Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author’s Note

1. With a desire to add ruby characters reading “my saikaku” [to the title], I titled this work New Interpretations of Tales from Various Provinces; however, this is absolutely not what one might call a modern translation of Saikaku.
Modern translations of classical works are utterly meaningless.
It is not work a writer should undertake.
About three years ago, I took a single tale from Liaozhai Zhiyi as a framework, freely arranged my own whimsical imaginings, completed it as a short story titled A Tale of Pure Poverty, and was allowed to publish it in Shincho’s New Year’s issue—though in general, it was through such methods that I intended to strive to offer readers rare delicacies and exotic fragrances.
Saikaku is the greatest writer in the world.
Even Mérimée and Maupassant—with all their brilliance—fall far short of him.
If through work such as mine Saikaku’s greatness comes to be more deeply trusted by all, then I can think that even my humble efforts have not been meaningless.
I planned to select about twenty short pieces from all of Saikaku’s works that had caught my fancy, freely write down my imaginings surrounding them, compile these under the title New Interpretations of Tales from Various Provinces, and publish them in a single volume—but as a starting point, I wished to borrow the subject matter of “My Belongings and the Naked River” from Tales of Samurai Duty and write my own novel.
The original text was a short piece spanning about two or three pages on 400-character manuscript paper, but when I wrote it, it ended up becoming ten times that—twenty or thirty pages.
I like this Tales of Samurai Duty, along with The Eternal Storehouse, Tales from Various Provinces, Mental Calculations, and so on.
I do not care for what are called “erotic works.”
I don’t think they’re particularly good either.
The very conceptions strike me as hackneyed.

1. The above text was used as a preface when I published *Naked River* in this year’s New Year’s issue of *Shincho*.
After that, I gradually progressed with this work; though I initially planned to write around twenty stories, I ran out of steam after completing twelve.
Upon rereading it, I was truly dissatisfied—my face burned with shame—but perhaps this was the limit of my current abilities.
Twelve short stories are far more taxing than a single long one.

If you glance at the table of contents, I arranged it so that you can generally understand—but I sought materials quite extensively from all of Saikaku’s works. This was because I thought that having more variety would make it even more interesting. I devised the settings of the stories to span various regions such as Ezo, Ōshu, Kantō, Kansai, Chūgoku, Shikoku, and Kyūshū.

Yet after all, I am a writer born in Tōhoku.
Instead of Saikaku, it unavoidably bears the flavor of Tōkaku and Hokki.
Moreover, this Tōkaku or Hokki proves markedly unripe compared to Saikaku.
Age, it seems, is something one cannot remedy.

1. It has already been nearly one year since I began this work.
During that period, in Japan, there truly were all manner of events.
In my own life as well, I cannot predict what might happen at any moment.
At this juncture, it seemed rather important for readers to clearly understand what might be called the tradition of Japanese literary spirit, and I continued writing this even on days of air-raid warnings.
Although the result is of course greatly unsatisfactory, I can say that I threw myself into writing this work, believing it to be an obligation given to Japanese writers of the Shōwa Holy Era.

Late autumn of Shōwa 19, at a thatched house in Mitaka.

Table of Contents

Poverty’s Pride (Edo) *Tales from Various Provinces*, Age 44

*Great Strength* (Sanuki) *Twenty Examples of Filial Impiety in Our Land*, Age 45

Monkey Mound (Chikuzen) *Kaiken*, Age 46

*Mermaid Sea* (Ezo) *Chronicle of Martial Traditions*, Age 46

Bankruptcy (Mimasaka) *Japan's Eternal Storehouse*, Age 47

Naked River (Sagami) *Tales of Samurai Duty*, Age 47

Duty (Settsu) *Tales of Samurai Duty*, Age 47

Female Thief (Rikuzen) *New Laughable Tales*, Age 47

Red Drum (Kyoto) *Honchō Ōin Hiji*, Age 48

*A Man of Refinement* (Naniwa) *Worldly Mental Calculations*, Age 51

*Admonition Against Revelry* (Edo) *Saikaku Okimiyage*, Age 52 (Deceased)

Yoshino Mountain (Yamato) *A Million Scraps of Discarded Writing*, Published Three Years Posthumously

*Poverty’s Pride*

Long ago in Edo’s Shinagawa district, near Fuji Tea House, there lived in a pitiful thatched hut a large middle-aged man named Harada Naisuke, with a terrifyingly thick beard and bloodshot eyes.
A man with fearsome features often grows timid under the weight of his own imposing visage—and Harada Naisuke was no exception. Though his thick brows and bulging eyes gave him a face of distinction, he was utterly inept. During swordsmanship practice, he would squeeze his eyes shut, let out a bizarre cry, and charge headlong into a wall before gasping, “I yield!”—earning himself the mocking nickname “Wall-Breaker.” When a sly clam-selling boy spun him a sob story, he bawled loudly, bought every last clam, and returned home only to be scolded by his wife. For three days straight, morning, noon, and night, she forced him to eat nothing but clams until he writhed with stomach cramps. Whenever he opened *The Analects* to recite “To learn…”, sleep inevitably overpowered him. Caterpillars horrified him; spotting one, he’d shriek shrilly, splay his fingers, and recoil. Easily flattered, he’d panic like a fox-possessed fool, rush to the pawnshop for cash, and treat others lavishly. On New Year’s Eve, he drank from dawn and mimicked seppuku to repel debt collectors. His thatched hut stood not from poetic taste but sheer destitution—a shiftless pauper with neither blossom nor fruit, a rōnin even his relatives found insufferable.
Fortunately, he had two or three wealthy relatives, so when pushed to the brink, he would obtain assistance from them, turn most of it into drink, and continue his hand-to-mouth existence in dire poverty—a hellish cartwheel of oblivion where neither spring’s cherry blossoms nor autumn’s maples were seen or heard.
One might manage to live turning their face away from spring’s cherry blossoms and autumn’s maples, but feigning ignorance of the year’s single New Year’s Eve proved impossible.
As this year’s New Year’s Eve drew ever nearer, Harada Naisuke’s eyes took on a wild gleam; he began feigning madness, fiddling pointlessly with his naginata, and unnerving debt collectors with eerie “heh-heh” laughs. Though the New Year loomed two days away, he left ceiling soot unswept, his beard untrimmed, and the senbei-stuffed futon sprawled where he’d slept. “Come if you dare,” he muttered in delirious whispers before breaking once more into those hollow “heh-heh” chuckles.
As was often the case, his wife could no longer endure the torment of their waking hell; she dashed out from the kitchen door, rushed into the home of her brother Nakai Seian—a physician residing in a side street near Kanda Myōjin—and with tears streaming down her face, she laid bare their dire straits and pleaded for assistance.
Nakai Seian, though thoroughly exasperated by the recurring nuisance, was a man of wit. “Having one such fool among one’s relatives adds flavor to this fleeting world,” he laughed as he wrapped ten gold coins in paper. On the wrapper, he inscribed, “A cure for poverty and illness: Gold-Use Pill. Effective for all ailments,” and handed it to his unfortunate sister.

When his wife showed him that miraculous cure for poverty and illness, Harada Naisuke—contrary to expectations of joy—scowled and declared in a hoarse voice, “This money will not be used!” uttering something strange.
The wife was startled, thinking, *Has my husband truly gone mad at last?*
He had not gone mad.
A man of no worth is utterly inept even in receiving happiness.
Flustered by this sudden visitation of happiness and overcome with embarrassment, such a man instead spouts strange excuses and flies into a rage, driving away his hard-won fortune in the process.

“If we use this money as-is, our luck will reverse and I might die,” Naisuke declared with feigned gravity. Glaring at his wife through bloodshot eyes, he demanded, “Are you trying to kill me?” Then he smirked slyly and added, “But surely you’re no such demon. Let’s drink.”
“If we don’t drink, we’ll die.”
“Ah—the snow’s begun falling.”
“I want to discuss refined matters with cultured friends—it’s been too long.”
“You—go make haste and summon our neighbors’ friends.”
“Call Yamazaki, Kumai, Utsugi, Ōtake, Iso, and Tsukimura—those six.”
“Wait—include Monk Tankei too. That makes seven.”
“Hurry and fetch them!”
“On your return, stop by the liquor shop. As for food… whatever’s on hand will suffice.”

It was nothing serious.
It was simply that, out of joy and excitement, he wanted to drink sake.

Yamazaki, Kumai, Utsugi, Ōtake, Iso, Tsukimura, and Tankei—all were rōnin dwelling in the tenements nearby, plagued by poverty and illness as they scraped by each day. Having received Harada’s invitation for snow-viewing sake, the rōnin—grateful as hell-dwellers finding Buddha at the chance to escape New Year’s Eve’s burning house for just one night—smoothed wrinkles from paper robes, rummaged through closets muttering “Where’s an umbrella? Any tabi socks?”, and pulled out moth-eaten finery. Among them were those in cotton kimonos paired with military surcoats; others claiming “a chill” wore five layered unlined garments with frayed cotton wrapped around necks; one rolled up sleeves over a wife’s repurposed underrobe to hide its shape; another sported half-undergarments with riding hakama and a stitched summer haori; yet another hiked up a wadded robe spilling cotton from its hem to expose hairy shins. Not a single proper outfit existed among them, yet samurai camaraderie prevailed: gathering at Harada’s home, none laughed at each other’s attire. Solemn greetings were exchanged until seating settled, whereupon Old Man Yamazaki—in his cotton kimono and surcoat—strode forward to deliver grandiose thanks on behalf of the guests. Harada, meanwhile, fidgeted with his paper robe’s torn sleeve cuffs.

“Welcome, everyone,” he said. “Setting aside New Year’s Eve for snow-viewing sake seemed an amusing diversion, and wishing also to apologize for my prolonged absence, I invited you all this evening—and I am delighted you have come so promptly. Please, make yourselves at home.” Despite his poverty, he served food and drink.

Among the guests, one who held a cup began trembling uncontrollably. When asked what was wrong, the person wiped their tears.

“Oh, it’s nothing—please don’t trouble yourself,” he said. “This wretched one, due to poverty, has long abstained from drink, and—though it shames me—I have forgotten how to partake.” He then laughed with a lonely air.

“In the same vein,” said the man in half-undergarments and riding hakama as he edged his knees forward, “this wretched one has also just downed two or three cups in quick succession, and now feels so peculiar that I’ve quite forgotten how one ought to proceed with getting drunk.”

They all seemed to share similar sentiments, exchanging cups in hushed solemnity while holding back, but before long—appearing to recall how to get drunk—laughter arose, and as the room gradually grew lively, Harada took out the paper bundle containing ten gold coins,

“Today, I have a rare item I wish to present to all of you esteemed guests.”
“When your purses grow thin, you all nobly abstain from drink and live modestly—thus even if hardship finds you at year’s end, your suffering cannot match mine. For when I face financial woes, my thirst for liquor only intensifies, amassing mountains of dishonorable debts until each year’s close feels like gazing upon the Eight Great Hells themselves.”
“In the end, I cast aside all samurai pride and resorted to tearfully begging relatives for aid—this year finally receiving ten gold coins’ assistance that lets me greet the New Year with some semblance of normalcy. Yet hoarding such fortune alone might invite calamitous backlash. Thus I resolved to summon you here tonight for a grand drinking feast!”

“Oh, had I known this from the start, I wouldn’t have held back at all.”
“I drank cautiously, fretting they might demand payment later—what a waste,” said another.

“If that’s how it stands, I’ll drink this sake heartily and partake in your good fortune.”
“When I return home, perhaps a registered letter awaits from some unexpected quarter,” said another.

“Those blessed with good kin are truly fortunate.”
“This wretched one’s relatives only scheme to pick my pockets—how tiresome,” said another, as the gathering grew ever more boisterous. Harada, in rapturous delight, wiped the sake droplets clinging to his beard’s ends,

“However, when I placed ten gold coins in my palm for the first time in ages, I found them surprisingly heavy.”
“How about this—would you each take turns placing these on your palms?”
“If you consider this mere money, it becomes base—but this is no such thing as money.”
“Here, it’s clearly written on this wrapper.”
“It says: ‘A cure for poverty and illness: Kinyōmaru. Effective for all ailments.’”
“That relative of mine had the gall to write this witticism on the wrapper. Here, please pass it around and take a look,” he pressed the ten gold coins and wrapper upon the guests. Each guest marveled at the coins’ heft and admired the clever inscription as they passed them around. One even composed a verse on the spot, borrowing brush and inkstone to inscribe on the wrapper’s margin: “Snowlight bestows the cure for poverty’s ills,” adding to the merriment. The exchange of sake cups grew lively, and when the coins had made their round back to their host’s side, Old Man Yamazaki straightened his posture...

“Well now, thanks to your kindness, we’ve had such a fine year-end gathering that I’ve overstayed without realizing,” declared Yamazaki with composed gratitude. Then the one claiming a chill—old cotton wrapped around his neck—threw back his chest and began a celebratory song. Host and guests alike lightly tapped their knees to keep time. Once the song ended, they tidied up after themselves—a samurai’s timeless duty, now as then—carrying the sake warmer, tiered boxes, and pickled-seafood jars from around them to the kitchen door and handing them to the wife. When urged by the guests to put away the ten gold coins scattered by the host’s side as well, Harada casually gathered them up—and suddenly paled.
There was one missing.
But Harada, though he drank sake freely, was a timid man.
Despite his fearsome appearance, he remained ever cautious of others’ feelings.
Startled yet feigning composure, he tried to put them away when Old Man Yamazaki, the elder of the gathering,

“Wait a moment,” he said, raising his hand. “There’s one gold coin missing.”

“Ah, no—this is,” Harada floundered like a man whose wrongdoing had been uncovered, “this—well, before you all arrived, I paid one ryō to the liquor shop. When I brought them out earlier, there were nine coins. Nothing suspicious here.” But Yamazaki shook his head,

“No, no—that’s not it,” insisted the stubborn old man. “When this old one placed them on my palm earlier, there were unquestionably ten gold coins. Though the lamplight is dim, there is no error in my discernment,” he declared firmly, whereupon the other six guests also chimed in, insisting there had indeed been ten coins.

Everyone stood up all at once and, taking the lantern around, searched every corner of the room—but the gold coin was nowhere to be found.

“In that case, this old one shall strip bare to prove his innocence!” declared Yamazaki—his aged stubbornness, pride in poverty, and identity as a samurai’s remnant even in frailty burning with indignation at this unjust suspicion, which he deemed a disgrace to echo through eternity. He tore off his surcoat and shook it violently, then stripped off his threadbare kimono until clad only in a loincloth. With exaggerated motions, he shook the garment as though casting a fishing net.

“Have you all witnessed this?” he said, his face pale.
The other guests, too, could no longer remain passive. Next, Ōtake stood up—shaking his stitched summer haori, waving his half-undergarment, then removing his riding hakama to expose his lack of a loincloth—yet showed no hesitation as he shook the hakama upside down, until the room’s atmosphere grew increasingly tense and dreadful.
Next, Monk Tankei—his padded robe hitched up to expose hairy shins—began to rise, then suddenly grimaced fiercely as if struck by violent abdominal pain and let out a groan of “Umm,”

“What wretched timing—I went and composed a foolish haiku,” he said.
“Snowlight bestows the cure for poverty’s ills.”
“Esteemed friends, this wretched one does indeed have one gold coin in his possession.”
“There’s no need for me to strip off my clothes and shake them now.”
“What an unforeseen calamity!”
His defense came out pitifully weak.
“I’ll end my life here—!” Before he could finish speaking, he tore open his robe and reached for his dagger. The host and all present rushed to restrain his hand,

“No one suspects you.”
“Not just you—all of us here are wretched paupers living hand to mouth, though at times even we may have a coin or two tucked away.”
“We paupers understand your wish to die proving your innocence,” they pleaded in unison, “but when not a soul here doubts you, this seppuku nonsense is absurd!” Tankei, however, only grew more bitter over his misfortune, his lamentations intensifying as he ground his teeth.

“Your words are kind,” said Monk Tankei, “but even this compassion shall serve as provisions for my journey to the netherworld. At this crucial hour of investigating the missing ryō—how ill-fated that this wretched one happens to carry one in his pocket! Though none among you harbor suspicions, this disgrace clings like leeches’ teeth. The world’s mockery—a lifelong shame! To live thus dishonored is unendurable.” His voice trembled with theatrical despair. “True enough—this single ryō in my possession was obtained yesterday by selling the kozuka I long carried to Jūzaemon’s imported goods shop at the slope’s base for one ryō and two bu. Yet to offer such whining explanations now itself stains a warrior’s honor.” He drew himself up with brittle dignity. “I shall speak no more. Grant me death! If you hold even scant pity for this ill-starred companion”—here he brandished his dagger—“after my self-destruction, visit that slope-foot shop! Verify the truth! Cleanse this corpse’s disgrace!” He thrashed wildly against their restraining hands.

“Huh?” cried Harada. “There it is.”

When they looked, a gold coin glinted under the lamp.

“Oh, so it was there all along?”

“It’s darkest under the candlestick, isn’t it?”

“Lost things always turn up in the most absurd places.”
“That being said, daily preparedness is essential.”

This was Yamazaki.

“No—this gold coin has caused nothing but trouble.”
“Thanks to that, I’ve sobered up.”
“Let’s start drinking again,” said Harada, the master.

When they all spoke up and burst into brilliant laughter, at the kitchen entrance—

“Ah!” came the wife’s startled voice.
Immediately, she came clattering into the sitting room, saying, “The gold coin is here,” and held out the tiered box’s lid.
There, too, a gold coin glinted.
At this, everyone exchanged looks. The wife brushed back stray hairs from her flushed face and laughed awkwardly. “Earlier, I packed simmered mountain yams into the tiered box to serve you all. The master had discourteously left the lid flat on the tatami, so I took it and placed it beneath the box. The gold coin must have stuck to the underside from the steam then. Unaware of this through my own carelessness, I returned it as it was. Just now when I went to wash it—oh my!—there it clinked out!” she breathlessly explained. Yet host and guests alike wore baffled expressions, still merely exchanging glances.
In that case, there were now eleven gold coins.

“Well, this too must be a token of shared fortune,” Old Man Yamazaki, the elder of the gathering, declared after a long pause, heaving a sigh as he offered an utterly incoherent opinion.
“Auspicious.”
“It’s not impossible for ten gold coins to become eleven under the right circumstances.”
“It’s a common occurrence.”
“First, please accept them.”
He seemed to be getting a bit senile.

The other guests, though dumbfounded by Yamazaki’s nonsensical opinion, nonetheless thought that in this present situation, urging Harada to accept the coins was the safest course of action,

“That would be best.”
“Your relative must have wrapped and sent eleven gold coins from the very beginning.”

“Precisely. Since he appears to be quite the droll fellow, he likely played a trick—making it seem ten coins when truly there were eleven.”

“Indeed, that’s quite an original prank.”
“That’s quite a refined notion.”
“In any case, please accept them.”

They all spouted irresponsible nonsense, trying to force the coins upon Harada, but at this moment, Harada Naisuke—a timid, ineffectual man who could barely hold his liquor—displayed what was likely the single most bizarre show of resolve in his entire life.

“With such things, you think you can deceive me? It won’t work.”
“Don’t take me for a fool.”
“With all due disrespect—while all of you here are uniformly poor, I alone was blessed with ten gold coins. Unable to face heaven itself or any of you without shame, restless in my guilt, I could bear it no longer without drink. So tonight I invited you all to exorcise this excessive fortune of mine. Yet now comes this bizarre calamity raining down—forcing yet another gold coin upon a man already overwhelmed by ten! Truly, all of you are too wicked!”
Harada Naisuke, though poor, was a samurai of some standing and desired neither money nor anything else.
“Not only this single gold coin, but please take these ten gold coins back as well,” he declared with a strange display of anger.
A weak-willed man, when faced with even the slightest personal gain, will cower in extreme embarrassment, sweating and floundering; yet when confronted with loss, he will suddenly transform into someone spouting grandiose logic, striving to bring even greater loss upon himself, rejecting all others’ words and obstinately clinging to nonsensical arguments.
When pressed down to the extreme, the other side bulges outward.
In other words, that perversion of self-respect.

