overseeing the farmland, and keeping her distance from a changing world.

Having spent the entire year in Tokyo, I had formed the habit of visiting my grandmother’s house in K Village every summer. And for about two months, I would lead a life unimaginable to Tokyoites.

I was known by nearly everyone in the village. When people brought vegetables and fruits upon hearing that the young lady from Tokyo had arrived, I had to distribute souvenirs to them one by one. From morning onward, I listened to tenant farmers' complaints and consulted about reducing their tax rice. And since haggling was such a nuisance, when I quickly persuaded Grandmother to grant their requests, they would praise us as if we were saints of boundless mercy. They would offer flattery.

While being pampered by everyone—making my twice-daily rounds of the fields morning and evening, digging arrowheads from the pond, wandering all day through the family hills—I had fully settled into the life of the landlord’s foolish granddaughter. No one uttered a single meddlesome word to me, and I could spread out freely. Yet to think I was treated with such reverence fills me with true shame now. I am sick of myself.

By all means, I must somehow make myself of even the slightest benefit to the villagers!

And so, I formulated various plans in my mind. And then doubts arose incessantly in my mind—questions like whether land reclamation could truly be considered noble when creating a group of poor people in a place with long winters and poor soil quality, even if that land was suitable for human habitation and held some hope of prosperity. The pioneer himself may have fulfilled his hopes to some extent, been pleased, and even been celebrated as a historical figure of the village—but what recompense have the many poor people received, those transient immigrants who fulfilled the final and most necessary condition of his enterprise?

Though they were indispensable to the pioneers, even now, nearly twenty years later, they remained just as poor. They merely lived in perpetual poverty, forgotten until they died. I had to do something for the many poor people who had existed since my grandfather’s time. The guilt of having turned a blind eye out of cowardice to all that I should have done until then had made my heart deeply humble toward the farmers.

It was the day after Jinsuke’s child had played a prank on me.

Having awakened earlier than usual and made a round of the fields, how deeply I was comforted by the faint rosy mist enveloping heaven and earth, the morning dew splashing against my bare feet and the vivid touch of weeds, the scent of crops and trees at dawn! In this exceedingly pleasant mood, while being laughed at by the maid as I built a fire in the large hearth or pulled up vegetables I didn’t need, a woman came calling in the earthen-floored room to the east. That was Jinsuke’s wife.

Since she told me to come out, when I went out to look, she—wearing work clothes with her hair wildly disheveled—was standing barefoot. When the woman saw my face, “Good morning to you. “Yesterday, well, seems our brats went and committed some unthinkable rudeness, you know.” “I’ve come to apologize.” “Here!” “You should come out and apologize properly—” As she said this and reached her hand behind her, a boy was unexpectedly pulled out from the shadow of her broad back.

He kept silent and looked down. Without blushing, without fidgeting, and without showing the slightest sign of relying on his mother, he stood resignedly. The woman, while casting a complicated glance toward the child, kept repeating over and over for forgiveness—even going so far as to say, “Our children are no better than beasts, so please punish him by giving him a good thrashing.” However, I absolutely detest being apologized to excessively by others. When they lay everything bare before me like that, I end up feeling ashamed of myself. Somehow it makes me feel like I’ve become some sort of tyrant, until I inevitably turn into the “you good-for-nothing” my mother always berates me as being.

Even now, as that habit resurfaced, I tried my best to forget which child had done what or how detestable it was—and in fact, I had truly stopped caring—so being treated like that was all the more unpleasant. Even when I told her—my mouth growing sour from repetition—to stop scolding [the child], she seemed to take it as sarcasm and only grew harsher toward him. “You’re always fighting over food, yet you never do anything proper, you brat.” “Hey!” “Apologize!” “I’ll forgive you—just say something already!”

Even as she grabbed the child’s arm and shook or prodded him, the child for his part stubbornly maintained his obstinate silence.

I understood exactly how Jinsuke’s wife felt. Precisely because I understood, watching what amounted to this performance was agonizing. Without lending an ear to anything I said, she kept shouting, “Hey! What’s the matter with you? Huh? You not plannin’ to apologize or what?” As soon as she said this, she suddenly jerked the child’s neck with her large hand so violently I thought his spine might snap.

And, “Please forgive us.” No sooner had she said this than— “Get goin’!” she shouted and shoved him. I was so shocked I could hardly breathe. However, the mother herself laughed with apparent satisfaction and bent slightly at the waist, “I’ve wasted your precious time.”

She went out to the field.

The maid watched her retreating figure while, “That Jinsuke’s wife is a clever one, ain’t she? Plannin’ every last thing ahead.”

The maid sneered.

V

A large crowd had gathered at the village crossroads.

In the midst of children, men and women shouldering hoes, even people from other villages leading horses—all clamoring with vile laughter and hurling insults—stood a man gripping a piece of fish in each hand, smirking as he turned his feet inward. He wore a woman’s kimono with a large keyhole-shaped opening at the shoulders; from the front closure—secured only by a thin cord and slipping down loosely—peeked slender shins. His unkempt hair, long and resembling waste thread, had leaves and straw scraps dangling from it; semicircular bags sagged beneath his lower eyelids, and his large, pale eyes bulged as if threatening to spill out. His purple lips were pushed up, revealing buckteeth with yellow stripes; boils had formed in the grooves on both sides of his nose, leaving the entire area red and swollen.

With every movement he made, the stench of fish and all manner of things—himself included—mingled chaotically, spreading a nauseating odor through the air. He was the madman called “Zenbaka.” For about five or six years since losing his mind, he had not settled in any house in this village but wandered about everywhere, receiving a straw mat at each place he went and sleeping on it. When he found a place he liked, he would sit blankly in the shade for days on end until driven away—picking fleas off dogs or pulling up every blade of grass within reach while remaining seated.

He was madly fond of dogs and never caused any trouble, so the villagers would seize him whenever they caught sight of him and subject him to cruel mischief.

At that time too, he had just returned after being away somewhere for four days. He felt utterly exhausted. When he arrived here with such weariness that he wanted to collapse right there, his canine companion spotted him and promptly licked his entire face. He seemed delighted by this and was silently gazing at the dog’s face when—

“Zenbaka! “You back again?” Five or six children came running while shouting. And in an instant, his body was surrounded by idle mischief-makers. While hurling all manner of random insults and jeers at him, they poked at the fish in their hands and egged the dogs on.

“Ugh! Disgusting! That fish the dog’s been lickin’—Zenbaka’s gonna eat it! Ptooey! Ptooey! Whatcha gonna do if ya get rabies?” “Keep mockin’ folks like this— You’ve already got rabies! To handle what’s comin’ on top of this, you’d need two lives!” “Ha ha ha ha! Really now. Tastes good!” “Whoa there!”

The people suddenly burst out laughing. Crawling beneath the vortex of vulgar laughter, Zenbaka’s low, cloying—

“Heh heh heh heh heh!” The voice scattered and resounded unpleasantly.

“Keep doin’ that annoyin’ shit—” “Then go on. Ain’t needin’ ya ’round here no more. Heh heh heh heh!” “Hey! The salmon’s gonna fall! Idiot!” “Ha ha ha ha!”

The gathered crowd, driven by base curiosity, shoved and struck one another while clamoring, swelling and shrinking for a time. However, as the crowd gradually thinned out, Zenbaka—his face now even 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 thud. And then, opening his mouth wide, he fell asleep while snoring loudly through his nose.

When the dog slowly stretched its neck and began eating the salmon from one end while still held in his hand, the children imitated his vulgar gestures and repeatedly tried to rouse him. One child tickled the nostrils with a ‘fox’s tail.’ Even when they kicked or shouted, he didn’t stir an inch, so the emboldened children began stripping Zenbaka naked. As they chanted and gradually undressed him, a young man who had been there all along watching the scene suddenly—

“Don’t go doin’ such things. Heaven’ll punish ya for this,” he interjected earnestly.

Everyone was startled, stopped their mischief, and stared at the man’s face. Then, the fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy who seemed to be the ringleader among them puckered his lips and began to argue. “Even though you’re used to gettin’ yelled at by your Ma first thing in the mornin’, you still got time to stick your nose in our business?” “Huh?” “D’ya even know that guy?”

When one child whispered, suddenly this child’s face turned triumphant, and he shouted in an even more sneering tone.

“Yeah, I know ’im alright!” “So you’re Mr.Shin the waterwheel maker, ain’t ya.” “And then ya couldn’t make ends meet up in Hokkaido and came crawlin’ back to your Ma’s place—that’s what your own Ma’s been sayin’, ya know.” “You’re such a spineless guy…” They laughed in unison. However, Mr. Shin, without so much as changing his expression, “You oughta think before you act.”

"With that," he said as he walked away. After that, the children insulted the peculiar Mr.Shin until their bellies were satisfied, but having once abandoned their mischief, they could no longer muster the will to resume it. As for the now-stripped-naked Zenbaka, each of them— “Ain’t none of our damn business!” Shouting while each delivering a kick, they scattered every which way and ran off.

VI

Zenbaka’s mother, who claimed to be sixty-eight this year, lived with her grandson in a place resembling a farmer’s barn that they borrowed. In exchange for not having to pay rent, the place was practically a pigsty, infested with fleas and bedbugs year-round. And yet—even that pigsty remained too good for Hihibaa (her face creased with wrinkles, white hair tangled wildly, torso bent like an ape’s from chest to waist—a sight that earned her the villagers’ cruel nickname). As for Zenbaka’s entire clan? Not one among them retained even a shred of human semblance.

The only son Zenbaka had fathered during the time when he was still working as a full-fledged farmer, before descending into madness, was likewise a true idiot. After his wife grew disenchanted and fled somewhere, it fell to the old mother alone to endure the hardship of caring for Zenbaka and his child cradled in her arms. Though already eleven years old, the boy knew no words, nor had his body developed. A torso no larger than that of a five- or six-year-old supported a head twice the size of an ordinary person’s, its thin neck perpetually swaying under the weight, never finding steadiness. And he ate nothing but tofu year-round—no matter how delectable other foods might be, he refused even to glance at them.

He, his only food— “Tafu.” Because he knew only this, the villagers all said it must be some curse.

Though it was quite some time ago, there had once been a female prayer practitioner of great efficacy who came to town. At that time, when Hihibaa took her idiot grandson to have him examined, the woman stated that dozens of generations prior, an ancestor had made a business of flaying horse hides, and since this was the work of a skinned horse's vengeful spirit, she would pray it down if they paid ten yen—but of course, the old woman had no means to produce such money. Thus, she could not have it exorcised, never consulted a doctor again, and even she herself did her utmost to forget.

Under such circumstances, Hihibaa had no choice but to do whatever it took to feed herself, making the rounds to help other households with chores and laundry. And since she took all three of her meals elsewhere, returning home only to sleep, she was scorned by the entire village and held up as nothing but a bad example whenever anything happened.

It was even rumored she had added two or three years to her actual age to invite pity. I pitied the old woman who, through the very poverty of the villagers themselves, barely managed to sustain her fragile existence. Given their circumstances—having no other means to survive—one couldn’t simply mock or speak harshly of them. The thought of her, grown so frail her end seemed near yet still forced to beg meals from house to house from dawn till dusk, filled me with wretchedness.

So I tried to give the old woman as many errands as possible, let her have meals, and occasionally handed over old clothes and such. She seemed to think well of me, but her extreme poverty and shamelessly greedy behavior struck me as rather unpleasant. When it came to food, she wouldn’t just take what was served—if there were leftovers, she’d demand, “They’ll rot anyway, so give them here!” and haul them away. If I tried refusing at such times, she’d grow thoroughly sullen and stomp off without even a proper goodbye. When wearing new clothes, she wouldn’t leave without tugging at each garment to inspect them.

Such things were utterly unbearable to me, but even as I tried to enter into the world of the poor, I endured by ceaselessly rebuking my affected self until I gradually grew accustomed.

As Zenbaka’s mother began visiting more frequently than before, I gradually found myself granted more opportunities to engage with the poorest among the village’s destitute. The cooper’s family—a father drowning in drink, a stepmother risen from bar hostess ranks, and a daughter three years deep in consumption with no hope of recovery—stood as one such example. A man paralyzed from stroke who couldn’t rise from his waist, and a deaf-mute couple.

Upon those constantly complaining, wretchedly gloomy souls, I began to slowly cast my faint droplets of sympathy. Of course, everything I did was truly trivial. Even what I did with every ounce of my strength—I knew full well that once it blended into the world’s affairs, it would become something whose outcome could no longer be discerned. But I was content. The mere fact that I was thinking of them made me feel content to such an extent.

