Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was now some sixty-seven or seventy-eight years ago—back in the Kaei era, though the exact year escapes memory.

In Oshu—a land perceived by those from Edo and Kamigata as either the world’s edge or a den of hairy barbarians—the peasants who eked out livings tilling meager fields along overgrown plains or mountainsides where bamboo grass and bears roamed, truly seemed to share a relationship with foxes and raccoon dogs that we today cannot fathom.

Through frostbitten winter fields, where faintly pale pampas plumes trembled, fox wedding processions would pass; or a raccoon dog, perching lightly on a night traveler’s shoulder, might dangle one paw from its nose until it loomed like a giant monk blocking the path—to their way of thinking, such things were never mere “tricks of the mind,” so they say.

They viewed fox fire with the same frequency and nonchalance that we might regard gas lamps on the street, and seemed to be tricked or possessed as playfully and effortlessly as siblings jesting among themselves. And at that time, even owls had apparently mastered enough skill to send fireballs flying.

Born into such times and place, Old Man Saburo was not meant to be the sole outcast.

From infancy—barely past forty days old or not yet—thanks to what they called "troublemakers," he had suffered an irreparable calamity. From that moment until he neared thirty, he and foxes and raccoon dogs shared an inseparable bond, so it is said.

His first incident occurred during an intensely hot summer when he was still a wobbly infant.

The wife of a farmer named Rokuemon was washing dried leaves for vegetable rice in the backyard.

Though the surroundings had grown dim with twilight—the hour when fireflies would soon emerge—the day’s heat showed no sign of relenting.

Even then, just as now, she was half-naked and splashing about in the water, yet from the wife’s body poured sweat as if a barrel’s plug had been pulled—thick, relentless streams flowing unnervingly.

The wife exhaled a stifling breath that seemed to choke her, wiping away beads of sweat as she involuntarily—
“Goodness, this heat’s unbearable!”
Muttering to herself, she idly stretched her back and looked up—only to find an enormous, impossibly enormous moon already hanging over the pine treetop nearby, though she hadn’t noticed it rise.

When she focused her eyes and looked properly, it wasn’t just enormous—the very hue seemed different from any ordinary moon.
A moon as crimson as a vermilion-lacquered tray hung utterly motionless, lingering on the same pine bough no matter how much time passed…

Even the wife couldn’t help but be astonished by this.
Because she raised her voice in a loud call, all the neighbors from around came out.
When they came out, they were utterly astonished each time.

Truly, this was no ordinary sight—for a moon that looked either parboiled or thoroughly drunk hadn’t budged an inch from its initial perch for nearly half an hour.

As they descended into a chaotic uproar—speculating whether this portended the world reverting to fireballs or heralded a poor harvest—a child’s piercing voice suddenly cut through:

“What?!
“Look! Oh!”
“Oh!”
“Another moon’s come out from the mountain!”

The child shouted.

When they looked, there truly was another moon—fresh and pale gold—emerging with dignity from behind the crimson moon at the mountain’s edge, its halo blazing in the twilight sky as it steadily ascended…

But lo and behold—to their utter astonishment—the crimson moon, which until that very moment had perched majestically on the pine bough while basking in the evening breeze and feigning ignorance of the rabble’s clamorous debate, began to panic terribly the instant it heard that shout.

And there it was—after much agonized squirming atop sharp pine needles, the crimson moon suddenly resolved itself. With one desperate flip, it began tumbling down branch to branch, leaf to leaf, remaining grotesquely large and red all the while, rolling and bouncing like a handball in absurd defiance of all celestial dignity.
They all stood utterly dumbstruck.
Whether out of absurdity or sheer astonishment, it tumbled down before their bewildered eyes—wide open yet comprehending nothing—then with an almost comical flourish, bounced once more with a pop and vanished into thin air before anyone could utter “Oh!” or “Ah!”

How fast it was, how fast!
In that motion too swift for the eye to follow, what must Saburo’s mother—now standing stupefied—have felt?
“Oh my… we…”

With that, she whispered in a disappointed tone and, as if all strength had left her, dropped Old Man Saburo—still just an infant—so violently onto the ground that it seemed excessive.

For a while he could not utter a sound and lay convulsing; when the startled villagers finally picked him up, his right hand had already come to dangle limply from his shoulder—a pitiful sight.

II

How that dangling hand had been treated, he did not know, and neither did I.

Most likely, they did nothing more than boil some roots and apply them as a poultice—but thanks to such makeshift remedies, no complications arose. By the time the infant’s soft bones had settled enough for him to walk, he showed no particular impairment.

However, upon closer inspection, his right hand was considerably shorter than his left.
And that the shoulder area merely became oddly swollen was, all things considered, a stroke of luck.

Apart from having just under an inch taken from the length of his right arm by the red moon, he grew into such a robust child that even if you wanted him dead, he wouldn’t die. Two enormous eyes, a resonant voice, rock-solid limbs, and the great physique that would later bring him both happiness and misfortune—from the time he was running barefoot year-round, these traits had already begun gradually bestowing upon him the privilege of leadership among his peers.

While his appearance was quite rough and violent-looking, he possessed an unexpectedly gentle and kind heart—this description, it seems, wasn’t mere self-praise.

The chivalrous spirit that imprinted on his heart a self-conceit—that childish, perhaps ignorant yet undeniably endearing confidence declaring “Without me, no fight could be settled”—would have driven him to side with the underdog even in those days.

However, both his sympathy and chivalry were of an utterly crude nature.

Since these were not virtues honed through disciplined training, he had been given all that a human child could possess, and he acted on impulse as they dictated.

Therefore, he who now stood up for the weak and fought bamboo spear battles against gangs of troublemakers would, upon discarding those spears, sneak into others’ fields or climb fruit trees. He felt no contradiction there. And even now, through one unforgettable scheme related to that flavor, he—a poor farmer—would frequently indulge in extraordinary delicacies.

It went like this:

After all, in those days, foxes far outnumbered humans.
Therefore, no matter what, the fields and paddies were inevitably ravaged by them.
The foxes that entered their burrows from spring began to unleash their destructive force around harvest time.
As one custom of his village, when they found foxes raising cubs, they would bring offerings like steamed glutinous rice and boiled potatoes to their burrows.
This was how they lured out the foxes’ goodwill—with offerings of steamed glutinous rice and boiled potatoes.

Now, having noticed this, Saburo would gather allies and go searching through the fields for mother foxes with cubs.
Even in those days, when faced by humans, it was the foxes who would flee, so they rarely encountered mother foxes—let alone ones accompanied by newborn cubs deserving of offerings like steamed glutinous rice and boiled potatoes.
But if they kept walking around diligently for four or five days without fail, they could find at least one.
When that happened, they would report it to the mothers.
Not only did they report it, but if necessary, they also showed them the site.