Harada too was desperate at this point; stammering and shaking his head, he expounded his opinion and persisted obstinately.

“Don’t take me for a fool.”
“Ten gold coins turning into eleven—please stop with such mean-spirited jokes.”
“Someone must have secretly produced it earlier.”
“That’s obviously the case.”
“Unable to bear seeing Monk Tankei’s hardship and trying to save him from this crisis, someone must have secretly produced one of their own gold coins.”
“It was a petty little trick you played.”
“My gold coin was stuck to the underside of the tiered box’s lid.”
“The gold coin that fell by the lamp is undoubtedly one offered out of someone’s pity.”
“To push that one gold coin onto me—there’s no logic to this at all!”
“Do you think I desire money that much?”
“The poor have their own pride.”
“I may sound repetitive, but even possessing ten gold coins weighs heavily on my heart—the world had grown unbearable at such a time—and now to have one more forced upon me? Has heaven itself forsaken me? Has my martial fortune reached its end? Even if I were to slit my belly, this disgrace must be cleansed.”
“I may be a drunken fool, but I haven’t grown so senile as to let you all trick me into believing the gold has borne offspring.”
“Now, the one who presented this gold coin—please simply take it back.”
Since he was a man with a fearsome face to begin with, when he sat up straight and began speaking in earnest, it was quite intimidating.
The members of the gathering hunched their necks and said nothing.

“Come on, step forward.”
“That person is a deeply compassionate and admirable individual.”
“I would gladly become that person’s servant for life.”
“On this New Year’s Eve, when even a single penny is begrudged—how admirably someone feigned ignorance and dropped one gold coin by the lamp to rescue Monk Tankei from peril!”
“Among us poor folk, someone could not bear to see Monk Tankei’s plight and silently discarded their own precious gold coin—what an admirable character!”
Harada Naisuke paid his respects.
“That admirable individual is certainly among these seven guests.”
“Please state your name.”
“Step forward and state your name with dignity.”

When told so much, the hidden benefactor would find it even harder to come forward.
At this juncture, Harada Naisuke proved himself—as expected—a hopeless man.
The seven guests sighed futilely, did nothing but fidget, and made no progress whatsoever.
The lingering intoxication from the sake had already faded, the gathering had grown utterly disenchanted, and Harada alone glared with bloodshot eyes, frantically demanding, “Declare yourself! Declare yourself!”—until at last the rooster’s crow announced dawn, and Harada finally lost all patience,

“I must apologize for this discourteous delay.”
“If you remain unwilling to identify yourselves, we’ve no other recourse.”
“This single gold coin shall be placed upon the lid of this tiered box and positioned in the entryway corner.”
“Each of you must depart individually.”
“Thereafter, I implore the coin’s owner to retrieve it silently and take it home.”
“Does this arrangement meet with your approval?”

The seven guests lifted their faces as if relieved and unanimously voiced their approval, declaring it a sound plan.
Indeed, for the bumbling Harada, this was a stroke of genius.
Timid men, when acting against their own interests, occasionally conceive such exceptionally clever schemes.

Harada was slightly pleased.
In front of everyone, he neatly placed the one gold coin on the lid of the tiered box and set it in the entryway,

“Since I’ve placed it at the right end of the shoe-removal platform—the darkest spot—those who aren’t the owner won’t be able to tell if it’s there at all.”
“Please leave as you are.”
“Only the owner should feel around to take it and return home casually.”
“Now then—starting with Old Man Yamazaki.”
“Ah, no—make sure to shut the sliding door tightly when leaving.”
“Once Old Man Yamazaki has exited the entryway and his footsteps fade completely, the next person may depart.”

The seven guests quietly departed one after another, exactly as instructed.
Afterward, the wife lit a hand candle and went out to the entryway to check, but the gold coin was gone.
Feeling a shudder whose reason she couldn't understand,
“Who could it be?” she asked her husband.

Harada looked sleepy,

“I don’t know. Is there any more sake?” he said.

Even in decline, a samurai is still a samurai after all, thought the wife as she gracefully tensed and went to the kitchen to begin warming the sake.

(*Tales from Various Provinces*, Volume 1, Part 3: *Unsettled Accounts on New Year’s Eve*)

Great Strength

Long ago in Sanuki Province, in Takamatsu, there was a renowned moneylender of great wealth across Shikoku named Marugame-ya. To this family was born a son, Saibē—a boy of extraordinary appearance from birth, with a sturdy frame and bulging eyes that betrayed no ordinary nature. By three years old, the joints of his limbs had grown unnaturally knotted. Once, swinging a ruler mindlessly, he thwacked the head of a household cat, which died without a sound. When the nursemaid lifted the corpse in shock, she found its skull shattered to dust. Trembling, she begged leave of her post. By six, he had become the tyrant of the neighborhood children: seizing a calf tethered in a back meadow, he hoisted it onto his head and paraded about, terrifying his playmates. Thereafter, he toyed daily with the calf. Even as it grew larger, having carried it from infancy, he saw no issue in gripping its limbs and lifting it above his eyes. By nine, the calf had become a massive black ox that could leisurely pull carts—yet Saibē still fearlessly embraced it, laughing alone. His playmates now found him utterly eerie; none would play with him anymore. So Saibē climbed the back mountain alone, uprooting great cedars and kicking boulders larger than oxen off cliffs, amusing himself with bored indifference.

By fifteen or sixteen, Saibē already had a beard sprouting on his cheeks, making him appear thirty years old. His face bore an oddly solemn and judicious countenance, devoid of any charm. Around that time, sumo wrestling surged in popularity across Sanuki Province. The ōzeki rank was held by Tenjiku Nittayu, followed by wrestlers with peculiar names like Oniishi, Kurokoma, Ōnami, Ikazuchi, Shirataki, and Aosame. Village cowherds, mountain woodsmen, and disgraced professional wrestlers from Kamigata threw themselves into mastering the forty-eight techniques—scraping their skin raw and shattering bones in pointless injuries. Yet they seemed to find a peculiar fascination in this path, unable to quit even as their tawara-straw loincloths loosened mid-bout and slipped down their hips without eliciting so much as a smirk. They bickered over trivialities—What’s wrong with his technique? His footwork?—as if these were matters of life and death, grappling recklessly without wiping their sweat. They neglected their livelihoods entirely; returning home, they devoured meals twice the size of ordinary men’s portions before collapsing dead asleep.

Saibē, who had long boasted of his strength—how could he possibly stand by and watch this?

Saibē tightened his tawara-straw loincloth, leaped onto the dohyō ring, and spread his arms wide—Come at me! The crowd, well aware of his brute strength since childhood, abruptly lost their enthusiasm: some began hurriedly dressing to leave, while others hid their faces behind others and muttered in hushed tones—Young master, please stop… Heh… This is beneath your station—their words a muddle of flattery, admonishment, or reproach. Among them was Waniguchi, a professional wrestler who had come down from Kamigata. Though too weak to advance in rank there, his decades-honed forty-eight techniques easily overpowered the crude strength of rural youths. Very well—one bout, he declared calmly, stepping onto the dohyō. As Saibē charged at him with a ferocious glare, Waniguchi swept his legs and pinned him down effortlessly.

Saibē lay sprawled at the center of the dohyō like a dead frog, utterly disgraceful. In a dazed state, he shook his head—such an astonishing technique truly existed—then rose with a foolish look on his face, glared briefly at the spectators roaring with laughter to silence them, and returned home spouting a feeble lie about his stomach hurting to mask his embarrassment, yet frustration burned unbearably within him.

He twisted off a chicken’s head, boiled it, crunched through its bones to fortify himself, then went to Waniguchi’s house that very night and declared: “Earlier, my stomach had been aching—that’s why you caught me off guard. But this time I won’t lose! Let’s have a bout in the garden!”

Waniguchi was in the middle of his evening drink and found it bothersome, but as Saibē kept pestering him with challenges, he removed his robe, leaped down to the garden, and effortlessly maneuvered Saibē’s massive frame—swaying him right, swaying him left—with complete mastery. Gradually dizzy, Saibē mistook the garden’s pine tree for Waniguchi, heaved-ho as he clung to it, and with a furious “You bastard!”, uprooted it without difficulty.

“Hey, hey—don’t be reckless.” Even Waniguchi was taken aback by Saibē’s monstrous strength. Realizing that prolonging this confrontation could lead to who-knows-what disaster, he stepped up onto the veranda, swiftly donned his robe, and resorted to a conciliatory tactic: “Brat, have some sake before you go.”

Saibē uprooted the pine tree and lifted it high above his eyes. When he glanced toward the room and saw Waniguchi sitting there laughing as he drank sake, he was startled. In his childlike mind, he became convinced this must be a demon god. He threw down the pine tree and everything else, prostrating himself in the garden. Then, with a loud “Waah!”, he burst into tears and pleaded, “Please take me as your disciple!”

Saibē revered Waniguchi as though he were a god and began receiving instruction in the forty-eight techniques the very next day. Blessed with unparalleled brute strength from the start, his progress was astonishing—so much so that even Waniguchi found renewed vigor in teaching him. But more than anything, Saibē felt as if he could soar to the heavens, overwhelmed with joy. Day and night, he muttered “forty-eight techniques” in his sleep while tossing restlessly, plotting which move he would use to throw opponents the next day. Whether his fervor reached even Marishiten herself, he grew into a remarkably skilled wrestler—so skilled that Waniguchi began struggling to handle him. Finding it both awkward and absurd to be thrown by his own disciple, one day Waniguchi adopted a solemn expression and imparted an incoherent admonishment: “You too have now become a full-fledged sumo wrestler. Do not forget this resolve.” He then bestowed upon him the name Araiso and hastily dismissed him with a curt “Do not return.”

Saibē did not even notice that his master was avoiding him. Have I finally become a full-fledged sumo wrestler? How grateful I am! From today, I am Araiso—what a fearsome name! Ah, my master’s kindness towers higher than mountains! he rejoiced, shedding tears of joy. Thereafter, he demonstrated invincible strength on every dohyō ring he entered. At nineteen, he buried Sanuki’s ōzeki Tenjiku Nittayu in the ring’s sand, leaving him half-dead. His sumo peers criticized him—Must you hurl opponents so brutally?—but he dismissed them with arrogant bravado: What does it matter? In sumo, victory is all. And so he grew ever more detested.

The old man of Marugame-ya had long resented his son Saibē’s boasts about his strength and tried to say something about it, but whenever Saibē glared fiercely at him, he found his own child eerie despite himself—If that brute strength were turned against me, he thought, parental authority would count for nothing; these aged, frail bones would be smashed to splinters. Trembling at the thought, he regained his composure and resolved to bide his time with cautious restraint. But lately, unable to bear watching Saibē grow ever more detested for injuring others and maiming them in his obsession with sumo, one day he timidly approached—

“Mr. Saibē,”
he called his own child with an ingratiating purr of a voice, adding, “People have worn robes since the divine age.”
In his excessive deference, he’d uttered something even he himself didn’t comprehend.

“Is that so?”
Araiso stared at the old man with a peculiar expression.
The father grew increasingly flustered,

“Though stripping bare for perilous bouts might feel cool in summer,” he said, eyes downcast as he rubbed his knees, “winter’s chill must prove unbearable.”
Even Araiso erupted in laughter,

“You’re telling me to quit sumo wrestling, aren’t you?” he asked lightly.
The old man started and wiped his sweat,

“No, no—I’m certainly not telling you to quit! But if you must have a pastime, how about something like willow bow archery?”

“That’s a game for women and children.”
“Even if a grown man fiddles with that tiny bow in his gnarled hands and becomes a master archer who never misses, thieves would just laugh if he tried shooting at them during a robbery. And even if he hit a fish-stealing cat, it wouldn’t feel a tickle.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed. “Then what about that game called Ten Varieties of Incense—where you distinguish various scents?”

“That’s pointless too. If you’ve got a nose sharp enough to tell incense apart, you’d be better off sniffing out when the rice burns and making the maid tend the firewood—that’d actually help manage the household.”

“I suppose so.”
“Then what about kickball?”

“All that fuss over footwork drills—what’s the point? You don’t need to leap fences when you can walk through gates. Carry a lantern on dark nights and you won’t fall in ditches either.”
“No need to go through all that trouble just to lighten your feet.”

“Indeed, you’re absolutely right.”
“But don’t you think a person needs to have some charm?”
“How about practicing farce plays or something?”
“When we have gatherings at home, if I do that and show everyone—”

“Don’t joke around. That may have charm when one is a child, but when uttered from a bearded mouth, even Tarō Kaja would make onlookers break into a cold sweat. Only Mother would lean forward eagerly, praising it as ‘well done’ and making it a laughingstock for the entire neighborhood.”

“That’s true too. Then, what about that flower arrangement?”

“Oh, please stop already. Are you losing your mind? That practice began because noble personages dwelling in the lofty clouds rarely saw the flowers blooming in the fields across the seasons—so they had pines and oaks from remote mountains brought before them to admire in their living form. What meaning could there be in us lowly folk plucking camellia branches from our gardens, sawing off a potted plum tree, and decorating our alcoves? Flowers are best enjoyed as they are, left to be admired in their natural state.” Because every single thing he said was logically sound, the old man was at a loss,

“I suppose sumo really is the best after all.”
“You should pursue it wholeheartedly.”
“I don’t exactly dislike sumo myself.”
“When I was young, I did it too,” he added, resulting in an utterly farcical conclusion.
The mistress scorned the old man’s incompetence. *Were it me*, she thought, *I would never handle it thus*. One day, she secretly summoned Saibē to the inner chambers. First came a brilliant, booming laugh—

“Saibē, oh, do sit here.
“My, your beard has grown so long! Why don’t you shave it?”
“And your hair—letting it get so bushy like this. Here, let me smooth it down a bit for you.”

“Don’t fuss over me.”
“This is what’s called a sumo wrestler’s disheveled hair—it’s stylish.”

“Oh, is that so?
“Even so, the fact that you know what ‘stylish’ means is something to be thankful for, isn’t it?”
“How old are you this year?”

“You know full well.”

“You’re nineteen now,” Mother said calmly. “When I came into this household as a bride, Father was nineteen and Mother was fifteen. But your father—oh, he’d already been indulging in every vice imaginable even before that! They say he started teahouse drinking at sixteen, and whether it was how he wore his kimono or anything else, he was the very picture of style. Even after marrying me, he’d often go up to Kamigata and charm all sorts of fine women. He may have that peculiar face now—you can’t tell which way it’s turned—but when he was young, he was quite handsome. The way he used to look down slightly… why, it’s just like you now.”
“You take after your father with those long eyelashes—when you look down, your face has such melancholy. Women are sure to adore you.”
“What greater fortune could there be for a man than to go to Kamigata and make the lovely ladies of Shimabara weep?” she said, sneering lewdly.

“How dull.”
“The only way to make a woman cry is to hit her.”
“In sumo terms, it’s what they call a slap.”
“If I land two or three of these slaps, there won’t be a woman who doesn’t burst into tears.”
“If making them cry is good fortune, then I’ll redouble my sumo training from this day forth and make every woman in the world weep by striking them down.”

“What are you talking about?
“That’s completely missing the point.”
“Saibē, you are nineteen.”
“By the time your father was nineteen, he had already mastered all the basics of teahouse revelry and more.”
“Oh, you could go up to Kamigata under the guise of cherry blossom viewing, visit Shimabara or such places for fun—even if you spend a thousand or two thousand ryō, it wouldn’t make a dent in our wealth. If you find a woman you fancy, ransom her, build a stylish house on some scenic land, and spend time playing house with her—wouldn’t that be lovely?”
“I’ll build you a splendid mansion in any place you like, just as you please.”
“And then, from my side, I’ll deliver rice, oil, miso, salt, soy sauce, firewood, charcoal, seasonal outfits for you two—everything you need. I’ll send as much money as you want, too. If that woman alone isn’t enough to keep you company, I’ll have two or three mistresses summoned from Kyoto. On top of that: three young maids in long-sleeved kimonos, housekeepers, tea-room attendants, seamstresses, two kitchen helpers, two pages, one apprentice monk, one blind masseur for your aches, Dennuemon the singer to entertain you at banquets, one chef, two palanquin bearers, two sandal-bearers of varying sizes, one clerk… well, roughly this much staff assigned to you. So listen—no more arguments. Just go enjoy cherry blossoms while—” she pleaded fervently,

“I’ve actually been thinking I’d like to visit Kamigata once,” he remarked casually, at which Mother joyfully edged her knees forward,
“If only you’d set your mind to it, I’ll build you a splendid mansion—mistresses, maids, even a blind masseur—”

“That’s boring. I hear there’s a powerful ōzeki named Kurojishi in Kamigata. I’ll find a way to bury that Kurojishi in the clay of the sumo ring—”

“Oh, what a pathetic thing you’re thinking of.”
“Living in a splendid mansion with the woman you love, and for entertainment at banquets, Dennuemon—”
“Does that mansion have a sumo ring?”

The mother began to cry.

Through the sliding door, the head clerk and apprentices eavesdropped, exchanging glances and sighing,

“If it were me, I’d do exactly as the mistress says, but...”

“Of course. Even if it’s at the edge of Ezo Island—in a splendid mansion, living such luxury for just three days—I’d die happy afterward.”

“Your voices are too loud. If the young master hears this, we’ll get two or three of those terrible slaps ‘gifted’ to us.”

“I’ll pass on that.”

They all turned pale and sneaked out furtively.

Afterward, with no one left to admonish Saibē, he grew ever more arrogant. Deeming the entire province of Sanuki too small for his ambitions, he ventured out to nighttime sumo bouts in Tokushima of Awa, Matsuyama of Iyo, Kōchi of Tosa, and beyond. There, he mercilessly hurled opponents about and battered them down, leaving many injured in his wake. “In sumo,” he sneered mockingly, “victory is all that matters,” before withdrawing with an air of indifference. Morning, noon, and night, he devoured raw meat from cows, horses, and sheep to fortify his strength until his face turned crimson and swollen like a demon’s. Children playing by the roadside would catch sight of him and let out shrieks that left them bedridden with illness, while adults sprinted away three blocks ahead at the mere whisper of his approach. By this time, the name “Araiso of Marugame-ya” had become known not just throughout Sanuki but across all of Shikoku—there was none who did not know it.
Foolishly considering this his own success, Saibē declared, “Though my present standing owes much to Marishiten’s divine favor, above all it is due to my mentor Master Waniguchi—I couldn’t even sleep with my feet pointed toward Master Waniguchi’s direction!” Because of such proclamations, Waniguchi found himself unable to face the townspeople any longer and, in unbearable shame, ultimately had no choice but to take monastic vows.
Unable to let such commotion persist indefinitely, all members of the Marugame-ya family secretly gathered to confer. No matter what, they concluded, the only solution is to marry him off—after all, Koheita from the side street quit his shogi obsession once wed, and Yomoshichi from Sakashita abandoned his shakuhachi playing overnight. If Saibē learns human affection from a lovely bride, he’ll surely grow to despise those brutal matches. Nodding in fervent agreement, eyes gleaming, they pulled strings far and wide to procure for him the eldest daughter of a wealthy landowner in Sanuki Province—a sixteen-year-old bride as beautiful as a doll this year. Yet on the wedding day, Saibē kept his disheveled sumo hairstyle intact. “What’s happening today? Why’s everyone gathered here?” he asked, whether genuinely oblivious or feigning ignorance. “Is this a memorial service?” With such pitiful remarks, his parents and relatives practically begged him into crested formal wear, seated him beside the bride, and rushed through the sake ceremony. The moment they sighed in relief, Saibē sprang up, stripped off his robes, declared “Foolishness like this will sap my arm’s strength!”, leapt into the garden, and began ferociously practicing sumo against a garden stone with grunts of “Heave-ho! Heave-ho!”
The parents, mortified before the bride’s family, broke into a drenching cold sweat down their backs,

“He’s still a child.”
“As you can see, he’s just a child.”
“Please overlook this,” they pleaded, but to look at him, he was by no means a child.
He looked like a forty-year-old geezer.

