Pathway to Japanese Literature

Lingering Grudge: White Scarlet Flowers in Full Bloom

Christian Temple of Multitudes

“Hmm... Can't make heads or tails of this.
“This... Isn't this practically a cipher?”

I gave a wry smile.
I held up the roughly two-shaku-three-sun blade to the evening light in the garden, trying to make out the characters carved into its tang.

“There doesn’t seem to be any inscription, but this phrase doesn’t look like it’s serving as one either.”
“It’s not poetry, not waka verse, not classical Chinese prose—doesn’t even look like Manyōgana script.”
“What the... this...”

“Ah…”
“It’s read like this… ‘Lingering grudge, White Scarlet flowers in full bloom, multitudes at Christian Temple… and…’”

I looked at the antique dealer’s face in surprise as he said that.
Perhaps due to my angina, even this slight curiosity made my chest start pounding, so I stroked my bulging summer paunch to calm myself.

The antique dealer was a former retainedo performer.

The scrawny Kanekichi, putting on an air of innocence, raised his right hand above his head.
He snapped open a Chinese fan and began wafting air toward the balding crown of his head.
While looking at his face, I carelessly sheathed the bare blade into its old scabbard.

“What a scholar we’ve got here… you.
Why, you might just be a famous detective, I dare say...”

“Huh.”
“That’s absurd.”
“There happens to be a slight complication regarding that... Hmm.”
“Actually, some time ago, you mentioned wanting a villa site somewhere cool...”

“Ah yes.”
“It's truly unbearable.”
“Since summer began，I've put on another seven and a half kilos—can't stand it anymore.”

“Heh heh heh... As for someone like me, I’m practically envious...”

“By the way... was there one? A fine location...”

“Hmm. That would be...”
“It’s way over there in a place called Kiyotaki.”

“Kiyotaki... About five ri deep in the mountains.”

“Hmm. It’s over ten degrees cooler than the city proper—summer-proof through and through.”
“In front of that property, an icy mountain stream rushes along, but across it lies a three-ken-wide prefectural road—if you were to build a bridge there, your automobile could enter with ease.”
“There’s an old well with excellent water output, deep cedar groves, and remnants of an elaborate garden—all connected to the stone aqueduct bringing water down from the mountains—so if you were to build a villa there, it’d require no maintenance at all...”

“That must be pricey.”

“It’s surprisingly cheap because... There’s not a single villa-like building in that area yet, but when it comes to plots in that neighborhood—they won’t even consider five yen per tsubo... yet this five or six hundred tsubo plot would be a godsend at just one yen... Hmm. Depending on how we negotiate, they might even come down to around fifty sen...”

“Pfft… Don’t take me for a fool. What utter nonsense...”

“No no.
“That’s where you come in.
“Dead serious... Hmm.”
“You see—”
“They say it’s ruins from some Christian Temple burnt down three hundred years back... Hmm.”

“Hmm.”
“Christian Temple... If it’s Christian Temple grounds, why’s it so damn cheap then?”

“That would be the story behind the carvings on this sword... Hmm.”
“It says ‘White Scarlet’ here... Hmm.”
“As a precaution, I’ve brought those flowers here.”
“This is the flower, and here are the fruit and leaves... They do bear some resemblance to kidney beans, though.”

“Hmm.”
“The flowers may be white, sure, but these bean pods look downright peculiar.”
“They look like some cross between purple and green.”
“They’re twisted all out of shape in the weirdest way.”

“However, to tell the truth, it’s this flower that’s problematic... quite an extraordinary tale... Hmm.”

As he spoke, Kanekichi retracted his eyes deep into their sockets and folded his Chinese fan.
That expression was the spitting image of some old ghost story raconteur I’d once heard at a Tokyo vaudeville hall.

“...Hmm.”
“The land comprising those Christian Temple ruins is currently registered under our Village Headman living way down at the foothills—and these here are what they call scarlet flowers blooming in his front garden... Hmm.”
“As you see, from leaf shape to blossom form they perfectly match their white counterparts—only their color differs, crimson as fresh blood... They say these scarlet blooms have been treasured since antiquity.”
“Hmm.”
“They say this same flower grew at that Christian Temple three centuries back—whether man or woman met such cruel death there—but upon dying declared something like... ‘Let them see scarlet flowers in gardens and know this grudge’s depth.’”
“‘So long as red blooms stay white,’ they’re said to have vowed, ‘my rancor endures’... Hence why scarlet flowers on those scorched grounds alone remain snow-white even now—so they say.”

“Pfft… This is exactly some summer-appropriate ghost story… Your whole tale feels rather dubious.”
“If I took this seriously, I’d probably get swindled.”

“Hmm.”
“I’m not sure what exactly happened, but the evidence is right here before your eyes... Hmm.”
“...So even the village children won’t go play within those Christian Temple grounds... They say if you carelessly trip there, you’ll get tetanus or some such...”

“Hmm.
“Does such a thing even exist in this day and age…”

“Hmm.
“I’m not sure what exactly it is, but they say the bones of people who were wickedly killed at that Christian Temple three hundred years ago still occasionally emerge from the mountains in the surrounding area.
When the rainy season comes, they say will-o’-the-wisps often cross over the valleys to visit the temple... Hmm.
Though we were terrified, we steeled ourselves and ventured into that wasteland for a thorough look.
While we were at it—thinking it might serve for your reference—we picked these flowers blooming where what seemed to be the abbot’s quarters once stood... Since they’re so unusual, I thought they’d make good conversation material... Hmm.”

Kanekichi retracted his eyes deep into their sockets once more as he said that.
He opened his fan and began cooling his sweaty head from above.

Feeling somewhat uneasy, I picked up that White Scarlet flower.

“Hmm.”
“I know a guy at Kyushu University’s Faculty of Agriculture—I’ll send both these red and white flowers to him.”
“I’ll ask whether the same flowers can bloom different colors depending on where they’re planted.”
“Ghost stories always sprout from some trivial little seed anyway.”

“Hmm.”
“That would be most agreeable.”
“Who knows—if we dig around, we might unearth some rare Christian Temple-era treasures...”

"You fool."
"Don't bring your business motives into this."

“Heh heh heh. Three or four money chests like…”

“Enough already.”
“Such things don’t matter.”
“But more importantly, the issue is this blade.”

I once again pulled the bare blade from its old scabbard.

“It’s a fine blade.
“The polish is poor, but it’s still straight.
“The tang appears shortened, but appraising this one will be a real pain…”

“Heh heh heh... If you put it that way, it’s practically confirmed already...”

“Shut up... Don’t spout nonsense.”
I hmmed.
The slightly rounded Jizō-hat-shaped temper line had deeply defined fifth-stage nioi patterns... Two forging flaws were unusually present.
This sword must have cut down many.
“First approximation—could this be a superior work by Shintōgo... What do you think?”

“Ah... That would be most splendid, but your esteemed appraisal of Shintōgo has reached its limit... Hmm.”

“Zero points, eh… Hmm. I’m surprised. Do you even know the maker…”

“Hmm... This humble one is well aware. This blade alone being as Hon’ami... Hmm.”

“Hmm.”

"I'm in a bind," I thought. "Not Seki either... Maybe I'll tentatively attribute it to Koeda Shizu..."

"Heh! I stand in awe," said Kanekichi. "The second blade scores around eighty points... Here in Fukuoka, Master would be the only one who—"

"Don't flatter me," I cut him off. "But if we're talking Koeda Shizu—does it even have an appraisal certificate from the Hon'ami school?"

"Heh... You see..." He hesitated theatrically. "What we call an 'origami' certification would be this very document here..."

Kanekichi took out a newspaper-wrapped thick ruled-paper notebook from his breast pocket.
It was handmade torinoko paper, enough for four or five volumes' worth.
It appeared rather old.

“Where exactly was this found?”
“Something like that?”

“Hmm.
“As I mentioned earlier, it was at the Village Headman’s place... They say this Village Headman had been the village head since Lord Toyotomi’s era...”

“I see. So that person put both the property and this sword up for sale together.”

“Hmm. The head of the household was too honest and got caught up in some endless scam...”

"So I can just take this notebook along with the blade, right?"

“Hmm.”
“Please.”
“Well, if you’d be so kind as to examine the contents… We humble folk can’t make heads or tails of it—it’s for your esteemed household.”

“Hmm.”
“Wait, wait...”

I put on my reading glasses and tried turning over one page of the stained blank cover.
(Note: The text presented below remains almost entirely as per the original. It has merely undergone minor adjustments—converting difficult-to-read kana into their original kanji, kanji into kana, and correcting or supplementing omitted particles and voicing markers.)