And he, taking the offerings they had made to the burrow, would leave about a tenth as their share, then promptly bestow the rest upon their own stomachs.

While doing such things, Saburo gradually grew up.
And then, probably around age eleven or twelve, he was sent to live as a temple apprentice at some temple in the neighboring village.

Though called a neighboring village, in those days "neighboring" meant a settlement two or three ri away—crossing fields riddled with fox and raccoon dog burrows, fording rivers where otters snatched candles from paper lanterns.

His parents—unable to have him commute daily to learn characters there, nor lenient enough toward their child to provide adequate “offerings to the honorable temple”—in exchange for his labor sweeping courtyards, assisting in the kitchen, and running errands, arranged for him to receive lessons in “writing simple correspondence.”
They arranged for him to be taught writing.

With his hair tied into a small topknot using straw, wearing patched-up leggings and straw sandals, and carrying three large rice balls on his back, he was led by his father—who bore three sho of rice, five sho of buckwheat flour, and jet-black skewered persimmons—as they plodded along the distant road. Pale yellow dust gathered on his broad shoulders, which ill-suited his topknot, while they walked onward.

And his playmates, who had seen him off for an uncertain distance, suddenly turned solemn when it came time to part,

“We send you off…”

When they all bowed in unison, he claimed it was the first time he’d ever felt "a heavy, sinking sensation in his chest."

However, without offering a single word of explanation—perhaps because that heaviness was sadness—even then, he likely made no effort to understand or contemplate what it truly was.

He remembered only this with perfect clarity: how deliciously ripe the persimmons had been by the gate; how he had stolen them right after arriving; how he’d eaten them beside the priest and his father as they talked, filled with satisfaction and triumph.

So much so that this single persimmon—already beginning to rot from the stem—held such significance for him.

III

There was a reason why that persimmon held such significance.

He had done it thinking that neither his father nor the priest would ever find out, but to his surprise, the priest had known all along. Not only had he known, but he had even praised him, saying that for a child who had just been separated from his parents and forced to stay overnight at another household, he displayed an unexpectedly bold spirit—or so it was said.

His father, having been told he had a good son, gained great honor and brought those words back to the village as the finest souvenir.

I couldn’t tell whether he’d stolen those persimmons through sheer nerve or audacity, but regardless, he ended up becoming the priest’s favorite.

They’d call him “Saburō-bōzu,” “Saburō-bōzu,” and he was always tasked with escorting people to where the temple meals were served.

“This boy here…”

Prefacing his talks with those words, the priest would recount the persimmon incident wherever he went.
Then all who heard it would marvel.
Now they even began slipping in extra sweets—things they’d never have given him before—along with the meals.

He couldn’t help swelling with pride.
At night by the hearth with the priest, he’d listen to stories of Ikkyu the monk and secretly compare them to his own life or lose himself in daydreams. Yet misfortune lingered—letters seemed fundamentally ill-suited to his nature, and the tremendous effort needed to memorize even one character always cast a shadow over his endearing pride.

Driven by the need to impress his village friends and compelled by his desire to write magnificent letters—magnificent letters—he applied himself to penmanship practice.

But when it came to reading, he proved utterly hopeless.
For the first five or six characters, he would muster all his concentration, eyes wide open as he painstakingly sounded them out.
Two or three times he would retrace those same five or six characters until their meaning finally settled in his mind, whereupon he would grudgingly move on to the next cluster.
Whether you could compare it to a slug’s crawl or not, as he inched forward with astonishing sluggishness, the thread of his whimsical thoughts kept threatening to wander off course.
Try as he might to rein them in, his mind lacked the refinement needed to sustain such timeless effort.
After enduring the agony of deciphering barely a line or two through sheer willpower, he would violently hurl the book aside, unleash an enormous yawn, and launch into mischief—his shaggy head bobbing under its ill-fitting topknot.
They say his post-reading rampages grew particularly fierce whenever he’d been poring over books.

One time—apparently around the end of some year that had passed.
Depressed by the unpleasant book, he sat on the sunny, warm veranda of the main hall, swinging both legs as he scanned his surroundings as if seeking company.
Since the priest was away, the storehouse lay still and silent, and somewhere the sound of the temple worker beating straw could be heard like a wooden fish drum.

His eyes, which had been wandering aimlessly as he occasionally sniffled back snot, were suddenly drawn to the bell inside the distant bell tower—its massive form looming heavily overhead.

To him, still a child, the bell tower was a forbidden place.
In those days, the bell was not to be rung outside designated hours except in cases of fire or other emergencies, so even Saburō-bōzu—though dearly cherished—was never permitted to touch the bell.

As he gazed at the forbidden bell, tilting his head for a moment, an idea seemed to strike him. Suddenly restless, he hunched his shoulders as if stifling a smirk, then dashed off somewhere. And in the blink of an eye, he returned with six or seven companions—one hauled out an old straw bag from the storehouse, another dragged out thin rope, some gathering deadwood, others searching for flint stones—until, before anyone knew it, they had assembled an imposing setup.

Then they formed a circle to play rock-paper-scissors. The loser crawled into the old straw bag hanging from a beam near the main hall with much rustling and scrambling. Meanwhile, one of them in the garden lit the deadwood and began shouting in a serious voice:

“Fire! The fire’s broken out!”

And then they suddenly began shouting.

Then, standing beside the straw bag that had been lowered from the beam and gripping a broken piece of the priest’s staff, he struck the old bag with a solemn gesture.

One strike produced a resounding "gong".

Strike it twice, and two resounding gongs would echo.

At Saburō-bōzu’s suggestion, they all began imitating a fire.
Over fifty years ago, fires were rare in the mountains of Ōshū.
Among them were even children who had no idea what a fire was like, so everyone went wild with excitement.
And while vigorously feeding more firewood from the side, they enthusiastically—

“Fire! It’s broken out! Gong-gong!”

They repeated, "Fire! It’s broken out! Gong-gong!"
And under the agreement that they would switch turns after ringing it a certain number of times, it was just when Saburō-bōzu had taken his turn as the bell-ringer.

Just then, the priest suddenly returned.

IV

Everyone was utterly flustered. Although they had all fled in panic, Saburō-bōzu—stuffed into the straw bag hanging from the beam—remained utterly unaware, with only a layer of straw between him and the outside world, that such a turn of events had occurred. In the darkness, he kept his eyes gleaming and ears strained, waiting to be struck. Here, the priest made a strange face as he saw the large straw bag suspended midair. He had absolutely no idea what was happening. Why was this bag hanging here? What could be inside? The good-natured priest must have found it thoroughly eerie. After scrutinizing it from every angle, he eventually adopted a childlike expression and gingerly poked the bag with the staff he held.