The bride’s family members were left dumbfounded,

“But that beard and the way he’s straining to look dignified—it reminds me of Ishikawa Goemon’s cauldron boiling,” one of them stated frankly, then they exchanged glances and sighed at having handed their daughter over to such an outrageous man.

That night, Saibē chased the bride into the adjoining room, meticulously secured the sliding door between them with a sturdy bar, and when she began to sob softly, he bellowed,

“Shut up!” he roared. “Master Waniguchi once said—
‘If a husband and wife get along too well, it’ll sap the strength from even a man in his prime’s arms—that’s what Master Waniguchi said.’
‘You’re a sumo wrestler’s wife, aren’t you?’
‘How can you not know something so basic?’
‘I’m a woman-hater.’
‘Having made a vow to Marishiten, I intend to never go near women for my entire life.’
‘You fool!’
‘Quit your sniveling and lay out the futon over there already—go to sleep!’”

The bride fainted from sheer terror, plunging the entire household into pandemonium. That very night, her family members loaded the near-hysterical girl—who kept screaming, “A demon’s come! A demon’s come!”—into a palanquin and carried her back to their hometown.

Due to this fiasco, Saibē’s infamy grew ever greater, reaching even the ears of his former mentor Waniguchi—now a monk who had renounced the world to devote himself to Buddhist prayer at a secluded mountain hermitage. To a teacher, nothing pains more than a disciple’s disgrace; morning and night Waniguchi fretted over this until it hindered his very devotions. One evening, resolved, he disguised himself in farmer’s clothes and descended to the village night shrine where sumo bouts still thrived as always. With his face covered by a hood, he watched until Araiso himself lumbered heavily onto the clay ring and rasped, “No challengers again tonight? Quit cowering and face me!” When those bulging eyes swept the crowd, even the wind through the shrine pines fell silent. People wordlessly began preparing to depart—at which moment Monk Waniguchi stripped off his robe and, still hooded, roared “Hah!” as he mounted the ring.

Araiso seized Monk Waniguchi’s shoulder in an eagle-like grip with one hand and sneered at this reckless fool, while the monk grew frantic with worry that his shoulder bone might shatter at any moment.

“Stop it, stop it!” he pleaded, but Araiso only laughed harder and shook the monk’s shoulder until the pain became unbearable.

“Hey, hey.
It’s me, it’s me,” he whispered and removed his hood.

“Ah, Master! How I’ve missed you!”
While uttering such words of longing, the monk employed a flamboyant technique called the overarm throw, sending Araiso’s massive body spinning through the air before slamming him flat on his back at the ring’s center with a resounding crash.
The spectacle of Araiso’s disgrace—his form so unsightly it defied description, resembling a giant catfish slipping from a gourd or a boar tumbling off a ladder—became such fodder for villagers’ mockery that it passed into local legend. The monk swiftly vanished into the crowd and returned to his mountain hermitage with feigned nonchalance, now chanting sutras with newfound serenity. Meanwhile, Araiso—his ribs fractured in three places—was carried home on a plank like a corpse, muttering deliriously, “Master… this is too cruel… I’ll never forgive you…” Though they nursed him tirelessly, his recovery faltered as he kicked away caregivers until none dared visit. Ultimately reduced to making his own parents tend his filth, his once-hulking frame withered to skin and bones before he breathed his last—thus securing posthumous notoriety as the Great Yokozuna atop Japan’s Ranking of Twenty Unfilial Acts.

*(Twenty Unfilial Acts of Japan, Volume 5, Part 3: Useless Boasting of Strength)*

Monkey Mound

Long ago in Chikuzen Province’s town of Dazaifu lived Shirosaka Tokuemon—a man whose family had run a sake brewery for generations, making him Dazaifu’s wealthiest man. His daughter Oran possessed such unparalleled beauty that from age seven or eight, all who saw her stood transfixed—fathers would return home to their snot-nosed daughters and drink themselves senseless, while the townsfolk buzzed with giddy excitement at her mere presence. Now sixteen or seventeen, she stood slender-boned beneath her heavy long-sleeved kimono as spring’s faint light haloed her form. Even her own mother would begin speaking to her only to fall silent mid-sentence, spellbound. The renown of this peerless beauty perfumed the entire province, so potent that strangers sank into lovesickness for one they had never glimpsed.

Now enter Kuwamori Jirōemon—young master of a prosperous pawnshop in the neighboring town. Not ugly per se, but with a large nose and drooping eyes—an utterly ordinary-looking man whose beard lent him an air of earnestness. His clean teeth stood as his best feature; perhaps his slightly charming smile served him when sheltering from rain one day sparked their fateful encounter. Such are life’s absurdities—that this unremarkable man should gain the outrageous fortune of being adored by Oran marks this tale’s inception.

Unbeknownst to either family, Jirōemon secretly enlisted Denroku—the fishmonger who frequented his shop—to propose marriage negotiations to Tokuemon’s household.

Having long been indebted to this pawnshop, Denroku—upon hearing Jirōemon’s halting request—grew bold: *Broker this match and I’ll drink free for life! Plus renegotiate my pawned items’ interest!* Brazenly donning a forfeited crested kimono that made him resemble nobility to untrained eyes, he stormed Tokuemon’s estate. With simpering “Ehehe” laughter and fan claps, he praised garden stones until his hosts grew uneasy: “Do you have business here?” Unfazed, Denroku demurred before artfully hinting at Jirōemon’s suit: “A sake house and pawnshop aren’t so unrelated! One visits pawnshops before breweries and breweries after pawnshops! United like monks and doctors—why, ’twould arm demons with iron clubs!” Blurting such improprieties while scraping together his meager wit for mediation, he finally nudged Tokuemon’s resolve—if barely.

“If it is Mr. Kuwamori’s eldest son, I have no objections on my part—but may I inquire as to Mr. Kuwamori’s honorable religious sect?”

“Well, that’s…”
Caught off guard by the unexpected question, Denroku faltered. “I’m not entirely certain, but I believe it’s the Jōdo Sect.”

“In that case, I must decline,” he declared with a twisted mouth and resentful look.
“In our household, we have been adherents of the Hokke Sect for generations. Particularly since my time, we have devoted ourselves deeply to Nichiren-sama, never neglecting the daily recitation of *Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō* morning and evening—and I have drilled this same practice into my daughter. Thus, I simply cannot send her to another sect now.”
“If you’re a man who presumes to broker marriage arrangements, how about investigating such matters before coming here?”

“No—well, I—” he stammered, breaking into a cold sweat, “*My* family has been of the Hokke Sect for generations, devoted to Nichiren-sama—morning and evening, we chant *Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō*.”

“What are you saying? It’s not as though I’m giving *my daughter* to you. Even if Mr. Kuwamori were to pile up mountains of gold and silver, and even if his eldest son were some paragon of manly charm through his own ingenuity, I would still refuse.”
“I must apologize to Nichiren-sama.”
“What’s so good about that gloomy Jōdo Sect anyway?”
“How dare you propose marriage to a daughter of this household of the Hokke Sect for generations!”
“The very sight of your face turns my stomach.”
“Please leave.”

After this utter failure, Denroku withdrew and dejectedly reported the matter to Jirōemon.
Jirōemon brushed it off lightly—“What’s the fuss? It’s nothing—we’ll just switch sects! Our family’s been irreligious for generations anyway; Jōdo or Hokke makes no difference!”—abruptly trading his short rosary for a long-beaded one. He urged his parents to chant prayers morning and evening; though baffled, the doting elders obeyed their son, yawning and glancing sideways as they recited *Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō*. Denroku returned to Tokuemon’s house, declaring triumphantly, “The Kuwamori household now reveres Nichiren-sama and chants daily!” But Tokuemon—ever obstinate—snapped, “No! Half-hearted converts lack true faith! Your conversion reeks of desperation for Oran—even Nichiren-sama would scorn such transparent scheming! Use your head! My daughter’s already promised to a proper Hokke family.” Stunned by this cruel rejection, Jirōemon dashed off a tearful letter to Oran: “Denroku’s useless! They say you’re marrying another Hokke man—you wretch! I’ve chanted prayers I hate, beaten drums till my hands blistered! My name ‘Jirōemon’ always reminded me of Sano no Jirōzaemon of the east—another fool spurned by fate! If pushed, I’ll swing my sword and slaughter a hundred men! Never underestimate a man’s resolve!” Oran replied at once: “Your letter baffles me—stop this dangerous talk! You’ll be cut down before killing even one! If you die, what becomes of me? There’s no other engagement—you always fret over your nose and droopy eyes, doubting me needlessly! Where else would I go? If Father tries sending me away, I’ll flee to you! Remember this woman’s resolve!” Jirōemon managed a faint smile but forced a scowl, muttering, “Still not safe…” Desperate now, he clung to Nichiren’s teachings in earnest, bellowing *NAMU MYŌHŌ RENGE KYŌ!* as he recklessly banged the prayer drum.

The next day, Oran was summoned to Tokuemon’s parlor and solemnly informed that a marriage arrangement had been settled with Mr. Hikosaku of Honmachi Paper Shop—another blessing from Nichiren-sama—and that she must gratefully prepare for the eternal wedding rites. Though startled, Oran betrayed no emotion, bowed respectfully, and left the room. She then flew up to the second floor, scrawled a frantic letter—*It’s here! The day has finally come! I intend to flee! Come fetch me tonight—I beg you!*—and ordered an apprentice to sprint to the neighboring town. Jirōemon read the letter in one glance, trembled violently, drank water in the kitchen, and sat cross-legged in the center of the room, declaring *This is the moment for resolve!*—yet no resolve came. He rose, changed clothes, rummaged through drawers at the shop counter, and when the clerk questioned him, muttered *No—just…* before hastily tossing an unspecified amount of coins into his sleeve. Blind with desperation, he stepped out in mismatched clogs, only to realize mid-journey that returning home was too perilous. He stopped at a footwear shop but, convinced he had barely any money left, stingily bought the flimsiest sandals. Walking in them felt like bare feet slapping the ground, filling him with dread. As he wept like a child, he finally reached the back gate of Tokuemon’s house in the neighboring town—where Oran darted out like an arrow, wordlessly seized his hand, and strode ahead briskly. Dragged along like a puppet, Jirōemon shuffled after her, weeping loudly once more.
Up to this point, it had been a trivial, foolish tale of an imprudent man and woman—but of course, the story did not end there.
The solemn toils of the world appeared to lie ahead.

The two walked seven leagues that night, gazing dreamlike at Hakata Bay’s azure expanse unfolding to their left. Still without food or drink, they flinched at every footfall behind them—was it pursuers?—and trudged on lifelessly until staggering to Kanegasaki, a place whose very name echoed impermanence: *Prosperity must decline; this is the law of birth and death*. Parting the wild grasses at the mountain’s edge, they sought shelter at Jirōemon’s faint acquaintance’s home. As expected, they met cold indifference—yet resignedly accepted this as natural. Clumsily offering paper-wrapped coins, they rested that day in a storehouse. Only now realizing the absurdity of their plight, they sighed at each other’s gaunt, pallid faces. Oran stroked her tamed monkey Kichibē’s back while sniffling incessantly.

This monkey named Kichibē had been raised affectionately by Oran since infancy. When the girl fled into the night with her lover, he trailed after them out of devotion. Even after they had traveled over a league, though Oran scolded him and threw stones to drive him away, he scampered after them undeterred. Jirōemon took pity and said, “Since he’s come this far out of loyalty, let him stay.” When Oran beckoned, “Come here,” Kichibē bounded over joyfully. Clutched in Oran’s arms, he blinked rapidly and gazed at their faces with an air of sorrow.

Now posing as their two loyal servants, he carried meals to the storehouse, shooed flies, combed back Oran’s stray hairs with a comb, and performed all manner of unnecessary tasks—this creature strove to alleviate the couple’s loneliness.

Though resigned to enduring hardship, they could not hide forever in that cramped storehouse. Jirōemon spent most of their remaining money to commission their indifferent acquaintance to build a shabby hut on a nearby vacant plot. There the couple settled with their simian servant—tilling a meager field to grow just enough vegetables for their table. In spare moments, the husband shredded tobacco leaves while Oran spun cotton thread on her crude tool, eking out a threadbare existence. Their youthful folly—eloping against their parents’ wishes—now amounted to nothing more than an ordinary impoverished household exchanging joyless glances as “Father” and “Mother.” At the clatter of a pot in the kitchen, they’d spring up in panic—“A rat? If it’s defiled the azuki beans!”—oblivious to autumn maples or spring violets. Meanwhile, Kichibē the monkey, determined to repay his masters’ kindness, gathered oak twigs and pine needles from nearby hills. Crouching beneath the hearth’s smoky haze, he furiously flapped a coarse fan until brewing lukewarm tea to offer the couple—awkward yet earnest in his efforts to ease their poverty’s sting. He ate sparingly at dinner before curling up contentedly, only to dart over afterward—massaging Jirōemon’s shoulders, kneading his legs—then scampering to help Oran wash dishes, though often breaking plates with his mortified grimaces. The couple clung to this creature as their sole solace until, the following autumn, Oran bore a son: Kikunosuke. For the first time in years, laughter spilled from their thatched hut as hope rekindled—they scolded the infant’s yawns as feigned mischief while Kichibē leapt about in delight, fetching wild nuts for the baby to clutch until Oran shooed him away. Undeterred, he peered at the sleeping child’s face, startled by every cry into tugging Oran’s sleeve to nurse it—perching solemnly on folded knees to watch the suckling infant with reverent focus. “What a fine nursemaid!” they laughed, though privately lamented: *Had he been born just a year earlier in Kuwamori’s mansion, he’d sleep on silk with nursemaids swarming him—not wooden toys in this drafty hovel!* Yet forgetting their reckless love caused this plight, they doted on him fiercely. “Very well,” Jirōemon vowed, galvanized by paternal love, “before he understands wealth’s lack, I’ll rebuild our fortune and shame our families!” He quizzed neighbors on profitable trades until their hut buzzed with renewed vigor. Kikunosuke grew plump and bright-eyed like his mother; Kichibē plucked autumn grasses to tickle his cheeks artfully. With no cares left, the couple dug radishes in their back field murmuring, “Might this autumn bring some luck?”—warmed by premonitions of happiness.

Around that time, having heard a promising money-making tip from a neighboring farmer, the couple eagerly set out together on a clear autumn day to inquire in detail at the man’s house during their absence. Meanwhile, the monkey Kichibē—assuming it was time for the young master’s bath—rose with purpose. Following his long-observed imitation of the mistress’s routine, he first lit the hearth to boil water. Watching bubbles churn violently in the pot, he filled a tub exactly to the brim with scalding water. Without checking its temperature, he undressed the infant and lifted him with meticulous care. Peering into the child’s face as he had seen Oran do, he nodded gently two or three times—then abruptly plunged him into the tub.

At Kikunosuke’s final scream—a sound more animal than human—the couple exchanged glances and rushed home to find Kichibē pacing aimlessly, the child submerged in the tub. Lifting him out revealed a corpse already boiled lobster-red, too ghastly to behold twice. Oran collapsed, wailing madly that she would trade her own life to glimpse her son’s cherubic face one last time. Seizing the stunned monkey, she raised a firewood log overhead with unladylike fury: “You killed my child! I’ll slaughter you now!” Jirōemon, heart shattered yet tears unceasing, steadied himself—This is a man’s burden—and wrested the log from her hands. Though killing Kichibē felt justified, he reasoned through sobs: “Slaughter solves nothing—it’ll only taint Kikunosuke’s salvation. The fool meant to serve us… but beasts lack sense.” In the corner, Kichibē pressed his paws together, weeping silently. Witnessing this deepened the couple’s anguish—What past sins doomed us to this?—until all will to live vanished. After burying their son, they lay bedridden in shared despair. The monkey nursed them tirelessly through sleepless nights, visiting the grave weekly to offer wildflowers. On the hundredth morning of their frail recovery, Kichibē trudged alone to the gravesite, poured a solemn water offering, and impaled his throat with a bamboo spear.

The couple, suspecting Kichibē’s absence, leaned on their canes and first went to Kikunosuke’s gravesite. Upon glimpsing the monkey’s pitiful form, they understood everything. After losing Kikunosuke, we had hoped this Kichibē alone might console us in this world— they lamented bitterly, buried him with tender care beside their son’s grave, erected a Monkey Mound there, and on that very spot took monastic vows—(here the author grew confounded.

The Buddha invocation or the Lotus chant?

The original text states that in that hermitage, they ceaselessly chanted the Lotus Sutra, their Hokke recitations never subsiding.
If Tokuemon’s obstinate Hokke Sect dogmatism were to manifest here, even this tragic tale would risk crumbling into farce.
(What a quandary.) Finding life in the hermitage again wearisome, they set out once more—parting the autumn grasses toward no destination in particular.

*(Kaiken, Volume 4, Part 4: “A Monkey’s Bath in Human Imitation”)*

Mermaid Sea

On March 20th, 1247 CE, in Tsugaru’s Ōura, a mermaid washed ashore for the first time. Her form was thus: hair lush and green like fine seaweed adorned her head; her face bore the sorrow of a beautiful woman, with a small crimson crest between her brows. Her upper body, crystal-clear and faintly blue, had breasts like two nandina berries aligned upon her chest. Her lower body retained a fish’s shape, covered in fine scales that could be mistaken for golden petals, while her tail fin—translucent yellow—resembled a great ginkgo leaf. Her voice, pure and refreshing like the flute-like song of a skylark, has been passed down as a rare wonder of the world. Be that as it may, it seems such mysterious fish dwell in no small number within the northernmost seas.

Long ago in Matsumae Province lived Chūdō Kanae—a coastal inspector endowed with courage and innate integrity—a middle-aged samurai of steadfast character. One winter during his official duties inspecting Matsumae’s shores, he arrived near sunset at an inlet called Sakegawa River. Seeking passage on a ship to reach the next port that day, he set sail with five or six fellow passengers across a sea unseasonably calm and clear for northern winters. When they had traveled about eight hundred meters from shore, the sea suddenly raged without warning—though no wind blew—tossing their vessel like a leaf. The passengers turned ashen with terror: one wailed his lover’s name; another theatrically moaned “Farewell! Farewell!”; a third pulled a Lotus Sutra scroll from his pack and frantically recited it upside down; a fourth gulped wine from a gourd, then boasted with pitiful gravitas that the emptied vessel would serve as a float—“Better drink it all now, or I’ll die regretting leftovers!”—waving the five-inch calabash for all to see. Others rubbed spittle on their foreheads for unknown reasons, or counted coins in their purses only to glare at fellow passengers while muttering “One ryō short…” Even at death’s door, some bickered over trivial jostles. Waves grew fiercer, violently rocking the ship until all clamor ceased—the helmsman collapsed in the hull, groaning “Forgive me…” before lying still as death. Every passenger wept prostrate, senseless with fear—all except Kanae alone. From the start, he had sat cross-legged against the gunwale, arms folded, silently staring ahead. Then the seawater before his eyes turned gold; five-colored droplets sprayed like jewels as whitecaps parted. A mermaid emerged—identical to legends—shaking her lush green hair back with crystalline arms that rowed the waves swift as a serpent toward Kanae’s ship. She opened her small crimson mouth and released a single clear note—a flute-like sound piercing the air.