The Autobiography of Katamen Onisaburō

I never believed in gods or buddhas from birth. Having slaughtered countless souls and heaped up sins, wandered lost through terrifying demonic paths of deceit, and sunk ever deeper into heresies beyond mere bloodshed, I came at last to know the dread weight of human grudges - and thus did I destroy this fleshly form.

In these final hours, I lay bare my crimes without concealment, committing every thought to paper as warning for future generations and means for karmic atonement - thus do I commit.

Let my parents' honored names remain unspoken.

I hail from Hizen Karatsu.
Third son of an esteemed house, they called me Katamen Onisaburō - Half-Faced Demon Saburō.

I was born in March of the thirteenth year of Emperor Go-Yōzei's Keichō era [1608 CE]. As I die in this fifth month of Kanei 6 [1629 CE], my entire lifetime spans twenty-five years.

Though foolish to praise my own deeds, I was born with features of surpassing beauty. Yet I heard this stemmed from my wet nurse's negligence. At three years old—having fallen into the hearth or some such mishap—the right half of my face burned and festered, lopsided like a clod of earth; my eyebrows tore away completely, the whites of my eyes bulged outward, and my lips twisted like a wolf's—perhaps I appeared as an oni. Perhaps I resembled a beast. I could only gaze into the mirror and tremble violently.

Thus does the name manifest the form, and the visage reflect the heart—or so it is said.
As I grew, my resentment strengthened and my words carried bitterness.
Even I myself knew not where my heart would lead.
Despised by my parents and scorned by others, my heart’s resentment only grew ever stronger, yet in scholarship and martial arts alone did I apply myself beyond all others, becoming unmatched among the domain’s young samurai.
Of course, my two feeble older brothers could not hope to match this.
In one year, having defeated ten opponents at the martial arts tournament in the lord’s castle, I received as reward the lord’s personal sword—Koeda Shizu’s daisho—and thus did the name Onisaburō shine ever more brightly throughout the domain.

In due course, those who heard tell of this matter naturally came fawning upon me in an amusing fashion, and ere long there came a summons from the domain's monthly duty elder. My exceptional diligence in martial arts and scholarly studies had earned honorable commendation. When one reached suitable age, one would be granted a separate fiefdom. That I received official notice to exert loyal service henceforth struck me as utterly laughable.

From the outset, I had not applied myself to martial arts and scholarship merely to render loyal service for a pittance of stipend rice. Whether bearing this half-demon visage or any other countenance mattered not. To surround myself with bevies of comely women and realize dreams of glory within golden halls and jade towers—this depended solely upon my scholarly and martial prowess. When deemed unsightly, they shun and mock you; achieve some trifling feat, and suddenly they dote and grovel. In this world where human sentiment proves thin as paper, what worth has loyalty or filial piety? Mark my words—I resolved to crush their craven hearts and make them howl in terror. Thus did I hone my skills ever more keenly until that winter of my twenty-first year, when I attained full mastery of the Yagyū school from instructor Kōga Maishinsai.

At this time, a marriage proposal came to me.
She was the sixteen-year-old daughter of an unnamed horse guard with a 200-koku stipend within the domain, addressed as O-Nami. With Lord and Lady Fujikura Yamato—a family of chief retainers ranking among the domain’s most prominent—acting as matchmakers, and her parents having conveyed their consent, the proposal appeared to advance entirely through the other party’s initiative.

Somehow feeling uneasy, I personally visited Lord and Lady Fujikura Yamato and learned that Lady O-Nami was reputed to possess the foremost accomplishments within the domain.
Without yet having conducted a single marriage meeting—what might lie in her heart?
When I inquired whether His Lordship was indeed aware that the groom in question was an unnamed individual, Lord Fujikura responded thus:
Lady O-Nami’s mother hailed from our household, making Lady O-Nami and my wife and I second cousins.
How could we ever act with negligence in such a matter?
Lady O-Nami was a daughter of profound filial devotion.
If even the parents consent, what objection could there be?
This is by no means a matchmaker’s flattery.
Were I to speak of it, it might be seen as your own achievement.
Such matters are not for the young to meddle in.
It was an explanation that had exhausted every word in urging me to entrust all matters to them and rest assured.
I too could not forcibly resist and passed the year entrusting matters to their natural course.

Thus, for better or worse, that night arrived; the ceremonies concluded without incident, and when I entered the bridal chamber with my bride, there lay Lady O-Nami prostrated behind a screen, weeping softly.
With my heart pounding, I asked whether she had known all along that tonight’s groom was this Katamen Onisaburō; Lady O-Nami shook her tear-streaked head and said no.
"I was not informed of anything."
"Everything was Mother dear’s doing," she began, only to burst into even louder sobs and collapse into silence.

Incidentally, Lady O-Nami’s mother was her stepmother.
Moreover, her birth family being of no ordinary high-ranking samurai status, their matriarch-dominated household overflowed with selfishness, and theirs was a home rife with rumors of stepchild abuse.
Therefore I—who had suspected from the beginning that such circumstances might exist—stood momentarily bewildered, my entire being overflowing with shame and speechlessness, until at length I propped both hands before my bride Lady O-Nami.
This carelessness arose from my own negligence.
As I begged forgiveness with my apology, I rose up in the same motion and in the inner chamber struck down the matchmakers Lord and Lady Fujikura Yamato—who had been joyfully exchanging celebratory drinks—to the right and left; then turning to my panic-stricken parents, I declared: “Think not that I have lost my mind.”
“Since there remains one more person I must slay, witness this and know my true resolve.”
Filial piety or impiety was not a matter for consideration.
Falsehood was forbidden to a man.
Declaring “May you now understand Onisaburō’s resolve!” he dashed out, visited Lady O-Nami’s parents’ house, and seized the startled stepmother who had come to greet him at the entrance, rendering her immobile.
“Listen calmly to what Onisaburō has to say: driven by hatred for your stepdaughter, you borrowed the authority of your birth family to fabricate this marriage arrangement and humiliate me—there can be no doubt.”
“That proud family lineage you boast of—Lord and Lady Fujikura have just been slain.”
“Compose yourself and provide your answer.”
No matter how he pressed her with questions, she remained silent, offering no answer.
With a single stroke of his blade, he severed her head, ascended to the entrance hall, and searched out Lady O-Nami’s father trembling in fear behind a screen—and—
“Father-in-law.”
“Hearken well.”
“This present calamity has arisen from Your weakness—having forgotten martial arts in this peaceful reign and sought advancement through connections made at social gatherings—indeed.”
“If you look upon the faces of the three I slew tonight, Lady O-Nami’s purity shall be proven.”
“Rest assured and take her back.”
“I shall renounce women for life and repay the filial devotion of the meek Lady O-Nami.”

Declaring “Farewell!”, he abandoned the house, entered the Saga Road through the night, cutting down the numerous pursuers closing in from all sides as he fled into the mountains, broke into a peasant’s house to beg for provisions, committing robberies and thefts along the way, and before long reached Nagasaki town.

Nagasaki was a gathering place of foreigners, a prosperous trading port.
One such as I had no place in Japan but as a blight upon the land.
I resolved that crossing to foreign lands and cutting those blue-eyed slaves into submission would be my fitting path.
While striving to secure passage on a ferry and wandering about, this penniless self before long fell into dire straits.
Out of desperation, I stormed into town dojos to challenge rival schools or broke into Chinese households to raid gambling dens—during these lawless days spring arrived—until one noontide at Suwa Hill's foothills, midway up the slope, I encountered an emaciated Chinese youth who approached me with incessant kowtowing.
Wondering what this could be about, I stood still when he hurriedly glanced around the surroundings and, concealing his voice in fluent Japanese, said there was a matter he wished to request of me.
"Humbly requesting that you deign to visit my lodgings," he prostrated himself in repeated kowtows.
With apparent understanding, I was led by that Chinese man until we came upon a watchman's hut near the foreign temple cemetery—towering midway up the mountainside at the port's entrance—surrounded by medicinal herb flower fields.
Pushing aside mountainous stacks of straw bundles within, we descended through an exceedingly narrow trapdoor down pitch-dark stone steps until finally emerging into a beautifully constructed and adorned cellar.
Indescribably fragrant smoke lingered dreamlike.

The young Chinese man who had led me there soon introduced me to Nagasaki’s foremost Chinese medicinal merchant—one called Kōda.

The Chinese man called Kōda similarly prostrated himself in repeated kowtows; upon hearing his earnest request, I found it to be no ordinary matter.
The secret formula for Rokushin丸 lies in harvesting human gallbladders.
For each fresh gallbladder from males or females aged twenty to thirty: two gold coins.
Ages twenty down to fifteen: three gold coins each.
Ages fifteen down to seven: five gold coins each.
Ages seven and below: ten gold coins each.