Then, Saburō-bōzu’s absurdly loud voice—feigning solemnity—

Boon……

The sound resonated with lingering reverberations—this became his defining anecdote of that era. Yet despite his body having spent nearly a year at the temple, his mind still raced through fields, mountains, and around the bell tower as always.
The priest, who had favored him, must have decided there was no alternative—when Saburo turned thirteen—

"You’ve got guts, I’ll grant you that—but you’re no man of letters. Return to your family home."
"That’d be for the best, I reckon."
he declared.

At that moment, he felt neither sadness nor shame.
Having already grown weary of temple life around that time, he returned home alone this time—secretly pleased as he lingered over the received candy—or so the story goes.

In this manner, his boyhood passed in utter carefree indulgence.

During that era when Edo was turned upside down—amidst talk of where red-haired foreigners' black ships had appeared, who had been punished, or how Lord Kamon had been executed; when even those wearing two swords had to endure hardships great or small—he, born a mere peasant's son in mountains so remote he knew not even his own lord, grew up without hearing rumors from beyond the nearest ridge.

Beyond our imagination, amidst such simplicity, his life up to that time had passed almost like a folktale.

Having turned thirteen, knowing a few characters, and entered an apprenticeship at some box shop, the path ahead was a gradual staircase toward becoming a full-fledged adult—there must have been no shortage of more practically engaging stories. However, for some reason, the period from his return from the temple until his early twenties—around twenty-two or twenty-three—remains extremely sketchy within the scope of my knowledge.

For him—whose arm had been broken by a tanuki from birth—it was all too straightforward. He wouldn’t speak of it when asked, and those around him knew nothing.

All I know is that after he spent about a year and a half at a box shop, he became a servant for a Chinese-style doctor, left there, and then entered an apprenticeship as a carpenter.

The reason he went to the box shop was to learn how to earn a living.
The reason he came under the care of a Chinese-style doctor was to receive manual therapy for his troublesome right shoulder, which ached at every seasonal change.

The master was a kind man, the work was easy, and he could receive as much treatment as he wanted—it should have been an ideal situation for him. But one thing eventually drove him to flee from there as well.
Even though he was just a manservant, the master’s goodwill—reasoning that one who cuts medicinal herbs ought to know the basics of medical arts—made him handle books he detested more than snakes or monsters.

“For such-and-such illness, decoct this-and-that herbs and take them.”
“And if that still doesn’t work, use such-and-such…”
“Exactly! No different from the template at all! Ha ha ha ha!”

He still laughs when he says this, so those methods must have struck him as utterly absurd.
Perhaps he even thought the reverence for “the esteemed doctor” stemmed from such trivial lectures on medicinal herbs.
In any case, it remains certain that he still feels an endearing pride in having promptly left such a place.

However, it appears he stayed at the Yadaiku place for a considerable length of time.
There, his skills had considerably developed, his reputation had spread, and the existence of “Saburō-don of Kawabe”—Kawabe being the name of the village—had at last come to light.

He—possessing a voice so aptly described as “resonant” with its rich volume and rounded beauty, magnificent eyes, and a towering physique that seemed to pierce the clouds—spent fairly contented days under the gradually dawning Meiji era as a youth of barely twenty-one or twenty-two, sometimes working as a carpenter and other times engaging in farming.

And by the time the reclamation project—gradually initiated around that period across the surrounding area—began to exert a slight influence on his life, Saburō-bōzu, who once mimicked temple bells, had transformed into an unrecognizable “young stalwart.”

V

The reclamation project was a plan to transform the vast, endless grassland lying between his village and the neighboring one into a new settlement.

So aptly named "Kitsuppara" was this place that foxes alone inhabited it.
There were said to be so many foxes that "not even crows would come."
I don't know why crows avoid places with foxes.
Yet when rumors spread of building a village there, they say everyone couldn't help but scoff—so desolate was that place.

Yet unexpectedly, while he was still assisting as a carpenter’s helper—accompanying his master to build huts here and hermitages there—that place once so lush with wild grasses began imperceptibly taking shape.

And by the time he had completed his apprenticeship and settled at home, settlers had begun trickling in, and now even in that once utterly desolate place—once hidden among “fox orchids and chrysanthemums”—the faint sounds of human activity had started to resonate.

At times, even these “troublemakers”—once regarded with something like fondness as foolish brethren—began having their positions exposed. They became victims of matchlock guns or fell into traps, skinned and boiled before they could work a single trick.

As outsiders gathered, rumors spread wider, and news of events in Edo began trickling in, however faintly.
Not Saburo alone—the entire village’s atmosphere had become like something infused with a spark of vitality that suddenly burst into flame.

Then, when he was twenty-three, seven new farmers were selected from his village.

These new farmers were those who—having been allocated farmland along with money and lumber by the reclamation group—were permitted to establish homes in the newly created village as its first agricultural settlers.

The young men all competed fiercely, but fortunately Saburo too was deemed worthy as one of them.
And so, between his parents’ pride and his own confidence, in a section of reclaimed land about fourteen or fifteen *chō* away from his family home, Saburo began construction—work that was his specialty.

It seemed there had never been any difference between past and present in how people’s sense of honor could be pricked by unexpectedly trivial matters—and Saburo’s selection as one of the new farmers from among many youths became an immense boost to his prestige. Until then, he had been “Yadaiku’s Saburo-don,” but now people began to feel an extra title was needed—and how much more intensely did Saburo himself feel compelled to seek one. Before anyone noticed, he had been elevated to something resembling the village men—this “resembling” being a crucial distinction—.

Of course, he wasn’t exactly unhappy about it either. Rather, with a spirit something close to triumph, opportunities to show off "a silver tongue that even the young had to look up to" gradually grew more frequent.

In those days, whenever quarrels or disputes arose, he would trudge forward with his body—so massive it seemed to split geta sandals down the middle—fix the opponent with eyes thrice a man’s size, and proclaim arguments befitting both himself and his adversary in that resounding voice of his. More often than not, matters settled without further ado.

Thus, people came to value him, and whenever some matter turned troublesome, they would go to summon him.
“Saburo-don! Hah! Those layabouts’ve started up again.”
“Won’t ya say somethin’ to sort ’em out?”

Sawing wood he’d brought down from the mountains, he rose with exaggerated dignity, grunting “Right” as he stood.
Then, plunging into the heart of the commotion, he’d first leisurely smoke a pipeful of tobacco before somehow resolving matters within five or six minutes.

“I was born with a nature that don’t take to letters—hate ’em down to my bones.
That’s why I don’t know a single fancy word.”
But this too was in his blood—a disposition that couldn’t keep quiet at even a hair’s breadth of crookedness—and they say he’d spout such sentiments at every turn.

Thus, in a sense, even through external pressures, he became a man “straight as split bamboo” and had to become Saburo-don—the man you could trust with any task once asked.

The surrounding circumstances, his undefeatable physical strength, and the rough-hewn, unpretentious disposition nature had bestowed upon him inevitably forged him into something resembling a chivalrous outlaw.