Day after day, I threw myself into this newly discovered work and spent my days content. But there was one thing that truly pained me. It was seeing the face of Zenbaka’s child. Whenever I saw him leaning against a roadside tree—no playmates in sight—standing there all dejected, I felt truly tormented.

I wanted to say something—do something for him. I truly thought so. But when I saw his emaciated body and grotesque face twisted in an uncannily ghastly expression, even before doing anything, an unbearably peculiar emotion welled up within me. His gaze utterly terrified me. I couldn't even pass calmly by his side. Somehow, I felt he might leap at me and strangle my neck at any moment. And so, furtively avoiding his gaze while slipping past him, a great storm raged within my heart—a chaos of obligation that I must do something for him, and a revulsion beyond words.

If those around him were to abandon even the possibility that some spark might be found within this child considered an idiot—if he were to end up spending his entire life in a world of darkness—it would truly be a terrifying thing. That he hadn’t died until now meant he must possess some vital force somewhere.

The vital force that had sustained him for eleven years was immense. All the more so in this place where every condition seemed ill-suited to fostering human growth. Though it may be a fantasy, I thought there must surely be something communicating with his spirit, and that he might be perceptive in relation to that. His father was a madman among human company. But how well the dog and he got along, sensing each other’s hearts!

The idiot’s mind was a mystery to me. The less I understood, the more I couldn’t help but feel there must be something—that somehow, something could be done.

VII

Oh, how magnificent!

Morning! The endless expanse of the navy-blue sky, the soft silver-blue chain of mountains.

The mist glowed opalescent at the far end of the cultivated fields. Over the leaves of all trees laughing and rustling in song, how beautifully the charming dew adorned them! Behold! How magnificently your beloved Heavenly Sun was shining! Truly splendid was your noble form. When I saw how you continued to circle radiantly just as you did yesterday and today, I became unbearably happy.

“Good morning, O Heavenly Sun!” “You always seem to be in such splendid spirits.” “Thanks to you as well, I am deeply grateful to be able to remain in good health like this and meet you.” “I humbly ask for your continued favor today as well.” “My splendid Heavenly Sun!”

The wind swept the dewdrops from the leaves of trees, carried a freshness so bracing it caught the breath, and came blowing from the distant sky.

In the forest trees, small birds chirped, and the morning song of poultry echoed from the open spaces around the houses. In the roadside thickets, snakeberries reddened with fruit, wild roses' small flowers clambered into neighboring shrubbery, and tiny insects crawled drenched in dew. The young mulberry leaves rustled. A flock of wild birds bravely took flight. All things awakened and stirred. What a wonderful morning! I walked on, my heart leaping with joy. Crossing the fields, passing through the grassy path, after a while I emerged beside the village's sole elementary school.

There, classes had already begun, and from outside I could see small, dark-skinned children sparsely packed inside the narrow, crude classroom.

Sitting on the lawn of the deserted garden, I recalled my elementary school days. As various memories vividly conjured up the faces of many friends and the figures of teachers, I remembered how around four years ago, 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 the classroom where a single child stood rooted in place, at a loss for an answer, staring blankly at the blackboard.

Then, as my memories gradually revived themselves, the scene from when I first borrowed the organ came back to me with vivid clarity.

At that time, I had tied a white translucent ribbon like a headband and was wearing a pale green kimono. I went to the elementary school carrying the music score book my father had sent me from abroad. And I asked the only young teacher there to please lend me the organ. The round-faced, small-eyed man who seemed kind—a teacher of about twenty-three or four whom I still remember to this day—looked me up and down and flatly said he couldn’t lend it.

If he lent it even once—to just one person—he wouldn’t be able to refuse when others asked. He explained various reasons—that if he did, an organ would be destroyed in less than an hour—but I wouldn’t listen. I stood silent.

The teacher also stood silent.

And after standing there for a while, the teacher eventually spoke in a voice that sounded slightly irritated, “Just who are you?” he said. “Me? “I’m from the Kishida family…” What could I, barely ten years old at the time, have been thinking then! “I’m from the Kishida family…” How calmly and confidently I must have said that! Convinced that upon hearing my family name he would surely lend it, did I not even smile with an overbearing demeanor?

“Ah! “I see.” “Then it’s no trouble.” “Please, come right up.” And then, being led by him, with what satisfaction did I place my fingers upon those keys! Now I feel terribly sorry for that honest young teacher while being unable to help feeling unbearably ashamed and remorseful over the sentiments underlying my own attitude at the time. To think that teacher—who retracted his justified statement even to a small, ignorant child like me—had, despite his youth, been conditioned from the start to bend himself so much is truly unbearable.

If I were that teacher now? I wouldn’t listen no matter what. If I saw someone taking such an overbearing attitude, I can’t imagine how furious I’d get. I’d scold them repeatedly, berate them harshly, and drive them away though—— Tears welled up in my eyes. Though I’m a person riddled with flaws, being tormented by such shameful memories felt wretched. With a heavy, sunken heart, I gazed at the window across the way when I noticed a face watching me over the sea of children’s heads.

That face had a jawbone that protruded so much it was almost square, swollen and puffy red.

A thick-bridged nose that gave a very innocent impression. Eyes with eyelids like those stripped completely of eyelashes twitched restlessly, crammed between swollen lids and puffed-up cheeks as if squeezed into place. As I stared at this face—honest-looking, almost to the point of what one might call obstinate simplicity—it began to seem increasingly reminiscent of that teacher who had bent his own will to accommodate my selfishness.

And I stood up. And, with a smile, I bowed politely. I was satisfied. However, the young man seemed terribly flustered. Making a strange face, he hurriedly moved away from the window frame and disappeared into the distance. He might have thought I was mocking him. However, I felt that with this, I had finally fulfilled what I needed to do toward that young teacher from that day—who was still alive somewhere under this same sky, bathed in the same sunlight even now.

I felt somewhat more at ease again. And I retraced my steps back along the path I had come from and went to see the stream. At the spot where someone was always scooping fish, today Jinsuke’s children were there. The children were working diligently, but whether due to the poor flow of the stream, their nets caught nothing but debris.

After remaining silent for a while, 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 grinning and exchanging glances when one of them, in a strangely accented tone, “You ain’t catchin’ a thing, huh?” mimicked me. This mischief completely delighted me. That they had grown familiar enough with me to do such things made me happy, so I praised them repeatedly.

The children were smirking at my laughing face when suddenly, grabbing the pots and nets they had brought, they exchanged signals and all at once in unison— “Hoi to! Hoi to! Hoi too!” they shouted.

Then collapsing into laughter, they slid into the deeply imprinted horse hoofprints on the clay bank and scampered off. Though I couldn’t make sense of what had just happened, as I absently gazed at the river’s surface, I kept repeating their chorus in my mind—so raw and pleasantly resonant. “Hey ho!” “Hey ho!” “Hoi too!” I returned home muttering under my breath.

And when I sat down in my empty study, I opened my mouth wide like those children had done and tried shouting.

“Hey ho!

“Hey ho!” “Hoi too!”

Just then, Grandmother came in with an uncharacteristically and strangely displeased face and said.

“What on earth are you saying?” “At your big age, don’t act like a fool!”

I had no idea. The term "hoito" was a dialect word meaning "beggar."

VIII

The peasants in this village gave no thought whatsoever to things like children’s education. The children were born and left as they were, growing up naturally to become men and women.

Of course, they too loved their children. However, governed entirely by simple emotions, they doted on them with such pitch-black intensity that their affection risked smothering them. But if the children did something displeasing or hateful, their overflowing affection would turn into a hundredfold hatred. Striking, kicking, and cursing were commonplace, and when things got worse, they wouldn’t hesitate to inflict injuries.

At such times, they felt no sense that these were children—only loathing, only rage. Therefore, unless children were born exceptionally healthy, most would die before reaching the age of ten or meet some other fate.

Children who ate whatever tree nuts or wild berries they could find, who went naked under scorching sun or doused themselves with icy water midwinter, grew into humans who wouldn't so much as sneeze. When they fell ill, rather than seeing doctors, spells came first—children forced to drink putrid water or swallow unidentifiable pills, those claimed as human sacrifices to parental superstition being far from few. Even when their bodies grew robust, parents shackled to hand-to-mouth existence couldn't stomach sending children to such idle places as schools.

Girls had to take their mothers’ place early on and manage household affairs, while boys were put to use looking after their younger brothers and handling minor tasks in the fields. Tenant parents could not give their children enough strength to escape the boundaries of tenancy, so it had become the rule that tenant children ended their lives as tenant farmers. The swarming children were being raised to replace their gradually declining parents in fattening the landlords’ tables, so to speak.

Given such circumstances, children with unusual personalities would quickly sink to whatever depths awaited them, and once they grew a bit older, would run off to wherever they fancied. As for those with low intelligence or idiocy—they received no care whatsoever. They could do nothing but become playthings for the village ruffians.

Therefore, while the villagers made Zenbaka and his children a laughingstock, they never dreamed of worrying about them. Zenbaka’s nameless idiot boy had no choice but to endure having horse dung forced on him by the children whenever he ate tofu or straw scraps tied into his overgrown hair. As days passed and my wish began to come true bit by bit, I grew increasingly unable to stop thinking about the idiot boy.

So I tried to approach him somehow. But it proved no easy task—my strangely timid feelings simply wouldn’t let my feet come to a halt beside him. Four or five times I started toward him only to stop, started again only to stop, until finally one evening I stood still at his side. As if undertaking some tremendous task, my heart throbbed. While gazing at the face of this child who paid no mind even when someone drew near, I agonized over what to say and how to say it.

But since I didn’t know what to say to draw the child’s interest, I agonized over it until finally, “What are you doing?” I said. Before the words had even left my lips, I already realized my blunder. When anyone’s eyes and mind are vacant, reflecting nothing certain, being asked “What are you doing?” would surely leave them at a loss for an answer.

As I watched, thinking I had done something troublesome, he slowly turned his face toward me after a while. And with his extremely protruding, seldom-blinking eyes fixed in place, he assumed a position as if looking at me. I was watching him too. I was truly paying attention and observing. Then, gradually his facial expression grew intense, until finally I began to feel as if "his essence" were creeping across to settle upon my own face.

I had completely lost both my stubbornness and endurance. Then, dashing home in one go, I scrubbed my face with all my might, stared into the mirror, and finally felt my mind calm down. The first attempt had ended in complete failure because of my usual hallucinations. But by the second and third time, I gradually grew accustomed to him. Yet whether I stood there silently beside him or tried saying something to test his attentiveness, I made no progress whatsoever.

I was circling around him in a grand manner. Though I had been utterly unable to do anything for Zenbaka’s child, other matters were gradually improving. The peasant who had been troubled by a swelling on the sole of his foot went to the town doctor and was healed. To the cooper’s daughter, I sometimes sent things like milk and fish. And though these were truly trivial things, seeing the healed man working in the fields or Jinsuke’s children wearing the clothes I had given them made me inexplicably delighted. Just as a child who has begun to walk forgets sleep at night in their eagerness to keep moving, I too found my spirits rising higher the more people I found I could do something for.

Moreover, in reality, there were so many things that were scarce and insufficient—to the extent that I couldn’t foresee how much needed to be done before it would be enough. I tried to do everything I could. Yet, 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 ask my grandmother each and every time to provide it.

The more things I tried to do, the more frequent it became, and consequently asking gradually grew painful. But there was no helping it. I truly wanted inexhaustible wealth. And I couldn't help imagining thrusting it before those astonishingly well-ordered wretches in this village—this gathering of people living in relative comfort who didn't even regard the poor as human.

IX

Amidst the various new experiences that delighted and surprised my heart, time’s ceaseless power diligently nurtured every aspect of midsummer’s arrival. The sunlight grew fiercely hot, and white dust piled thick on the thoroughfare churned up gray whirlwinds with every passing gust. Smoke from burning wheat fields rose into a brilliantly blue sky, while across the radiant flames, wheat sheaves darted about and countless flushed faces could be glimpsed scattered through the farmland.

At the pond in front, a ceaseless crowd of children bathed; from the water’s surface brimming with powerful sunlight emerged sunburned arms and legs plunging in and out with violent splashes, their sharp shrieks mingling with the splattering sounds of water that echoed far into the distance. The forests were deep green, the mountain ranges bright, and lightning bolts—delighting the farmers—stitched through the peaks from clouds that shifted richly each evening. (They say frequent lightning bolts herald a bountiful year.) And now the fields around the house had reached their beautiful peak.

Nearly all the crops ripened.