Deeming the mermaid an obstruction to their voyage, Kanae raged, drew a half-bow from his luggage, and loosed an arrow with a prayer-twanged shot. It struck true at the mermaid’s shoulder—she sank soundlessly into the waves, the raging swells subsiding at once to restore the sea’s former calm. The setting sun cast gentle light into the ship as the boatman rose with a foolish expression and muttered, “A dream…?”

Kanae was no frivolous samurai given to boasting of his exploits.

He smiled silently and sat leaning against the gunwale with arms crossed as before.

The passengers gradually lifted their ashen faces—some cackling raucously to mask embarrassment, others shaking their five-inch gourds upside-down while grumbling they’d wasted good sake with no lingering joy. Then there was the eighty-year-old retiree who had earlier writhed screaming his young concubine’s name; now he primly adjusted his collar and declared, “This was none other than a dragon ascension! Such phenomena abound in Etchū and Echigo’s seas—in summer especially! When a black cloud-mass descends from the void, seawater rears up to meet it like ink sucked skyward, forming a single pillar where dragon heads and tails writhe plain as day! Why, one text tells of a ship off Suruga’s coast: a cloud-mass flew toward them until all aboard cut their hair and burned it—the stench dispersed the clouds! Had I youth,” he gravely stroked his bald pate, “I’d have shorn my locks at once!”

“Oh, is that so?” Kannon-kyō nodded perfunctorily with a thoroughly mocking face turned aside, muttering in a small voice, “Everything is surely due to Kannon’s power.” Then, piously closing his eyes, he chanted *Namu Kanzeon Bosatsu*—and lo, there was money! Some found the missing one ryō in their own pockets and rejoiced wildly; Kanae merely smiled. Soon the ship swayed into port, and the people—unaware their great benefactor stood before them—innocently celebrated their narrow escape together as they disembarked.

Chūdō Kanae soon returned to Matsumae Castle and reported the results of his coastal inspections in detail to his superior, Noda Musashi. Afterward, while relaxing and sharing trivial travel anecdotes, he matter-of-factly narrated the aforementioned mermaid incident without embellishment. Having long known Kanae’s upright character, Musashi accepted the mermaid’s strangeness without skepticism. Slapping his knee, he declared, “A rare tale indeed—and one showcasing your composure and valor! Let us present this feat before the lord at once!” Kanae flushed and began to demur—“No, it’s hardly worth—” but Musashi overrode him: “Nonsense! An unprecedented triumph! It will inspire our younger retainers!” Urging the flustered Kanae onward, they proceeded to the lord’s presence. By chance, senior retainers were already assembled there. Musashi launched into an animated retelling: “Hear this marvel, my lords!” As the lord and others leaned forward attentively, one man—Aozaki Hyakueimon—sat apart. Thanks to his late father Hyakunojō’s loyal service as Matsumae’s chamberlain, Hyakueimon had inherited his full stipend despite contributing nothing himself. Now forty-one, he disdained peers for their “low breeding,” refused to marry any “upstart’s daughter,” and reveled in debauchery. His gaunt frame neared six feet; fingers stretched thin as brush handles; sunken eyes glinted unnervingly blue beneath a hooked nose and hollow cheeks; his downturned mouth completed a visage like a blue demon from hell—a figure universally despised. Before Musashi’s tale concluded, Hyakueimon snorted. “Well now, Genzai,” he addressed the tea-serving monk hunched meekly in the corner—

“What do you think? Don’t you find it rather improper to trouble His Lordship with such an absurd tale? There are no monsters in this world—no mysteries. A monkey’s face is red; a dog’s legs number four by nature.” His voice rose to a brazen volume. “Mermaids belong in children’s fables—wouldn’t our venerable elders recoil at that crimson crest adorning no human brow? Now Genzai—even if some dubious fish-creature did dwell in northern seas, subduing such an unprecedented monstrosity would require divine powers!”
“Ordinary skill couldn’t possibly vanquish such a thing.”
“Birds have wings; fish have fins—that’s the natural order.”
“To slay a crystal-bodied abomination? One would need archery surpassing Hachiman Daibosatsu himself—Yorimitsu, Tsuna, Hachirō, Tawara Tōta all combined! Otherwise, it’s unthinkable.”
“But let’s speak of proof: You know the goldfish in my garden pond? Mere specks flitting through shallow water. The other day—out of sheer boredom—I loosed two hundred arrows from a sparrow-hunting bow and struck none! Unless Lord Kanae panicked during some squall and skewered driftwood instead—a happy accident, wouldn’t you say?” He seized the squirming tea monk, his barbs pitched for His Lordship’s ears.

Unable to endure any longer, Noda Musashi sharply turned toward Hyakueimon.

“That stems from Your Lordship’s ignorance,” he snapped, his tone laced with pent-up frustration toward Hyakueimon’s habitual insolence, “It is always those dilettante scholars who declare there are no mysteries or monsters in this world—spouting such shallow certainties. But know this: Japan is a divine nation where truths transcending mundane logic blaze forth with crystalline clarity.”

“Your Lordship’s petty garden pond makes for poor comparison.”

“For three thousand years in this sacred land—across ten thousand leagues of mountains and seas—what impossibility exists for wondrous creatures to emerge? Consider antiquity: during Emperor Nintoku’s reign, a two-faced human appeared in Hida; under Emperor Tenmu’s rule, a twelve-horned ox arose from Tanba’s highlands; on the fifteenth day of the sixth month in Emperor Monmu’s fourth year of Keiun [707 CE], a three-headed demon measuring eight jō tall and twelve shaku wide came from foreign shores! With such precedents, how dare you doubt this mermaid?” Musashi’s ringing declamation hung in the air as Hyakueimon’s pallid face drained further of color, his lips twisting into a smirk—

“That’s precisely the mark of a half-baked scholar,” he said. “One such as I has no taste for debate. Debate is for low-ranking people—something done by those impatient for merit. We’re not children here. Even if we argue until our veins bulge with abstract theories, it’ll only make us cling more stubbornly to our own views. Debate is trivial.” He paused, then added mockingly, “One such as I am not saying mermaids don’t exist in this world. I merely state that I’ve never seen one. How splendid it would have been if Lord Kanae had deigned to present that so-called mermaid before His Lordship while at it.” Musashi leapt up in fury and edged forward on his knees,

“For samurai, the character ‘trust’ is paramount! To think you cannot believe without holding proof in your hands—ah, how pitiable your noble spirit is. Without trust in one’s heart, what substance can this world hold? Even if you take it in hand and look, if you do not believe, it becomes no different from never seeing—a fleeting dream. The acknowledgment of reality springs from trust! And trust has its roots in the heart’s affection! In Your Lordship’s heart lies not a shred of affection, nor fidelity! Behold—Lord Kanae has been subjected to your venomous tongue, trembling and weeping tears of blood since earlier! Lord Kanae, unlike you, is not a man who tells lies! You cannot possibly claim ignorance of Lord Kanae’s usual integrity!” he pressed him, but Hyakueimon paid no heed,

“There—His Lordship departs.”
“His Lordship appears displeased,” he declared sternly, prostrating toward the castle lord retreating to inner chambers.

Muttering “Good grief—these fools vex me,” he stood and declared, “What some call poor cranial circulation might pass for integrity, but it’s precisely such paragons of integrity who spread dreams and superstitions as truth to bewilder the world.” With that, he exited soundless as a cat.
The other senior officials—some despising Hyakueimon’s malice, others finding Musashi’s eloquence pretentious while deeming both equally insufferable, still others having napped through the debate now standing dazed—departed singly then in pairs until only Musashi and Kanae remained. Musashi ground his teeth in frustration,

“You bastard! How dare you spout such nonsense!”
“Lord Kanae, I can well imagine.”
“You too are a samurai and must already be prepared, but no matter when or what befalls, this Musashi is your ally.”
“No matter what, we cannot leave that wretch as he is,” Musashi pressed. Kanae, hearing this, felt all the more sorrowful and resentful; for a time, no words came forth, and he wept without sound.
For the unfortunate, being shielded and pitied by others brings not joy, but rather makes their own wretchedness feel all the more acute.
Having lost all direction, he wept like a man; resigned that his end had come, he wiped his tears with a fist and raised his face, still sobbing.

“I am deeply grateful.”
“Hyakueimon’s earlier stream of insults was unbearable to let pass. Though I—a humble retainer—wished to cut him down then and there, I endured what should not be endured in His Lordship’s presence, choking back bitter tears. But now my resolve has hardened.”
“To chase Hyakueimon this instant and cut him down with a single stroke would be simplicity itself. Yet then the household would claim I resorted to violence out of humiliation after my lies were exposed, reducing my mermaid account to mere fabrication—a result that would bring disgrace upon you as well. Since I am already a man cast aside, I shall prolong this life a little longer before meeting my end. I will investigate Shakegawa’s estuary, and if Hachiman of Bow and Arrow does not forsake me—if I find that mermaid’s corpse—it shall stand as proof that my martial fortune yet endures. I will present this before the entire household, then strike Hyakueimon down without reservation, and gladly prepare to die by my own blade.”

“Musashi’s unnecessary meddling and presenting your feat to His Lordship was a mistake.”
“Starting this trivial argument about a mermaid has forced a worthy man to die.”
“Forgive me, Kanae—it seems I won’t be reborn a samurai in the next life.”
He turned his face away, stood up, and declared firmly, “No need to worry about the house,” then exited the hall.

At Kanae’s private residence lived only two people: Yae—a fair-skinned, strikingly featured, large-framed girl of sixteen—and Mari—a petite and clever twenty-one-year-old servant. Kanae’s wife had already died of illness six years prior.
Kanae returned to his private residence that day with a deliberately cheerful expression, announced only that “Father will be leaving on another trip soon—this one may last somewhat longer, so mind the house,” stuffed nearly all his saved gold coins into his robe, and fled from the house as if escaping.

“Father is strange,” Yae said to Mari after seeing him off.

“That is correct.”
Mari calmly agreed. Kanae was bad at deceiving people.
No matter how cheerfully he tried to smile, it was no use.
He was seen through by both his sixteen-year-old daughter and his servant.

“He took a lot of money with him when he left, didn’t he?”
He was even seen through regarding the money.

Mari nodded,

“I believe this is no trivial matter,” she remarked with a look of sober judgment.

“I have a foreboding feeling,” said Yae, covering her chest with both sleeves.

“I cannot say what may occur.”
“To avoid any unsightliness, let us clean the inside and outside of the house spotlessly right away,” said Mari, swiftly tying her sash.

At that moment, senior official Noda Musashi arrived stealthily in plain clothes without any attendants.

“Has Lord Kanae departed?” he asked Yae in a low voice.

“Yes. He left with a lot of money.”

Musashi gave a wry smile and,

“This journey may be a long one.”
“If you encounter any difficulties while I’m away, do not hesitate to come consult this Musashi.”
“This is for your immediate expenses,” he said, leaving a considerable amount of gold coins behind before departing.

Realizing at last that something had befallen her father, Yae too, being a samurai’s daughter, from that night onward slept curled up with her dagger clutched tightly to her chest, never loosening her obi.

Meanwhile, Chūdō Kanae—who had set out on his journey to find the mermaid—arrived at the estuary of Shakegawa River, gathered all the village fishermen, and gave them every last gold coin he carried. He sternly clarified that this was no official order but a deeply personal request: “This concerns Chūdō Kanae’s own grave matter.” Hesitating slightly, his cheeks flushing, he offered a bitter smile and prefaced weakly, “You may not believe this,” before recounting the incident of the mermaid from days past. With his voice hoarse from pleading on the storm-wracked shore where snow swirled wildly, he implored them: “I stake my life on this plea—you must find that mermaid’s corpse at the bottom of this estuary and show it to a certain man. Only then can my honor as a samurai be upheld. I know it’s cruel to ask in this cold, but I beg you—spare no effort!” The elderly fishermen believed him deeply and sympathized, while the young men doubted—“A mermaid? Really?”—yet still felt a flicker of curiosity. They cast wide nets to scour the estuary’s depths, but what entered their nets were only familiar fish: herring, cod, crab, sardines, flounder—no trace of any strange creature. The next day, and the day after that, the entire village launched boats into the estuary. Braving icy winds, they cast nets, dove into the water, and endured every hardship in their search—all in vain. The young men soon began grumbling: “Look at that samurai’s eyes—he’s not right in the head! Taking a madman’s word to dive in this cold? Ridiculous! I’m done! Better to warm up with the village ‘mermaids’ than chase phantoms in the sea!” They crowded around a bonfire on the shore, shouting vulgar jokes and roaring with laughter. Kanae, alone in his sorrow, pretended not to hear. He prayed fervently to Ryūjin: “If just one scale or strand of hair from that mermaid would surface here now—not only would my honor be restored, but Lord Musashi’s as well. Together we could curse Hyakueimon to oblivion! Could this blade of loyalty strike him down? Could this grudge in my heart finally be cleansed?” Stretching his neck to gaze over the estuary, his pitiable figure moved an old fisherman to tears. Drawing near,

“Ah, it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
“The young men may be saying such things, but we’re certain the mermaid shot by the samurai lies sunken in this sea.”
“In these waters around here, you see, there’ve been all sorts of mysterious fish since ancient times—things the young folks just can’t grasp.”
“When we were children too, you see, a great fish called Okina appeared offshore and caused quite a stir.”
“It’s no lie—that thing was two or three ri long! No—might’ve been even bigger!”
“No one’s ever seen its entire form.”
“When that fish appears,” he continued, “the seafloor thunders like a storm, and great waves rise even when there’s no wind! Whales flee east and west in panic, and the fishing boats all shout, ‘Oi, Okina’s comin’!’ and row back to shore in haste. Then Okina surfaces—looks like several big islands suddenly sprout offshore! That’s just bits of its back and fins peekin’ out, mind ya. Its full size? Nah, ain’t nothin’ like what you’d imagine.”
“It’s impossible to fathom its full size.”
“This Okina don’t even glance at small fish—lives solely by devourin’ whales, they say. Gulps down whales twenty or thirty fathoms long in bundles! The sight’s as grand as a whale swallowin’ sardines—downright astonishin’, I tell ya!”
“So when the seafloor rumbles, the whales scatter east and west in a panic, fleeing for their lives.”
“There were terrifying fish too, you know.”
“In the seas of Ezo, there have been all sorts of monster-like fish since ancient times.”
“Even your samurai’s mermaid story—we ain’t surprised at all, I tell ya.”
“That thing’s surely right here in this inlet—ain’t no doubt about it.”
“Ain’t nothin’ strange about that at all.”
“This here’s the same sea where Okina swam two-three ri around! We’ll find that mermaid corpse for sure, see? Get your samurai’s honor all proper-like,” he comforted in his gruff dialect, brushing powder snow from Kanae’s shoulders. Yet this kindness only deepened Kanae’s desolation—Ah! Have I fallen so low as to need this old man’s pity? Beneath these consoling words lurks despairing resignation!—and with bitter resentment rising, he violently stood up,

“I beg you! I did indeed shoot a strange fish in this inlet. By Hachiman of Bow and Arrow, I swear! I beg you! Put in even more effort! Find even one scale or strand of hair from that mermaid!” he cried, kicking through piled snow as he ran to the water’s edge. He seized the arms of fishermen beginning to pack up, eyes wild with desperation as he pleaded: “I beg you—once more!”

The fishermen had already received their payment upfront and were beginning to lose their enthusiasm. They cast their nets halfheartedly in shallow waters near shore—a token effort—then vanished one by one until not even a stray dog remained on the beach. As dusk fell and shadows deepened, the north wind howled fiercer still, whipping snow into a blizzard that stung the eyes. Yet Kanae wandered the tideline like Shunkan exiled to Kikaigashima, dragging his feet through sand even as night deepened. He never returned to the village, having claimed a boat shed by the water’s edge as his bedchamber. There he’d doze fitfully before rushing back to shore before dawn, heart leaping at seaweed debris washed ashore—only to slump in disappointment, sniveling pathetically. He’d wade into frigid waves to inspect rotting driftwood, then trudge back empty-handed. Since arriving here, he’d barely eaten, muttering “Mermaid, appear! Appear!” until his mind frayed. Standing alone on snow-blanketed rocks, he’d burst into manic laughter: “Did I truly see it? Was shooting it a lie? A dream?” Ah! If only I’d fainted like the others on that boat—never witnessed that marvel! My cursed spirit strength made me see this world’s wonder, hence this torment! How I envy common fools living smugly blind! Yes—there exist beauties beyond their ken! But glimpse them once, and you plummet to hell like me! Some vile karma from past lives chains me here—a life unworthy of living! Born under stars decreeing only wretched death! Better to hurl myself onto these rocks now—be reborn a mermaid! Head hung low, he staggered along shorelines like Death’s thrall. Yet still he couldn’t abandon hope—glancing sidelong at dawn’s pale sea, sighing bitterly: “If only it’d been that Okina beast the old man spoke of! So much simpler to prove!” Thus raved this would-be hero—disheveled, deranged—his life seemingly measured in hours now.

At their home, Yae prayed morning and night to the gods for her father’s safe return; but as three days passed, then four—bowls shattered, sandal thongs snapped, pine branches in the garden broke under light snowfall—nothing but ill omens continued until she could no longer stay indoors. One night she secretly visited Musashi’s residence, learned her father was at the estuary of Sake River, and that very evening prepared to depart with her maidservant Mari. Relying on the snow’s faint light along the night path, they set out to follow him.

At times resting beneath villagers’ eaves, at times huddled together in coastal caves listening to waves while napping, Yae’s once-plump cheeks hollowed as they encouraged each other through the harsh snow-covered path—yet their progress was slow. When they finally staggered to the shores of Sake River Inlet at dusk on the third day—Namu Sanbō—there lay her father upon a coarse mat, his wretched body cold and still.

That morning, Kanae’s corpse had been found drifting near the shore of the Inlet.

His head was covered in seaweed clinging all over, resembling the mermaid Kanae had reportedly seen.

The mistress and servant clung to the corpse from either side, wordlessly wailing with warrior-like intensity; even the hardened fishermen found themselves sobered and averted their eyes.

Bereaved first by her mother and now abandoned by her father, Yae wept without a shred of human composure; at last resolving herself utterly, she raised her pale face and spoke:

“Mari, let us die.”

“Yes.”

Having answered, when the two of them quietly stood up, the clattering sound of hooves could be heard,

“Wait! Waaait!” came Noda Musashi’s gruff, commanding voice.

He dismounted and bowed his head to Kanae’s corpse,

“Bah! What a worthless mess.”
“Enough! No more mermaid nonsense—I’ll hear none of it!”

Musashi flew into a rage.
He was truly enraged.
When angered, there was no room for reason in Musashi.
Whether it made sense or not—he didn’t care.
The mermaid meant nothing.
Its existence or non-existence changed nothing.
Now there was only cleaving his hated foe in two.
“You there! Fishermen! Lend me a horse!”
“These young ladies need to ride.”
“Hurry up and find one!” he barked irritably, his fury spilling over as he glared at Yae and Mari.

“I can’t stand that crying face of yours! Don’t you realize there’s a foe to slay? If you don’t mount up this instant and ride back to the castle town—if you don’t storm Hyakueimon’s mansion and bring me his head to show Lord Kanae—I won’t let you call yourself a samurai’s daughter! Stop sniveling!”

“Speaking of Lord Hyakueimon—”

The maidservant Mari stepped forward with a silent nod. “Are you referring to Lord Hyakueimon of Aozaki?”

“None other than that bastard.”