Consequently, his lifestyle—distinct from other farmers and carpenters—began imperceptibly wearing away his plainness through victory celebrations after disputes, feasts, and dealings with like-minded men from neighboring villages.

When it came to matters like money, he didn’t fret over them—adopting an attitude of “Let what comes in come in, let what goes out go out as it pleases”—and he never uttered a single word of flattery or sycophancy like others did. He spoke as he thought, in words that rose naturally.

In contrast, the fact that people rarely complained about him was his virtue—he never concealing himself in the least. While fostering all the sentiments of living authentically, he could not escape resentment from a certain faction.

VI

To those rigidly upright yet unable to raise their voices, he seemed appallingly brash.
He appeared like a man who carried himself as if he owned the place.
He would confront anyone head-on—whether they flushed crimson or broke into cold sweats—utterly indifferent to their discomfort.

Yet it was precisely these traits that drew others’ dislike which Mr. Yamazawa—called “master of the reclaimed lands”—had wholly valued.
And once the house stood completed, he demonstrated such favor that he even pledged to wed him to Omasa—a tidy-looking woman who had served in his household.

With his wife settled and house built—at the peak of his happiness, in an era when, looking back now, nothing ever went as smoothly as it did then, a time he would never again experience in his entire life—he often narrowly escaped being lured by foxes or glimpsed black foxes so rare that among a hundred people, perhaps not even one might see such creatures.
And these events still shine brilliantly within his hazy memories as mementos of his bygone golden age.

The story of the black fox wasn’t particularly remarkable.
It was merely that he had chanced to see in a rice field a fearsome ancient fox—jet-black with only its belly and tail tip white—the very one a certain centenarian from the same village claimed to have glimpsed at age eighteen.

They say everyone dismissed it as lies, but now Mr. Yamazawa—the retired master who had become their patron—pointed out that old record books had long documented how many hundreds of years would result in which fur colors.
And he told everyone that if it was black, it must have been at least five hundred years old—and in the end, this came to be accepted as fact.

However, oddly enough, a certain new measure of authority—"After all, he's someone who saw a black fox"—came to attach itself to him.

However, during that time, anyone who had seen this black fox found themselves fated to be led astray by foxes whenever they walked night roads—so much so that during peak occurrences, even on a journey of five *ri*, there were instances where they were nearly tricked six or seven times.

In every case, they had failed because from the very start, in their caution to avoid being tricked, they themselves had tried to outwit the foxes.

And then, at the very end, when yet another fox from somewhere began circling—I don’t know the details, but according to his account, when a fox first tries to trick someone, it starts by maintaining a certain distance and walking in circles around their body.
Even he had finally grown fed up; suddenly plopped down onto the bank of the rice field, he smoked tobacco and—half in resignation—taunted the fox with gusto, or so the story goes.

Then, after circling three or four times while rustling the rice plants, the fox—apparently having given up in the face of his nerve—disappeared somewhere.

According to his account, after this year the foxes completely vanished from the entire vicinity—so perhaps this had been their raucous farewell while relocating elsewhere—that they had gone off somewhere, or so it was said.

Having become the father of a daughter, by that time he had already come to revere Master Yamazawa completely.

He had no way of knowing his master’s intricate state of mind.
It was Yamazawa’s sheer obstinacy, his rough-edged magnanimity, and his complete trust—tossing down his entire wallet whenever he traveled and growling, “Oi, Saburo! I’m leavin’ it all to you. Handle it right”—that stirred overwhelming emotion in Saburo’s heart.

Yamazawa never once spoke words like “You’re impressive” or “Admirable.”
He would merely give one firm nod of his large head and mutter, “You’ve done well”—nothing more—but that unadorned sentiment, seeping effortlessly into Saburo’s core, naturally drove him to redouble his devoted service.

Whenever something related to work stirred him up, he would lumber over to Yamazawa—

“You’re getting riled up again over something, aren’t you? Go on back inside now. Go on back,”
she said.
Then came the response: “I won’t listen to a soul.”
Yamazawa compliantly rose at that and fell asleep under the kneading of his hands—a massage so forceful it seemed about to crush his shoulders.

Of course, he never compared the power of his own words to the magnanimity Yamazawa possessed. His overestimation of his own influence was evident. However, no matter how expansive he became or how blunt he was, with just a single word from Mr. Yamazawa— “Oi, Saburo! I’m countin’ on you for sure!”

Yet the moment he was told this, there was within him an impulse toward near-absolute obedience.
Just as Mr. Yamazawa never once explained the trust he held, he too never once articulated those feelings toward his master that resided within him.
He still often spoke of that man who had died nearly twenty years ago.
He might use the pronoun “Master,” but his words and critiques flowed freely, in whatever form his heart desired—as if discussing a younger brother or cousin.
While speaking ill and acting selfishly, he felt for Master Yamazawa a love that would spare no life.

VII

His affection for Master Yamazawa was neither because Yamazawa was who he was, nor was it the sort of fate-driven resignation common between masters and servants—it certainly wasn’t that.

He himself—whether he realized it or not—could, to put it formally, be described as “one who would die for those who understood him.” A misty atmosphere had settled between him and Master Yamazawa.

That he had found Master Yamazawa—a man who both understood his stubbornness and possessed enough stubbornness of his own to control it, who had the strength to forgive his flaws through his virtues—was truly a stroke of fortune for him.

He often thought that in this world, there was no one besides Mr. Yamazawa who would employ him in a manner that brought him satisfaction.
And he would entertain somewhat forlorn imaginings about himself in the wake of that man’s death.

However, once this gratitude slipped from his lips, it took form as, “It’s precisely ’cause it was Master that I ended up being employed like this.”
was articulated in these words.

That was him, through and through.
In the way he unashamedly flaunted his endearing pride, his very essence as himself stood vividly apparent.

As a child, he had hung from a straw bale suspended from the beam and—using the priest’s staff as a signal—put on a solemn act before letting out a thud. Even now, he still retained that same simple, guileless boyishness from those days.

Two or three years after he began frequenting Mr. Yamazawa’s household—it was probably around Meiji 7 or 8 (1874–1875).

At some point related to a project, they went five or six *ri* deep into the mountains to investigate a certain lake.
The group apparently consisted of Mr. Yamazawa, two subordinates, and him—who was also their subordinate—making a party of four.
They left the village early in the morning and walked with the plan to reach their destination around noon.

At that time, winters were much colder than now, but the summer heat was apparently quite bearable.
Even though it was around August, and he carried no small amount of lunchboxes and other baggage on his back, Saburo didn’t find it particularly hot or burdensome.

Over the chonmage topknot he still clung to, reluctant to cut it off, he had draped a pale blue hand towel and donned a sedge hat atop that. Clad lightly in a single short-waisted cotton kimono, he walked the mountain path right beside Mr. Yamazawa.