Even in the fields visible from my study alone, beans, corn, sesame, melons, and all else ripened, while the shadows of passing clouds alternately brightened and dimmed over the dazzling silver expanse of buckwheat flowers. Beside the apricot and fig orchards whose fruits ripened enough to eat, the pumpkin field on a gentle slope displayed large red fruits beautifully nestled beneath broad leaves, and the potatoes reached harvest time. Two tenant farmers, carrying straw bags, three-pronged hoes, and woven baskets, gathered from early morning.

They pulled up stems with withered leaves, then turned over the soil behind them with three-pronged hoes. When the short, one-eyed man gently lifted and pulled back the deeply embedded hoe, potatoes of all sizes—freshly unearthed and still clinging moistly to clumps of new soil—danced out as if alive. As this happened, the small mole crickets, unexpectedly unearthed, scrambled in comical panic—some clambering up the men’s work pants, others tumbling headfirst into the soft mud.

I too became barefoot, tucked up my hem, and began digging for potatoes with all my might. As it was a rather cool and breezy day, the work proved quite enjoyable.

As I kneaded clumps of mud in my hands and tossed each unearthed potato one by one into the basket, I suddenly found myself clutching something terribly strange in my grasp.

I let out an involuntary cry. With unstoppable force I kneaded the squelchy mass—only to find my hands coated thick with a rotten potato that had burst open, its slick putrid ooze clinging stubbornly to my skin. From the yellowish-green mucus rose a nauseating stench that left me wretched beyond bearing, so I plunged both hands frantically into the crumbly mud and tried scrubbing it away. But the existing dirt had fused completely with that slimy mess—no amount of rubbing would dislodge it now. I was thoroughly defeated and near tears when a man came running over laughing sideways wedged a wood splinter under the muck and scraped it clean like peeling hardened kudzu paste from a teacup.

“You’ll be alright, young mistress.” “Ain’t nothin’ life-threatenin’.”

Around me, everyone from household members to tenant farmers who had been working the neighboring fields gathered and laughed. As minor crops successively reached harvest time, we lived each day in a manner rather like proper farmers. We busied ourselves distributing the yield to tenants, pickling preserves, sun-drying produce, and packing straw bales. Yet alongside this, truly disagreeable matters began arising.

Before we knew it, thieves were getting into the fields. Of course, this happened every year. It was by no means unusual, but it left us all feeling unsettled. Though only small quantities were being stolen, what made it all the more infuriating was having the care and effort we had devoted taken from us. So we spent an entire day assigning large, prominent numbers one by one to the pumpkins that vanished most frequently.

Their bloated red faces covered entirely with bold brushstrokes numbering them "8" or "11," their round forms lying scattered about—it was truly a spectacle to behold. But all their efforts proved futile—by the next morning, even the largest among them would be gone. The maids, who were the most resentful, would shout at or hurl pebbles at anyone who even slightly lingered around the fields, indiscriminately. The honest maid, whenever she sat keeping watch, always faced the fields.

Because of this, even I—when taking a stroll at night to clear my head and carelessly lingering in the fields—would be met with loud shouts:

“Hey! I’ll wallop ya!” I had even been scolded by them.

However, it was a morning of extremely thick fog.

It was probably around four o'clock. I was asleep as usual, oblivious to everything, when a low yet urgent voice—"Get up now! Just get up!"—roused me from sleep. Startled awake, I sat bolt upright. My eyes still refused to open properly as I swayed unsteadily. "What!? Huh? What's wrong?"

Saying this, Grandmother pulled me over and made me stand before the glass window set into the storm shutters.

At first, I couldn’t see anything, but as my eyes gradually adjusted, through the dew-clouded glass I could make out a single human figure moving within the pumpkin field.

“Oh!” As I pressed my forehead tightly against the glass and watched, he seemed to be selecting what to steal, his body stretching and bending. “It’s already morning! My, how bold!” After a while, his body stretched to its limit, and he emerged onto the path. In his hands was 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 in the world were we supposed to do now? I hurriedly took off my nightclothes. And when I went out to look—what on earth was this! That I was overcome with an indescribable feeling and came to a halt was by no means unreasonable.

Before him lay a Western pumpkin with red skin and white stripes, sprawled out—and wasn’t the one standing there with his head hung down none other than Jinsuke himself!

I couldn’t believe my own eyes. I didn’t want to believe it—but alas—there was no mistaking it—that was Jinsuke. I timidly looked at his face. And I grew all the more astonished at his unperturbed demeanor. He simply stood there, truly looking as though nothing were amiss. He simply bowed his head. Silently, he looked up mockingly at Grandmother’s angry face from beneath lowered eyelids.

I felt a terrifying sensation. He was standing there like that. But what in the world were we supposed to do now?

I felt certain that Grandmother and I were both trying to say something to him. Moreover, we became aware of ourselves standing there as though we possessed some inherent right—as if we wanted to brandish that right about. We would surely say something. When someone discovers another committing what's called wrongdoing, they would likely scold or threaten them in that peculiar, slow manner everyone adopts—that strangely soothing way, as if reciting from some universal script.

However, he had been discovered in a place he did not want us to see. Wasn't that alone enough? What more needed to be said? Even if we tediously repeated the same worn-out words that every last person had uttered until they lost all meaning, and even if we worked ourselves into an agitated state, what would remain in each other's hearts? After all, the worn-out sentiment would only persist without much effect. There was only one thing left for me to do. Pulling aside Grandmother—who was feigning uncertainty about where to begin—I pleaded with all my might.

“Please let him leave as he is.” “That’s better.” “But... you!”

“No!” “That’s how it should be.” “It’s definitely better this way—hurry up and do it already!” “Now! Hurry!”

Grandmother seemed dissatisfied but heeded my plea. “Take that and go home.” “But never do this again.” That was all she said. Jinsuke—wearing an expression utterly devoid of emotion, as if he had anticipated this outcome from the start—bowed once, then cradled the pumpkin like a rightfully purchased item and ambled down the still-empty thoroughfare.

I found myself in a state that was neither quite sadness nor anger. Yet with some measure of relief, "I can’t brand someone a thief over a single pumpkin." I repeated this to myself again and again.

X

Until now, what I had done for Jinsuke’s family amounted to nothing more than handing out old clothes or giving them scraps of food or trifling sums of money. It was trivial—utterly insignificant. From a third party’s perspective, everything was merely commonplace—the thoughts and deeds of those slightly unhinged, neither rare nor noble. As for me, I never once thought to gain any grand reward or receive gratitude from my own meager acts of charity.

However, what Jinsuke had done could not help but make me feel a slight disappointment. I couldn't help feeling pathetic. Even so, one thing comforted and strengthened me. That was 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's why lately I can't tell how much I've been wishing—wishing not to get too angry, wishing to maintain a tolerant state of mind. However, when I'm at home and my brothers do something that upsets me, their uninhibited behavior toward each other inevitably makes me angry. That I had managed to get through this time with almost no anger truly made me happy.

And so, I immediately focused only on the bright side of this incident. That those we called field thieves would no longer show even a shadow of themselves from now on—this seemed not merely an idle fantasy. However, as one or two days passed, I came to understand that what I had been thinking was, after all, nothing more than an “unattainable ideal”—a “young mistress’s notion.”

In the fields, robberies began occurring more frequently than before, often in large quantities each time. Brazenly, fresh corn stalks lay trampled and broken; even edamame that had remained untouched until now were stripped clean from their stems; and from the pond lying far beyond our house, every last arrowhead had been stolen away. At this state of affairs, I found myself utterly flustered. I wanted somehow to bring this to resolution without letting a single person suffer unpleasant consequences.

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

It was as if I were fumbling in pitch darkness for matches and a hand candle whose whereabouts I couldn’t begin to guess; my unworldly heart grew thoroughly unsettled and frightened. Moreover, each time something was stolen, Grandmother would—with such a pained yet sarcastic air— “There was nothing like this before. “Oh no, truly nothing like this ever happened.” —and I had to listen to her mutterings. I could assert that what I had done was not wrong. And yet, on the other hand, I think it was by no means unreasonable that they were compelled in their hearts to become like this.

If that’s the case, in the end, which of us was in the wrong? I acted as my heart commanded. They, too, were in circumstances where they had to act out of necessity. Could it be that both sides acted simply because “we had no choice”? They must have been compelled to act this way, and I too must have been compelled to act that way. Perhaps it was I who created the conditions for this outcome—though I did consider that I might have been mistaken, I cannot definitively say so. As for whether they were wrong—though one might protest, “Isn’t it obvious?”—no such definitive assertion could be made. In other words, I do not understand.

This made me think about many things. And I came to find it terrifying how the many, many incidents in this world were being briskly disposed of with so-called clear judgment, with a remarkable nonchalance as if to say what could possibly be wrong. However, I at least thought that with all these various things happening, it was a good thing that I could no longer avoid thinking about them. And I came to think that I must honestly accept everything that arises and honestly consider and feel each matter.

That night too I sat alone in my study, my thoughts wandering from one thing to another. Outside, the moonlight was exceptionally beautiful. And so, as usual, I turned off the light and gazed from the pitch darkness at the cultivated fields and mountain range that appeared transformed into something beautiful. Then, after some time had passed, a faint sound reached me from beyond the lawn. It did indeed seem to be footsteps keeping a steady rhythm. And then that rustling, crushing sound drew gradually closer.

As it drew closer, I finally realized it was a human who had sneaked in. However, I felt completely relieved. Because through the shimmering light, I had spotted a small child clutching a long pole and entering with cautious steps.

In the direction he was heading, the most delicious apricots in the entire house hung in clusters. Now I understood everything. I moved from where I had been to a spot slightly further inside. And I watched what the child was trying to do. The child, having sneaked up to the base of the tree, carefully surveyed the surroundings. He even kept watch toward the main house separated by the hedge.

But he, not being a cat, never imagined that I was there in the pitch darkness watching his every move. Soon, he extended the pole as far as his arm could reach. He tilted his face completely upward, took aim at the ripe fruit, and gave the tip of the pole a light tap—whereupon two or three came plopping down. He repeated the same action two or three times. Each time he tried, the results were good, so he gradually gained momentum, taking on a childlike, utterly engrossed appearance, and on the fourth attempt, he struck the branch with far more force than before.

The top of the tree shook violently. And with a loud clattering sound, a great number of fruits scattered onto his face and shoulders where he stood below. He was utterly ecstatic at the unexpected result—a blend of surprise and joy,

“Whoa!” he let out an unconscious cry of astonishment from deep in his chest. But before even that sound had faded, he realized his own carelessness. Suddenly what he'd been doing became utterly terrifying. Now convinced someone would appear any moment, he cast frantic glances around before suddenly twisting his body and fleeing toward the fields with thunderous footsteps. Seeing this, I couldn't help smiling. Watching him flee in panic at his own voice—abandoning all the fruits he'd worked so hard to knock down—left no room for anger. I didn't know whose child he was, but when he arrived home breathless, what remained with him must have been only the joy of that fruit shower and the unbearable fear that followed.

Beloved adventurer! Sleep well. The weather will likely be fair tomorrow too.

But to think that he too was one of those crop thieves who caused me such bitter anguish—how utterly wretched.

Eleven

One day, I was suddenly asked by the cooper for money. He had always been so poor that my grandmother had looked after him in various ways, but they found his sick daughter unsettling and rarely allowed him near the house. As he seemed to be suffering from alcoholism, his hands always trembled, and all the muscles in his face sagged downward as if flowing toward his jaw. When drunk, he became bold and carried on like a lord, but when sober, he turned utterly spineless, meekly ordered about by a second wife nearly twenty years his junior—a spectacle that had made him the laughingstock of all.

It was he who came to the house while Grandmother was away visiting graves. How pitiful it was to see a grown man bowing countless times and begging for pity just to receive a mere five yen!

He spoke in a cloyingly flattering tone, pleading as if his life depended on it and vowing he'd never forget the favor— "Why, for the young mistress's sake I'd go through fire and water, yes 'tis the honest truth I swear," he kept repeating over and over. Witnessing for the first time the excessively self-debasing words and demeanor of someone attempting to borrow money directly, I found myself tormented by an inexplicable discomfort and a sense of my own absurdity.

There I sat—this small, penniless creature—listening blankly to worthless compliments and flattery I could neither deflect nor counter, knowing full well how absurd and foolish I must have appeared to anyone who might have seen it. I had often heard from the maid beforehand that even what little food remained in our household was mostly devoured by that couple themselves, rarely reaching the crucial patient—so no matter what I tried to do, I felt it would all inevitably end up being drunk away anyway.

Moreover, even when pressed about why he needed five yen, he gave no clear explanation, which only deepened my suspicions. And so, I refused, explaining that as a useless parasite without a penny of my own money to my name, there was nothing I could do for him right away. However, he seemed to think his flattery wasn't working, for he began rambling on with such exaggerated gratitude and surprise over even the most trivial things that I nearly burst out laughing, until I could no longer listen with any seriousness.