Kōda was a corpulent, prosperous-looking Chinese man. With deference, he offered me incense smoke from a silver vessel, his speech as smooth as honeyed lard. “This secret formula of Rokushin丸 is prepared year after year and presented to save the precious lives of the shogun in Edo and the imperial court in Kyoto,” he said. “By using the lives of lowly beings equivalent to insects and vermin to prolong the precious lives of the noble, this is by no means an act of disloyalty.” “With your martial prowess performing this deed,” he exhaustively persuaded, “your glory for a generation shall indeed be as you desire”—while I, perhaps intoxicated by the fragrant smoke— Without further discussion, I accepted. That night, in the eerie earthen chamber beneath those flower fields, I wandered through realms of incense smoke and ecstasy, surrendering my body as if in a dream to the sorcery of a heavenly maiden-like Chinese beauty.

When he awoke, his body lay in the flower field beneath the Southern Barbarian Temple. All things were dimly hazy, as if in a dream. The chastity I once vowed to my father-in-law—a man’s pledge of lifelong celibacy—had thus been utterly destroyed.

At this moment, my heart faltered at the depths of my depravity—born a samurai yet now contracting myself to this gallbladder-harvesting trade, my own self grown loathsome beyond measure in these later days. Having come to understand in full measure both the pitilessness within me and the terror of this Nagasaki town, I now felt not an instant's hesitation. Leaving the Southern Barbarian Temple behind, turning his back even upon Suwa Shrine’s stone torii gate, he let his feet carry him toward Hagi. Amidst the rapeseed flowers trailing over the terraced mountain fields, the yellow and red of lotus blossoms, and the ceaseless song of skylarks soaring above—all while brooding over his own uncertain fate—he yawned repeatedly and staggered onward like a fool, as though his very vitality had been plucked from him.

How strange it was! Though not yet particularly fatigued, from around midday his footsteps suddenly grew heavy with an uncanny sensation of his back hair being tugged backward. The sweet savor of yesterday’s incense smoke grew unbearably nostalgic; unable to resist despite himself—or perhaps because of himself—he found his feet turning back toward Nagasaki and quickening their pace as if winged through airs unknown; yet having traversed these paths half-dreaming through earlier musings retained no clear recollection whatsoever now retracing steps while asking directions only stray deeper into unfamiliar mountain paths walking onward yet onward no dwellings coming into view while longing for incense smoke swelled moment upon moment until madness threatened chest roaring tongue clicking dry breath nearing cessation entirely.

At that moment appeared a mountain maiden descending the rugged rocky path with firewood on her back. Covering half my face with a fan, I called out to stop her and asked the way to Nagasaki. Shyly removing her sedge hat, she kindly showed me the path. How different she was from those rouge-painted celestial courtesans I'd seen in Nagasaki—her artless bearing and youthful freshness rarer than blossoms veiled by new leaves.

Even as I thought this, I politely thanked her and turned to leave along the path she'd indicated—when suddenly my resolve shifted. Having confirmed no witnesses, I pursued her from behind. As she turned at my footsteps' sound, I cut her down with a diagonal slash before she could react. Stripping her garments to expose her chest, I gripped my dagger reversed and split her collarbone open. Extracting what seemed her gallbladder and liver, I wrapped them in her work apron. Washing my soiled limbs and blade in a nearby stream while fleeing downhill, I followed her own directions through mountain passes and rapeseed fields until reaching Nagasaki's lantern-lit streets at dusk. In twilight's gloom, I knocked on the watchman's hut door within those flower fields.

The emaciated young Chinese watchman, both startled and delighted, ushered him in—needless to say, Kōda’s joy at having waited impatiently in the underground earthen chamber was beyond description.
From the very moment he saw the fresh gallbladder I carried, it was indeed precious.
“Well done.”
“Having confirmed this was indeed a fresh gallbladder from a maiden of seventeen or eighteen, not only did I give the promised three gold coins, but treated you to incense smoke, fine wine, delicacies, and several heavenly maiden-like Chinese beauties.”
“The hospitality surpassed even yesterday’s—(the following ten lines of the original text are expunged).”

Even the sinews of my arms, which had become like iron over the years, grew weary from days and nights of revelry.
I felt myself weakening by degrees.
Yet the madness of awakening from that incense smoke’s intoxication grew ever more intense, while the keenness of my blade surpassed even its former edge—this must be what they call starving for blood.
Every day when noon came, I found myself unable to cease killing at least one person. Once I killed, I would swiftly grow intoxicated by the incense smoke and race down to the flower fields beneath the Southern Barbarian Temple.
My heart seemed only to grow more bestial, more demonic, more heretical in this world.
My body knew the pleasures of an otherworldly paradise’s illusions.
Indulging in Araki's Soko rare wine and naked enchantresses to madness, with day and night consumed in intoxicated delirium, the gold with no purpose to spend piled up uselessly.
I secretly climbed Inasa's Daimonjiyama and buried it beneath the sole large rock in the mountain's shadow.
When the amount had likely reached several hundred gold coins, I took out a few pieces from the stash, ascended to Maruyama’s brothel, enlisted a shrewd facilitator, and purchased at great expense a set of that incense-smoke apparatus along with several boxes of the drug.
Though I had resolved to keep this hidden from others, rumors of my killing spree gradually escalated until they apparently reached the ears of Nagasaki Magistrate Mizuo Kai no Kami. Noticing the unusual looks magistrates' officers gave me when seeing me off, I prepared to secretly disappear from public view.

It came to pass toward the end of that spring.
For what reason had this come to pass?
In Nagasaki, inspections for Christians had grown exceptionally stringent—reaching even Maruyama’s courtesans through Magistrate Mizuo-sama’s devised fumie examinations.
Drawn by novelty that day, I too blended into the crowd outside the bamboo fence to witness: there stood Ohatsue—sixteen-year-old reigning beauty and premier courtesan of Maruyama’s foremost establishment Hatsuhana-ro—poised to tread upon the fumie before stern inspectors while people watched breathlessly transfixed.

Ohatsue Tayū stood in her full splendor as a courtesan.
Resplendent in brocade robes, an embroidered obi, and a Chinese-style jacket that dazzled the eye, she approached the row of brass fumie resembling wooden clogs—her small white feet stepping painfully across the rough straw mat. Biting her lower lip, she halted before them, surveying the glittering stares converging from all sides. Trembling fearfully, she seemed to gather herself anew.

The subordinate officials nearby raised their staffs from both sides and shouted in unison with a thunderous roar,

"Step! ... Won't you step?"

At their threat, Ohatsue suddenly turned deathly pale.
Enduring with all her might, she hoisted her left hem high and secured it, lifted her pale-shinned right foot—and in that very instant she attempted to place it upon the fumie’s surface—

"Hngh..."

With a shout, she was blocked by the foot soldiers’ staffs, stripped of her Chinese-style jacket in an instant, and bound hand and foot with rope.
Screaming "Mother dear! Mother dear!" while being dragged beyond the bamboo fence, Ohatsue Tayū was followed by the gathered officials trailing after her in a group—the day's investigation having clearly been staged solely for this courtesan's sake.

My suspicions remained unresolved.
When I inadvertently glanced sideways, there stood a young man in gaudy yukata.
He appeared to be vacantly watching the officials' retreating figures, sharing my very thoughts.
I muttered toward that man as if speaking to myself,

“Though she was about to tread upon the fumie, why have her bound as a Christian?”

When I muttered this, the young man hurriedly looked around, pulled in his neck, and—tongue trembling—began to explain:

“Your doubts are indeed reasonable.”
“The proprietor of that Hatsuhana-ro goes by the name Jinjūrōbee.”
“Since not a single soul in our household believes in Christians—and thus failed to provide the officials with their expected bribes—we have suffered such malicious treatment as you see here.”
“Alas, Ohatsue Tayū sold herself to save her mother from illness—she is the daughter of a rōnin renowned throughout Nagasaki for her filial piety.”
“In contrast to this, Hatsuhana-ro’s proprietor Jinjūrōbee is Japan’s foremost fool.”
“Thanks to his miserly refusal to part with a mere pittance in bribes, the pitiful Ohatsue Tayū now faces crucifixion or burning at the stake.”
“Even the renowned Hatsuhana-ro will surely face demolition.”

he whispered, blinking his eyes repeatedly.
The words of this youth, delivered in pure Nagasaki dialect that proved difficult to comprehend, matched roughly what I had described above to the extent I could grasp them.