He was not one to concern himself with the schemes of the two subordinates.
Perhaps it had been to make those subordinates—still new in their posts—admire the extent of trust placed in him, but he apparently stuck close to Mr. Yamazawa’s side like a sworn brother.

He was, of course, in high spirits, so later when that subordinate spoke to Mr. Yamazawa,

“Just who is that man… I simply can’t…”

When he said this,

“Oh, him? He’s exactly as he looks. But ain’t a bad sort.”

The fact that he had laughed and said such things—Saburo probably still doesn’t know about it even now. With a voice that echoed off mountain peaks while endlessly boasting of his own exploits, upon entering the village overlooking the lake, it was he who first marveled.

The lake stretched out with an indescribable vastness.
It was beautiful.
Utterly incomparably beautiful.

Surrounded on three sides by green mountains, with small waves rippling in the gentle breeze, five or six small boats floating upon water whose color lapped rhythmically against the sandy shore—Saburo involuntarily let out a “Whoa” and tilted his head.

The coolness of the mountain shade—a refreshing, dewy air of a different character—came wafting in with each ripple of the small waves from somewhere, seeping pleasantly into every open pore.

He haphazardly set down all their luggage and belongings beside him.
Then, parting the front of his cotton kimono to expose chest hair like that of a rough laborer, he squinted his eyes against the wind while modestly letting it flutter.

From right nearby, the sound of water lapping against the stone wall of the landing pier—jutting out a considerable length—gave his thick eardrums a ticklish sensation.

That he was in such a good mood he felt he might act foolish was probably true.

At a shabby teahouse nearby, using a fearsome dried catfish as a side dish, he ate the rice balls they had brought. Then after unpacking their luggage, they began by measuring the water depth.

That they would measure the depth of a great lake spanning several ri in every direction—merely up to where a man could stand—using some extremely inaccurate measuring tool or other is something I simply cannot believe.

However much it was an era when topknots were still commonplace, this was far too carefree. It was hard to believe this had been the work of Mr. Yamazawa, who had devoted himself tirelessly to reclamation projects. However, according to the firm assertion of Old Man Saburo—who had been directly involved—what happened afterward remained unclear, but at least at that time, they must have measured it that way.

No matter how vast it was, Saburo—who carried the loads—tied several fathoms of thin rope around his waist and entered the lake with a measuring tool.

VIII

In one hand, he thrust a measuring rod that swayed precariously at its tip, the thin rope tied around his thick waist. Though it was summer, the water’s sudden chill raised goosebumps on his skin as he forged ahead with splashing vigor—like a horse bathing itself—plunging deeper and deeper into the lake.

The bottom was fine, fine sand.

With each step he took, sand crawled up itchily over the instep of his foot as it sank into the ground.
Even though his body was large and he presumably had no lack of courage, having grown up without familiarity with water since childhood, he seemed to feel no small discomfort from the instability underfoot.
The first five or six steps he advanced with great vigor, but gradually his pace became slower.

The water deepened step by step—from fine, fine sand to slightly coarser grains, then from fine gravel to pebbles—until, when it reached about waist height where the waves parted, the bottom below had turned entirely into solid stone.

Because his body felt heavy and he somehow felt he might slip, Saburo—who didn’t know how to swim—gradually grew serious-faced.

The water was so clear it revealed the bottom, forcing him to inch forward with slow deliberation.
With each step, the depth increased, and even he—who had thought he could go much farther ahead—along with Mr. Yamazawa were both startled to find they had to stop after an unexpectedly short distance.
Not only that, but Saburo—who had been probing the lakebed with each tentative step—saw something so unnerving he involuntarily gasped and held his breath.

If he had taken even half a step further, he would never have been able to behold "today’s sun" again.
The rocks at the bottom formed a cliff, and beyond that, it was as if the lake had no bottom.

Steadying himself against the measuring rod, Saburo peered cautiously downward and couldn’t suppress a shudder.
All he could see were layer upon layer of water as pitch-black as the cross-section of black crystal viewed vertically—possessing a color both utterly dark yet strangely transparent—with no semblance of a bottom anywhere to be seen.
In Saburo’s heart, a legendary terror began to stir faintly.
Then, hurriedly turning his face toward the shore, he waved his hand broadly in a gesture indicating it was no good.
And then, after taking a step or two back, in a loud voice,

“From here on out, it’s bottomless!”
he bellowed.

Then, Mr. Yamazawa, who had been tilting his head repeatedly, eventually muttered to himself in an ordinary tone, “I guess it’s no good.” That reached his ears clearly. Mr. Yamazawa had merely said “I guess it’s no good” in an utterly ordinary tone. Yet, Saburo felt as though a deeper disappointment and a waning of trust had taken root in his heart. Then, this time, Mr. Yamazawa’s voice—half-commanding, half-pleading—

“Can’t you go any further? No good?”

he heard Mr. Yamazawa shout.

At that moment, that familiar absolute obedience and devotion welled up in his heart.
Somehow, he felt as though he had mustered tremendous resolve.
And as he cast a sidelong glance toward Mr. Yamazawa and adjusted the measuring rod, a sinking feeling spread silently through his chest.

Within this, the smiling face of his wife Omasa and his daughter’s sleeping visage surfaced and vanished.
Overcome by an emotion he could never later recall, he took a step forward, thinking with perfect clarity only this: Even if I die, I won’t regret losing my life.
And as he tried to move his other foot forward, the rope around his waist suddenly yanked taut—and with that abrupt jolt, he abruptly regained full awareness, becoming conscious for the first time of where he now stood.
Then, suddenly scared—this time feeling genuine terror—he hurriedly retreated back to shore.

Pale and dripping droplets from his entire body, Yamazawa brought his face close—very close—to that of Saburo, who stood at the water’s edge,

“You did well for me. I’m grateful,” said Mr. Yamazawa.

Then he suddenly turned bright red and let out a voice brimming with terrified delight, laughing so uproariously that it unsettled everyone present.

“Back then, I got possessed by the Grim Reaper himself!”

And every time he recalled that moment, he would say this.

He—utterly incapable of dissecting his own mind—still believed that abnormal fervor had arisen solely from being possessed by something within that bottomless "demon’s abyss."

It seemed all who heard his tale could offer no interpretation but his own, and so he recounted his anecdote as irrefutable proof of both his conviction—that being lured by the Grim Reaper was not an impossibility—and the legend claiming every lake and river surely held at least one "demon’s abyss." Similar to his black fox, it was summarized with the phrase: "Such strange things do occur."

He himself had brushed it off with utter finality, but Mr. Yamazawa seemed to have sensed something after all.

Not long after that, when the construction project began, everything from overseeing carpenters and selecting lumber to supervising the site was entrusted entirely to Saburo.

Nine

At that time as well, Mr. Yamazawa followed his usual practice: after briefly explaining the essentials of the work, he simply said, “Handle it as you see fit,” and reportedly never uttered a single word about which carpenters to employ or whether to use plasterers.