“I believe I know the reason,” Mari replied calmly. “For years now, Lord Hyakueimon—despite his advanced age—has persistently sought Young Mistress’s hand in marriage. The Young Mistress declared she would rather die than wed a man with such a vulture’s beak of a nose... and so the Master also—”

“I see. Now everything’s clear,” Musashi declared. “That bastard goes around spouting off about being a lifelong bachelor and hating women, but turns out he’s just some rejected fool behind the scenes! Disgraceful.” He spat the words like venom. “Truly the lowest of the low. To torment Lord Kanae over failed courtship—such petty spite makes this utterly laughable!” His triumphant roar echoed across the snowy shore.

That night, with Musashi leading the charge, the two women brandishing naginata stormed Hyakueimon’s mansion. In the inner chamber where their foe drank with his concubine, Musashi severed his withered right arm in one clean stroke. Undaunted, Hyakueimon drew his sword left-handed—only for Mari to sweep his legs from under him. Even kneeling, the man showed no weakness, lashing out fiercely at Yae. When Musashi’s blade bit into his left shoulder, Hyakueimon finally collapsed backward... yet lived still. Writhing serpent-like, he hurled a shuriken at Yae with deadly aim; she narrowly dodged by arching her body backward. At such monstrous tenacity, even battle-hardened Musashi and Yae instinctively locked eyes—a fleeting moment of shared awe at their enemy’s undying malice.

Having triumphantly taken the head, Yae and Mari hurried to the Sake River shore where their father lay at rest, while Musashi returned to his own residence. There he meticulously documented the entire violent incident from beginning to end, apologized for executing Hyakueimon without the lord's permission, claimed full responsibility in his letter, ordered retainers to deliver it to the lord at dawn, then performed flawless seppuku without hesitation—proving himself a warrior of remarkable spirit.

The two women offered Hyakueimon’s severed head before Kanae’s corpse, completed funeral rites with tender care, returned home to await judgment while resolved to die in white shroud-like garments. Senior officials convened at the castle and deemed Hyakueimon a rare villain; with Musashi dead by his own hand, they dismissed the feud as inconsequential—a verdict the lord approved. Instead of punishment, the women were praised as gallant avengers: Yae married Imura Sakuemon’s youngest son to inherit the Chūdō name, while Mari wed handsome inspector Toi Ichizaemon. A hundred days later came midnight reports from Kasuga Shrine’s coast—bizarre skeletal remains had washed ashore with human-like upper bodies and fishlike lower halves. When magistrates inspected them, Kanae’s famed arrowhead lodged unmistakably in the shoulder bones—triumphant proof for Yae’s household where spring layered upon spring as her name foretold. Thus does this account proclaim faith’s victorious power.

(*Budo Denraiki* [Chronicle of Martial Traditions], Volume 2, Part 4: *The Sea of the Life-Stealing Mermaid*)

Bankruptcy

Long ago in Mimasaka Province, there lived a great magnate named Kuragou. His vast estate boasted nine grand storehouses standing in proud rows, their gold and silver groaning nightly—so loudly that even neighboring provinces could not ignore it. Though the people of Mimasaka owned none of this wealth themselves, they boasted of Kuragou’s fortune as their own, drinking thin unfiltered sake in dimly lit taverns until...

“Though we could never compare to Lord Kuragou, if only we could become like Manya,”

they would hum this self-deprecating song to a melancholy tune and laugh together forlornly.
The “Manya” mentioned in this song was Mimasaka Province’s second-wealthiest man after Kuragou—a miser who amassed untold thousands of ryō and kan in gold and silver over his lifetime, yet dwelled in a low-roofed, dilapidated house indistinguishable from neighboring plasterers’, charcoal sellers’, and paper merchants’ homes. Each dawn, the master swept his streetfront, collecting horse dung, string scraps, and wood fragments to hoard rather than discard. He adhered strictly to plain handwoven cotton robes regardless of fashion trends and for fifty New Year’s visits wore the same hemp hakama sewn for his wedding. In summer, he ventured out in just a loincloth, yukata carefully draped around his neck like a scarf for communal baths. When villagers sold early eggplants—one for two mon, two for three—he outwitted their superstitions: paying two mon for one to “ensure seventy-five days of longevity,” then saving the third mon to buy cheaper bulk later—a thrift ensuring his coffers swelled like “a demon hoarding in darkness.” He detested wine and women, loathing monks who praised such vices—“Were those writers alive now,” he’d snarl while shredding his thirteen-year-old son’s copy of *Tsurezuregusa*, “I’d sue them into oblivion!” He salvaged the torn pages, smoothing creases to cut strips for weaving fifty haori cords stored as decade-long household supply. This son—Yoshitaro—he disowned at fourteen for carrying soft tissues deemed effeminate: “Go study Lord Nawa-ya’s frugality in Harima!” he spat tearlessly, banishing him to a wet nurse in Aboshi. Later, Manya exploited his nephew as clerk until age twenty-five—a youth so parsimonious he saved frayed sandal straw as fertilizer and mailed it to rural kin. Impressed, Manya adopted him as heir. When asked what bride he desired, the nephew declared: “Though no saint myself—I may stray at thirty or forty—I’ll need a jealous wife wielding cleavers if I philander! Only such a termagant can safeguard my life and Manya’s fortune!” Delighted, Manya procured a sixteen-year-old harridan who shrieked “Disgusting!” if her father chatted too long with her grandmother. Retiring contentedly, he transferred all wealth to the nephew without reservation.
This adopted son—though born with thriftiness rare in the world—suddenly came into possession of immeasurable gold and silver, and even he grew flushed with excitement. Before reaching thirty, let alone forty, he began frequenting teahouses under the guise of socializing, uncharacteristically smoothing his hair and fastidiously selecting tabi socks and sandals. At this, his wife instantly turned pale, eyes narrowing to slits, and raised a voice so thunderous it might have shattered the shoji screens of every house within three blocks.

“Ugh! Disgusting.”
“A man like you, putting oil in that curly hair—peering into the mirror, pursing your lips tight, grinning smugly, shaking your head in denial—what’s this absurd solo act? What exactly are you rehearsing? Are you even sane? I see right through you—pathetic.”
“My country father always said real men visit teahouses in work clothes—mud under their nails, sleep in their eyes, hauling night soil buckets! Men who can’t do that are just teahouse hags’ playthings! With that slicked hair—planning to become some crone’s kept man? Oh, I know your game! Being the miser you are, you’ll beg those hags for free favors—maybe even wheedle pocket money! No? Then prove me wrong—go haul night soil! Can’t do it, can you? Staring at that two-faced mug in the mirror like a fool—disgusting! Trim your nose hairs instead!”
“‘They’re getting long, you know. If it bothers you, go haul night soil,’ she nagged endlessly—what a nuisance.”
He’d married this wife precisely to provoke jealousy in such situations, but her actual outbursts proved far less enjoyable.
This preposterous outcome stemmed directly from his earlier prudent declarations—“I desire a jealous wife to please my adoptive parents”—a fact he now privately lamented.
He considered punching her, but the retired couple came crawling from their quarters whenever her jealousy flared up—chuckling “now, now” while gazing adoringly at her face during half-hearted mediations. Unable to strike her yet finding night soil bucket outings equally absurd, he stewed at the public bath until dizzy. Staggering out, he rationalized: “Bath coins beat losing a ryō at teahouses—drunkenness is drunkenness either way!” Massaging his hollow pride, he returned home, drank a gō of evening sake while avoiding her gaze, then spitefully gorged himself and collapsed. Summoning Old Man Tatsukichi the gardener, he made him recite Mimasaka’s Seven Wonders for the fiftieth time. Propping his head up, he stared vacantly at the ceiling until abruptly calling a maid to massage his feet. Seeing his wife’s face reignited his irritation—“Hey! Tea!” he barked. He guzzled from the cup she held aloft without lifting his head from the pillow, snapped “Too hot!”, then berated her—yet by avoiding nighttime escapades, order prevailed: retirees giggled themselves to sleep early; servants stayed vigilant without sneaking to lovers’ trysts; no maid lingered by the well.
The clerk feigned solemnity at the counter—pointlessly flipping ledgers and clattering abacus beads until growing suspicions spurred genuine recalculations. Nagamatsu sat primly nearby, stifling yawns while smoothing scrap paper into practice notebooks; when sleepiness overwhelmed him, he ostentatiously bellowed primers: “Virtue never stands alone!” Manservant Kusuke twisted torn matting into coin purses; maid Otake heaved her hips up to rummage for soup greens in the cellar; seamstress Oroku hunched beneath lantern light pretending disinterest in mending. Even the cat watched alertly—meowing sharply at kitchen clatters. Thus did household wealth swell endlessly—all save the young master sulking joylessly through nightly pillow talks about pickled miso textures and salmon bones. Though drowning in riches, he endured bath-stewed dizziness and condiment tirades while secretly scheming—Once the retirees die…—working diligently as he bided time.

At last, time’s toll came for the retired couple too. The old man passed away first, leaving behind a final complaint that six paper-twist haori cords remained in the drawer. Then the old woman grew fretful upon finding only four cords left in that same drawer, and soon followed him in death. With no one left to mind appearances, the household became indisputably the young master’s domain. First, he took his jealous wife on a pilgrimage to Ise, then detoured through Kyoto and Osaka to show her the capital’s refined customs. He made her watch a play where a husband, saddled with an unsophisticated wife, commits murder and lands in prison—a silent lesson on restraining jealousy. When he lavished her with armfuls of trendy robes and sashes from the capital, her feminine heart proved fickle: even after returning home, she adorned herself to rival Kyoto ladies, earnestly practicing tea ceremony and flower arrangement. She chided herself for mentioning rice miso in pillow talk—a rustic faux pas—and realized no one hauled night soil buckets to teahouse revelries. Above all, she grew deeply ashamed of her former jealousy, now deemed vulgar beyond measure.

“I never thought jealousy was anything to boast about,” she said with disarming frankness, “but since your father and mother took such delight in it, I couldn’t help making such a scene. How dreadful of me.” Her tone grew almost breezy. “After all, they do say philandering is a man’s prerogative.”

“That’s right, that’s right.”
The man nodded emphatically at this crucial moment, adopted a solemn expression, and continued, “Regarding that—lately, with my adoptive parents passing one after another, I’ve been feeling rather uneasy, and my body hasn’t been quite right.
“They say thirty is a man’s unlucky year,”
“There’s no such unlucky year.”
“I think I’ll head up to Kamigata and take a proper rest.”
That “regarding that” was preposterous.

“Oh dear,” said his wife with a springlike serenity, “take a year or two to properly recuperate.”
“You’re still young.”
“If you keep up this prudent act and live stingily from now on, you’ll never achieve longevity.”
“Men should only turn miserly around fifty.”
“A thirty-year-old tightwad is premature.”
“How unsightly.”
“That’s villain material in plays.”
“Youth demands extravagant living.”
“I plan to enjoy myself too.”
“You don’t mind?” she added recklessly.

The husband grew increasingly elated,

“Of course! Of course!”
“No matter how much we squander, this fortune won’t crumble.”
“We really ought to let the gold and silver in our storehouses see daylight—it’d be cruel otherwise.”
“In that case, I’ll take you up on your offer and spend a year recuperating in Kyoto and Osaka.”
“While I’m away, sleep late and eat well to your heart’s content.”
“I’ll keep sending you Kamigata’s latest kimono and obi fashions,” he declared with suspiciously honeyed words—secret designs brewing—before scrambling off to the capital.

During the master’s absence, his wife would rise around noon to gather neighborhood matrons for raucous gatherings, lavishing them with mountains of delicacies until intoxicated by their transparent flattery. She changed every layer of her kimono daily from undergarments outward, then stood swaying her body in limp contortions to bask in their praise. The clerk exploited the chaos to busily funnel gold to his own family’s residence. Nagamatsu loitered in the kitchen from dawn till dusk, plunging his head into cupboards to pilfer snacks. Kusuke shut himself in the storehouse, guzzling cloudy sake until his eyes glazed over as he hummed sutra-like ditties. Otake smeared white paste thick as a sumo wrestler’s ceremonial makeup before her mirror—transforming into a monstrous visage that made her burst into tears at her own reflection’s hideousness. Oroku stuffed the mistress’s cast-off kimonos into her wicker trunk, glared about shiftily, lit her pipe, perched on one knee to blast twin smoke jets from her nostrils, then slipped out the backdoor—not returning until midnight. The cat abandoned mousing duties, lazily defecating by the hearth as spiderwebs strangled the house and weeds conquered the garden—every vestige of former order obliterated.

Meanwhile in Kamigata, the master initially visited teahouses with provincial timidity, enjoying cheap thrills until surrounded by courtesans born to flatter: “With patrons like you sir,” they cooed, “our work feels effortless! So youthful yet composed! Refined yet forceful! And oh-ho-ho—generous beyond measure!” Their exhaustive praise shattered his judgment until he fancied himself Japan’s greatest patron. Growing bold, he embraced profligacy—“Gold exists to be spent!”—tossing coins recklessly while requisitioning more from home. What began as convalescence became desperate rivalry against Kyoto’s sophisticates—eyes hardening, face gaunt—until within a year his bottomless wealth evaporated. When retainers whispered “This is all that remains,” he gaped—“But I’ve spent barely a hundredth!”—then laughed hollowly: “Gold grows wings! Very well—now I’ll prove my mettle! Inherited wealth is cowardice! True men rise from nothing!” That final night at the pleasure quarters found him unnervingly jovial—“One last drink!”—but courtesans grew cold. Candles snuffed one by one; darkness brought unease. His calls for wine went unanswered until a crone intoned: “Officials patrol tonight—keep quiet.” Amazed at their callousness—“How admirably ruthless!”—he stormed out vowing revenge: “Just wait hag—I’ll rebuild my fortune and humble you all!” For this was no ordinary man—the miser Manya’s chosen heir—who now marched homeward plotting resurrection.

The man returned home and immediately summoned his clerk. “You say there’s no money left? Nonsense! Never utter such recklessness—Manya’s fortune, called a demon hoarding in darkness, won’t falter in mere years! You know nothing. From today, *I* command the counter—watch!” He instantly remodeled the shop into a money exchange, laboring sleeplessly alone. True to Manya’s enduring trustworthiness, people flocked to deposit gold and silver, unaware of empty coffers. He diverted deposits right to left, greasing palms undetected while expanding dealings. Three years later, he’d restored—superficially at least—the house’s former standing. “Next year,” he vowed, “I’ll return to Kamigata and shame those heartless brothel curs!” By year’s end, he’d flawlessly settled all debts—leaving not a coin. “This,” he boasted before wife and clerk, “is merchant craft! Credit rules all—empty vaults mean naught if year-end hides debts! Next year, deposits will flood unsought! A true magnate masters this sleight!” When a peddler offered New Year trinkets for three mon, he roared: “Take that dross to paupers! Wrong house!” Yet dismissing them, he shuddered—not three mon remained. Soon came the New Year’s bell’s resonant boom, its weighty toll echoing ten thousand ryō’s grandeur. Grinning like Ebisu, he sighed: “Done! Wife—next year Kamigata! These years shamed you, but see? *This* is a man’s work! Revere me anew! As they sing: ‘No vaults built by abstainers!’ Come—toast fresh starts!” So ordering sake preparations, he—

“Sorry.” came a voice at the gate.

A sharp-eyed, emaciated rōnin stomped in and faced the master.

“Some time ago, a counterfeit silver coin was mixed in with money from your shop.”
“I demand an exchange,” he said, throwing down a small silver piece.

“Ah,” he replied, rising—though he lacked even a single coin, let enough to replace it.
“My deepest apologies,” he said with a bright smile, feigning composure, “but we’ve closed for the year. Might you return next year?”

“No—waiting’s impossible. The New Year’s Eve bells still toll. I must settle this year’s debts with this coin. Debt collectors wait outside.”

“This is rather troublesome,” he said with performative distress. “We’ve already closed shop—all money’s in the storehouse.”

“Don’t mock me!” the rōnin bellowed, his voice shaking the walls. “This isn’t about hundreds of ryō! A mere silver coin! For a house of your standing to lack even this paltry exchange—spare me your jests!” His eyes narrowed at the merchant’s twitching face. “What’s that look? Nothing? Truly nothing? NOTHING AT ALL?!” The shout carried through winter air to debt collectors outside who stiffened—“What sorcery?”—while neighbors pressed ears to paper walls. Ill deeds fly swift as cranes—by the New Year bell’s first toll, whispers raced through Edo: Fortune’s wheel had turned. Three years’ desperate scheming dissolved like river foam; even the shrewdest fox exhausts its tricks. Thus fell merchant Manya—mighty oak rotted through by one silver worm.

(The Eternal Storehouse of Japan, Volume 5, Part 5: The Three Monme Five Bu Dawn Coin)

Bare River

Hurrying through Kamakura Mountain on an autumn evening, Aoto Saemon no Jō Fujitsuna urged his horse across Namekawa River. Midstream, having some minor business to attend to, he took out the flint pouch at his waist. The moment he opened its mouth, about ten mon inside the pouch splashed into the river's current with a plop.
Aoto started, his complexion changing. Halting his horse and hunching his back, he stared at the water's surface with eyes flashing like lightning as if to pierce through to the riverbed. Yet the murmuring clear stream, glistening in the sunset's glow, churned and leapt without pause—utterly impossible to discern its depths.
Aoto Saemon no Jō Fujitsuna writhed in his saddle.
He resolved to establish this as a family law for generations: when crossing rivers, never open the flint pouch's mouth regardless of urgency.
He simply couldn't resign himself.
Just how many mon had he lost?
When leaving home that morning, he'd counted forty mon twice as usual before placing them in this pouch, then spent three at the office.
Therefore thirty-seven should remain here now—but perhaps ten had spilled out?
One could check the pouch's contents to know for certain, but counting coins midstream was strictly forbidden.
He'd verify after reaching shore.
Aoto slumped dejectedly, heaved a deep sigh, and urged his horse onward with bowed head.
Upon reaching the bank, he dismounted and sat cross-legged on the riverside. Opening the flint pouch's mouth with a rustle, he poured the remaining coins onto his lap. Hunched over, he began counting in a hushed voice: "One... two... three..."
Twenty-six mon remained.
"Hmm," he grunted. "Then eleven mon fell into the river. Wasteful—utterly wasteful! Though mere eleven mon, they're national treasures! Left abandoned thus, those coins would rot uselessly below. Unforgivable! Unthinkable! I cannot—absolutely cannot—depart like this! Even if I must cleave earth itself, shatter the world's axis, or descend to Ryūgū Palace—I shall retrieve them!" With this ferocious resolve hardening within him...

However, Aoto was by no means a vulgar miser.
He was a frugal, thrifty, and incorruptible government official.
One soup and one dish—moreover, he did not eat three times a day.
He ate only once a day.
Even so, his body remained robust.
His clothes consisted of a single set worn without change.
To hide stains, he had his kimono dyed a deep tea color.
Jet-black kimonos, on the contrary, are said to show stains more prominently.
A kimono of deep tea color, made from an inexplicably thick fabric.
He spent his entire life wearing that single kimono.
He did not lacquer his sword scabbard.
It was mottled with ink.
Even his lord, Hōjō Tokiyori, could no longer bear to watch,

“Hey, Aoto. Shall I increase your salary a bit? I had a dream oracle saying your salary should be increased,” he said, whereupon Aoto sulked and

“Dream oracles can’t be trusted.”
“If someday an oracle orders you to behead Fujitsuna, what will you do?”
“You’d surely cut me down then,” he declared with strange reasoning, refusing the salary increase.