I laughed and laughed until I could laugh no more, and he—realizing at last the fabrications spilling from his own mouth—let out a vague, ingratiating chuckle before retreating in muddled confusion, his plea left unfinished. The entire affair had been absurd from start to finish, but when I realized he’d tried to wheedle money out of me—money he didn’t truly need—with that “if fortune favors” sort of ulterior motive, it ceased to be merely laughable.

If I were to give them money, everyone would likely become adept at deception. The fact that everything I did kept producing such unwelcome results was becoming increasingly painful to bear. In any case, ever since these incidents began occurring, a great many people who "had to obtain" things had gradually begun gathering around me.

Those sufficiently aware of the disadvantages inherent in stepping beyond the narrow world perceived by a small girl would devise some pretext and come visiting. The clamorous sycophantic laughter and flattery of wives reduced to little more than their femaleness. The commotion of mud-caked bodies - children who had been dashing barefoot through the fields - now tumbling about the house. This disorder, utterly devoid of order or restraint, not only rendered my daily existence cluttered and rootless but transformed the entire household into something resembling those makeshift charm huts commonly found proliferating across rural hamlets.

The grievances of Grandmother and the rest of the family all fell upon me alone—whether it was the child spilling water into the hearth or having to listen to their trivial complaints from morning onward, I was told that it was all because I was like this. Despite being in such circumstances, I endeavored to maintain as much goodwill toward them as possible.

However, during busy work hours, having to sit quietly and listen to rumors and complaints I’d long grown tired of—as if I knew them better than the very people involved—was truly unbearable. Seeing them guzzle tea and stuff themselves with snacks until their bellies sloshed—as if everything laid out was theirs for the taking—I felt utterly at a loss. With a heart that felt partly resigned yet somehow hopeful, as the autumn wind began to blow, I dyed and bound the fabric for the kimono my grandmother had decided to make, all while beginning to feel that I no longer understood what I was doing.

Twelve

While my surroundings were in such a state, a certain plan had arisen among the town's women.

In the northeast corner of the town stood a Protestant Christian church. Though not many years had passed since its founding, it had thrived remarkably in terms of prosperity. During its initial period under the first foreign missionary, only a few earnest believers had gradually gathered—an utterly unremarkable beginning—but his successor proved an exceedingly approachable man who would say things like, "Well now madam, we're only human too."

This had gained the sympathy of the town’s so-called ladies of leisure through remarks like “What an amusing Mr. Pastor,” and from that point onward, the church became noticeably livelier. And now, a third-generation pastor—terribly kindhearted and almost naively earnest—was managing a church that seemed sustained almost entirely through this group of women’s support.

The predecessor, who had been cherished in many ways, died of a cerebral hemorrhage last summer in a death so pious it seemed fit for heaven's gates. The women—still relatively young and constantly laboring over their Tokyo-style finery—had turned the church into a social venue. There were times when scrutinizing each other's outfits outweighed listening to sermons, when pondering kimono patterns under God's blessing became their true sacrament. Thus they convened assemblies that embodied every prescribed "womanly virtue."

However, August 24th being the first anniversary of the previous pastor’s death became the perfect opportunity for these townswomen, who had been longing for some novel event to materialize. Having heard about such flamboyant affairs as Flower Day gatherings, these were women who had restrained their excitement with bated breath—so when the proposal to undertake commemorative work arose, it was approved without a second thought. After extensive deliberations, they finally resolved to distribute what they called “alms,” however meager, to the poor of K Village where the late pastor lay buried.

The late pastor had devoted considerable effort to poverty relief, but due to his many obligations and lack of funds, it had ended without achieving his desired results; thus, they declared it only natural that they should inherit his wishes. The townswomen all grew emboldened. And so, they promptly created printed circulars and distributed them to every person of any standing in the entire town, soliciting generous donations. All who received those unprecedented circulars were struck by a multitude of emotions. Some rejoiced, while others—though it did not concern them directly—were driven by the anguish of being unable to bear the thought of breaking ranks with their peers.

The entire town was abuzz with these rumors, and in this region where women’s initiatives were rare—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 deity himself had risen from the earth. However, soon various complaints arose, greatly troubling those involved. The issue stemmed from grievances like “Why am I not listed when these women are flaunting their titles as committee members?”—necessitating that instead of indiscriminately listing names, they had to assign clear roles ranging from chairman and vice-chairman down to errand runners. In particular, the confident wives who had even included themselves among those candidates fervently advocated for this necessity.

Since women’s work was often said to lack administrative rigor and a sense of responsibility, the argument that *we must strive for completeness in light of current circumstances* gradually grew louder, until it was finally decided to elect every position. This plunged the town into even greater turmoil. Those without hope of becoming chair or vice-chair strove to place themselves even one step above others. If A harbored a desire, B nursed one too—thus their demands collided. The more serene the surface appeared, veiled in that so-called feminine modesty, the more fiercely they seethed internally—insisting *their husbands* outranked others—and wielded even the most trivial privileges in the cramped upstairs room of the county office. After much turmoil, roles were finally assigned, and matters settled somehow. Of course, minor grievances remained unresolved. The woman elected as chairperson was the wife of the director of the town’s largest hospital, referred to as Mrs.Yamada,the hospital director’s wife. Though she had no particular qualifications for the role, the chief reason for her appointment was that failing to satisfy her ambitions would invite dreadful repercussions.

She was a short-statured, extremely corpulent woman in her forties. The mirror she used for makeup only reflected down to her chest, so from the obi upward and downward she appeared as two entirely different people. Her elaborate bun and mottled earlobes and neck notwithstanding—it’s no trouble at all— when seated with her makeup and grand obi, Mrs.Yamada presented a truly splendid figure, but should she attempt to stand, her massive top-heavy upper body would lose its center of gravity, rendered utterly unsupportable by those little feet shuffling pigeon-toed beneath. Her habit of alternately swinging her shoulders back and forth might have seemed awkwardly out of place at formal functions, but when particularly self-satisfied—flapping her breathlessly strained head about and shaking her body as though it might tear loose—even the most hostile observer found their resentment dissolving. Once firmly established as the undisputed Chairman Madam, she settled into perfect composure, nodding with satisfaction whenever snippets of her unparalleled reputation reached her ears.

And what a thing to be grateful for that the mayor’s wife had passed away two years prior—she secretly visited her grave. If something unforeseen hadn’t happened to that mayor’s wife, how could I have attained this position today! Oh, what good fortune I have! . Thus, what had initially not been intended to be so grandiose gradually grew in scale until it finally became too much for the ladies to handle.

The pastor was driven from morning till night—made to handle the safekeeping of funds and organize paperwork—until he had no time left to pray. “That too is for the cause, Pastor.” With these words ever appended, they foisted every last ill-suited task upon him—dumping them en masse like washing debris down a river. A few white whiskers swayed at his chin, and each time he moved his mouth to speak, he would fiddle with the adzuki bean-sized wart on his left hand’s back—now grown alarmingly large. Clad in a frayed white cotton kimono with a tasuki cord tied across it, how briefly he lived each day!

Every time the women exchanged glances,

“Until that’s settled, we’ll all be dreadfully busy, won’t we?” They discussed matters using coded language only they understood and laughed with glee. With hearts inexplicably buoyant and restless—as if preparing for a pleasure outing—they fussed about needlessly until they faced a truly intractable problem. This meant that no matter what they did, meeting the 24th deadline would be impossible.

This left them all perplexed. Since neither tears nor laughter could make up for lost time, they decided that even if things weren’t perfectly settled by the appointed day, the late pastor would hardly mind a three- or four-day delay—so long as they achieved the best possible outcome. Thus, a one-week grace period was granted by the benevolent spirit of the late pastor himself. For a time, the women’s mouths were busy extolling the late pastor’s virtues and declaring with certainty that he was indeed resting peacefully in heaven.

As the day finally drew near, on the donation deadline they hung paper on the church’s inner walls and listed each donation amount one by one. And beneath them they swarmed together,

“Oh my!” “Do take a look at this!” “That person has donated such a large amount—” “As expected, someone of such fine standing is truly in a class of their own.”

Through the midst of the exclaiming committee women, at their head, “The sum of 100 yen. Chairman Your Excellency” Mrs.Yamada—bearing this label—walked around shaking her shoulders like a madwoman. Whenever addressed, “Oh, it’s nothing at all. I’m simply mortified,” she would say while glaring up at the sum of 100 yen. Everything proceeded with astonishing noblewoman-like elegance.

13

The rumor of this plan among the town’s women’s association quickly reached our ears and then spread throughout the village. As days passed and that matter gradually solidified into fact, the parched village air grew somehow restless. There was nowhere this rumor wasn’t being spread. The poor people postponed their Bon festival amusements to agonize over what to buy with money they hadn’t even received yet; consumed by envy toward households they assumed would receive more donations for having more brats than their own families, they started saying they wanted to multiply the children they’d always found a nuisance—five or even ten more in a single night. And they, who were hardly diligent to begin with, had their hearts eased by the thought that several times more than what they could earn through a day’s toiling with sweat dripping from their brows would soon arrive—and a lax mood began to permeate the entire village.

However, even so, from morning until nightfall, those who said "If we go, we'll get something" kept coming to my house. It was as if they'd made it their side occupation—venting complaints and seeking compassion—for being given alms meant they neither considered nor could consider what would become of themselves. When I saw them thus, I found myself pondering many things. "Will this matter produce favorable results?"

This was my foremost doubt. Moreover, it was a doubt that tormented me directly. They were content as long as they received; whatever was given, they never refused anything. Yet when granted a single kimono, they would promptly discard their previous one once worn through, and with any extra money obtained, they eagerly purchased frivolities—silk kimonos they would never wear, shoes, hats, all manner of luxuries—indulging to the fullest in that suppressed pleasure of spending money to acquire goods.

Therefore, whether it was five yen or ten yen, it amounted to nothing in the end—even the things bought with that money would soon be sold off in town when desperation set in. Money and goods alike merely passed through their hands briefly in the flow of circulation. Being poor year-round, all that lingered for them were hazy memories—of once having bought such clothes, of once having held that much money.

Lately, I had come to keenly realize how truly difficult this was. If treated leniently, they grew presumptuous; if treated strictly, they cowered and ceased to respond to anything said—this was their common habit. If the committee women were to succeed in bestowing alms upon them? If it could truly supplement their livelihood? That would truly be a splendid thing. However, for me, it could not be dismissed as merely a splendid thing.

I considered myself someone deeply connected to this village—a person burdened with countless obligations to fulfill here. And though I had only just begun my work piece by piece, it already teetered on the brink of failure. If these distant people—untroubled by suffering and untouched by true compassion—could wield such power over them through mere gestures of charity, how pathetically insignificant must that render me? With emotions wholly alien to theirs, I waited for what they rapturously called “the blessed dawn of fortune’s deity.”

Just then, an unexpected incident arose that stirred the hearts of everyone in the village.

It was that Shin the waterwheel worker had taken out and sold the sacks of beans. Those two bales of beans had, of course, been requested from elsewhere to be ground into flour. Among villagers who had all experienced pilfering their parents’ money or stealing from their own homes once or twice, such an incident alone would have vanished without becoming tea-time gossip. But Shin was renowned for his honesty, and his mother—a notorious miser with quite the reputation—stoked everyone’s curiosity. Claiming there was some ulterior motive behind this, practically everyone who came to my house talked about Shin.

I had only ever spoken to that man Shin twice. Therefore, while I couldn’t clearly discern what sort of man he was, I thought him someone who spoke in a seemingly shy, low voice and with extreme politeness. Even I thought that man wouldn’t do such a thing, nor could he—but every time his actual mother came to our house, she would turn crimson with genuine rage and... “To think we’d end up saddled with this good-for-nothing wretch—I tell ya, it’s a right bother.” “You heard it yourself, didn’t ya—and then he goes and pulls this outrageous stunt…”

...and then she loudly berated him, claiming that Shin had spent five or six days loitering at a brothel in town with the money from selling those beans. And so, I couldn't bring myself to believe his own parent was lying, yet neither could I accept that Shin had done such a thing—half-believing, half-doubting, I watched how this matter would unfold. To begin with, ever since the head of the waterwheel worker's household had died two years prior, nothing but bad rumors had circulated about them. From that time onward, without even recalling Shin—who had been sent to Hokkaido for migrant work—and managing everything alone while being manipulated behind the scenes, the fact that Denkichi, a waterwheel worker from the neighboring village, had claimed even the meager peach grove as his own and was trying to drive Shin out became known to all without exception.