Now thereafter, when rumors swelled that Hatsuhana-ro's Ohatsue Tayū would face crucifixion at Inasa Beach, even I—who had fallen so far into the path of demons—found my heart stirred by the extremity of it.
Half-doubting yet resolved to witness the day’s spectacle, I set out when spring’s end lingered beneath skies not yet fully summer’s—a cloudless expanse where swallows darted between Inasa Beach and the opposite shore near Suwa Shrine. Every road, every window, every roof seemed fortified by human walls. Within this throng, facing the sea behind a crescent-shaped bamboo fence, magistrates and constables—inspectors, informants, guards—crowded solemnly together, their batons and halberds standing like a forest of steel.
Near the center by the water's edge stood ten crucifixion stakes upon which five foreigners and five Japanese were crucified in a row.
The foreigners all wore black garments; the Japanese all wore white robes.

As noon approached, my heart—starved for incense smoke—grew faint with unaccountable dizziness. Taking pinches of the resinous incense hidden in my sleeve with my nails, I chewed while observing. All the foreigners chanted what seemed like incantations, tilting their heads toward the sky in supplication as if awaiting their Father's miraculous saving hand within Paranirvana's void.
However, the Japanese men and women merely remained with bowed heads and did not speak.
They appeared ashen, as though already dead.
One could only see Ohatsue Tayū, crucified at the center of five, her disheveled hair hanging down as she sobbed and sniffled—a sight of incomparable pity.
At the left end, one with disheveled white hair blown by the sea breeze and bowed low—I thought this must be Ohatsue’s mother, and indeed it was.
The time arrived.
As I listened to the charges read aloud by an imposing samurai in a battle surcoat who had risen from the central camp stool, I realized Ohatsue’s mother had been dragged from her grievous sickbed.
Also, the man to Ohatsue's right was the proprietor of Hatsuhana-ro.
The two women on the left were the same brothel's madam and head attendant, and it was said that all had been condemned to share Ohatsue's punishment due to the crime of shielding her wrongdoing.
The people outside the bamboo fence murmuring "Such is the intensity of the officials' hatred toward Hatsuhana-ro," their sighs, the commotion roaring like wind through a bamboo field—it was enough to make one's body stiffen.

When the reading of the condemnation notices concluded, over a dozen beggars who had been waiting at a corner of the bamboo enclosure rose up holding rusted spears in their hands. Chanting "Ariya! Ariya!" in eerie unison, they surrounded the remaining nine prisoners left beside Ohatsue Tayū on both sides. Before the condemned prisoners' eyes, they clashed their spearheads with menacing clangs to intimidate them.
This was done according to custom—leaving those bearing the gravest crimes for last—or so it was said.

At that moment, Ohatsue—who until now had appeared fragile—abruptly lifted her face upon the crucifixion stake, her small lips clenched tightly between teeth, bloodshot eyes glistening beautifully as she tossed her disheveled black hair with a flourish and surveyed her surroundings. When she cried out in a soul-rending voice, the tens of thousands crowding the shore fell utterly silent—leaving only the sound of waves lapping against Inasa's banks.
Even the sound of wind through pines crossing Daimonjiyama was stifled, leaving nothing but stifled breaths.

“Honored ones... please grant me your ears.”

“I am the lowly woman called Hatsuhana of Hatsuhana-ro in this Nagasaki, who has received your esteemed patronage.”

“On this very day of this month of this year, before ending my life at sixteen years of age, I humbly express my gratitude for all the patronage I have received until now to you all.”

“Yet I do not intend to receive your mourning after my death.”

“Even should I fall into any manner of evil path or demonic realm, I intend to settle this grudge.”

“Honored ones... please grant me your ears.”

“Honored ones... please grant me your ears. I am not being killed because I am a Christian. My mother who showed me boundless kindness—along with the compassionate proprietor, the esteemed madam, and even the honorable head attendant—all face crucifixion in this manner due to the officials’ hatred. I am a woman of Japan. I reject those foreign teachings that make children betray parents and subjects rebel against His Majesty the Emperor. Only... Only to treat my mother’s illness did I sell myself—and now it has turned against me… Simply because I refused to yield to you officials present here… To think I’ve become this disloyal, unfilial wretch shaming Japan before foreign eyes…”

It must have been due to the pain.
Ohatsue's words became fragmented and disordered here, then ceased entirely.

The officials who had been listening like stone now suddenly began to panic in confusion, and among them, one of those in battle surcoats who had read out the charges stood up, his hand holding the command baton trembling as he—

"You outcasts... Start with that woman."

When he gave the order, two repulsive outcasts who had answered “Aye!” rushed beneath Ohatsue’s crucifixion stake. Without even clashing their spears first, they thrust them slickly through both sides of her white-robed armpits. Fresh blood gushed forth in such a torrent that the eyes of onlookers reeled. The spearheads, driven with excessive force, gleamed white as they burst out through both shoulders.

Alas, Ohatsue’s entire body convulsed as though struck by a great wave, her disheveled hair standing on end amidst a whirling vortex of agony and screaming.

“...Mother dear... I cannot atone...”

she uttered.
The end of those words became crimson blood and gushed forth from Ohatsue’s nose and lips.

Watching unblinkingly as the remaining nine lives successively vanished upon the crucifixion stakes, I found my entire body turned to water against my will—quivering limbs and convulsing torso beyond any power to restrain.
With trembling fingers tying my hem, using a hand towel as a headband, and fashioning a cross-shaped tasuki sash with my short sword’s cord—all without pause.
Drawing the Naoe Shizu sword in which I took pride, I clang-clang-clang slashed through the green bamboo fence before my eyes and leapt into the very midst of the guards,

“Ohatsue’s grudge. Learn your lesson, you bastards!”

Even as he shouted this，he cut down two or three nearby officials without crossing blades.

Rogue agent.
Outrageous violence!
He paid no heed to the batons and halberds of those surrounding him who cried “Madman!”
Having shaken blood from my blades，I raised my longsword high and held my shortsword low，sneering mockingly，

“You there，officials!”
“Mark my words well.”

“Do you fools believe this absence of condemnation for your tyranny constitutes a peaceful reign?”
“Do you fools believe not a single soul resents such an atrocious crucifixion?”

“I am none other than Onisaburō the One-Faced—devourer of living livers!”
“The retribution for you wasting time on needless inquiries to create innocent criminals—while overlooking a great villain like myself—manifests before your eyes!”
“Today，this one has manifested in this very place.”
“Behold this，you bastards!”

As he shouted this declaration with matching ferocity, the Naoe Shizu blades—long and short—slashed through the thicket of clustered spears with brilliant sharpness in clanging strikes. He hacked down resisting guards at will, driving some into the sea and thrusting others into bamboo fences while staining the seawater crimson through his combat. Tens of thousands of spectators surrounding them roared like breaching whales, their commotion rippling across all directions.
Leaving those who fled to their flight, he surveyed the deserted execution ground strewn with corpses in disarray, picked up a bucket and ladle left behind in one corner, then approached beneath Ohatsue's crucifixion stake to kneel and worship in quiet reverence.

“Hark.
“Lady Ohatsue.
“If your spirit lingers, hear me.
“Your malevolent will has been inherited by this Onisaburō the One-Faced.
“The evil thoughts of this present age shall become the righteous path of ages yet to come.
“Together with your pitiable mother’s spirit, go now in peace to what men call the Pure Land.
“Homage to the vengeful spirit’s swift enlightenment.”

As he finished reciting [the prayer], dousing Ohatsue’s blood-soaked entire body with ladleful after ladleful of water, the roaring voices of tens of thousands of spectators surged like a war cry, and the surrounding mountains themselves seemed to rise up from their foundations.

Now, as I drank cold water to my heart’s content, I still have not forgotten how delicious it was.
As constables rowed across in swift boats from the Suwa-shita ferry landing on the opposite shore, I beckoned them with my bloodied sword while leisurely climbing Daimonjiyama to hide. Retrieving packets of gold coins and a full set of incense-smoking equipment to equip myself, I discarded the scabbardless short sword to lighten my load, then made my escape along the rugged mountain path I had previously scouted.

And so that night，in mountains far from human habitation，he spread out dew-damp sasa grass as bedding and slept alongside Ohatsue’s pitiable visage．At dawn，the manhunt already spread across Hizen like spider legs—hiding here，appearing there，sleeping by day and rising by night，evading capture day after day—until he unexpectedly infiltrated Hita’s Tenryō domain．Seizing this chance，he blended into Mount Hiko，disguised himself among Pilgrim Monks by concealing his Naoe Shizu blade within a staff，wound along the Tagawa and Onga Rivers，and from Fukumaru—four ri onward—attempted crossing Misaka Pass toward Aoyagi lodging．

Having already become a wanted man throughout the realm, my existence could not possibly escape via ordinary routes. From Aoyagi, I would emerge into Ōshima in Chikuzen Province, then seek passage from there to Korea aboard a convenient ship. My plan had been to join the rumored band of fire bandits, aid their nation, and make the Qing dynasty’s main army taste bitter defeat.