He was a man devoid of greed.
When his salary had leftovers, he would distribute all of it to the poor people in the neighborhood.
Thus the poor people in the neighborhood did nothing but laze about, even eating such things as salt-grilled sea bream.
He was by no means a stingy person.
He was simply practicing frugality and thrift himself for the sake of the country.
Lord Tokiyori too—having been raised by his mother, Nun Matsushita, who taught him to repair paper sliding doors—was so thrifty that he considered miso adequate as a drinking snack, making this master and servant pair well-matched.
It was none other than Tokiyori who had originally promoted Aoto Saemon no Jō Fujitsuna and appointed him to the Hikitsuke-shū.
When Aoto was a wandering masterless samurai who yelled at a cow, this anecdote reached Tokiyori’s ears, leading him to deem Aoto an intriguing man and promote him to the Hikitsuke-shū judicial council.
That is to say, upon seeing a cow urinating in the river, Aoto became enraged,

“Well，well！What a foolish cow this is！”
“To urinate in the river—what a waste！”
“It’s wasteful.”
“‘What extravagance！If only it fertilized fields instead！’” he stamped his feet and bellowed.

He was an earnest man.
It was only natural that he would strive even to Ryūgū to retrieve the eleven mon coins dropped into the river.
He stored the remaining twenty-six mon in the flint pouch, tightly tied its mouth-string, stood up, summoned villagers, took out another purse from his pocket, started to take out three ryō before withdrawing one, pondered briefly, nodded with a "Hmm," then took out that one ryō again and ultimately handed three ryō to the villagers. Ordering them to quickly gather about ten laborers with this money, he tethered his horse to the riverbank, assumed an air of dignified composure, and sat down on a large rock.
It was already dusk.
What if he postponed it until tomorrow?
However, that was impossible.
If he postponed the search until tomorrow, those eleven mon coins might be swept away by the river's current tonight, becoming untraceable and resulting in the terrible outcome of forever losing treasures of the land.
Before the eleven mon coins could scatter, they had to be gathered up with all haste.
I don’t care if it takes all night.
Sitting alone on the dark riverbank, Aoto did not move a muscle.

Aoto issued commands to the laborers who had soon gathered, first having them build a fire on the riverbank, then making each laborer hold a torch and enter the cold water to commence the search for the eleven coins.
Illumined by torchlight, the autumn stream appeared as a brocade of night, while human limbs formed obstructions—a magnificent sight as they stood cutting through the rapids.
Aoto barked hoarse commands—"There! There! No, more to the right—no, no, more to the left! Dig deeper!"—yet the darkness remained absolute. Even he grew uncertain where exactly the coins had fallen. Though Aoto alone stamped his feet in agitation, vowing to split the earth, shatter the world’s axis, and descend to Ryūgū Palace itself, not a single coin met the laborers’ fingertips. The river wind pierced their skin with cold; all the laborers suffered near-fatal freezing, until at last mutters of discontent began rising from every direction.
"What karma brought us to such hardship?" one of the laborers muttered while groping along the riverbed, until finally some began sniveling and weeping as they searched.

At this time, among the laborers was a thirty-four- or thirty-five-year-old gambler named Asada Kogorō.
It is said that people in their mid-thirties are at their most self-important, but even without that tendency, this Asada—who prided himself on his somewhat refined upbringing—remained haughty and insolent despite now being reduced to laborer ranks. He disdained his superiors, shirked work, employed petty tricks to obtain ill-gotten coins with which he treated younger men to drinks. When they called him “generous,” he would reply “Not really,” though not entirely displeased—such was the great fool he was.
At this moment, he merely went through the motions alongside the laborers—torch in one hand, probing the riverbed with the other—having never intended to search seriously from the start.
He had only meant to half-heartedly participate and claim his share of wages, but Aoto—who had built a bonfire on the bank, his face flushed crimson like a red demon, eyes bulging as he monitored the laborers while bellowing “Left! Right!”—proved unbearably irritating.
Tch, what a miser—throwing a fit over eleven lousy coins! This damn penniless official—this is why I can’t stand him! If he wants money that badly, I’ll give him some myself! What’s the big deal? Just ten or eleven mon! An urge surged to flaunt his usual generosity, and he grabbed about three mon from his apron pouch,

“Found it!” he shouted.

“What? Found something?”
“Did you find the coins?”
On the bank, Aoto heard Asada’s shout and rejoiced madly. “You found the coins?”
“Are they truly there?” he pressed urgently, rising on his toes.

Asada, with an absurd feeling,

“Oh, there were some.”
“Three mon coins.”
“I’ll deliver them,” he said and began walking toward the bank when Aoto shouted encouragement,

“Don’t move! Don’t move!”
“Search right there!”
“It’s definitely there.”
"I dropped them right there."
Now I remembered.
It’s definitely there.
There should be eight more mon.
What has been dropped must be where it was dropped.
There!
“Everyone! Three coins have been found!”
“Put your backs into it! Search around those knaves there!” he commanded with tremendous uproar.

The laborers trooped around Asada,

“Bro, you really do have a sharp eye!”
“Bro, do you have some kind of secret technique?”
“Teach us how!”
“I’m freezing to death already.”
“How do you manage to find them so skillfully?” they asked in unison.

Asada assumed a serious face,

“It’s not exactly some secret technique—the trick’s in the toes.”

“The toes?”

“That’s right. You’re using your hands to search—that’s your mistake. Watch—when you feel around with your toes like this, you’ll find them,” he said, twisting his hips in an odd posture to churn the riverbed gravel. Seizing the moment while everyone stared at his feet, he pulled another two mon from his apron.

“Hm?” he muttered, plunging the coin-clutching hand into the water.

“Found it!” he shouted.

“What? Did you find something?” Aoto’s rough voice snapped back instantly.
“Did you find the coins?”

“Oh, there were some.”
“About two mon,” answered Asada, raising one hand high.

“Don’t move! Don’t move! Search right there! There! Everyone! Those knaves there are commendable! Don’t fall behind! Work harder! Push through!” he barked, his body quivering as he issued even fiercer commands.

The laborers all uniformly assumed awkward postures and trampled the riverbed gravel.
Since they didn't need to squat, their bodies felt much more comfortable.
They started dancing with great delight, torches in hand.
On the bank, Aoto scowled and scolded them for fooling around, but when they replied that maintaining such postures helped find coins, he could only watch their dance with a heavy heart.
Soon Asada continued deceiving everyone's eyes, taking out three-mon and one-mon coins from his apron,

“Found it!”

“Ah! Found it!”

He shouted with a straight face and finally pretended to have gathered all eleven mon by himself.

Aoto on the bank was overjoyed. He counted the eleven mon received from Asada three times over, gave a deep nod of approval—yes, exactly eleven mon—stored them in his flint pouch with a clink, and smirked.

“Well now, this Asada fellow—your efforts this time were splendid indeed.”
“Thanks to you, the nation’s treasures have been restored.”
“Furthermore, I shall grant you an additional reward of one ryō.”
“Coins that fall into rivers merely rot away, but money passed from hand to hand lives forever in this world, circulating among people,” Aoto said solemnly. He granted the reward of one ryō, nimbly mounted his horse, and clattered away. The laborers saw him off, muttering, “What a fool.”
The minds of the common folk, wading through wisdom’s shallows, could scarcely fathom Aoto’s profound considerations. Mocking him as “penny-wise and pound-foolish,” they proved once again that petty souls of any era remain despicable and beyond salvation.

At any rate, with three ryō in wages—an unexpected windfall—the laborers’ base greed forgot Aoto’s frugal admonishments and stirred them to declare, “Let’s drink and revel tonight!” Asada then gallantly donated his reward of one ryō to everyone without hesitation, sending the group into further frenzy as they held their first-ever extravagant banquet in their lives.

Asada was, after all, the star of the gathering.
When told, “Thanks to you, Bro—tonight’s paradise,” Asada, who should have quit while he was ahead,

“Well now, that Aoto’s a proper fool,” he sneered, twisting his mouth. “Didn’t even notice I was pulling coins from my own apron.”
The whole gathering gasped and slapped their knees. “Bro’s clever trick’s downright terrifying!” they fawned. “In better times, you’d have outshone even Aoto himself!” Their drunken revelry grew wilder by the moment—but earnest souls lurk everywhere.
Suddenly from a corner came—“Asada, you bastard!”
A furious roar shook the air.

A small man, his face pale, glared at Asada,

“Ever since I heard your boast about deceiving Aoto, I’ve felt sick to my stomach and lost all desire to drink. Asada, you’re a terrible man. I’ve always found your horse-faced pretentious cleverness irritating, but I never knew you were such a fool. There’s a line, you bastard! Aoto’s painstakingly noble intentions have, through your ignorant little schemes, turned into something as absurd as handing coins back to a thief. Deceiving people is even worse than being thieves. Aren’t you ashamed? The extent of divine will is truly terrifying. If you keep underestimating society like this, it’s only a matter of time before something unthinkable happens. I’m done having anything to do with you lot. From this day forth, I want you to consider me a complete stranger. I’m going to be filial from now on. Don’t laugh. When I see the wretched reality of this world, I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel compelled to be filial. There have been times like this now and then before, but enough—today of all days, my patience has run out. I’ll cleanly wash my hands of this and devote myself to filial piety. If humans do not practice filial piety, they become no different from dogs and beasts. Don’t laugh. Father, Mother, please forgive this unfilial son for all my wrongs up to today.” With this plea, the argument took an unexpected turn—the small man then burst into tears and returned home weeping. The next morning, he rose before dawn to cut firewood, braid ropes, make straw sandals, and assist his parents. He gained renown as an exemplary filial son, was summoned by Lord Tokiyori, and went on to prosper his family—but that is a tale for later.

Now, Aoto Saemon no Jō Fujitsuna—deceived by Asada’s cunning—returned home that night in high spirits. Gathering his wife and children in one room, he recounted: “Today, when your father crossed Namekawa River and opened his flint pouch, he dropped eleven mon into the water. Fearing these national assets might decay eternally in the riverbed, he gathered laborers, paid three ryō in wages, and ordered them to search even hell’s depths—whereupon one laborer with an inventor’s countenance probed the riverbed with his toes and swiftly retrieved all eleven mon! To him alone did your father grant an additional reward of one ryō.” Smiling faintly, he surveyed them. “Do you grasp your father’s intent—spending four ryō to recover a mere eleven mon?”
His family members fidgeted awkwardly and offered vague nods of assent.

"You understand now," Aoto declared triumphantly. "Coins decaying in riverbeds mean national ruin." With evident satisfaction, he reiterated his earlier lesson to his family: "Money passing through human hands keeps society turning," repeating verbatim what he'd preached to laborers at riverside.

“Father,” asked his clever-looking eight-year-old daughter, blinking her eyes.
“How did you know the lost money was eleven mon?”

“Oh, that’s what you’re asking about?
“Oritsu, you’re such a precocious child.”
She posed an astute question.
“Every morning, your father puts forty mon in small coins into his flint pouch and goes to his office.
“Today at the office, you used three mon, so there should have been thirty-seven left in the flint pouch. But only twenty-six remained. So how much do you think was lost?”

“But Father, this morning on your way to the office, you met me in front of the temple and gave me two mon to give to a beggar.”

“Uh-huh‚ that’s right‚” he said‚ his tone reluctantly acknowledging her correction‚ “I’d forgotten.”

Aoto was aghast.
The dropped coins should have been nine mon.
Dropping nine mon yet having eleven emerge from the riverbed was indeed strange.
Aoto was no fool.
It occurred to him that this might be some scheme by that flat-faced laborer called Asada or whatever his name was.
When he considered it properly, the very notion that searching with feet rather than hands would yield faster results was utterly ridiculous.
In any case, he went to bed that night in foul spirits, resolved to summon that Asada fellow to his office at dawn and interrogate him harshly.

Deception seemed destined to reveal itself inevitably.

Even Asada had no way to explain how he had dropped nine mon yet retrieved eleven.
Aoto raged like wildfire—"You fraud who dared deceive the authorities! Were it not for these nine mon coins still lost in the river, I would tear you limb from limb! Now dig them out yourself—ten years, twenty years, your whole life if needed! Strip naked so you cannot again use that monkey-like cunning to pull coins from your apron! Until every last coin is found, go to the riverbank daily—rain or gale—and under my officials' watch, turn over every inch of that riverbed!"—his declaration booming like thunder.
When a serious person becomes angry, it is a frightening thing.

From that day onward, Asada, stripped completely naked under the strict surveillance of subordinate officials, searched the river. On the tenth day, one mon; after twenty days, another mon. The willow leaves along the river scattered completely, the river water dried up leaving a desolate winter riverbed. Asada silently swung his hoe to dig up gravel, but what emerged were not coins—broken pots, old nails, chipped bowls—these discarded items piling uselessly into hills on the bank. A knowing-faced old woman tottered down to the riverside and asked the supervising officials: "I once lost a hairpin around here—has it turned up yet?" When asked when she had dropped it, she replied vaguely: "Not exactly sure, but it was soon after my wedding—sixty or seventy years ago?" earning a scolding from the officials. By the time Namekawa River came to be called Naked River and counted among Kamakura's curiosities—that is, on the ninety-seventh day—three hundred ken along its course had been so thoroughly dug that not a single inch of untouched earth remained beneath hoes. At last, having gathered nine mon coins, Asada faced Aoto once more.

“Wretch! Have you learned your lesson?”

When told this, Asada fearlessly raised his head and declared, “The eleven mon coins I presented to you the other day were taken from my own apron, so I must ask for their return.” Whether this was akin to a prisoner’s defiant song or not, it became a subject of ridicule for generations to come.

(Tales of Samurai Duty, Volume 1, Part 1: Because of My Possession - Bare River)

Duty

To die for duty—this was the custom of houses of bow and horse. Long ago in Itami, Settsu Province, there lived a samurai of impeccable lineage named Kanzaki Shikibu.
He served as overseer to Araki Murashige, lord of Itami Castle, and for many years kept his master’s house secure as Mount Tai.
The second son of their lord—a young master called Muranmaru—unlike the eldest son Shigemaru, who comported himself with mature gentleness, proved an utterly unmanageable mischief-maker who became the bane of Kanzaki and all senior retainers. Yet Castle Lord Araki, rather than favoring the elegant heir, indulged this violent second son’s whims with amused tolerance. Thus emboldened, Muranmaru eventually proclaimed an outlandish notion: “What manner of land is Ezo? I must see its sights with my own eyes!” When retainers tried to dissuade him, he grew even more obstinate, throwing tantrums and kicking away his meal tray while declaring he would starve until permitted to view Ezo.
Castle Lord Araki, long partial to Muranmaru, this time too laughed and casually granted his selfish wish, saying, “Very well. Viewing Ezo would be fine. Go ahead. A long journey in one’s youth is medicine for a lifetime.”
The retinue consisted of Kanzaki Shikibu and thirty handpicked warriors from the clan.

Among those in the retinue, two boys had been included as conversational companions for the second young master. The first was Kanzaki Katsutarō, aged fifteen—Shikibu’s treasured only son, a brilliant young warrior of radiant beauty whose dignified conduct brought nothing but honor to his father’s name. The other was Morooka Tansaburō, aged sixteen—the youngest of three sons born to Shikibu’s colleague Morooka Tango. Though pale-skinned, Tansaburō paled in comparison to Katsutarō in every regard: his drooping eyes, thick vermilion lips reminiscent of Zhu Bajie, and peculiar vanity saw him secretly scrub his acne-ridden forehead each dawn with pumice stone, leaving it an unnatural purple sheen that glistened garishly. Plump and large-bodied, with every movement sluggish and awkward, he detested martial arts yet brimmed with carnal desires, sitting slovenly with legs splayed, occasionally smirking as if recalling something private—a thoroughly repulsive child. Yet somehow this boy had become Young Lord Muranmaru’s favorite; called “Tako! Tako!” he always attended close by his lord’s side, imparting guidance in improper matters to the young master as they crudely guffawed together. From the start, Shikibu had never liked this Tansaburō. He had not wanted to include this child in the retinue for the Ezo expedition either, but since his own son Katsutarō had been added to the party by the castle lord’s command, he could not outright reject the son of his colleague Morooka Tango. It was a matter of obligation to his colleague. Morooka Tango, through parental favoritism, did not seem to consider his youngest son Tansaburō as such an inferior child,

“Lord Kanzaki, though ill fortune has kept me on guard duty this time, since my youngest son Tansaburō has had the good fortune to join the retinue’s ranks in my stead, I shall content myself with awaiting his travel tales. Moreover, this being his first journey—though he cuts an adult figure—he remains but a child in truth. I humbly entrust all matters to your care.” With a father’s heartfelt sincerity, he placed both hands flat on the tatami and bowed.

"Well, I couldn't very well say that child was..."
Moreover, with the Young Lord having issued a private directive insisting that Tako absolutely must join, there was no way to exclude him from the retinue.
They reluctantly departed their home province with Tansaburō in tow, but by the time they passed through the capital, traveled down the Eastern Road, and reached Kusatsu's lodgings, Tansaburō had already become a burden to everyone.
For one thing, he was an incorrigible late riser.
The pair—the Young Lord and Tansaburō—would stay up until all hours carousing with the inn's maids through gambling bouts of fox games and backgammon, their lewd snickers and revelry continuing until even Shikibu could no longer bear to witness it,

“As we depart early tomorrow morning, you must retire for the night now.” Even when Shikibu mustered his resolve and firmly called this from the neighboring room, the Young Lord remained unfazed,

“This is a sightseeing trip. It doesn’t matter. Hey there, Tako.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tako, smirking.
And then, the next morning, Tako rose later than the young lord.
Because of Tansaburō’s chronic morning lateness alone, the party’s departure from the inn was always delayed.
The Young Lord, nonchalantly,

“Leave him be.
He’ll catch up later,” he said, attempting to set off briskly with only Tako left behind at the inn. But Kanzaki Shikibu had been personally entrusted by Tansaburō’s father, Tango, to look after the boy.
He could not depart leaving him behind.
He ordered his son Katsutarō to make Tansaburō get up.
Katsutarō was one year younger than Tansaburō.
Therefore, he roused Tansaburō with slightly reserved language.

“Hey, Tako. We’re departing.”
“We’re departing.”
“Huh? That’s way too early.”
“His Lordship finished preparing long ago.”
“Seems His Lordship’s been sleeping soundly since then.”
“I’ve been thinking about all sorts of things since then—couldn’t sleep a wink.”
“And your old man’s snoring didn’t help.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Duty wears one down,” he said. “I’m the one forced to amuse His Lordship every night until I’m spent.”

“I can well imagine.”

“Yeah, it’s completely unbearable,” he said, smacking his lips. “Once in a while, you could take my place.”

“Ah,” came the timid reply, “I do strive to keep you company, but I’m unable to play games like fox-paw.”

“It’s because you’re all so boorish,” he sneered, the morning light catching the sleep crust in his eyes. “Stiffness alone isn’t loyalty.” A fleck of spittle landed on the tatami as he jabbed a finger forward. “You should at least learn fox-paw!”

The younger man laughed weakly, hands pressed to his knees in formal posture. “But even so—everyone’s about to depart.”

“What ‘but even so’?” The words came out like a saw rasping wood. “You’re all mocking me.” His voice cracked unexpectedly on the last syllable. “Last night too—I kept thinking about it—couldn’t sleep for frustration.” He tugged at his unkempt sidelocks, yesterday’s pomade leaving greasy streaks on his fingers. “Should’ve come with my old man.”

The admission hung between them like soiled laundry. “When you leave your parents—travel like this—” He made a vague gesture encompassing the inn’s shabby walls. “You’ve no idea how you must mind everyone’s feelings.” His throat worked convulsively before blurting out: “Nothing but humiliation since leaving home!”

The morning chill seeped through paper screens as his voice rose shrilly: “People are heartless! When parents aren’t watching—” He broke off suddenly, shoulders slumping. “No—not you lot.” The forced chuckle that followed sounded like pebbles rattling in a tin cup. “You and your father are splendid—too splendid!” His hands fluttered in mock admiration before clenching into fists. “Once this Ezo trip ends—I’ll report every detail about you two—to our lord back home—to my old man!” Spittle flew as he leaned forward, eyes bloodshot from sleeplessness and sake fumes. “I know everything.”