It was said that Shin had been sent to Hokkaido at sixteen and worked there for seven years until this May, saving up enough to return home, take a wife, allow his mother to live comfortably, and put his household in order—all while avoiding any mischief, driven solely by these hopes. However, having unfortunately developed kidney disease and heeding his doctor’s advice, he returned after long years away with eighty yen in hand. Though young, he was so commendable that even my grandmother held a celebration in his honor, and he was respected by the entire village.

But ever since she had once become fixated on debt matters and nearly gone mad, his mother—who now lost all reason over even a half-cent or quarter-cent related to money—treated him upon hearing of his illness as if he were some troublesome intruder who had come for no good reason. Because this was unbearable, Shin paid for 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 also reached our ears that whenever he carelessly left his bellyband lying around, the money inside would gradually dwindle, and that his mother would seize him—a grown man—to beat and berate him over this or that. Because of this, the villagers sympathized with Shin, but since unpleasant rumors inevitably spread about his mother, he found himself caught between a rock and a hard place.

However, one day Shin suddenly found himself being accused by his mother of having stolen and sold off the beans. Honest as he was, he became so flustered that he couldn't comprehend what had happened to whom or how, and while he remained unable to respond, his mother went around spreading this matter throughout the entire village.

No matter how he thought about it, Shin couldn’t make sense of the situation. He tried to recall whether such a thing had ever happened, but he had no memory of it whatsoever. Feeling as though he were walking through smoke, he spent his days in a vague unease, as if there truly were something shadowy clinging to his own existence. Under such circumstances, all the villagers were intensely interested and sought to uncover what lay hidden behind the incident.

Though I knew nothing about them and couldn’t imagine anything, a meddler—the kind found everywhere—began diligently investigating from all directions as if it were their proper occupation. Then, to everyone’s surprise, rumors began spreading as fact—that those disputed bean sacks had been groundless from the start, fabricated merely as a pretext to seize all the money Shin currently possessed under the guise of compensation payments.

Shin, thinking it an outrageous accusation, defended his mother and strove desperately to suppress the rumors. Yet Shin’s heart grew steadily darker. He felt sorrow for his own existence, and a doubt arose within him—could he truly be this woman’s own child? When I saw Shin—his face pallid and gloomy, made even more haggard by worry—trudging along the village path under the scorching sun without so much as a hat for shade, I pitied him deeply.

Yet when I saw this man who had turned twenty-three—subjected to a mother who couldn't grasp basic reason, tormented and humiliated without uttering a single word of protest, only ever defending her—I couldn't help but feel something uncanny.

Somehow, I felt he possessed a certain nobility that elevated him above the likes of us, and no matter how deeply I pitied him, I couldn’t bring myself to offer him scraps of food as I did to others. When we met on the road or elsewhere, I would greet him sincerely from the heart and politely ask after his health. Even when his face looked quite unwell, “Thanks to you, I’m gradually feeling better.” He never said anything beyond that.

Fourteen Because of Shin’s circumstances, the thirty-first day arrived unusually early. That day two hundred and ten days prior had been fiercely hot since morning, a sluggish southern wind occasionally rustling through the leaves as if half-asleep. Having woken earlier than usual, I took my customary stroll through the village. Every household had already finished their meals. At the front square and crossroads, crowds of adults and children clustered together, chattering noisily. Yet what shocked me was how their clothes—everything about them—had grown so filthy compared to yesterday that they might have been different people altogether. The women all wore tangled hair and grimy chanchan work coats that looked like they’d never been washed. Naked, barefoot children romped about as though celebrating a festival, while the frail elderly and sick—previously kept hidden in back rooms—now sat exposed along the road where passersby could see them.

Even the cooper’s family—who usually treated their daughter like she was better off dead—had specially brought her out to the front today and unabashedly displayed the tattered bedding, a sight utterly incomprehensible to me. The entire village had become as filthy as possible, and yet it was more vibrant than I had ever seen before. However, as I walked and observed them, I gradually began to understand their hearts. And, realizing just how wretched human hearts could become, I was overcome with a feeling both terrifying and pitiful.

I somehow felt as though something beyond my control had occurred and returned home. The house interior remained as peacefully clean as ever, its old-fashioned furniture cozily settled in place. From time to time I stood on the veranda watching dust clouds rise over the highway ahead. Every single person coming from town to this village became visible here. Yet until nearly noon, not one person who looked like they came from town passed by.

However, around eleven o'clock, a line of many rickshaws hurried off under the sweltering sun. Inside them, kimonos of various colors were visible. The town women’s work was now about to begin.

At the village entrance, the town women alighted from their vehicles. Then, as the chairman’s wife stood surrounded by her entourage noisily discussing their next steps, the bare-backed nursemaids carrying babies and other village wives began forming a tight circle around them, gradually pressing inward from the outside.

The poor women stared in astonishment at the town’s “ladies.” They gazed at the shining combs in their hair, the half-collars embroidered all over, and the red, blue, and white rings glittering on their fingers. Not a single person was without a ring. They all carried small, beautiful bags in their hands. My, what splendid sashes! What kind of face powder could be applied so smoothly without streaks? Oh! There’s even such a Western umbrella! The women were achingly envious. To think that among women born the same, there are those like us who must wallow in mud until death, while others can doll themselves up and scatter money about.

How splendid!

However… It was no wonder the women found it strange. The town ladies, while everything else about them glittered gold, wore kimonos made entirely of merino. This was because there existed a stipulation stating, "Simplicity shall be prioritized, and garments must be of merino or inferior fabric," so the wise ladies had most appropriately and faithfully adhered to that clause. Before long, the town women began to walk. Gaudy Western umbrellas formed an astonishing procession along the dust-covered country road.

The first place they stopped was the cooper’s house. The ones who had trailed along behind now jostled to block the entire entrance, leaving the room peculiarly dark and stifling. Inside stood the cooper wearing nothing but his work pants and his wife in a tattered work coat, their ghost-like daughter between them, all bowing deeply in unison. The chairman’s wife explained their purpose this time in a hushed voice interspersed with difficult Chinese-derived terms.

The cooper’s couple had no idea what this was all about, but as they kept bowing repeatedly, the chairman’s wife gave a slight signal with her finger. Then, one from among them presented a large envelope adorned with ceremonial cords on a red-lacquered tray and, amidst the envious whispers of the gathered onlookers, placed it before the cooper’s family. They were so overjoyed they could have leapt forward. Yet forcing themselves to stay composed, they managed to express their gratitude and bowed repeatedly while heaping on flattery.

And finally, they grew angry,

“They look down on folks and kick ’em when they’re down! Get the hell out!” “Get the hell out!” Until they nearly burst out shouting, the town women silently watched them bowing up and down. Finally, the town women began to move. They sighed in relief. Despite a few women still lingering in front of their eaves, the cooper’s couple tugged at the package from both ends, hastily fumbling to open it. Inside was a single five-yen bill. The moment the two of them saw the face of the bill, they jerked their faces toward each other as if repelled and smirked wryly.

“We won’t have to worry for a while now.” “Honestly...” “With this, we can even buy an obi or something.” The wife blurted out before suddenly realizing and looked toward her daughter, who sat dazed with exhaustion, staring at the crumpled ceremonial cords and the wrapper labeled “Get-Well Donation” in block script. The wife clicked her tongue in annoyance and leaned in to whisper something to her husband. The husband also looked at the paper, looked at the daughter, and said. “Nah, don’t worry. She won’t notice a thing.”

After a while, the daughter staggered while dragging the smelly bedding and withdrew back into the dark and damp interior. The group of town women went from house to house repeating the same phrases, magnanimously acknowledging with a nod and expressing sympathy measured to neither elevate nor lower their own standing.

And above all, the chairman’s wife—who would normally bend her neck until her chin nearly touched her chest while replying, “Yes, yes, yes, yes indeed”—today merely remained silent and nodded deeply. And all the while murmuring “There there” in her heart. The group was thanked, respected, and astonished at every place they visited. The women were all satisfied with their own work.

"How fascinating it is to bestow charity upon others!" However, as they gradually grew tired, they began to find even hearing the same bows and expressions of gratitude tedious; they also grew weary of painstakingly expressing sympathy or explaining things each time themselves, until finally—after the Chairman’s Wife paused briefly to bow—they started tossing money packets and hurrying onward from house to house. As those following behind gradually grew accustomed, they began hurling insults loud enough for the women to hear and appraising their worth; thus, the women grew increasingly fed up.

When the group—their throats parched, sweltering in the heat, and growing frantic over their smearing makeup—came upon a peasant house in a collective state of irritation, someone suddenly blocked their path and plopped down on the scorching ground. Startled by how sudden it was, when the group of women tried to back away, someone immediately grabbed the hem of one standing nearby with both hands, “This ain’t nothin’ to fear. Please, hear my plea.” “Please, hear my plea.”

The one who strained out those tearful words was none other than Zenbaka’s mother. Behind the old woman stood Zenbaka and the idiot boy, vacant and motionless. The town women faltered, and the rabble that had followed them came to a halt, laughing. Hihibaa raised her voice in a screeching tone. “Oh kind ladies! “Please take a good look at this mad son of mine and this dumb brat who can’t even speak!” “Oh please, madam! “It’s folks like us you should take pity on!” “There ain’t nobody as wretched as us!” “Please, have mercy on us!”

The woman whose hem had been grabbed let out a tearful cry,

“Oh my, what is the matter?” “Now, let go of that!” “We’re not going anywhere, I tell you!” “Come on, let go already, I’m telling you!” Even as she tugged it toward herself, “No way I’m lettin’ go!” “Not ever lettin’ go!” “Please listen.” “Folks like us ain’t…” and clung even more tightly to the ground. At this outrageous turn of events, the town women all banded together to threaten and cajole the old woman, but she showed no sign of letting go.

The sight of the women struggling exhaustively, tugging at each other’s kimono hems while utterly at a loss, struck the onlookers as so absurdly comical that they burst into raucous jeers. Then, suddenly parting through the crowd, a single boy dashed out like a dog, “Heya! “Heya!” “Check out this disgrace!” he shouted while flailing his limbs rigidly.

It was Jinsuke’s son.

At that shout, the other rascals—who had been itching to say something—all opened their mouths at once. “So weak! What can you show-off hags even do?!” “What’s this—ya helpin’ Granny there?!” Through the yellow dust and the chaotic uproar, “Oh kind ladies! Please listen. How’re our madman and idiot brat s’posed to keep livin’?!” The old woman’s voice echoed fragmented like a song.

The town women had completely lost all composure. Even though they wanted to flee, being defeated by those beasts was too mortifying. As they grew agitated and hysterical—on the verge of shrieking even if someone so much as pointed a finger—Jinsuke’s son whispered something into the ear of Zenbaka, who stood vacantly nearby, then made an odd gesture and shoved him. Shoved forward, he plunged straight into the midst of the women,

“Hee... Hee...” He began to laugh and act in a manner too grotesque to watch.

The town women turned crimson with shame and anger, pressing their sleeves to their faces,

“How dare you!” “This is too much! What do you think you’re doing?” Shouting, they tried to leave. With this, the beastly nature of the paupers became utterly exposed, and even the adults began hurling unbearable jokes. The chairman’s wife nearly lost her mind. And with tears brimming in her eyes, she snatched the money packet from the person beside her and pressed it hard against Hihibaa’s face while shouting. “P-Please, leave quickly! This is too—too awful! Now! Now! Hurry up already! Too—”

The old woman finally stood up and, while shoving Zenbaka aside with remarkable composure,

“Thank you ever so much.” “Thanks to your kindness, three lives have been saved.” “We’ll never forget this kindness.” With that, the three of them huddled together and left looking satisfied, and the people’s commotion subsided considerably.

Even the town women remained standing there for some time as if drained of spirit, utterly unable to act.

However, before long, the chairman’s wife managed to regain her dignity and glared at the entire crowd with terrifying eyes. And, remaining silent, she took the lead and began walking.

What a wretched spectacle their retreat was! Jinsuke’s son followed them from afar, throwing old horse shoes and setting dogs on them all the while.

Fifteen The town women came, scattered money, and left.

That was all there was to it.

But because of that, every corner of the narrow village had been completely stirred up.

The children, dressed in their festival robes, crowded around the village’s sole candy store and clamored noisily. The adults fought with their spouses and children over how to use the money they received, and their mutual envy stirred up discord among neighbors across three households on either side.

However, my household alone remained as "prosperous" as ever.

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 battered. And they recounted every detail of what had transpired from the town women’s arrival to their departure, mocking how cowardly and spineless those women had been during that uproar—so loud it had reached our house. The fact that Hihibaa had clung to their hems and refused to let go—thereby extorting some money—and that Jinsuke’s son had egged Zenbaka on seemed to delight them as though these were amusingly heroic deeds.