There is nothing more unfathomable than human destiny.

As I, thinking thus, crossed Misaka Pass throughout that night, the serpentine mountain path proved even more treacherous than rumored.
The mountain air gradually grew cool, no longer feeling like summer.
As I climbed and looked down at my feet, the path I had ascended half an hour ago lay coiled below.
As I beheld the amber half-moon hung low beneath the cliff, matters of the path behind and the journey ahead came unbidden to my mind as I sat.
Proceeding without letting down my guard against the trails of shooting stars and rustling wind—where had I gone astray?
The not-so-wide path came to a dead end beneath the crescent moon, near mountain fields beside a reservoir.
Intending to turn back, I must have once again lost my way.
The mountain path gradually narrowed until it seemed only trodden by wild boars and deer.
As I wandered lost from mountain to mountain, the twentieth-night moon had unknowingly tilted westward, and night had whitely broken into dawn—far below my eyes in the deep mountain valley, there stood a grand thatched roof before a mountain stream.
Pale yellow hearth smoke rose languidly, creating a scene as if half-asleep.

Rejoicing at what seemed to be a dwelling, he tumbled down the pathless mountain slope as if falling headlong, detouring around a slightly yellowed wheat field as he approached—only to find this was no house but a single temple compound where no main gate stood yet a bell tower loomed beneath a cedar grove.
The front garden had been swept clean, not a blade of grass or pebble remaining out of place.
The tightly locked shutters of the Main Hall bore a plaque inscribed in cursive script by the Venerable Master's skilled hand: "Spiritual Vulture Peak - Shari-zō Temple."
As he circled toward the abbot’s quarters, the arrangement of rocks and water features proved extraordinary.
Elaborately crafted Japanese cypress woodwork and, within a boxwood hedge, a natural stone water basin.
The bamboo water pipe—moss-grown yet hung with a brand-new hand towel along its length—felt incongruous with this mountain setting.
Additionally, in the small garden beside the abbot's quarters stood an ancient plum tree.
A vine bearing crimson flowers—its shape resembling beans—had entwined itself from branch to treetop until reaching the abbot’s quarters’ roof, indeed exuding mountain village atmosphere.

I found myself unable to suppress an inexplicable sense of unease as I surveyed these surroundings. As he circled once more from the kitchen area toward the front garden, a rustling sound came from near the water basin within the hedge—the unmistakable presence of someone approaching. Could this be the temple's abbot? Peering through the vine leaves' shade to glimpse what manner of monk might appear, he saw not the abbot emerging. Through gaps in the hedge came a fair-skinned youth with bluish eyebrows, his bangs dripping wet and sleep garments hanging askew. With fingers pale as whitefish, he reached out to toy with the bamboo pipe's water before vanishing into the abbot's quarters like mist, securing the door from within with finality.

I stood utterly dumbfounded, rooted in place through sheer astonishment, when my curiosity abruptly surged forth uncontrollably. Casually stepping into the front garden, I found a middle-aged man—presumably an early-rising temple worker—of robust build and full-body tattoos sweeping before the main hall with a bamboo broom.

I approached the man and politely tilted my hat—this was none other than a pilgrim monk who had lost his way in the mountain paths. I humbly entreated him while piously counting my rosary beads—"If you would kindly grant this traveler a meal and permit devotions at your main hall, such mercy would surely bring exceptional spiritual rewards"—whereupon the temple worker scrutinized my disfigured face, likely taking me for a true outcast, then wordlessly bowed his head without apparent suspicion. This is Chikuzen Province’s forty-fourth pilgrimage temple—a sacred site where Kōbō Daishi’s Buddhist relics are enshrined. Since this constitutes an auspicious karmic bond, obtaining the reverend abbot’s permission is certain. Telling him to wait awhile, he threw down the bamboo broom and headed toward the kitchen.

What was discussed thereafter.
After some time had passed, heavy footsteps resounded from within the main hall.
When I saw the one who had noisily opened the latticed front doors, there stood a six-foot-tall giant priest appearing past fifty years of age. His jet-black Guan Yu-style beard hung long beneath thick, straight eyebrows spanning his forehead, while a piercing gaze shone from under them as he looked me up and down.
Presently smiling gently and laughing aloud, he said, “Pilgrim sir, please come up from the kitchen side.”
“Though your devotions are concluded, the nightlong hardships must have left you famished.”
“I shall serve last night’s leftover millet rice.”
His voice boomed sonorously, his manner of speech anything but ordinary—as though he had seen through my true nature with a single glance.

Yet I showed not the slightest unease.
As instructed，he entered the kitchen through the designated side，removed his pack，took off his straw sandals，and sat upon the wooden floor．After vigorously consuming the temple worker’s served millet rice softened with hot water，he then entered the main hall．There he offered the candles he had brought，burned incense，and recited both the Heart Sutra and Kannon Sutra once each．
Upon carefully gazing up at the main deity statue’s condition，he found it astonishing．
At first glance，it appeared to be an ordinary standing statue of Kannon Bodhisattva，but to my well-trained eye from Nagasaki，there was no mistaking it．
The halo’s patterns and the star emblem encircling the neck were unmistakably those of the Virgin Mary．
Realizing this at last and steeling himself further，he inspected the Five Hundred Arhat statues in the transom—not a single one was a Buddhist image．
There was no mistaking them as the Twelve Apostles．
The current monk，holed up deep in these mountain recesses along a path unseen by travelers，enshrining forbidden icons—he was no mere deceiver to be caught with ordinary means．

Very well—I have a stratagem.
Should you make me your enemy, I shall become your ultimate adversary.
And if you were to make me your ally, I resolved deeply in my heart that I would become your most loyal comrade.

Maintaining an impassive expression, he piously completed his worship. Then, complying with the monk's invitation, he returned to the kitchen quarters where they spread coarse mats over the wooden floor and sat facing each other. Exchanging formal bows, they sipped steeped tea as the monk reclined his posture and gestured for him to sit informally too—adopting an utterly congenial manner—before requesting an account of his travels.

I did not hesitate in the slightest.
"I, as you see before you," I explained, "entered the Buddhist path after awakening bodhicitta due to my disfigured countenance"—interweaving fabrications with truths as any ordinary pilgrim monk would when recounting tales from various provinces. When the monk finished listening, he slowly stroked down his long Guan Yu-style beard.

He scornfully laughed and declared:
“Well now, what an amusing gentleman I have encountered here.”
“I have long been skilled at discerning people’s bone structures—at the earnest requests of those in these parts, I divine their fortunes and misfortunes, expounding upon past, present, and future destinies without ever erring.”
“Now, observing your facial features, the discrepancy with your current tale yawns as vast as the gulf between heaven and earth.”
“To keep one’s thoughts unspoken is but natural cause for pent-up resentment.”
“Pray grant forgiveness should my words miss their mark.”
“Your identity as a traveling Pilgrim Monk is nothing but an utter fabrication.”
“You were originally a samurai of the Karatsu domain—your true name remains unknown.”
“You were the one known as Katamen Onisaburō.”
“You killed over a bride matter, then upon reaching Nagasaki committed every atrocity imaginable—come last late spring, you desecrated the execution ground of Ohatsue—courtesan of Maruyama Hatsukarou—leaving yourself no refuge under heaven or earth—now you stand here today as one who’s wandered lost.”
“What say you?”
“My discernment.”

Mocking as if declaring error, his gaze looked down upon me with such domineering force that even demons might cower.

However, I did not show the slightest hint of surprise.
He smiled back gently.
"What remarkably perceptive eyes you have.
Most likely you viewed the wanted posters circulated by the authorities.
My half-faced demonic visage cannot be concealed.
Indeed, I am none other than Katamen Onisaburō, Japan's most incompetent man.
However, during my time in Nagasaki, I learned secret arts from the Chinese and attained mastery in architectural divination.
In observing the structure of this temple, this is no true Tendai sect temple.
The main deity is the Holy Mother Mary, and the arhat statues are all the Twelve Apostles.
'You who keep a beautiful acolyte likened to an angel—is this the work of Roman Catholicism or Kakure Kirishitan?'
'In any case, this forbidden heresy can be none other than the work of Kakure Kirishitan followers,' I declared."

Before these words had fully left my lips, Monk Bankō's countenance underwent an abrupt transformation. He leapt back about six feet, and in the instant I saw his hand reach into his robe, drew forth a gold-inlaid Tanegashima pistol, and aimed it squarely at my chest.
Moreover, when I focused my eyes and looked closely, it was a double-barreled pistol equipped with a flintlock mechanism—newly imported from the Southern Barbarians—that I had only heard rumors about in Nagasaki.
The monk's demeanor—thoroughly accustomed to wielding firearms—and his physical stance left not the slightest opening for escape.