This magnanimity of Mr. Yamazawa’s was something he took to heart.

“Master, I’ll take charge of this,” he declared upon returning, then immediately gathered every skilled laborer within his reach.

And once he had gathered what he deemed sufficient, he took the lead, carrying mud himself and pulling the ropes for pile-driving.

Covering his large body in mud, he carried out the work briskly and vigorously using his signature method—one where you couldn’t tell how things would turn out until everything was completed.

He set tobacco breaks at one hour and worked with such ferocious intensity that it left the laborers gaping in awe—even he himself would occasionally feel something like “unable to contain his admiration” for his own prowess.

It was during this time that he cut off his treasured chonmage topknot.

Smeared with sweat and mud, then further showered with sawdust, by day’s end the topknot would grow so filthy you could no longer tell whether it remained a proper hairstyle or had become just another clump of grime.

Because the filth had become too severe, even he finally gave up and adopted a Western-style cropped head.

Having adopted a Western-style cropped head, Old Man Saburo—marveling at how “the air flows right through—feels good!” as he ran hands over his suddenly cool scalp—worked from morning till night like a ground mole.

If he let up even slightly, the laborers would skimp on their efforts.
While keeping watch over them and standing guard against those trying to steal lumber whenever an opportunity arose, he couldn’t stay in one place for even five minutes.

Kicking up soft mud, he had to stride through the entire worksite, barking orders.

As the work gradually became more organized, he began to find his absence from home inconvenient in every way.
Whether it was making night rounds or watering the trees, he had to be present for things to go as intended.

So one day, he said to his wife, “Let’s move to the work shack, I reckon.”

he said.
The work shack was a small structure standing in a corner of the worksite, serving both as a resting place for those who came to inspect and a storage area for tools.
His wife, too, thought that if they did so, she wouldn’t have to worry about bringing meals and it would be easier, so she agreed that would be fine.
Of course, he had convinced himself that Mr. Yamazawa had instructed him to do so.

So, the next day, on his way to the worksite, he carried as much as he could shoulder—piled so high it towered over his head.
Then, during the lunch break, he returned once more, loaded everything from bedding to pots and pans onto a cart this time, and hauled it back.
With a child on her back, Omasa made two or three trips back and forth carrying a three-wick lamp, geta, and a bottle in both hands—and just like that, his move was complete.

After shifting the luggage aside and leaving the stunned Omasa behind, he set off composedly to report the relocation to Mr. Yamazawa.

Just then, Mr. Yamazawa—who had been having his wife prepare weak tea—looked at Saburo’s face with mild astonishment upon hearing his exceedingly straightforward report.
But when he saw his wife’s lips moving as though airing some grievance, he grinned with evident satisfaction and replied in his customary way:

“That’s fine too—you handle it as you see fit,” he said, shaking his large head and laughing heartily—*Ha ha ha ha!*

Master, who hadn’t even asked what would become of their old house, handed him three Tokyo-made chestnut buns that had just been brought out, telling him to share them amicably.

Such matters between Mr. Yamazawa and him were trivial to the point that no emotional misunderstandings could possibly arise, but in the eyes of bystanders, it wasn’t something that could be dismissed with just a “Ha ha ha, how amusing.” They made a huge fuss, accusing him of deceiving Mr. Yamazawa or manipulating him into his palm.

However, he knew full well that all those criticisms sprang from envy of his closeness with Mr. Yamazawa, so worry was the last thing on his mind. Growing ever more smug internally, he did nothing but bolster his confidence as “Hikoza Ōkubo of the Yamazawa household.” The mud-caked “Hikoza Ōkubo” naturally looked forward to seeing the house take shape, but nothing pleased him more than hearing Mr. Yamazawa say “You’ve handled this well” as he artfully managed the dwindling lumber and deftly coordinated the handful of craftsmen.

When told, “Ask that fellow about the work,” he couldn’t help but beam with pride.

When told in front of gathered guests something like, “This one will handle it well,” he would narrow his large eyes, hunch his neck, and melt into a broad grin.

Ten

Having finished his evening meal and looking forward to being praised by Mr. Yamazawa in just an hour or two, he gripped his hammer and carpenter’s square as he made his rounds through the worksite, refusing to tolerate even the slightest carelessness in how the backing boards were nailed in.

If anyone even looked like they might slack off, he’d make them cower with a voice like a cracked bell.
His oversight was so severe that the carpenters’ lamentations seemed only natural.

So, the carpenters must have secretly conspired among themselves.
They selected one of their comrades—a smooth-talking Tokyo returnee—got him drunk, and sent him to his hut.
They had likely told him to smooth-talk Saburo into showing a little leniency, but unfortunately, having drunk too much, the man took one look at his face and immediately launched into curses delivered in an Edo-style rolled Rs.

“It ain’t like this’ll be your damn house! Quit your yappin’—we’ll do what needs doin’ without holdin’ back. We’re pros too—you think we’ll put up with takin’ orders from some topknot geezer?!”

Upon hearing this, Old Man Saburo stiffened like a Nio statue and glared fixedly at the man’s face for a while before suddenly roaring in a voice that could sober even the drunkest of men,

“You! Don’t bother comin’ from tomorrow!” he roared, remaining turned completely away without moving his head an inch until the man had slunk out dejectedly.

Yet the carpenters—thinking it mere drunkenness that could be smoothed over—sent him back to work the next morning as if nothing happened.

As the man smirked and opened his mouth to flatter, Saburo deliberately boomed loud enough for all to hear:

“If it’d just been you spoutin’ drunken crap in a haze, I might’ve let it slide—but this time? Can’t be forgiven.”
“Get out—ain’t needin’ you comin’ back.”
“Topknot geezer I may be—I’m who Master Yamazawa’s trusted with everything! You think I’ll let some snot-nosed whelp make a fool o’ me?!”

he snapped.

And as he swung his absurdly large fist about—those who witnessed him completely lose his temper in one breath involuntarily exchanged looks and heaved drawn-out sighs…

Though such incidents recurred time and again, the work nevertheless steadily advanced.

When the housewarming celebration was held the following year at the height of cherry blossom season, he appeared before everyone wearing a tsumugi crested kimono and the Sendai-hira trousers bestowed by Mr. Yamazawa, there to receive what he termed his “citation of merit” along with a monetary reward.

Evidently overjoyed and declaring he would present it to Master, there on the woolen rug spread across the garden—with a red tenugui cloth draped over his head—he performed his first and only tako odori dance.

Thus, during the time when Mr. Yamazawa was in good health, he too spent fulfilling, enjoyable days filled with purposeful work.

However, not long after they had moved into the new building, cracks began to form in Mr. Yamazawa’s body—the accumulated strain from pushing himself too hard since his youth.