“That old dear ain’t much to look at, but turned out to be quite something, huh.” “I sure wish we could’ve made ’em put on quite a show o’ that disgrace for ya!”

They all vied to let us hear how much money each had received. “We got five yen!” “Well, in that case, you ain’t bein’ stingy, huh.” “Us? We ain’t got nothin’ but three ryō.” And so, despite arriving with such grand fanfare, complaints like how it was impossible to feel grateful when they’d only given such meager amounts, or how unfair the distribution of money was, grew even worse than before the town women had come, intensifying the villagers’ ill will toward them.

Whenever someone came by, I asked if receiving whatever amount they’d gotten this time had made things a bit easier—but not a single one said yes. “For the likes of us stuck in the depths of poverty, young mistress, what difference does it make if we get three ryō or five ryō of coin?” “What’s a nose gonna buy? What kinda house you think this’ll get?” “Then right away there’s a marital fight—and while they’re brawlin’, that money ends up all gone.” “After three days, they’re back to square one, still covered in mud as always.”

That was the truth. Before even a week had passed, the money that had come from the town was siphoned back to the town, and they once again came to possess no substantial sum like three yen. If even a little extra came in, they promptly bought something. Without understanding why, they just bought things recklessly, and in the end, ended up repaying the town with even some interest added to the principal.

They hadn’t developed the habit of saving, so they simply couldn’t bring themselves to save. Moreover, places like banks and post offices were thought of as nothing more than institutions that took their money and gave them a single ledger, so there were almost none who would deposit their money. Therefore, even if we told them to save, it wasn’t something that would be heeded. Even while receiving money, they still came to eat and drink with us and calmly demanded things like “Give us this” or “Do that for us.”

I couldn't help but think that what I was doing was utterly insignificant—for instance, even when giving money, I never gave a full yen all at once, and with clothing too, I never gave anything completely new—so that consequently, it didn’t have any particularly harmful effect on their lives. If I were to give them one hundred yen per head, they would idle away their days until the money ran out, and once they found themselves in trouble again, they would surely come clinging to me, demanding I do something for them. There was no end to what one could do for them. Even if I tried to support their livelihoods to the point of being driven to poverty myself, they would still expect something from me. If they thought this was a place that gave them things, they would come swarming over every single day without fail.

The town women’s work had failed as expected, leaving me with this terrifying question: What on earth should I do? This same feeling had tormented me during Jinsuke’s incident too. Back then, I’d held considerable confidence in my actions and had felt somewhat emboldened by it. But now, I couldn’t shake the conviction that what I was doing wasn’t truly good at all.

When people pity those weaker than themselves or give them alms, don’t they harbor even a shred of vanity? Of course, those who have attained complete enlightenment may be exceptions, but for those of us at my level, isn’t it nearly impossible to bestow charity upon others with a truly detached heart? When I look at what the town women did, what we call charity seems, in some cases, to be nothing more than a means for those who give alms to indulge themselves—having free rein over their own money and reveling in their own abundant power.

At the very least, between "those who give alms" and "those who receive them," an unbridgeable gap of power had arisen, and from our respective positions, various emotions would surely emerge. That was why, even though I strove to be exceedingly polite and humble toward them, there must still have been an attitude of "those who give alms" lurking somewhere within me. I could never become one of them. Trying to retrieve something flowing away by extending a bamboo pole from the shore, I knew full well I wasn't attempting to grasp it while being swept along 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?! In my struggle not to drown, I could no longer afford to look at others. Even now, as I extended this bamboo pole from the shore—a task I’d grown utterly weary of—the thought of plunging into those turbid waters myself, clawing and thrashing in desperation until my arms and legs failed me, only to meet my end… how utterly wretched that would render my one and only life!

And so—how could I truly become humble and polite, and eliminate these resentments and fears? I ended up feeling utterly worthless.

Somewhere, "What's become of your flower garden?" "They should be sprouting by now!" I felt as if I were being ridiculed. But I was stubbornly persistent. Try as I might, I couldn't "resign" myself to things and settle quietly, only to forget it all in the next moment.

That is why I could not resign myself by thinking, “The world is just like that, after all!”—and so I was always filled with complaints, sorrows, and hardships, receiving strange sympathy from “wise people.” Even now, I cannot resign myself to thinking, “It’s nothing—it’s just that I’m insignificant!” I may indeed be nothing more than someone with a tiny, thin voice muttering away about this and that, yet I cannot help but feel keenly that there must be something truly wonderful close at hand—something good that waits impatiently for its seeker yet remains unfound. Truly, in seeking something beyond that single layer which is merely perceived, I find myself widening my eyes, moving my hands, and listening intently.

While I was assailed by such newly surging hopes, the village bustled with its absurd liveliness—the same illusory prosperity that preceded its return to poverty.

There was a liquor store at the edge of the village. Until now, it hadn’t been very prosperous, but lately it had suddenly seen a surge in customers. When evening came, Issho the Cooper—nicknamed "One Sho"—and Jinsuke and his children would gather there at the center of farmers returning from the fields. They would bring out benches to the storefront and sing and dance with such cheerfulness while burning mosquito repellent that even neighborhood women and children came to stand around watching them, cooling themselves in the evening air. Zenbaka was always subjected to malicious pranks for their drinking amusement.

That night, as usual, the liquor store was in an uproar. Among those lying on benches swatting noisily with fans at mosquitoes drawn by the liquor’s scent, Shin was unusually present. Beside the clamor of everyone picking at pickles, passing around cups, and noisily gossiping about the town women or spouting nonsense, Shin sat silently gazing at his cup where a single mosquito was drowning.

“Oh! So Shin was here after all!” “You’re bein’ too quiet—we’d plumb forgotten you were here, hey!” “Have a drink.” “If you get drunk, the whole world’ll feel wide open!”

Shin did not even try to drink the sake. But now, mingled with guilt over having neglected him until now, everyone suddenly began showering Shin with all sorts of words. They urged him forcefully—"Don’t worry about those monster beans! You should just go play somewhere else or get out!"—while cursing that demon hag who doesn’t even treat her own child as a child, shouting things like "Throw her out!" Jinsuke, for his part, was brandishing his fist, “If you just say yes, I won’t stay quiet!”

he went so far as to say. Issho, who had been nursing his drink while listening to everyone, waited for a break in the conversation before speaking solemnly. “Look here, Shin.” “You think your goddamn mother’s some kinda god or Buddha? That’s your first mistake right there.” “Whether it’s your ma or anyone else’s ma—they’re all just women.” “Ain’t no difference in women anywhere in this world.” “Callin’ ’em rotten don’t even begin to cover it.” “Get in my way and I’ll kick you out myself!”

“Yeah, that’s right.” “But startin’ a parent-child fight over such damn nonsense—your father’d be ashamed.” “We just gotta keep quiet an’ it’ll sort itself.” “We ain’t got no mind for that kinda business.” “That’s why you got Buddha nature—a damn rare birthright, I tell ya.” “Just like your dead pa said—ain’t that right!” “From where I’m sittin’, you’re the damn rogue here, Issho.” Jinsuke cut in from the side.

“Good grief. A rogue like this’s destination’s pretty much set, ain’t it.” “You brats actin’ all high and mighty now, spoutin’ such nonsense?” “The hell you say!” “Look, hell’s already stuck right to our sides.” “There ain’t nowhere else we can go!” Issho pointed to his ex-barmaid wife sitting beside him, who was trying to eat some pickles.

“Hahahahaha. Hahahahaha.” “Scary how y’all get so cocky spoutin’ nonsense.” “That’s right—y’all can only act high-and-mighty while stuck in this world, eh Shin? What do we care ’bout what happens after we’re dead?!” “After this, let fields be fields and mountains be... mo-untains!” “Hey, show us your stuff!” “Was that all?” “How’s that for skill?” Everyone cheered raucously. Shin laughed strangely. “This is fun!” “I wanna dance so bad!” “Chan!”

When Jinsuke’s child staggered to his feet, Zenbaka, also slightly drunk, approached from the opposite direction. 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 good friends with us, huh. “Zen!” “Aren’tcha gonna dance?” “This’ll be fun, I tell ya!” While pulling Zenbaka’s earlobe, Jinsuke’s child dragged him around the bench. “This is great! C’mon, dance!” “I’ll make you drink more sake!”

“Dance! You’ve got good company there!” “Hahahahaha!” “There he dances! Dances!” Jinsuke’s child, his simple mind scrambled by alcohol, had gone mad. Stripped to the waist with straw sandals on both hands, he started dancing while hitting Zenbaka all over his body and shouting incomprehensible things.

“Hey! This rocks!” “There we go! Keep at it! Got it? Sing!” “Look!” “In our fields now…” “Hey! Show us your stuff!……”

“Wahahahaha!” “Hahahahaha.” “That’s it!”

“Hey, steady now! Keep it up!” Zenbaka, squelchingly slapped with straw sandals by Jinsuke’s child, took the hem of his kimono in both hands and began dancing from his feet upward with a scrape-scrape.

Sixteen

Exactly one week had passed since the women came. And gradually, the village began settling back into its original gloomy poverty. As work in the fields grew increasingly urgent, the bench at the sake shop naturally became deserted, and trivial quarrels dwindled. However—as if commemorating the townswomen’s visit—Zenbaka had turned into a full-blown drunkard. This was likely because everyone had made him their plaything and forced him to drink wherever he went. From dawn till dusk, we saw his slovenly drunken figure reeling through the village streets—his body smeared with mud and sweat.

He would enter any house without hesitation, “Gimme sake.” he begged. There wasn’t a single house along the village road that he didn’t beg for sake. However, most households would give him water mixed with just a drop or two of sake—yet he’d happily get drunk.

One afternoon, we were sitting by the veranda of the tearoom grinding walnuts. Then from the direction of the fields, a man swung around and slunk in through the garden gate. Startled, we looked and saw it was Zenbaka. I felt oddly creeped out and scooted a little further inside. Grandmother and the others who had been inside came out and stood watching Zen in the garden with a mix of disgust and curiosity. After a while he said in a low voice quite clearly—

“Gimme sake,” he said.

The maid immediately stood up and went to bring water faintly scented with sake in a cracked rice bowl. Then, reaching from a distance, “Here, I’ll put it here.” she placed it on the edge of the veranda. Zenbaka snatched the bowl as if pouncing the moment the maid’s hand began to withdraw—or perhaps before it even had. And with huffing snorts that made his Adam’s apple bob repeatedly, he drank every last drop without wasting a single one, then thoroughly licked the bowl clean.

He stood there holding the empty bowl. The maid said we should drive him out quickly because he was filthy, but Grandmother insisted that if you treated madmen harshly, they would surely exact revenge (*ata*) later, and so let him stay. I gazed fixedly at Zenbaka’s face for the first time in a long while. Today, for some reason, he looked far neater and tidier than usual, neither particularly smelly nor dirty. Yet the strangely uncoordinated movements of his limbs and his peculiar way of using his eyes—distinctive to those with mental illness—appeared all the more striking. And compared to when I had last seen him, he had grown completely emaciated, his cheeks sunken and gaunt. His wrinkles had multiplied, and his entire body had grown frail. It seemed the constant state of excitement from drinking alcohol had thoroughly worn him down.

Poor thing! What would we do if he were to act out violently? I was vaguely recalling stories I’d heard from my mother about madmen in Hokkaido. Then, suddenly, Zenbaka grinned creepily and, “Man, we really wanna eat…” he muttered. The way he said it was so childlike that we all burst out laughing. However, the maid and I heaped rice, the vegetables stewed at noon, and pickles together into a bowl and placed it once more on the edge of the veranda.

He immediately took it. He sat down on the ground and, placing it between his legs, began to eat with both hands. He stared intently into the bowl and voraciously shoveled the food into his mouth, like a starved wild dog. As I watched, I became wretched. A sight more pitiful than any beast. If being born as such a pitiful human, one might wonder how much happier it would have been to be born even as a cat. For him, and for those around him as well, it would have been far better that way—I earnestly thought. And, unable to bear watching any longer, I turned away and began grinding walnuts again. From the crackling, splitting shells, I would extract the pale yellow nuts and crush them in the grinding mortar.

After a while, Zenbaka finished eating, and there was a sense that he had stood up. And then, clinging to the mortar handle, I watched his retreating figure—staggering under the weight of empty cracked bowls and rice bowls in both hands as he headed back toward the fields—with an indescribable feeling. Autumnal, calm afternoon sunlight drifted quietly over his unkempt hair.

Due to the heat and his worries, Shin’s illness—left untreated with proper care—drastically worsened with the change of seasons.