So this monk—
His position as resident priest of Tendai Temple had been pretense.
What I thought was his true identity as a Kakure Kirishitan follower also proved false.
The actual truth struck me now with visceral force—he had been the leader of bandits hiding in these mountains all along.
Katamen Onisaburō, twenty-four years old, closed his eyes in resignation to meet his end—when through half-opened shōji screens behind the monk leading to the abbot's quarters, a beautiful purple shadow flickered into motion.
Resembling the young male attendant seen earlier, it revealed half a face and laughed secretly.
Through hand gestures: "Strike! Strike!"
The pistol proved useless—utterly useless—as he waved his hand dismissively.

So this was heaven's intervention?
The mind was divine work.
Fate was indeed the devil's craft.
There was no time for an all-or-nothing gamble.
My hand reaching for the khakkhara staff propped against the rear threshold was too slow; I drew my concealed Naoe Shizu blade in one fluid motion without revealing the action.
I launched a slash from dead ahead.
At that moment, the flintlock Tanegashima pistol in the monk's hand merely clicked—the gunpowder failed to ignite.
The hairy, bear-like wrist still gripping the Tanegashima fell onto the floorboards when it met my blade's edge. As the monk let out a bestial shriek and tried fleeing toward the abbot's quarters, that young attendant had stealthily sealed the partition screens from behind some object.
It didn't budge an inch.
From behind the panicked monk attempting to force his way through, I leapt in and slashed down grandiosely from his left shoulder, dragging him onto the floorboards before delivering the finishing stab.

Having subdued the first formidable foe of my life, I heaved a deep sigh of relief while surveying my surroundings—when that same young attendant from earlier threw open the blood-spattered shōji screens with a swish, rushed over, and clinging to my waistcloth cried out: "Onisaburō-nushi!"
"Have you forgotten me already?"
Startled, I lowered the blood-stained sword I had raised, and upon looking closely—what was this?
She was none other than Lady O-Nami—my bride with whom I had completed the three-times-three exchange of nuptial cups in our hometown of Karatsu before departing from our bridal chamber.

Is this a dream?
An illusion?
How have you come to be in such a place?

When he pressed on asking "What relation is this monk to you?", Lady O-Nami's composure at that moment was far from ordinary. "That tale I shall relate later on," she said. "First and foremost, disposing of this corpse must take priority. If it were to catch pilgrims' eyes, that would be ill-advised." She clapped her hands sharply. "Now then, Umajū! Why don't you serve water to our guest?" At her demanding knock for rope, the same burly temple servant from earlier entered calmly through the kitchen doorway. He shuffled in slowly, bowed formally to me once more, ladled water into a bowl to offer me, then mercilessly rolled the monk's corpse in a straw mat, bound it with rough rope, and dragged it down to the earthen floor. Next he tore off blood-drenched shoji screens and floorboards, casually tossing them piece by piece into the mountain stream flowing past the back entrance—his demeanor utterly unconcerned. One might suspect him an idiot or madman—both eerie and terrifying.

In the meantime, Lady O-Nami in the guise of a young attendant tidied the bedding in the abbot’s quarters, led me inside, and began to speak while offering fragrant new tea.
"When your grace departed Karatsu—though shameful to speak of my own discourtesy—you levied no reproach but deigned to discern my true feelings and avenge my grudges against my stepmother and the matchmaker through that manly conduct worthy of your station. Now more than ever, I find this unbearably precious and humbling; might this indeed be what they call affection?"
"The once fearsome countenance of Onisaburō-nushi grew ever more reliable and divine with each passing night and day, his visage looming ever more prominently before my eyes."

However, the disturbances within the domain at that time were by no means minor. Your esteemed parents and my lord father alike were soon stripped of their stipends under charges of negligent household management. "And what became of your honorable parents and siblings?" I, together with my father, sold off our household possessions and took on the guise of parent-child pilgrims bound for Shikoku Road—yet before long wandered lost into these mountains and borrowed lodging for one night at this temple.

Now then, that monk who had been the abbot of this temple was originally a Shingon prayer master from Mount Kōya who boarded a vermilion-seal ship to Luzon, there learned Christian secret teachings, returned to Japan to revive this abandoned temple, and became its resident priest under the name Ajari Bankō. As your lordship has already discerned, he was a monk of unparalleled wickedness—one who traversed mountain ridges as if they were his own garden, terrorized passersby at mountain passes with flintlock firearms, hoarded plundered treasures beneath the main hall's floorboards, enthralled women through Christian occult narcotics, compelled their obedience without question, indulged in carnal pleasures with them, then whenever he captured new women, would give the previous ones to his temple servant Umajū to abuse, ultimately having them beaten to death and buried in the deepest mountain recesses.

He who had been a man of such indomitable spirit as to remain unfazed even when soul fires trailing tails from distant peaks drifted toward this temple on those unseasonably warm rainy nights—yet from the moment he laid eyes upon me, what resolve must have taken shape within him?

Early the next morning—after entrusting my future well-being through parting words and departing for Shikoku—my father sought to console me as I wept without restraint.
"Looking back now, though it remains uncertain whether he would have compelled me to kill, at that time I remained utterly unaware in the horror of my naive maiden's heart."
"This was none other than the Christian Abihin tobacco."
When I was compelled to inhale this under pretense that “Should you sleep after smoking it, you shall see your father’s figure traveling his journey,” I drowsily fell into slumber from the fragrant smoke forced upon me—and in that interval, I tragically became the monk’s possession.

How strange indeed—the intoxication from that single inhalation of Abihin smoke had permeated every fiber of my being from that day forth, impossible to forget even for an instant. I completely forgot all matters concerning my father, Onisaburō-nushi, and even the uncertain fate awaiting me tomorrow, remaining at this temple while yielding myself to the monk's whims—thus I spent years of most extraordinary nature.

Furthermore, that servant called Umajū was originally a peasant from Buzen Kokura Castle town about ten ri east of here, who had once attained the rank of ōzeki in shrine sumo and was known as a peerless unruly man. He had been saved by Monk Bankō when his life was endangered due to conflicts among his comrades. Ever since he smoked the Christian tobacco called Abihin given by the monk, his soul became as hollow as a cavern, his heart turned beast-like, and his actions grew idiotic. He who had simply obeyed the monk’s commands like oxen and horses, single-mindedly undertaking this temple’s maintenance and errands. “After that—after I came to this temple—he somehow came to yearn for me, delighting in and respecting only my commands over the monk’s words, and when matters arose, he would not refuse even fire or water.” “Truly a pitiable soul, I must say.”

“Perhaps through some insect’s forewarning,”
“This morning I awoke earlier than ever before.”
“When I glimpsed your approach to this temple, I agonized over what course to take—but ultimately, this body has strayed beyond the path of humanity.”
“Neither gods nor buddhas exist in this world.”
Having resolved matters could no longer remain as they were, I removed both bullets and gunpowder from the Tanegashima matchlock at the monk’s bedside, replacing them with saliva-chewed paper pellets. Then shaking him awake, when I informed him—mixing in worldly rumors—that a certain person had come to this temple in pilgrim monk’s guise, the monk rejoiced beyond measure.
“Good, good, good...”
“I shall turn your former lover into minced flesh and share a ceremonial cup with you.”
“With depravity most extreme surpassing even this,” he guffawed while rising to his feet—only to ultimately fall into my scheme and meet his present fate.

“To speak of my shamefully tainted past brings such mortification.”
“And yet here you stand, Onisaburō-nushi.”
“Love remains unchanged from days of yore.”
“Can you find no pity for this wretched form I’ve become?”
“By your will alone, even this path I’ve resolved to tread might yet alter.”
“The depth of my sincerity—you’ll witness it plain when viewing the monk’s corpse—marks this woman’s unyielding resolve.”
A beauty that set the corners of eyes gleaming.
Enough to make hearts reel.

I rejoiced beyond measure.
Involuntarily he prostrated himself before Lady O-Nami.
How deeply humbling.
Most profoundly honored.
The world's rumors all hold truth.
This self has accumulated sins beyond even my own reckoning.
In all beneath heaven, no place exists for this body to dwell.
That this monastic form should converge here—could this indeed be heaven-bestowed destiny?
That the red thread I severed—defiled by sin and drenched in blood through endless turnings—should knot itself anew here strikes me as truly wondrous.
You stand in youth's guise.
I wear the shaven crown and black robes.
Though buried in sin's obstructions and evil deeds, no taint stains our shared sentiment.
Should one reach for this lovely woman's hand, Lady O-Nami in youthful form bashfully brushes it aside.
"I pray you show no haste."
"First enter this way."
Having something to reveal, she led me to the main hall's inner sanctum, climbed the dais, placed both hands on the Maria statue's shoulders, deliberately pulled it forward to topple, then pried open what seemed a lotus pedestal beneath its feet—revealing a gaping stairway entrance.
As we descended below, the fallen Maria statue appeared to right itself unaided.
The stairs became pure darkness where only footfalls grew ever more thunderous.