“Your old man dotes on you something fierce, doesn’t he?”
“No need to hide it.”
“Last night at this inn—heard him clear as day: ‘Katsutarō! Put shochu on those blisters!’”
“Never says that to me.”
“Puts on this big show of kindness when folks are watching—hah!—but I see right through him.”
“Blood ties can’t be broken.”
“Shochu for blisters?”
“Then you two must’ve split what was left—didn’t you?”
“Not one drop of sake for me—now they want me quit fox-paw too? No fun at all.”
Last night I stewed on it.
“Excuse me—gonna sleep more.”

From behind the sliding door, Kanzaki Shikibu had been listening to this. He had seriously considered abandoning him there and setting out. In truth, it would have been better to leave him behind. Had he done so, perhaps the subsequent misfortunes could have been avoided. However, Shikibu was a samurai who valued duty. The voice and figure of Tango—who had pressed both hands firmly against the tatami mat and entreated, "I leave everything in your care"—remained unforgettable. That day too, Shikibu stayed silent and waited for Tansaburō to rise.

Tansaburō’s indolence knew no bounds.
After passing through Kusatsu, Minakuchi, and Tsuchiyama, when they reached Suzuka Pass, he started wailing that he could walk no further.
From the start he had been unskilled at horseback riding, yet finding it mortifying to have others perceive this inadequacy, he forced himself to mount a horse—only for his buttocks to become unbearably sore. Declaring that travel was best done on foot anyway—that this was merely a leisurely sightseeing trip after all, that horseback journeys were stiff and uncouth—he persuaded Katsutarō to abandon his horse too so he wouldn’t be the only one losing face. Together they walked alongside the Young Lord’s palanquin all the way here, but upon reaching the pass he abruptly began proclaiming that walking was also uncouth.

“Trudging along like this isn’t exactly stylish, is it?”
Tako had wanted to cross the mountain pass by palanquin.

“Perhaps the horse would be better after all?”
Katsutarō remained indifferent either way.

“What, a horse?”
“Horses are out of the question.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Horses aren’t bad, but well—they have their pros and cons.”
He dodged the question vaguely.

“Truly,” Katsutarō nodded earnestly, “I sometimes think it would be nice if humans could fly through the sky like birds.”

“What foolish nonsense.”
Tansaburō sneered, “There’s no need to fly through the sky,”
“I want to ride in a palanquin.”
However, even he hesitated to state that outright.
“There’s no need to fly through the sky,” he repeated, then posed a roundabout riddle: “But isn’t there a way to walk while sleeping?”

“That would be difficult, I suppose.”
Katsutarō couldn’t grasp Tansaburō’s hidden intentions.
He answered innocently.
“If you’re on horseback, you could walk while sleeping, though.”

“Yeah, that…”
“That’s dangerous.”
For Tako, sleeping on horseback was an impossible feat.
Once you fell asleep, you’d tumble right off.
“That’s just as uncouth.
When I wake up and ask where I am, the horse won’t answer me, you see.”
“If it’s a palanquin, the bearers will say, ‘Oh, we’ll soon be in Kuwana.’”
Ah, I want to ride a palanquin.

“You put it so well.”
Katsutarō did not grasp Tako’s riddle.
He simply laughed vacantly.

Tansaburō glared resentfully at Katsutarō out of the corner of his eye,

“You’re another uncouth man.”
“You have no compassion,” he said in a solemn tone.

“Huh?” Katsutarō looked blankly confused.

“Can’t you tell by looking? I can’t walk anymore! It’s because I’m so fat—my thighs are chafed raw, and I’ve been trudging along hiding this agony from everyone! You should see it plain as day!” he said, suddenly contorting his face in pain and beginning to walk while dragging one leg.

“Lend him your shoulder,” Kanzaki Shikibu, who had been following behind the palanquin, instructed Katsutarō with a bitter smile at that moment.

“Yes,” said Katsutarō as he ran up to Tansaburō’s side and took hold of Tako’s right hand, whereupon Tako became furious and—

“I must protest! I may not look it, but I am the son of Morioka Tango! If rumors were to spread back home that I crossed the mountain pass leaning on the shoulder of a youth like you, wouldn’t my father and brothers lose all face? You and your father have conspired to mock the Morioka family!” he shouted in desperate fury.

The Kanzaki father and son turned pale.

“Shikibu,” called the Young Lord from inside the palanquin, “give Tako a palanquin too,” demonstrating his keen perception.

“Yes, at once!” Shikibu prostrated himself.
Tako was triumphant.

After that—through Seki, Kameyama, Yokkaichi, Kuwana, Miya, Okazaki, Akasaka, Goyu, and Yoshida—Tako continued his journey triumphantly dozing off as he was carried along in a palanquin.
Upon arriving at inns, it was the same as ever—late nights and sleeping in.
Due to Tansaburō alone, their journey had fallen nearly ten days behind the original schedule upon departing their domain. By the end of the Fourth Month, they finally reached today’s lodging at Shimada in Suruga Province after hastily departing Kakegawa—but upon approaching Sayo no Nakayama, a torrential downpour began. The Kikugawa along their route overflowed, its muddy torrent shaking bridges and flooding roads. With winds now lashing them, the howling of pines grew ferocious; the party’s sleeved raincloaks billowed upward so violently their hems nearly tore away. Crawling forward, they somehow reached Kanaya’s lodging. There, they confirmed all members were safe and rejoiced—yet now faced crossing the notorious Ōi River barrier to reach Shimada’s inn. Standing on the Ōi’s bank, Shikibu surveyed the river’s condition.

“Since the water level keeps rising by the hour, we’ll stay at Kanaya’s lodging tonight,” he instructed his attendants.

However, this cautious measure by Shikibu did not sit well with the reckless Young Lord.
He gazed at the river and sneered,

“What’s this? So this is the famed Ōi River?”
“It’s not even half the size of the Yodo River.”
“It’s smaller than both the Inagawa and Mukogawa back home, isn’t it?”
“Hey, Tako.
That we can’t cross such a trivial river—Shikibu must be going senile.”

“Indeed,” said Tako, glancing sideways at the Kanzaki father and son with a smirk, “though someone like myself has been accustomed since childhood to crossing the Inagawa River back home on horseback nearly every day, so even if this trifling stream were to swell tenfold, I would not find it fearsome. However, there exists a congenital malady called water epilepsy—even one who has mastered equestrian and archery skills might tremble violently at the mere sight of such waters. And they say this curse passes from parent to child.”

The Young Lord laughed derisively,

“There are some strange diseases indeed. Surely Shikibu isn’t suffering from that so-called water epilepsy—but what do you say, Tako? If we two sneak ahead and charge our horses into this muddy torrent, vying like Sasaki and Kajiwara at Uji River to reach the far shore first, even that coward Shikibu and the attendants will have no choice but to follow! By all means, we must cross this Ōi River and reach Shimada’s inn today—any failure would disgrace us samurai of the Western Provinces! Tako, onward!” He mounted his steed and tried to plunge into the raging current—so Shikibu, desperate in the lashing rain, threw off his raincoat and hat to cling to the Young Lord’s bridle,

“Stop this! Stop this! I have long known the Ōi River’s bed shifts unpredictably—even seasoned river-crossing laborers frequently misjudge the depths of its rapids and pools. How much more perilous for outsiders like us! Though we possess mountain-moving courage, mere fervor cannot conquer this river. Today, I shall succumb to this so-called water epilepsy or whatever malady it may be—I beg you, take pity on my affliction and postpone the crossing until tomorrow!” he pleaded tearfully.

The true coward Tansaburō, for all his grand talk, found himself reeling when the Young Lord barked, "Tako! Onward!" When told by the Young Lord, “Tako! Onward!”, he grew dizzy and began pacing frantically, thinking, “What do I do now?” But when Shikibu admonished the Young Lord, he sighed in relief and forced a strange smile onto his pallid face. “Tch, what a shame,” he said.

That backfired.
That nonsensical remark only further enraged the Young Lord.

“Tako!
“Shikibu is a coward.
Never mind that! Onward!” cried the Young Lord. Noticing Shikibu’s loosened grip, he whipped his horse and—with the reckless courage of one who would wrestle tigers barehanded and ford raging rivers—plunged bodily into the muddy torrent with a great splash.
Shikibu too now resigned himself to their fate,

“Now! Follow the Young Lord!”
“Follow the Young Lord!” he fiercely commanded the attendants.
All thirty of the sturdy attendant warriors drove their steeds one after another into the muddy torrent without a moment’s hesitation, parting the great waves as they chased after the Young Lord.

On the shore remained Tansaburō and surveillance officer Shikibu along with his son.
Tansaburō, trembling violently, firmly grasped Katsutarō’s hand,

“You’re so insensitive. You have no consideration whatsoever. The truth is, I’m worse with horses than anything. Everything’s a mess,” he cried in a tearful voice.

Shikibu quietly surveyed the surroundings, confirmed that nothing had been left behind, then turned to Tansaburō,

“All this trouble stems from your words.”
“But there’s no point dwelling on that now.”
“We must follow the Young Lord at once.”
“Whether we’ll even reach the far shore alive in this deluge is anyone’s guess.”
“Yet when we departed our domain, your honored father Lord Tango entreated me: ‘Tansaburō remains but a child, and this being his first journey, I beg your care in all matters.’”
“I could never forget those words—day after day I’ve endured through clenched teeth to watch over you.”
“Should any harm befall you in crossing this torrent now, all my labors until today would vanish like foam upon water.”
“I’ve reserved the sturdiest horse for your use.”
“My son Katsutarō shall lead the way to sound the shallows—you need only cling to the horse’s neck and follow his path.”
“I’ll guard your rear closely, so fret not. Even if great waves crash over you, stay calm and never release the horse’s neck,” he urged with measured calm—and even this fool seemed to regain some glimmer of human sense.

"I'm sorry," he said, then burst into unrestrained tears.

With those words of entrustment—"I leave everything to you"—he first sent his son Katsutarō ahead, then had Tansaburō ride across on a specially selected horse, while pressing close behind them himself. They navigated through the whirling rapids, and after great hardship, when they had nearly reached the shore and were beginning to feel momentary relief—struck by a small side wave—Tansaburō's saddle overturned. Leaving behind only a faint cry of "Ah!", he drifted far away bobbing in the current, vanishing without a trace before anyone could react.

Shikibu reached the shore in a daze and looked to find the Young Lord safe and sound, while his son Katsutarō too had climbed ashore unharmed and now attended by the Young Lord's side.

There is nothing in this world as sorrowful as the obligations of the samurai. Shikibu, having steeled his resolve, motioned to Katsutarō.

“I have a request of you.”

“Yes,” he answered, looking up at his father with lucid eyes. He was the most beautiful youth in the household.

“Jump into the current and die.”
“Despite all my efforts, Tansaburō was struck by a side wave—his saddle overturned, and he was swallowed by the current and died.”
“To begin with, that Tansaburō was a child entrusted to us by his father Lord Tango—a child under obligation.”
“If only Tansaburō were to drown and you were to survive, I could not face Lord Tango with my honor as a samurai intact.”
“Understand this.”
“Without waiting for an appointed hour, throw yourself into the river and die this instant,” he declared with a stern face. Katsutarō, ever the samurai’s son, answered with an “Ah!” and without the slightest hesitation leapt into the raging current to meet his end.

Shikibu bowed his head and wept—truly there was nothing in this world as sorrowful as the obligations of the samurai. That single phrase spoken when departing their homeland—"From many people, I choose you to entrust this"—had proven impossible to discard. Though his child was inferior in all things, he had cherished him with utmost care only to meet this unforeseen disaster. He could not face Lord Tango now. The agony of forcing the blameless Katsutarō to die pointlessly before his very eyes... Yet in this hateful world, while Lord Tango had two other sons who might distract him amidst grief, for Shikibu there remained only Katsutarō.

How profound must have been the grief of his mother back home; he himself, bowed by advancing age and having lost Katsutarō, now found no remaining joy or desire in life. Resolving to take monastic vows, he outwardly continued serving the Young Lord without betraying his intent, successfully completed his grand duty of inspecting Ezo, then requested leave from the domain lord. Retiring with his elderly wife to seclusion deep in the mountains of Shimizu in Harima Province—when Lord Tango heard this account and was moved by its resolve, he too abruptly sought and obtained leave. All four—his wife and children—now found living in this world unbearable; they too took vows and prayed for Katsutarō’s repose. Truly, in every age, nothing was as pitiful yet beautiful as the obligations binding samurai.

(Tales of Samurai Duty, Volume 1, Chapter 5: To Die Upon the Same Pillow of Waves)

Bandit Queen

During the Daiei era of Emperor Go-Kashiwabara, a certain notorious bandit from Seigo—feared throughout Mutsu Province—resided near Sasaya Pass along the upper reaches of Sendai’s Natori River. He ambushed travelers to plunder their gold and silver, yet stood apart from common bandits as an uncommonly frugal man who forbade all wasteful spending. Though barely past thirty years of age, he had amassed unfathomable wealth. Sporting a magnificent mustache and carrying himself with grave dignity, he rejected the bear pelts typical of mountain brigands, instead draping crested haori over his tsumugi silk kimono. He even practiced Noh chanting—a refinement that perhaps explained why his speech diverged from Tōhoku dialect into stiff formulations like “such-and-such de gozaru.” A professed misogynist who remained unmarried, he drank freely yet seemed utterly indifferent to women, never once displaying lustful inclinations. When his men occasionally abducted village women, he would frown and declare, “To dally with base wenches brings shame upon men of honor,” immediately ordering their return. Hearing his subordinates crudely jest that “the boss’s woman-hating is a flaw in the jewel,” he merely smirked wryly, muttering, “Sendai lacks comely women,” before sighing deeply—a man whose lofty tastes ill-suited his bandit station.

One spring, this man commanded five presentable subordinates to shed their bear pelts, forbade face coverings, and clad them in crested robes with Sendai-hira trousers. Leading this retinue to the capital, he lodged like an eastern country magnate in the finest inns, idly sightseeing Kyoto by day. The gold he had hoarded so stingily now scattered freely, as if reserved for this very occasion. Yet even wordless blossoms soon bored him, and he descended upon Shimabara to gaze at Kyoto’s famed courtesans arrayed like a constellation of stars. One lustful subordinate groaned “Ugh!”, foamed at the mouth, and collapsed backward—sparking frantic cries of “Water! Medicine! Remove his trousers!”—a commotion hardly unreasonable given the dazzling spectacle. But the magnate only sighed wearily and muttered, “Even the capital lacks true beauties.”

The vast capital had grown cramped under the weight of gossip, and this bandit’s extravagance swiftly permeated Kyoto until passersby all bowed to the so-called “mustachioed magnate.” Yet the man himself remained sullen-faced, soon tiring even of Shimabara’s diversions. Daily he wandered the capital’s avenues with his men in tow—until one day, glimpsing a woman’s figure through a crack in an old mansion’s crumbling earthen wall, he froze. His fan snapped shut as he heaved his shoulders like a shifting hillock in a violent sigh, unconsciously groaning “Shibarashii!” in thick Tohoku dialect. Still he gaped like a fool at the young maiden beneath blossoming pear trees, playing handball with an elegant boy who might have been her brother.

The following day, the mustachioed magnate thoroughly instructed his five subordinates, had them bring an abundance of treasures such as gold, silver, damasks, and brocades, dispatched them to the earthen-walled house, and initiated an exceedingly abrupt yet forceful negotiation to secure the princess’s hand in marriage by any means necessary.

The old master of the house, who hailed from a somewhat distinguished court noble lineage and had once enjoyed considerable prosperity, had ruined himself through excessive ambition—constantly seeking higher status, hosting lavish banquets for prominent officials day and night, only to be mocked and stripped of all wealth until nothing remained. Now powerless even to prop up his crumbling earthen wall and showing early signs of paralysis, he passed each day scribbling clumsy waka poems about life’s illusory nature on scraps of paper to vent his bitterness. Though initially bewildered by this sudden marriage proposal, gazing at the mountainous pile of gold and silver treasures before him stirred his habitual vanity: With this, I could feast dignitaries again and rise gloriously in society! The mustachioed magnate was, after all, the talk of Kyoto—rumored to be a wealthy young heir from distant eastern lands. A country bumpkin matters not if rich—this match is no ill fortune. True to the adage “poverty breeds greed,” his resolve wavered. That day, he lavished charm upon the envoys, deferring a final answer while replying: “In gratitude for today’s gifts, I shall visit your master’s lodgments tomorrow.”

The subordinates, thinking Got them! With that response, it’s settled, nodded to each other all the way back. And when they reported this outcome to their master, the bandit leader sneered with a fearsome grin and said, “How unexpectedly fragile he proves to be.”

The following day, the old master of the earthen-walled house visited the bandits’ Kyoto lodgings wearing an eboshi hat and absurdly pompous attire. In genuine courtly honorifics, he expressed gratitude for yesterday’s gifts, became instantly enamored with the bandit leader’s dignified bearing and splendid mustache, and—though intending only to offer thanks—blurted out unprompted: “Though my daughter is unrefined…” The bandit leader could only smile wryly at this Kyoto-style frivolity. Yet the day’s feast towered like mountains, with gifts surpassing even yesterday’s haul. The earthen-walled master forgot his eboshi in his cloud-walking euphoria as he returned home, summoned his daughter, and lectured her brutally: “A woman has no home in the three realms—this is not your house! Your brother will inherit it—you’re unnecessary here! This is what ‘no home’ means!” When she wept, he roared: “Why cry? I found you a splendid husband! Sniveling makes you unfilial!” His palsy-trembling arm feigned striking her. “Kyoto men are pale paupers! Easterners look hairy and foolish but dote on women! Go! To the mountains or wherever! Your dead mother would rejoice! Don’t fret about me—I’ll rise again!” Ranting about “no home” and “nowhere to belong,” he rashly finalized the marriage without investigating the groom’s lineage, blindly trusting Kyoto’s gossip about this “mustachioed magnate.” The seventeen-year-old daughter lamented her fate—exiled to distant Mutsu, rumored near Ezo—and wept lifelessly as they placed her in a palanquin. Her father alone reveled grotesquely, precariously mounting a horse to escort her to Kyoto’s outskirts while envisioning future glories. His distracted “Farewells!” still hung in the air when he returned home—only to drop dead of heart failure five days later. Such is human destiny’s unknowability.

Meanwhile, the seventeen-year-old daughter—still unaware of her father’s pitiful sudden death—was borne eastward in a palanquin along the highway. Each time she stared at her groom’s mustache, inexpressible terror would seize her and she would weep; hearing her escorts’ rough Tohoku dialect shattered her courage and she wept again; passing Edo and nearing Sendai, though spring had come, she wept at the sight of lingering snow on mountain peaks. By the time they reached the old mountain stronghold after giving the bandits considerable trouble, her eyes were swollen raw from crying until her face resembled a monkey’s. The bandit underlings lost interest, but their leader tenderly nursed her himself. When her eyes finally healed, she grew somewhat attached to him and settled into calmness, gradually coming to understand the Tohoku dialect until she even smiled unwittingly at the men’s crude jokes. Upon learning of her husband’s wicked livelihood, she stiffened momentarily—yet A woman has no home in the three realms, and even if she fled this place, Kyoto’s skies lay beyond reckoning. Women in such straits grow bold; resigning herself to so be it, she found it not wholly unpleasant when treated kindly by her husband and deferred to as “mistress” by his men. Unnoticed, she succumbed to corruption: some wives see their husbands’ every deed as laughably foolish, others find each act heroically splendid—all wicked wives. This Kyoto-born beauty seemed of the latter sort, for as she grew accustomed to her husband’s detestable exploits, they struck her as strangely valiant and reliable. When he returned from a job, she’d eagerly wash his feet and ask with a laugh, “What spoils today?” Spreading robes plundered from travelers, she’d remark airily, “This is too gaudy for me—next time fetch something plainer.” Narrowing her eyes, she took delight in hearing the men’s brutal tales of valor. Later, donning straw sandals herself, she followed her husband without qualms to aid his crimes until becoming a base-born bandit queen through and through. Her face remained as beautiful as ever, but her eyes now held an unpleasant glint—and when squatting by the well to zealously hone her husband’s machete, she exuded an ogress-like intensity.