His body swollen to the point where even standing was agony, driven by the torment of having to endure his mother’s nagging if he stayed home, Shin dragged his lame leg aimlessly through the woods. When villagers saw him in the grove lost in thought, they whispered earnestly among themselves—truly pitying him and wishing they could somehow make things right. However, in these past two or three days even this had become impossible for him, so he now spent most of his time lying idly in the dim four-tatami room where even the shade of the house barely let in any light.

From right before the room, stretching over mulberry fields and across vegetable plots, he could see a graveyard enveloped by woods. Shin, feeling a prickly numbness in his soles like being jabbed by a bundle of needles, lay pillowing his head on his arm and gazed quietly. The sound of trees' tender leaves rustling under raw sunlight and the murmur of the ditch flowing beside him each resonated deep within his heart—evoking an inexpressible longing before pressing upon him with such futility that tears welled up.

"In the shadow of that forest, Chan is there." When Shin thought this, memories from when his father was still alive came back like a distant dream. When he was seven or eight—back when his father, so robust and kind-hearted that dying young would never have crossed even his dreams—used to carry him on his shoulders through peach orchards urging him to “eat all you want,” how blissfully they had basked under that joyous sun. The nostalgia struck him so fiercely it felt like he could soar through the air.

And yet here they were—mother and son alone in this vast world—forced into such pitiful misunderstandings over trivial matters these days. When he thought of this, and of his illness that would clearly never heal, life no longer felt worth living. If my being here is a burden to Mom, I’d leave right this moment—but since death draws near anyway, how happy I’d be if just once, even once, she’d call me “Shin!” like she did seven years ago!

Shin vividly recalled the scene from when he was staying with a man named Tokizo in Hokkaido—how a nineteen-year-old fellow worker had suddenly fallen ill and died in just three days. Until the day he died, “Mom!” “Mom, why aren’t you coming?” “I’m waitin’ here!” While saying this, he kept talking about his mother—so gentle she had never once raised her voice from the day he was born until their parting. And when the moment finally came, he opened his tightly shut eyes wide and stretched out both hands to their fullest extent.

“Mom!” When he had shouted clearly and finally passed away, that sharp voice and those emaciated hands remained etched in Shin’s eyes. No matter where one dies—in the mountains, on some desolate field—how fortunate is the one who, in their final moments, can call out “Mother!” and die. How blessed that would be. Shin was earnestly contemplating his own death. On an especially sweltering day, Shin was so weak since morning that he could barely move.

As he swatted away the persistent flies and gazed aimlessly with clouded eyes at the sky stretching endlessly high above, it suddenly struck him—as if it had flown in from somewhere—that he truly could no longer go on living. Shin, laughing strangely, fidgeted and moved his body while stroking his face. “Ma!” he called in a gentle voice. The sound of water at the back door stopped, and with her hands still wet, Mother wore a stern face,

“What?” she entered. “I know you’re busy, but could ya sit a spell an’ talk with me? I’ve got somethin’ I needa say.” “What? If ya got somethin’ to say, spit it out already.”

“Come on, Ma, sit down for a bit. There’s really so much I wanna talk about.” Shin gazed with eyes full of gentle affection at his mother’s face—staring back with angry intensity—then smiled quietly and nodded.

“Hey, Ma!” “There’s somethin’ I gotta discuss with you…” “…………” “If I suddenly say such a thing—you might get upset—but I’ve come to think there’s no savin’ me anymore.” “So you gotta decide on someone proper-like to take over housework—anyone’ll do.” “I figure it’s best if you pick whoever you think fits.”

Mother made a strange face but suddenly shouted in a loud voice.

“What’re you sneakin’ in digs like that for?! Cut it out!” “Don’t go meddlin’ in what don’t concern ya! Stay put, you fool!” “You think we don’t know what’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” “Come on, don’t get so angry, Ma!” “I wasn’t making digs or anything—I just said what I was thinkin’.” “……When I think back to before I ever went to Hokkaido… The present feels truly unbearable.” “I’m tryin’ to stick by you no matter what, Ma.” “Whatever happens is fine—won’t you just tell me everything you’re thinkin’?!” “Hey, Ma… I ain’t got much longer to live—that’s what I want.” “Won’t ya remember the old days?”

“What’re you tryin’ to scare me for?! “Ain’t no use.” “Try trickin’ me all you want—I ain’t fallin’ for it!” “Go wash that ugly mug and come back proper!”

“That ain’t it, Ma! Even if I wanted to do somethin’, this body ain’t up to it—ain’t like I’m givin’ up or nothin’. I just want to die. Please, let’s part ways like we did in the old days, huh Ma? This recent bean mess—it just don’t sit right with me.” “It don’t make sense? So what? I don’t understand a damn thing you’re sayin’. Idiot! To have a brat who tries to paint his own ma as the villain—that’s my cursed fate. Not amusing. Say whatever you like! If I’m the only one who ends up lookin’ like the villain here—then you’d be real happy, huh?! You must be real happy!”

She began shedding tears hysterically. Shin wore a pitiful face and silently watched this scene, but before long, he took out a money belt from under the futon and,

“Ma! “It’s only a small amount, but I’m entrusting this to you.” “Please use that to cover the shortfall.” “It won’t do me any good to hold onto it anyway.”

and thrust it into his mother’s lap. Her eyes briefly lit up. And with a slightly awkward air, “I see.” As she said this, she promptly took it and stood up to leave with a satisfied air. Watching her go, Shin smiled happily and closed his eyes.

“Ma! “You ain’t a bad person at all.” “But I’m so tired…” “Rememberin’ the old days… it’s too painful, Ma!” “What a harmonious time we must’ve had together, huh?”

From Shin’s eyes spilled tears like a waterfall. A stifled, agonized sob echoed mournfully through the quiet room.

Seventeen

In a nameless small village far removed from the metropolis, encompassing various incidents that arose there, autumn grew just as it had last year and a hundred years before.

The autumn climate that had made itself known in the mountain ranges and the leaves of trees clashed with lingering remnants of summer still remaining here and there, making the weather over these two or three days exceedingly foul. Across the wide sky, rain clouds drifted as unpleasant humidity tangled with lukewarm swirls of southerly wind beneath sagging clouds. The often-obscured sunlight outlined dull-colored masses of layered clouds with golden rims, cast the mountain range in dark purple hues, and sharply imprinted shadows of trees and houses in uneven forms onto parched ground.

A sinuous wind creeping down from the mountains kicked up sand with a whoosh, and the crops heavy with grain rustled swish… swish… in dismal undulations. 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 dull, rolling roar. Everything dawned and dusk fell in a fearsome manner.

That day brought particularly fierce weather, and when evening came, a terrifying wind began to blow, so all the farmers were assailed by intense unease. That all the crops now about to complete their final growth were encountering rough winds and being battered by heavy rain was a cause for grave concern.

And so they busied themselves with patrolling the fields and such, while our fields too were fully enclosed and propped up with support poles by three tenant farmers.

Having shut ourselves in early within tightly closed rooms and listening to the increasingly violent sound of rain raging outside, we all grew so unsettled that we couldn't bear to remain apart in our separate chambers.

The entire household gathered in the tearoom. The wind clattered against the shutters only to recede, intermingled with the screech of something creaking somewhere—the eerie howl of a frightened stray dog menaced everyone’s hearts before being ripped away and carried off.

The wind gradually grew stronger. As the pace of clouds racing across the dimly lit sky quickened, the southeastern gale began to blow as if determined to fell every standing tree and every house in its path. Sand and dust whirled up in short spirals, scurrying this way and that across the deserted thoroughfare. Every tree whipped their crowns about in frenzy; small branches tore from pale limbs with visceral force, flying loose; trunks creaked and groaned in agony, swaying with shrill cries. At house corners, colliding winds howled; leaves flipped pale undersides as they were tossed and torn, wailing in myriad voices. ——

In the midst of the night’s tempest—as though heaven and earth were being crushed in a giant’s palm—a single slender figure calmly appeared from the corner of the thoroughfare. The black shadow moved steadily through the chaos. Keeping his head perfectly upright, his limbs moving with mechanical precision, his figure advanced in measured strides—like a puppet being manipulated on a cart—amidst all cowering things in this trembling world. How imposingly must he have appeared? To the storm that reveled in cruel pleasure, he stood as a shocking rebel.

His long hair stood on end, disheveled across his face with each gust of wind, while the hem of his kimono flapped noisily against his legs, clinging to them as it billowed. However, such things did not seem to hinder him in the slightest, as the figure continued advancing with utmost composure and deliberation. No matter how violently the wind-whipped sand and soil struck him, his head remained held high, and his face refused to turn away. Debris clung to his exposed slender shins, while the kimono, caught in the whirlwind, swelled and deflated across his body, flapping wildly.

But he just walked on. He walked resolutely forward as if there were no obstacles ahead—or as if, should any exist, he could effortlessly crush them underfoot with his momentum. And when he came to the bend in the straight road, another black figure appeared ahead of this mysterious figure. Amidst the swirling haze of dust and debris, that small hunched form—ah, with what pitiful frailty did it stagger forth! Truly, that figure came staggering.

A fierce gust swept across the ground with a terrifying roar, and like a withered leaf being toyed with, the figure was flung upward and downward, shoved side to side, and jostled about until it staggered in circles, nearly collapsing. Pausing unsteadily for a moment, it then swayed and moved like a soul-severed patient on unsteady footing. Covering their face firmly with both hands, the figure—blown this way and that across the entire road—seemed startled by unexpected footsteps. Peering out from between their palms, they tried to see the approaching form through the curtain of darkness and dust.

To the one who had been barely enduring while constantly staggering, how terrifyingly grand the first figure that appeared before them must have seemed! The second figure staggered weakly and concealed itself in a partially shaded thicket of trees. It had tried to let the figure pass by. However, for some reason, when the first shadow—which until now had been looking only straight ahead—came before the thicket of trees, it abruptly stopped walking. And, with an extremely earnest attitude, was watching intently in the opposite direction. There, though considerably obscured by numerous treetops, the village office's lights glowed a bright red, their brilliance strikingly conspicuous.

The first figure had been devoting his full attention to staring at that single point of light for some time when—suddenly leaping up and flinging both hands into the air—he let out an extraordinarily high-pitched and sharp— “AAHH!!” No sooner had he screamed than he bolted off like a shot. His body bent double, head thrust forward with mouth agape and teeth bared—not blinking, gaze fixed straight ahead as he ran through the sandstorm. Around him, swift gusts of wind swished and hissed, torn to shreds and left behind in his wake.

The second shadow began to walk unsteadily again. Staggering while covering its face with both hands, the small figure—toyed with by the wind—gradually grew more and more distant.

**Eighteen**

The midnight gale brought on a sudden downpour as dawn approached. The intermittent rain battered the thoroughfare fiercely, carving numerous small streams along both sides of the road, while brown muddy water gurgled thickly through the grooves of two cart ruts running down the center. The farmers all holed up in their houses, spending their time making straw sandals and braiding ropes, but a group of restless children ventured into the mixed woods at the edge of the village.

There, since early autumn, countless nameless mushrooms had pushed up their caps, and occasionally a *nameko* would appear in its yellow glory, lifting its tiny gatherers to the heights of triumph. So today too, the children had deliberately set out mushroom hunting in this forbidding weather. They all searched desperately. While feeling the ticklish sensation of cut grass stubble against the soles of their bare feet, they pushed deeper and deeper into the forest. Pushing aside leaves layered like dampened thin paper, their nails packed full with mud, they vied to lead the way—throwing earthworms caught by chance at each other and tickling one another with pine needles—until the child who had gone ahead into the woods adjoining the graveyard abruptly stopped, as if suddenly spotting something, and peered carefully forward.

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—they saw a black cloth with white patterns fluttering like a flag, flapping in the wind. “What’s that?” “What in the world’s fluttering over there?!” “Seriously, what is that? Should we go take a look?” “Yeah, that’s really a good idea.” “Go on, check it out.” “We’ll wait here.” “Hey, Gen!”

“Ah, c’mon, you go check it out.” “We’ll wait here.” “What? I gotta go alone?” “No way! I ain’t doin’ this alone! You brats come with me!” “We ain’t goin’.” “You’re the one who said we should go!” “Right?” “Yeah, that’s right.” “Damn right.” “Ain’t you who said we should go?” “Go check it!” “You go check.” “We’ll wait right here!”

The one who had suggested going to look was now thoroughly at a loss. Even when he proposed that whoever lost at Chitchi-no-hō (a local term for rock-paper-scissors) should go, no matter what he said, the companions wouldn’t listen—so it was finally decided he would take the lead with everyone following behind.