Due to severe rheumatism that left his legs unresponsive, he gradually became afflicted with something akin to a stroke.

The man who until five or six years prior could stay awake through ten-day all-nighters without even dozing off had grown unexpectedly fragile once weakened, and while the old mother around seventy was still spry, he had already lost the ability to speak clearly.

When he began spending carefree days in the sitting room—where one could survey the surrounding scenery at a glance—spreading out his bedding to compose poetry or write essays, Mr. Yamazawa grew to dislike even the sight of argumentative people.

Whenever free time allowed, he would draw Old Man Saburo close to his side, and while having him stroke his entire body, immersing himself in harmless tales of yore appeared to be his greatest pleasure.

Though their ages differed little, when Mr. Yamazawa—born a distinguished samurai of a major domain who had lived in Tokyo and weathered many trials—shared stories that captivated Saburo’s curiosity, Saburo in turn would recount memories from when this land was still Fox Field, using gestures and vocal mimicry as though entertaining a child with a story.

The tranquil air around them would occasionally tremble with serene, joyful laughter that seemed to reverse forty or fifty years of time—bursting forth from both their lips.

Though maintaining his usual composed demeanor and outward calm, Saburo sensed in his heart that Mr. Yamazawa knew his own death approached.

Having understood this truth more keenly than words could express, he listened earnestly to these veiled discussions of posthumous arrangements—filled with sorrowful humility and love.

And on one occasion,

“As long as you live, I’m counting on you to tend my grave.”

When told this, he pressed flat against the tatami mat without a word.

When told this, he silently pressed himself flat against the tatami mat in prostration.

Eleven

After things had come to that pass, Old Man Saburo and Mr. Yamazawa truly became “best buddies.”
It could also be said that Mr. Yamazawa had stopped restraining his affection toward him.

He even made him eat meals together by his own bedside while remarking, “The Master would often talk about worldly matters.”
The worldly matters he spoke of must have been something akin to Mr. Yamazawa’s own philosophy of life.

Though there were words and phrases his uneducated mind couldn’t fully parse, he understood Master’s intentions as clearly as if they were his own.

When Mr. Yamazawa was in a mood that made him want to cry, he too felt somehow down.
He felt wretched, "like sinking into despair."

However, when Mr. Yamazawa grew animated with pride and recounted tales of his achievements, he too felt such joy that he could no longer distinguish between himself and his master.

"What do you think of that, entire world!"
He exulted as if wanting to proclaim.

Like the guardian lion-dogs flanking a shrine hall, never leaving his master’s bedside for a moment—laughing together, raging together—Old Man Saburo could do nothing about the ominous signs gradually appearing on his master’s face.

It was said that with the wisdom of age, one could discern how the incurable illness gradually revealed itself on his face.

And finally, in the spring of his sixtieth year—still not yet considered elderly—Mr. Yamazawa, Old Man Saburo’s sole benefactor, passed away.

He was, of course, terribly sad.
He wanted to cry his eyes out.
The strength in both his shoulders declined to the point of emaciation.
However, from his lips escaped only—

“This is just how the world is—ain’t nothin’ to be done about it!”

With just that single phrase escaping his lips—he never once said he was sad or disappointed—yet everyone reacted with shock and disappointment.

No one had said it outright, but with Mr. Yamazawa’s death, people had been waiting expectantly for him to succumb to grief.
Somehow, they felt certain that this must indeed be the case.

However, when he realized that everyone harbored such feelings toward him, he became indignant.

He permitted no one but his deceased Master to pity him. He did not permit others to give him orders.

Master had been his one and only lord. And he remains his master even now.

If Master had said, "Cry when I die," then I'd have cried buckets full. But didn't Master say, "Do it proper—I'm counting on you"?

"I can't just cry and call it done. Don't cry—even fools know that much... Master..."

While thinking this, he went about taking care of the wake attendees in his usual loud voice. However, since Mr. Yamazawa’s death, his life had become dull and listless as expected. He first felt a dissatisfaction and inconvenience “as if one eye had suddenly been crushed.” The Master was, for him, an indispensable eye. When that was gone, everything in the world seemed to distort and warp. No matter which way he turned, he couldn’t get his bearings. The places he had been certain were there all turned out to be slightly askew.

The limbs that until now had moved with ease and stretched effortlessly somehow now began to feel as if they could no longer be extended carelessly.

The terrible desolation of losing the one who had understood his stubbornness—the one who could both give him life and take it away with a single word like *“I’m counting on you”*—permeated his good soul.
He had no desire to hope for anything regarding his own future, which had been buried underground alongside Mr. Yamazawa’s coffin.
Yet it was precisely the glory and proud recollection of having been the sole recipient of Master’s favor during his prime that granted him the dignity to endure the life yet to come.

However, of course he neither thought about his own heart in this way nor spoke of it.

“Master was the only one who could handle my stubbornness—ha, ha, ha, ha! To folks these days, I must seem like one tough old man.”

Like a bulldog that had lost its master, he laughed with haughty bravado.

Even when loneliness seeped slow and deep into his chest, he wouldn’t shed tears unless before Master’s grave.

That truth—that there was no one left to show his tears to—was known only to him and to Master. For his sake, I find this unbearably poignant.

In any case, four months after Master’s death, his wife Omasa died of fever.

Having sent his daughter out to service, he welcomed a bleak autumn in a squalid hut unlike any he'd seen in years. And that very bounty of a harvest became Mr. Yamazawa's greatest blessing and his own profound curse.

Twelve

Because it had been a bumper harvest for the first time in years, Mr. Yamazawa’s tenant rice came up “abundantly.”

Since all regular debts had been repaid, by their reckoning, thirty-four bales were to be deposited at the Jushichi-machi rice store.

Of course, he was the one who took on that responsibility.

However, having become an old bell that rang out with a resounding boom, he remained unwaveringly himself.
Even though he had reached an advanced age, for some reason he had suddenly come to want to show off his strength—or so it was said.

Perhaps it was because Mr. Yamazawa had drawn him out and allowed him to prove his worth that there had been no longer an outlet for his strength.

What was truly admirable—yet oddly foolish—was that he loaded an enormous cart with eight bales twice, six bales twice, and three bales twice, then spent the entire day hauling it all the way to a town a short *ri* away.

Even the seasoned rice-pounding man, they say, shook his head in amazement and declared, “I can’t match you.”
Of course, he was in a good mood.

He thought it would serve as a good lesson for those pale, worn-out youngsters.
But to his bitter frustration—“Even I can’t keep up with age”—after that, his heart gave out completely.

He had used up in one go all the strength he was supposed to expend little by little over the next twenty or thirty years, leaving him utterly exhausted now.

His great body—now with limbs grown disabled, making it impossible to walk as he wished, and with hearing that had grown distant—only intensified his stubbornness.

Even now that he was so shaky and unsteady, it was precisely this reactionary—yet utterly necessary—pride that lifted his head ever higher.