O-Nami took my hand as we walked down several yards through that space, the subterranean chill seeping into my body until I felt we had come to some unknown world.
When the flame that flashed forth from her Ranhouki fire-making tool entered the sesame oil-burning cut-glass lanterns arranged in all four directions, its light reflected and shone through thousands upon hundreds of Venetian mirrors hung across every surface of ceiling and walls, illuminating a chamber spanning over twenty mats as bright as midday—the damask silk settee, bed adorned with bird plumes, and silk gauze canopy presenting such splendor as to astonish the eyes.
Upon the mother-of-pearl cabinet were arrayed Chindaru's bewitching wine and Raōchū's crimson nectar.
Sokochin’s Araki Shōchū.
Venetian glass incense-smoking implements.
A silver Venetian glass water jug.
Crystal cups and such would put even royal wares to shame.
This must be the stolen hoard of the previous monk.
Gold and silver koban and ōban.
Newly minted nanryō silver coins and flower-patterned carpets lay scattered across the floor, resembling the excreta of oxen and horses.

Amidst this splendor stood O-Nami, who cast a lump of sandalwood into the large seven-treasure incense burner. From within the thread-like incense clouds that rose and drifted in wisps, she glanced back at me with a tinkling laugh and said, "Do you now comprehend the pleasures of this chamber?"

Even I found myself at a loss for words.
A cold sweat broke out over my entire body like a toad encased in mirrors; my mind reeled, my kneecaps trembled violently, and I found myself unable to stand.
At any rate, insisting that I would return to the abbot’s quarters just once, I crawled out from under the Maria statue as though fleeing—how absurd it all was.

However, I ultimately proved unable to escape the bewilderment of this heretical delusion. Having taken root in this temple with Lady O-Nami, day and night without distinction, within an earthen cellar warm in winter and cool in summer, I spent days surpassing both hell and paradise—a marvel to behold—yet before even a year had passed, I found my vitality waning imperceptibly. Though I applied O-Nami’s superior bamboo shoots, ox blood, garlic, ginseng, animal livers, poria cocos herbs, and the like—which she claimed to have learned from Monk Bankō—as though bathing in them, they ultimately proved insufficient. In the end, even seeing O-Nami’s beautifully made-up figure from behind in the mornings and evenings came to be regarded as more terrifying than tigers and wolves.

What was strange was the temple servant Umajū.

That man would daily vanish somewhere under the pretext of inhaling incense smoke during the midday hours from the Hour of the Sheep to the Hour of the Monkey.
Otherwise, he always rose before dawn, tilled the fields, heated the bath, and never neglected meal preparations.
When it rained, he would traverse five or six ri over mountain paths to reach Hakata, gather worldly rumors, and aside from various purchases, carry back O-Nami’s favored sweet confections, rare dried goods, and Dutch vintage wine of uncertain provenance—all while drenched in sweat—demonstrating such earnest devotion.
The perfection of his physical form.
Truly, for Lady O-Nami’s sake, he appeared ready to cast aside even his own life without hesitation.

Nevertheless, how utterly strange—could it be that Umajū does not consider this one his master? He would not readily comply with the tasks this one ordered. Even when this one earnestly pleaded, he would merely sneer composedly without even providing a satisfactory response—such was his disposition that he would not move unless Lady O-Nami’s words were added. Each time, rage would surge from the depths of this one’s heart, and frequently this one drew his precept sword intending to cut him down. Yet upon contemplating the inconvenience the mountain temple would face should he be lost, this one barely managed to restrain himself.

Yet upon entering March of this year—marking roughly one year since coming to this mountain temple—whenever I beheld Umajū’s face after my vitality had begun to decline so markedly, a strangely suspicious wrath would flare up fiercely within me, and now I would often rise to one knee in this manner.
Let what comes after come as it may.
The decline of my vitality—could it be because I had not cut down anyone in so long?
If I were to see this man’s blood, would my vitality return to its former state? Such were the thoughts I turned over daily until one day in mid-March.

With his face covered, Umajū came bearing a hoe to the rear of the abbot's quarters where I resided, tilling a circular area around the base of that ancient plum tree and sowing seeds resembling beans. After scattering night soil over them and covering the soil around, the stench was beyond measure, and the laborious task seemed as though it would never end.

I involuntarily slid open the abbot’s window and demanded sharply, “What are you doing there?”—whereupon Umajū turned around as though weighted down, staring at me with dull eyes, and merely sneered in mockery. He offered no immediate response. Eventually, with a displeased expression, he bared his yellow teeth and carved wrinkles into his low-hanging nostrils. “Sowing seeds of scarlet flowers transmitted from Holland,” he said. “These are treasured seeds of flowers that Lady O-Nami favors above all. Apart from the headman’s house in this village, they exist nowhere else. If sown here, they’ll shield against the summer’s western sun and lend elegance to the garden. When you wandered here last spring, she must have recognized you. It’s an annual task. Endure it awhile—though malodorous, it’s not another’s waste.”

At first I thought these must be the rare flower seeds from that time which this man had stored away, yet with his air of having talked me down somehow, my mind remained unsettled. What a clever-mouthed retort from this menial servant. Rather than pointlessly toiling with flower seeds that won’t fill your belly, why not clean the kitchen drain I ordered you to tend the other day? Rice grains and tea dregs lay clogged and stagnant—the midday stench was beyond measure. What possible reason could you have for ignoring a task ordered half a month ago? A servant who dares answer back to his master.

When I glared and declared, “I won’t overlook this impertinence,” Umajū hunched his neck like a fool and stuck out his tongue.

“I have revered Lady O-Nami as my master and worshipped her as a goddess,”
“How could I ever consider a crippled freak of a stray cat like you my master?”
“That you detest and suspect this Umajū—I have long been aware of it.”
“If you mean to strike me down, then strike me down.”
“This life has survived through the mercy of Venerable Monk Bankō.”
“What is there to regret?”
“These petty warnings about future regrets I first spat out—I can stomach them no longer.”

My hand hesitated at taking the staff from the alcove and drawing Naoe Shizu; as I moved to leap down from the veranda, O-Nami came running from the direction of the kitchen behind me—her hands still damp—and swiftly intercepted me.

With tears streaming down her face, she spoke as follows:
“Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“After Umajū’s death, how shall we sustain our lives?”
“Your recent sudden weakening of heart must stem from persisting in such baseless thoughts.”
“If you wish to kill people, go out to the mountain passes and waylay travelers.”
“Umajū alone is this temple’s treasure.”
“Is he not a peerlessly loyal servant to us?”

“I will not let you sacrifice yourself to kill him,” she declared, and with that, she and Umajū exchanged suspicious glances before parting ways to either side, leaving me alone in the abbot’s quarters as they departed.

Now then, after that—where could those two have gone? No voices echoed, no footsteps resounded. For over half an hour, the temple grounds lay in profound silence—not a single sound stirred. Only the mountain warblers' songs through the valleys remained undisturbed.

My suspicions swarmed forth anew, jealousy blazing like fire until I could endure no more. Clutching the sword concealed within my priestly staff, I stole silently from the abbot's quarters. Barefoot, I circled the main hall seeking them—until beneath its stairs I found faint traces of mud splatter.

Crawling under the floorboards past stacked charcoal bags, I discovered a stone staircase unknown to me until now. From below those steps rose the familiar scent of sandalwood—a presence slowly permeating upward.

I nodded to myself and descended about five or six steps, feeling my way along the faintly damp and dimly lit stone staircase with my nails, when I found what appeared to be a plank door. At its center was embedded a glass panel approximately five sun square, covered with black cloth. It appeared to be a means of observing the interior of the cellar from outside. When I realized that this must be what Umajū had peered at, a boundless horror arose anew, and a clammy sweat broke out across my body. I too, as if imitating him, held my breath and peered inside—when suddenly, divine energy surged through me, and my heart was no longer my own. I burst through the door in one motion and leapt into the cellar; with a horizontal slash, I bisected O-Nami's pale torso as she cried "Agh!" and fled in confusion, then chopped off both arms of Umajū—who lunged at me with his full-body tattoos writhing—without hesitation to left and right. Next, Umajū—whose legs had been swept out from under him—bared his teeth and glared furiously as he was struck down onto the floor. He glared up at my raised sword while roaring like a beast. You deviant. Mark this well. O-Nami has been mine from the very beginning. Did you not know that you and the previous monk were her secret lovers? You, who repay with enmity the kindness of being sustained these many years by O-Nami’s affection—you are the worst of heretics among heretics! Gods and buddhas are superfluous. Whether a person's resolve endures or perishes—witness it now. Shall this grudge go unreturned? As proof, I shall make the scarlet flowers I planted today bloom pure white from this year forth. So long as those White Scarlet flowers bloom pale, let all know our lingering obsession remains in this Christian Temple. As this grudge—howling like wolves that it shall never be avenged—raged within me, I sneered: What deluded nonsense. This world ends with this world. Do you not know that humans lack souls after death, just like dogs and cats?