His small heart was stretched taut with curiosity and terror, his pulse throbbing as if pounding directly in his ears. Though so creeped out he wanted to bolt, now that matters had reached this point, he steeled himself to appear strong enough to make "those weaklings" gasp—and with shoulders squared aggressively forward, he marched ahead. But what use was this astonishing warrior's resolve the instant he discovered two bluish human legs dangling limply from a red-skinned pine trunk high above! He turned deathly pale and, leaping back toward his companions,

“It’s a hanging!” No sooner had he screamed than he slipped through between the tombstones as if kicked and fled toward the thoroughfare. How utterly astonished the other children must have been at this unexpected cry!

They forgot themselves, raising all manner of cries as they jostled along the narrow path, each scrambling to flee this unthinkable place. Suddenly, the area fell deathly quiet save for the rustling of tree groves, while a few bamboo stalks speared with mushrooms—left discarded beneath swaying legs—fluttered in the wind. Following the children’s lead, nearly all the village men had gathered at the graveyard. Forming a large group and putting on a show of bravado as they approached to investigate—even if it meant feigning courage—what in the world was this?!

It really was a hanging. There hung a man with a hand towel wrapped around his face and his head hanging limply from a single rope, swaying helplessly with his entire body like a broken doll! Through the rain-soaked kimono clinging tightly to the skin, the grotesquely rigid muscles showed their outlines clearly.

Clumped in stiff tufts of seven or eight strands each, his hair stood upright like a brush, dead leaves and debris clinging to its tips. They were now struck to the core. “Who in the world is this?” They tried hard to recall, but they had no memory of the kimono’s pattern or the body’s shape. For seven years since witnessing a peasant woman hang herself in this very graveyard, the farmers had encountered nothing so horrifying, and now found themselves utterly at a loss over what to do first.

The crowd, having prepared for rain with straw raincoats and conical hats, turned back in silence and blankly watched the human body being tossed helplessly by the wind—as if it were nothing but a plaything. Where red soil had been washed away by the rain, leaving numerous striped gullies, lay a tree stump kicked over and caked in mud, along with a single sodden straw sandal; from the hem of the corpse suspended three or four shaku above ground, falling droplets had pockmarked the earth below with countless small round holes.

“We gotta take him down quick.” They all thought the same way, yet in that sameness, they waited for someone else to speak first. Each time the wind roared like a great wave, rushing from treetop to treetop, the violent swaying of the body’s weight threatened to snap that thin rope—and the terror that the corpse might come crashing down with a thud left everyone utterly paralyzed with fear.

The children, who had put on brave faces, were utterly astonished by the strange sight of 'scary fathers' and 'big brothers'—who always hit or scolded them—today for some reason standing motionless without lifting a hand.

They gathered in a corner, “Even full-grown adults get scared too, huh…” “Yeah, really… They really do look scared…”

Whispering such things, they compared the adults and the corpse. The man’s corpse was taken down only after some time had passed and a policeman and a gravedigger had come to the village. The rigid body was laid on a plank, and when, after considerable effort, someone removed the hand towel—now sodden and stiffened into knots—one of the men standing nearby involuntarily leaped back, “Ain’t this Shin-san?! Huh? Ain’t this Shin-san?!” he shouted in a madman-like voice.

Suddenly, the surroundings erupted in a stir, and many heads peered over shoulders at a single face. “Oh! It’s Shin-san! It’s Shin-san—this here’s Shin-san!”

“Let me see. Move aside a bit and let me see.” “Oh! Good God!” “What in the blazes happened here?!” “That demon hag finally did in such a dutiful son in such a heartless way!” “Drop dead already, you damned schemer!” They—simple souls already trembling before death—saw how Shin-san, that kindhearted mother-lover who’d been talking just yesterday, had become this pitiful state in mere hours. Utterly dispirited, they found his mother downright detestable now. In one voice, they praised how filial the spirited Shin-san had remained even while his mother tormented him.

“What charge would they bring if we reported her?” “Even if it’s death from assault… that ain’t quite right either…” The mediator among the gathered crowd spoke with apparent confidence, but the young, seemingly inexperienced policeman—flustered and hoarse-voiced—kept urging them to quickly summon the family members and didn’t even listen to such matters. One man promptly set off, a large straw raincoat rustling loudly as he crossed the fields and rushed toward the waterwheel worker’s place.

Though the waterwheel worker’s house was visible in the distance as a small shape, the man who had gone there showed no sign of returning. While talking about how Shin-san’s father—a man of similarly humble birth and an inherently good-natured disposition—had been, they occasionally shaded their eyes with their hands and kept watch for figures moving along the farm paths. Because it was taking too long, they were about to send a second messenger. From beyond the highway came an old woman running in a half-maddened state, stumbling and tumbling as she rushed forward.

“Who in the world is that?” “She’s really going all out!” “Good grief! For an old woman, she’s got one hell of a pace!” The one who came rushing into the midst of the crowd’s attention was Zenbaka’s mother.

What in the world had become of her? Her white hair stood wildly on end, one sleeve of her kimono torn off without her notice, as she gasped hoarsely at her throat... “Well… since you ain’t Zen’s ma—” “What’s wrong?” “What’s got you in such a fluster?” “Who is it? Huh? “Someone’s hanged ’emselves—who is’t? Huh?”

With her face deathly pale, the old woman pushed through the crowd and tried to tear off the straw mat that had been draped over the corpse. “It’s… Shin-san! Shin-san the waterwheel worker’s gone and ended up in such a pitiful state!” “Calm down—even if we talk slow, you ain’t gonna get it.”

The villagers attempted to calm the trembling old woman.

“What’s this? Shin-san? Shin-san the waterwheel worker?”

She let out a disappointed sigh. And she remained silent for a while, but suddenly frowned, “We ain’t got no clue where our Zen’s gone.” “And then, some fella came to us this mornin’—dunno who he was—sayin’ he saw your madman actin’ all strange-like near the marsh in the next village…”

As she spoke, tears streamed down her cheeks. No matter how much they tried to console her by saying he couldn’t be dead and she should rest easy, she felt certain something terrible had happened this time—so the old woman prostrated herself before them all and begged them to at least search for his corpse. “If someone’d taken proper care of him, we wouldn’t be frettin’.” “But since we didn’t even feed him right, we’re scared stiff.” “If he’s dead, he’ll curse us sure as anything.” “Please—I’m beggin’ ya like this!” “Won’t ya listen?!”

Everyone realized that the weather over the past two or three days had indeed been no ordinary occurrence. “Two people droppin’ dead in one night—what kinda mess is this?” “Some unsolvable karma from past lives—terrifyin’, ain’t it.” “Downright bone-chillin’.” “But ain’t nothin’ we can do ’bout it with our own hands… Namu Amida Butsu…” “Wish we could at least send ’im off to paradise…” Half those gathered took the old woman with ’em and trudged away like mourners at a funeral.

Every time the wind blew, lifting the edge of the straw mat to reveal glimpses of sodden, bedraggled clothes and the tips of feet from the corpse they were keeping watch over, those left behind in the graveyard—with truly earnest hearts—came to think that Shin-san, who had endured everything in silence, might now, having died like this, be able to recount every last thing he had seen and suffered to someone capable of handling even a person or two... or so it seemed to them.

And just as those who had shown kindness would receive good recompense, it seemed that those who had acted cruelly would also have a terrifying retribution befitting their deeds rain down upon them. Moreover, Shin-san seemed to possess the power to make it rain down. “May the Heavenly Way rain down punishment upon us!” The words they had kept saying—"May the Heavenly Way rain down punishment upon us!"—also came to mind.

When they thought of how they had not served Shin-san—who had been so noble—well enough, they became unbearably ashamed and terrified. “Shin-san. Please remember this well—we did pity you, but we’re poor—there ain’t nothin’ we could’ve done about it, see?” Toward the motionless straw mat shroud, every heart timidly whispered.

Nineteen

The entire village was thrown into complete chaos. A hanging so vile it sickened the ear! Moreover, for Shin-san—who didn’t have a speck of wickedness to his name—to choose such a pitiful way to die… And what’s more, it seemed even Zenbaka had died.

What in the world had happened? Now that things had come to this pass, that strange weather from days prior truly seemed an ominous portent… Everyone repeated these same words endlessly. And Death—attaching himself unexpectedly at unforeseen moments—claimed unlikely victims. This dreadful Reaper who surely stalked even them at times now felt so near their very flesh that they grew reluctant even to venture outdoors.

When I heard this story, I simply could not accept it as real.

Among those I had known, the people who had died up to that day were few enough to count on my fingers. Those who knew me from my birth still thought of me as an infant and doted on me. And weren't they healthy and robust, working energetically? Yet both Zenbaka and Shin-san had already died, though scarcely two months had passed since I'd truly come to know them. And to have happened so suddenly, so unnaturally...

Until the day before yesterday, I had still been seeing Zenbaka walking about. Until just recently, I had been greeting Shin-san with "Good morning. How are you today?"—yet now that very Shin-san lay dead, cold and stiff, soon to be buried.— No matter how painful or unbearable it might be, I found myself contemplating the life I had been leading lately—one where I never even considered, nor could conceive of, something like death.

In this vast world, how many people must die each day? Ten die, a hundred die—maybe even a thousand have died. But within that, I am alive. Moreover, in this way I am healthy, have plenty to do, and am being doted on as I live. I am incapable of all passive thinking. No matter what troubles I encounter—though of course they’re nothing but trivial things that bubble up and vanish within my narrow world—I somehow manage to get through them.

Rather than thinking of dying, I first consider how to break through. And I have resolved that until my mind dries out and grows dull—until there remains no true meaning in being alive—I will survive by any means necessary. Therefore, I find it utterly impossible to discard my life as women did in the past, no matter what. I cannot die as long as my life has meaning. But right beside me now, two people have died like this. And yet, didn't they both die in such unordinary ways?

If I had gone to that forest that night and saved Shin-san from trying to die? I would have desperately tried to stop him. I would have told him to recover his health and work again. But could I truly say I saved him by doing that? To me, no matter how I look at it, it would have been nothing more than pulling Shin-san away from that tree branch back then. I cannot spend my life protecting Shin-san’s entire existence. I cannot keep encouraging his spirit year-round. And even if he were given a little treatment and some money, only to be thrust back into this poor, harsh, lonely world—what joy could there be?

“I was saved.” “But what’s the point?” “I don’t want any of it—being kept alive just to suffer even more than before, struggling in agony!” “You’ll keep delighting forever in having saved one person—but I’ll always have to regret thinking, ‘If only I’d died back then.’” If I had saved Shin-san back then but couldn’t ensure he lived his entire life with true strength and free from oppression, it would all come to nothing.

Is it not that, being dominated by the conventional sentiment that those trying to die must be saved, one gives satisfaction to one’s own heart before even considering that person’s entire life? When I arrived at this thought here, everything up until now seemed to crumble into jagged fragments. When I think about it, wasn’t the majority of what I had done until now merely filling a heart starved for charitable acts? I gave them clothes, gave them money, gave them food, and sympathized—but what meaning could any of these things possibly hold for their entire lives?

If I had truly wrapped them in great love and tried to pull them up with deep sympathy, I could have kept Shin-san from dying! I could have stopped Zenbaka from turning into a drunkard. —— But now both of them are about to die and be buried before I can do anything. Truly, while I stood doing nothing, everything that needed to happen has already been neatly wrapped up. That I might have encouraged Shin-san until he understood the preciousness of his own life—such a thought never even crossed my mind.

I do not truly love them. Nor can I love them! What should I do?

Though I ultimately failed, how wretched this mere hope of needing to do something for them made me feel! In your eyes, I was but a human no larger than a poppy seed. I may have done many things that seemed disagreeable or foolish to you. Out of concern for you alone, I utterly destroyed what had until now been revered as so-called charity and showy kindness. I drove them away.

But where is there something I can offer in its place?

My hands are empty. I have nothing. This tiny, pitiful self of mine stands truly lost and bewildered, capable only of muttering "What should I do?" But please don't despise me. I will surely seize something before long. I will find something—no matter how small—that we might both rejoice in. Please wait until then. Stay hearty and keep working! My sorrowful comrades!

I will study even through tears. I will strive with all my strength. And even if it comes at the moment I myself am about to die—how joyous it would be if I, truly open and unreserved, could share a smile with you all! How greatly would the Sun God rejoice? My beloved Sun God who has raised me—how He would say, “Well done! Well done!” That kind Sun God...

Zenbaka’s corpse was found after night fell.

In a marsh at the edge of the neighboring village, he had drowned while clutching a dog. Countless small shrimp had formed a procession, weaving in and out between strands of overgrown hair, it was said.