When his daughter turned eighteen and took a son-in-law, he himself took as his second wife a somewhat slow-witted woman who had been working as a menial laborer at a fabric store in town, beginning to live in poverty yet resolutely squaring his shoulders.

However, around that time, he would often go missing. There were times when his whereabouts were unknown for three or four days, and sometimes he would spend about ten days somewhere even his wife didn’t know about. There were all sorts of rumors about him—none of which seemed believable—but there was no mistaking that he had been gambling.

In any case, amid such circumstances—and while Mr. Yamazawa’s widow had already been somewhat vigilant—he was suddenly accused one day.

It wasn’t just the villagers who made a commotion over this.
Mr. Yamazawa’s widow turned crimson with rage.

Since she had become mistress of the household, it was perhaps inevitable she found it unbearable to have people say such a disgraceful person had emerged from their estate.

As for what exactly caused this, I do not clearly know.
However, from what I’ve heard, it seems he was accused by business rivals over some mulberry sapling transaction.

He was detained in a dark place for about ten days.
“However, by the grace of God, my situation has brightened.” When interrogated, he had apparently “gone over” several days’ worth of his diary in full.

The meaning of his “examined the diary” apparently was that he had completely memorized several days’ worth of diary entries. He himself could recall everything with such clarity it unsettled even him. It was said that even down to which line of the letter such things were written, they were imprinted on his mind as clearly as if visible. Whether it was because of that or not, he was acquitted—at that moment, the police chief—when he would recount how the police chief had said, “I’ve put you through such an ordeal—I’m truly sorry,” and treated him with utmost deference, a smile—unchanged from that moment—would still rise to his lips.

Even though he had been acquitted and released in this manner, Mr. Yamazawa’s widow declared she could no longer keep him within the estate.

She declared that keeping someone who would do such a thing would tarnish the Yamazawa name.

Upon hearing this, he resolved himself.
If left undone, even the authorities would acknowledge it—but he had no desire to explain this to those who raged about it needing to be done.
His bones were too rigid for pleading.

He steadied his panicking wife and left more abruptly than when he had moved there five years earlier, packing their belongings in one swift motion.

And so he came to live in a small hut at the village outskirts.

Since there were no fields left to work, he had no choice but to make a living by replacing geta teeth and repairing rao pipes. He had to become even poorer than before.

Such things were nothing at all to him.
But there was one thing he could not endure.

That he—this I who would never permit even a speck of nail dirt’s worth of dishonesty, whether in myself or others—that this I should be thought vile by worthless maggots made him so furious his teeth gnashed.

Thirteen

He knelt before Master Yamazawa’s grave and wept bitterly in frustration.
It was so mortifying he couldn’t bear to shamelessly expose his raw humiliation any longer.
Recalling his master’s words—"Samurai of old would stake their lives to prove their innocence"—he made an immediate resolution.
He resolved to act like a man—to cut open his belly before his Master’s grave and show those maggots a thing or two.
Of course, deep within that sentiment lay a tender hope—that by doing so, Master would surely not think him a fool who had misjudged him.

It’s unclear why it was there, but he went to the home of a certain former samurai with whom he had entrusted his protective dagger.

When he casually brought up the matter of the sword, the man who had glanced at his face asked in a light tone, “Why would you bring that up now?”
“I sold that thing ages ago for one yen and fifty sen,” he said.

Then he suddenly straightened his posture and, while staring at Old Man Saburo’s face,

“What the hell happened to that big gut of yours?”
“This won’t square things with Mr. Yamazawa!”

...he said in a voice filled with deep compassion yet stern resolve.

At that moment, he felt as though Master himself had spoken those words.
Suddenly, tears spilled out.

No longer thinking of death, his heart—withered until then—was instead filled with new courage so sharp it could pierce stone.

He bowed his head from the depths of his being.
Through that man, he worshiped Master.

After being treated to a meal and subtly encouraged, he used the money he received on his way back to buy turkeys and carried them home on his back.

His shoulders were once again resolutely set against the maggot bastards.

Even selling turkey eggs or replacing geta teeth couldn’t earn the free-spirited man enough money.
Now that they were taking rent and taxes—things he’d never needed before—his life grew steadily harder.

No matter how bad it got, since he remained utterly unfazed and let things slide, the situation worsened until he ended up needing food handouts even from his son-in-law.

Even so, he seemed unfazed, but this time the son-in-law couldn’t leave things be.
“Since you’re under my care,” I proposed, “you should part with your useless wife to reduce mouths to feed.”

“Yeah, that’s how it should be,” he agreed without hesitation.
When he explained this to his wife on condition he’d decide her future, she too said, “That’s… fine by me…”

With a simplicity beyond comparison, everything was settled, and his wife was abruptly taken from his household to become the second wife at a merchant’s household.

Of course, there was no possibility of disputes arising.
On her wedding day, he himself—grinning cheerfully—carefully shaved his wife’s face and even went to fetch a hairdresser.

Amidst their poverty, he even celebrated with a new obi and sent his wife off to her new marriage wearing a seemingly contented expression.

Now alone, he became even more carefree than before; when the mood struck him, he would leave home in the morning and not return until night, leaving the house wide open as he wandered off somewhere.
The turkeys he kept had never once received proper feed or anything of the sort.
Since the geta he had ordered remained unfinished no matter how long he waited, he promptly went to retrieve them.

The house he had was in name only; he wandered aimlessly, letting his feet lead him, living like a drifter.

What exactly was happening in his heart at that time, I cannot clearly say.
He too probably didn't possess any clear sense of thinking, This is what I believe.

And then, just as he was finally beginning to fade from memory, something utterly unexpected occurred—something so absurd it left the entire village doubled over with laughter.

It was then that something so quintessentially him happened—he abruptly went and snatched back the very wife whose face he himself had shaved clean before sending her off to her new marriage.

One day, he suddenly materialized at the storefront where his wife had become a second wife. Sitting beside the counter, when he saw her face as she sorted through some goods, he bellowed an earth-shaking roar, spouted a few incomprehensible phrases in rapid succession, then shot out his hand and grabbed her.

And while the husband—who had no idea who or where this man was—stood dumbfounded, blinking rapidly in bewildered shock, he tucked his wife’s hand under his arm and dashed off at the fastest speed he could muster.

The wife, now unable to speak—with one geta still clinging to her foot and pressed against his large body like a charm—was dragged all the way home at a run.

While watching his wife—panting heavily, drinking hot water with trembling hands—he lit a cigarette and offered no explanation about the matter.
His wife neither tried to ask nor attempted to return.

From the next day onward, the two of them once again began to welcome their impoverished days together inside the hut they shared with the poultry dealer.

Even today, now that both of them seem to have suffered strokes, they continue to share the five measures of rice received from their son-in-law and eke out a living by supplementing each other’s meager earnings.