Before I could finish declaring—"You pair shall witness immediate karmic retribution!"—I split Umajū’s skull in a bamboo-cleaving strike, stabbed O-Nami’s corpse through the piled remains with a finishing thrust, overturned every last treasure and oddity in the room upon them, crawled out beneath the main hall, washed my bloodied blade and garments in the valley stream ahead, then returned with measured steps to the abbot’s quarters.

As time passed until evening of that remaining half-day, I became utterly entranced as if awakening from a dream within a dream—unable to focus on anything, too weary even to prepare supper—and lay sprawled on my back in the abbot's quarters' center, neither asleep nor awake. But when night fell and I heard rain's soft patter swelling the valley stream's murmur, my fate's sheer strangeness came flooding back in waves.
Even after lying down, my eyes remained wide awake and I could not sleep.

Lying sleepless, I pondered.
In this world where neither gods nor buddhas exist, there can be no distinction between good and evil.
Only the pleasures of this world hold truth.
Human grudges and slanders are but passing winds—waves adrift.
Having awakened to how all worldly matters leave no trace, I became one who entrusted everything to arm and heart, amassing unforeseen pleasures along the way.
Now that I have slain the companion meant to share those future joys, I feel myself wandering through a boundless void—every great universe that once clung to my being now erased.
When I consider what purpose shall drive me from tomorrow onward, even this newly risen vision of my pitiable self strikes me as absurd.

O Onisaburō. From tomorrow, where do I intend to go? Where doth thy soul reside? Was my life until now all but a dream? Was it reality? Truly, can it be that in the human heart there dwell neither gods nor buddhas? Having come to understand the weight of my own sins through the grudges of others, would one not think to cling to the hands of the gods and buddhas? When viewed through heaven and earth's vastness, even the mighty, invincible Onisaburō is but a measly maggot. From where do I come squirming forth? Where do I squirm off to? O Onisaburō. Where am I going now? A voice shouting loudly reached my own ears, awakening me from my dream—I realized I had unknowingly dozed off. Night faded into the pale light of dawn, and the crows' cries grew frequent in the cedar treetops of Mukaiyama.

I then rose weakly, entered the cellar beneath the main hall, chopped the male and female corpses into multiple segments, and finished burying them here and there in the back mountain’s mixed forest.
Then, making porridge from the remaining rice, I filled my belly without tasting anything. While nibbling on pickled plums, salt, and miso, I shut myself in the abbot’s quarters all day with nothing to do. Binding the ruled paper left behind by the previous monk, I attempted to write down all that had transpired—yet to my surprise, the brush would not advance.
Having spent about two months, the day came when young buds sprouted forth after the rainy season had ended.

As time passed, I found my mind somehow refreshingly clear since this morning's dawn. In the dim light, I mindlessly pushed open the window of the abbot's quarters and looked out—when I involuntarily let out a cry.

The White Scarlet seeds that Umajū had planted under the plum tree the other day had sprouted without anyone noticing. The vegetation had grown so thickly that it loomed over the roof above the window, yet not a single branch bore those blood-colored crimson flowers seen last spring. That only pale, corpse-flesh-like flowers now bloomed in full splendor was truly strange.

The astonishment I felt at that moment must have been immeasurable. Recalling the words Umajū had screamed in his final moments before my very eyes, in broad daylight my every hair stood on end, and my spirit nearly gave way entirely.

Truly, people's grudges do linger in this world. When I thought of gods and buddhas truly existing in this world, it became terrifyingly hollow; unintentionally staggering into the main hall, I clasped my hands before the principal image. I knew not what deities might exist. I had no excuse—I was ashamed. How abhorrent that a mortal should presume to measure the profound and vast heart of the august heavens and earth with his selfish reckoning! Rather than prolonging this life to accumulate further sins, to die and fall into hell's torments—to receive retribution for my crimes thus far—this would bring me far greater peace of mind. Though I had heard that a single thought of Amida Buddha eradicates immeasurable sins, that one such as I—a most heinous sinner—could never be saved had been foreknown from the start. Homage to Maria Tathagata. Clasping my hands together in homage to Maria Tathagata, I returned to the abbot's quarters sobbing uncontrollably. Yet still I could not stem the flowing tears. Suppressing the surging emotions within me, I finished writing this account.

I resolved to pack that cellar with charcoal bales, set them ablaze, disembowel myself and leap within—burning away with the temple to eternally eradicate the heretical sect's lineage. Only this document and Naoe Shizu’s single sword would I place beneath the bell tower’s bell—to serve as evidence for posterity and as a means to dispel the world’s doubts.

As for the poem engraved upon the tang of the sword, it was one I had composed and had engraved by a village blacksmith below [the temple]. If presented to the Karatsu Domain, His Lordship would surely rejoice; I had performed this act reasoning that the authenticity of this document would thereby also become evident. Do not mock the poem’s lack of artistry.

The lingering grudge—White Scarlet in full bloom

Many People at the Christian Temple

Kanei 6 (1629 CE), May, Auspicious Day

Onisaburō writes.

× × ×

About two weeks later, that antique dealer Kanekichi came around again.
His bony frame clad in a crisply starched yukata and gauze haori slung over it, fan snapping open and shut—he looked every bit the picture of summer coolness.

I had entrusted my body, thoroughly wearied by summer weight gain, to the electric fan.

“Have you come to understand the true nature of those white flowers?”

“Yeah.”
“I got it.”
“I did mention I have a friend at Kyushu University’s Faculty of Agriculture, didn’t I?”

“Well, well.
“Wasn’t it Dr. Katō or someone like that?”

“Idiot.
“I wouldn’t say such a thing.
“First of all, he’s not a doctor.
“He goes by Fujikawa—just an ordinary academic, you see.
“What they call a perpetual academic.
“When it comes to plant names, there isn’t a single one he doesn’t know.”

“Ah.
“What an impressive thing indeed, sir.”

“When I sent those flowers to him and had him examine them, no matter how much he researched them, he concluded they were undoubtedly kidney beans.”

“Huh?!
“Which one’s the kidney bean then…”

“They’re both kidney beans.”

“Heh. What shape-shifting beans we’ve got here, ain’t they?”

“This isn’t even a joke of a story. Though mind you, there are dozens of kidney bean varieties—mutants included. Those red ones are called Benibana Ingen, ornamental plants since olden times. The white ones are regular kidney beans. But to an amateur’s eye, they’re hard to tell apart unless you check the flower color.”

“Ah, I see. Strange tales do exist, don’t they? Heh.”

“You’re absolutely right. So that Fujikawa fellow—the academic—reportedly went out of his way to Kiyotaki Christian Temple just to be thorough and check, but since they’d gone completely wild, he said they ended up looking even more like Benibana Ingen. We shouldn’t be able to tell even if we looked.”

“What?! But why would they get swapped again…”

“It’s nothing complicated. Did you read this document? Onisaburō’s chronicle…”

“Well. I took a brief look at the beginning and end parts, but…”

“Right, that temple servant Umajū written about here knew he’d be killed by the protagonist Onisaburō before long. So he pretended to plant Benibana Ingen now but actually sowed regular kidney beans. He knew full well.”

“Well.”
“That’s astonishing.”
“However, Master.”
“There sure are folk who choose such whimsical ways to die, if you take my meaning.”

“That still exists even now. There are even soldiers these days who commit suicide by leaving notes saying ‘The Squad Leader sir told me to die.’ Someone twisted like this would be just the type to pull it off. The prospect of being killed alongside the woman he loved and leaving behind a vengeful curse might have been irresistibly pleasurable to Umajū’s addled mind.”

“Well, well.”
“Ah, I see now.”
“However, Master.”
“Are you considering purchasing the Christian temple ruins as your villa?”
“How might that be?”
“The truth is, I’ve already left the matter in the hands of the Village Headman, but...”

“Let’s hold off for now.”
“But really... Just unsheathing this sword has made me strangely cool, and now I’m getting chills.”
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha…”