In time, even this bandit queen became pregnant. She gave birth to a pale-skinned girl with small crimson lips—Harue, a Kyoto-style beauty. Two years later came another daughter: Onatsu, dark-complexioned like her father, with upturned eyes and a stubborn face. Neither girl could have known their mother carried court noble blood—truly proving how unreliable human nature is, that nurture outweighs lineage. They blithely assumed these mountain depths were their ancestral home, racing wildly across slopes like demon children at play. Their games were no innocent make-believe: one would act the traveler, the other the bandit. “Halt!” one would shout. “Which do you value more—your life or your gold?” The other would shriek “Help!” and scramble down cliffs to escape, only to be caught amid raucous laughter.

Shouting “Help!”, one would slide down steep cliffs to escape while the other chased after her with “Halt!”, catching her amid uproarious laughter. Their mother watched without sorrow—instead giving them naginatas to practice slaughtering travelers—their heaven-defying wickedness foretelling a dreadful end. And indeed, when Harue was eighteen and Onatsu sixteen that winter, divine punishment struck their bandit father: an avalanche crushed his body to bone dust beneath the snow, leaving a sight too gruesome to behold. Yet even as mother and daughters grieved, their underlings revealed their villainous nature—absconding with every last coin, tool, and scrap of food their leader had hoarded—until the family was left destitute in the snowbound mountains.

“It’s nothing!” declared the spirited O-Natsu cheerfully, encouraging her mother and sister. “Let’s keep taking down travelers like before.”

“But,” remarked Harue, the older sister who was slightly more reserved compared to her younger sibling, “just women alone won’t do. On the contrary, we’d be the ones getting our clothes stripped off.”

“Coward, coward! If you go dressed as men and carry swords, it’s nothing! If you call out in a thick, manly voice—‘Hey there!’—any traveler’s sure to tremble in fear. But samurai are scary though. If we pick targets like old men and women, women traveling alone, or lecherous merchants to threaten, we’re sure to succeed! Isn’t that exciting? I’ll go wearing that bear pelt over my head.”

Innocence and evil are separated by a mere hair’s breadth.

“I hope it goes well,” Harue said with a wistful smile. “Anyway, let’s give it a try.”
“We don’t care what happens to us, but if you get hurt, it’ll be a disaster—so you stay here and wait quietly for our spoils,” they told their mother. Even these mountain-raised daughters seemed to retain some instinctive filial care, for from that day onward, the two girls donned men’s attire—the mischievous younger sister went out with a soot-drawn mustache mimicking their father’s—and began hunting down vulnerable townsfolk and villagers to threaten. With feminine meticulousness, they stripped victims not only of gold coins from their sleeves but every last possession: rice balls, handkerchiefs, amulets, flints, even toothpicks. Returning home, they delighted more in their looted purses’ striped patterns than the coins within, gradually growing zealous in this wretched trade until they became true bandits at heart. Finding mere ambushes on snowy passes too meager for sport, they boldly pushed into villages—ecstatic to obtain trivial hairpins from country women. Harue, now eighteen and slightly gentler than her tomboyish sister, sometimes lamented her ragged male guise, secretly tying a red sash beneath her bear pelt that stirred her youthful heart. One day after threatening a traveling silk merchant near the village and acquiring two bolts of white fabric—one for each sister—she hurried home through twilight snowdrifts cradling her share. As she walked, Harue thought: *New Year approaches—I must have festive robes! A girl needs beauty to make living worthwhile. If I dye this silk wisteria-purple for spring wear...but without lining...if only I had that other bolt I gave O-Natsu!* Her craving flared uncontrollably—she wanted back the silk she’d so readily shared.

“O-Natsu,” she asked, her heart pounding as she tried to sound casual. “What are you planning to do with this white silk?”

“What do you mean, Sis? I’m going to make lots of headbands with this.”
“A white silk headband looks brave—makes you seem like a proper boss.”
“Father always wore one when he went out working too,” she added breezily.

“Oh, how crude.
“Come now, be a good girl and let Sis have it, won’t you?
“Next time we get something nice, I’ll give you everything.”

“No way!” O-Natsu shook her head vehemently. “No, no. I’ve wanted a pure white headband for ages. When scaring travelers, if I don’t even have a white headband on, I can’t get fired up—it just doesn’t feel right.”

“Don’t say such foolish things—please, I beg of you.”

“No way! Sis, you’re being so persistent.”

An awkward tension had arisen. However, the harsher O-Natsu’s rejection grew, the more Harue’s entire body burned with desire. Though considered calmer than her sister, it was precisely those usually calm who, when driven to desperation, committed atrocities of shocking cruelty. Having inherited their bandit father’s vicious blood, they now spent their days imitating him—women though they were—by threatening travelers to survive. Harue’s chest grew turbulent; already transformed, she smiled calmly on the surface while—

“I’m sorry, I don’t need it anymore,” she said while glancing around, intending to kill her younger sister and seize the silk—she’d wounded travelers with the sword at her waist more than once, so slaying her sister now would be no different—she absolutely had to make that festive kimono. Not just this time—splitting every precious haul of sashes or combs with this tomboyish sister was absurd, wasteful—a hateful nuisance. Stab her, take the silk, return home and tell Mother they’d encountered a fierce traveler who’d killed poor O-Natsu—simple enough. Yes—strike now while her guard was down. As her hand gripped the sword hilt—

“Sis! I’m scared!” The younger sister clung to her older sister.

“Wh-what?” the older sister asked in panic. When the younger sister pointed to the valley floor beneath the evening gloom, she saw it was the villagers’ cemetery—where they were currently cremating one of their dead. The smoke rising from the burning corpse was unnaturally black. Listening closely, they could hear ominous crackling sounds. A gust of wind carried an indescribable stench. Even these bandit women broke out in goosebumps and clung tightly to each other. The older sister instinctively recited a Buddhist prayer—All human ends come to this burning. Robes and possessions alike are fleeting—suddenly contemplating life’s impermanence. Shuddering anew at her own terrifying thoughts, she threw the bolt of silk she clutched toward the funeral pyre’s smoke below. The younger sister immediately did the same, then burst into wailing tears.

“I’m sorry, Sis. I’m a bad girl,” she said. “I was thinking of killing you just now, Sis. Sis! I’m sixteen already. I want a beautiful kimono. But because I’m such a plain-looking girl, I thought if I tried to dress up, I’d be laughed at—so I deliberately kept acting like a boy. I’m sorry. Sis—I wanted a festive New Year’s kimono so badly. I was going to dye my silk plum-red and use yours as the lining. Sis—I’m terrible—I planned to stab you with my sword and tell Mother travelers killed you. When I saw that cremation smoke just now, everything became horrible—I don’t even want to live anymore.” The older sister stared in shock,

“What are you saying? Whether to forgive or not—that’s mine to decide.”
“It was me—I meant to kill you and take the silk! But seeing that smoke made me so wretched I threw my own bolt into the valley!” she cried, clutching her sister fiercely as tears spilled forth.

Stunned and shamed—born women in this transient world yet living such depravity, terrified of karmic retribution—they vowed to renounce earthly desires that very hour. Casting swords and bear pelts into the funeral pyre below, they wept their way back to the mountain hideout. After confessing everything to their watchkeeping mother and demanding her resolve, she too awoke from two decades’ nightmare, finally disclosing her own noble lineage while lamenting their present degradation. She severed her black tresses first; not to be outdone, both daughters shaved their heads—now three nuns. They torched their foul former lair, descended to Sasaya Pass’s temple to prostrate before an aged monk, clung to his robe’s hem chanting prayers day and night, and devoutly mourned their slain travelers. Yet for all this show of piety—could Buddha truly absolve two generations’ accumulated sins?

*(New Laughable Tales, Volume 5, Part 4: Female Bandits from the Womb)*

Red Drum

In the Nishijin textile district of the capital long ago, where rows of weavers' homes stood competing in their craft, there lived Tokubei—a man whose name evoked blessings yet who inexplicably lived hand-to-mouth in constant anxiety, never exceeding two gō of evening sake. He remained faithfully married for nineteen years without ever keeping company with other women, his sole indulgence being hasty shogi games with apprentices between work—always finishing within a single match to save time. Never missing deadlines, ever diligent in all matters with a robust wife and healthy children, he knew no illness save a three-day fever at twenty from a worm-eaten molar. Though frugal, he maintained social obligations and earned repute among fellow craftsmen as an upright man; devout to gods and buddhas, committing no wrongs through forty years of life. Yet perpetual poverty clung to him—a common enough affliction called "poverty-stricken nature"—though even so, the neighborhood leaders would whisper to their wives at bedtime: "That such a good man remains untouched by the God of Fortune shows this floating world holds unknowable truths," all while secretly relieved at their own households' modest prosperity.

Before long, Tokubei’s poverty grew dire, leaving him no recourse but to flee under cover of night by year’s end. When he secretly sold off his tools, the neighborhood leaders caught wind of it. Unable to abandon their long-standing ties, they discreetly inquired about his situation—whereupon he tearfully confessed his resolve to abscond, overwhelmed by a mere seventy or eighty ryō in debt.

The neighborhood leaders laughed,

“What’s this? For a mere seventy or eighty ryō in debt, there’s no need to destroy this generations-old shop.”
“We’ll handle everything for this year-end—just try to hang on a little longer.”
“Next year, you must make this household bloom with success.”
“You can still make it in time to splurge on New Year’s gifts for your children and prepare plain light-yellow work clothes without family crests for your apprentices. Don’t worry about money—leave everything to us and ring in the new year with all-out extravagance, as if aboard a great ship.”
“You too, madam—stop that sniveling. What a waste of such lovely hair! Tie it up properly and keep your disheveled appearance hidden—that’s a wife’s duty.”
“We’ve already bought three salted salmon for New Year’s at our house—we’ll have one delivered right away.”
“Laughter brings good fortune.”
“This house is too damn gloomy.”
“Come—open all the shutters, sweep out every speck of this year’s dust, then sit back and wait for the God of Fortune to come waltzing in.”
“We’ll handle everything,” they declared with forced cheer. After consulting nearby craftsmen, ten companions each carrying ten ryō in gold coins and provisions rushed through the busy night of December 26th to Tokubei’s house. They made him bring out a one-shō masu box, ceremoniously pouring ten ryō each until a hundred clinked inside. One leader laughed with godlike cheer—“Tokubei! Here’s a hundred ryō! Make it a thousand by year’s end!”—thrusting the box forward. Another adopted solemnity, placed the masu on the household altar, clapped sharply, and prayed: “Ebisu and Daikoku—remember this hundred ryō! Make interest breed interest! Return it a hundredfold by next year’s end—else we’ll bind you as embezzlers and drown you in the river!” Raucous laughter followed. The craftsmen’s camaraderie outshone their charity as they abandoned speeches for their feast—a year-forgetting revelry where Tokubei wandered aimlessly, kicking lunchboxes in joy, bowing excessively until crimson-faced. For the first time in his life, he drank over two gō of sake and wept drunkenly. Others—electrified by heroism—gulped liquor despite being teetotalers, some crassly boasting “This sake’s mine! Drink or lose out!” A dandy swayed to folk songs; a bearded man muttered about the nation’s future; a runt bragged of weaving skills while others jeered “Hacks!” One performed a bizarre “plastering dance” with pursed lips though none watched. Another—pale and bloodshot—leaned against the sliding door glaring silently until men grew uneasy. When he suddenly stood, they feared a brawl—but he only groaned, dashed down the corridor, and vomited in the garden.
Drinking gatherings end alike across eras—dissolving into chaos where everyone carries each other like boneless animals, dropping haori jackets and mismatching sandals. “Auspicious! Auspicious!” they babbled while returning home, leaving Tokubei sprawled like a wolf in storm-swept wilderness, snoring thunderously. His wife sat dazed mid-room, resolving to clean tomorrow yet glancing at the altar masu with swelling joy. Securing every door with heavy locks after sending servants to bed, she shook Tokubei awake: “No time for contented snoring! Let’s calculate repayments tonight to honor our neighbors’ kindness.” Thrusting ledger and abacus at him, Tokubei blearily opened eyes—even drunk, debt demons had tormented him—but now jolted awake realizing: *I’m a man with a hundred ryō!* Courage surging thousandfold, he sat bolt upright.

“Right—it’s time! Hand me the abacus! Damn that Hachiemon the rice merchant—he’s a branch of my ancestors’ house, yet he’s forgotten all duty, kindness, and human feeling! No one hounded me for debts more relentlessly than him! Just you wait—when that bastard comes next time, I’ll smack koban coins against his wrinkled face! From next year on, no matter how much he flatters me, I’ll pretend not to hear and buy my rice with cash from Yoshichi next door! And on my way back, I’ll take a piss right in front of his house!”
“Anyway, take down that masu from the altar.”
“Let’s admire the golden hue properly for the first time in ages!” Tokubei declared boisterously, sitting cross-legged. His wife eagerly stood up and retrieved the one-shō masu box from the household altar—only to find it empty, not a single koban coin remaining.
The couple stood aghast—turning the masu upside down, tapping it, crawling about the room, pulling down the entire household altar to flip the sacred object over with sacrilegious disregard—but even after searching with bloodshot desperation, not a single koban coin could be found.

“It’s settled then—there’s nothing left,” the husband declared. “Enough. Stop searching. It’s not like mice could’ve made off with every last koban from a full masu. The God of Fortune has forsaken us. Truly, ours is a house devoid of fortune.” But frustration swelled in his chest. “What a fine joke indeed. What about Hachiemon’s account? The fleeting joy only makes the bitterness afterward cut deeper!” He clutched his stomach as tears streamed down his face.

His wife also grew flustered, her voice tearful,

“Oh my, what should we do? How dreadful—some people go so far as to play such cruel tricks. They give us money to make us happy, only to take it back right away—it’s too cruel!”

“What are you saying? Do you think someone stole it?”

“Well, it’s wrong to suspect others—but gold coins don’t just melt away into thin air on their own. From evening onward, aside from those ten guests, no one else came in or out of this room. As soon as they left, I locked the front door—”

“No, no—you mustn’t think such terrible thoughts,” he said. “The gold coins were spirited away by the gods.”
“It’s due to our lack of faith.”
“Suspecting such kind-hearted neighbors is unthinkable.”
“We must be grateful just to have been allowed a glimpse of a hundred ryō in gold.”
“Besides, I got to drink that much sake for the first time in my life, and we’ve long resigned ourselves to having no money,” he said with forced reasonableness. Yet when he thought of tomorrow’s livelihood, it felt like plunging headlong into hell. “Ah, even so—to laugh and cry all in one night. What a farcical existence I’ve become,” he sniffled.

The wife could no longer bear it and broke down in tears,

“We’ve been made into perfect fools.”
“They pretended to bestow a hundred ryō upon us, then sneakily took it back—no doubt sticking out their red tongues in mockery even now.”
“Yes, all ten of them conspired together—their scheme was to flaunt a hundred ryō before us, drink sake while delighting in the sight of us weeping and bowing in supplication!”
“There’s a limit to mocking people!”
“Doesn’t it gall you?”
“I’m so ashamed I can’t go on living in this world.”

“Do not speak ill of our benefactors.”
“I too have come to loathe this world.”
“But dying while resenting others plants seeds for hell.”
“If I must die to atone for losing the hundred ryō through my own carelessness, then I’m prepared.”

“What use is logic now?”
“Let me fall to hell—I care not.”
“I’ll die clutching this grudge.”
“After such cruel mockery makes us society’s jesters—how could we keep living?”

“Enough—say no more.”
“Let’s just die.”
“We cannot possibly accuse our fleeting benefactors—no, even suspecting them would be improper. Yet we’ve no means to go on living like this. Wife—without another word, let us die together.”
“In this world, I’ve caused you hardship, but they say husband and wife span two lifetimes.”

In this world where even the next moment lay shrouded in darkness—immediately after the joyous feast—Tokubei and his wife resolved to die, their two children likewise steeled to join this final journey. The wife adorned herself in the white underkimono she had kept at the bottom of the long chest despite their poverty, facing the mirror to stroke the black hair praised since her youth while lamenting nineteen years of shared dawn-lit dreams. Regaining composure, she quietly roused the children: the older girl mumbled sleepily, “Mama, is it New Year’s already?” while the younger boy asked, “Will you buy me a spinning top today, Papa?”

Blinded by tears and unable to speak, the couple seated their children before the family altar. With trembling hands, they lit ritual oil lamps, and all four—parents and children—pressed their palms together in prayer to their ancestors’ spirits, resolved that this was their end. At that moment, the nursemaid came clattering out, seized the two children under her arms, and pressed her cheeks fiercely against theirs. “Too cruel! Too cruel!” she wailed without restraint. “What are you doing, you masters? I’ve heard everything! If you must die, die alone! What crime have these precious young master and young mistress committed? Heartless parents! Too cruel! I’ll take them and raise them myself! If you’re determined to die, then hurry up and do it alone!” Her cries roused the neighbors, scattering the couple’s suicide plans into disarray. The neighborhood leaders soon arrived to investigate, shocked by the situation. After private deliberation, they concluded: “As the couple said—no one besides us ten entered that room that night. We’ve never heard of koban coins being blown away by wind. To suggest we conspired maliciously to torment them is preposterous! All ten of us acted righteously on that busy New Year’s Eve, generously contributing ten ryō each. We cannot suspect anyone among us—to voice such accusations would plunge the town into chaos. Men might even disembowel themselves to prove innocence! Yet a hundred ryō is no small sum, and we cannot abandon that couple to ruin.” Thus deeming the matter beyond their capacity, they secretly petitioned the authorities to investigate the missing gold.

The official tasked with investigating this mysterious incident was the renowned magistrate Lord Itakura. Considering both the scant remaining days of the year and potential disruptions to livelihoods, he decreed that inquiries would commence on the twenty-fifth day of the first month. Until then, none of those ten men were permitted to leave the province. When spring’s twenty-fifth day arrived, an official notice was issued: each man must present himself accompanied by his wife; those without wives were to bring instead one female relative—be it a sister, niece, aunt, or whichever woman stood closest in kinship—before the authorities.

Some grumbled in vulgar tones: “What trouble our compassion brought! My father’s will warned against mingling with paupers—how right he was! To discard ten ryō then get summoned to court—nonsense! Truly, compassion breeds loss.” Nevertheless, they timidly brought their wives to the courtroom where Lord Itakura, laughing, made the ten men draw lots to determine their order. Following this sequence, he inscribed ten pairs of names on a large sheet to create a ranking list posted before the courthouse. Straightening his posture with solemnity, he began his stern decree:

“Regarding this matter of the missing hundred ryō in gold coins—first and foremost, your negligence in failing to notice the loss despite being present must be attributed to having greedily overindulged in drink until thoroughly intoxicated.”
“While temperance matters, if you must assist others, do so plainly without pretense.”
“To persistently drink before those you’ve ‘saved’ and revel in your own charity is despicable.”
“True compassion would have been to leave the couple alone to tally their debts.”
“Half-hearted pity only breeds sin.”
“Take heed henceforth.”
As punishment, they were ordered thus: beginning today, one couple daily—following the posted ranking—must carry this drum via pole through the magistrate’s gate west two blocks, traverse the cedar grove, walk three blocks through fields, climb the slope to Hachiman Shrine for a talisman, then return directly.” The group balked at this unprecedented sentence but complied—thus began their absurd drum-laden pilgrimages.
Gossip spread swiftly through sharp-eared townsfolk. “Has Lord Itakura gone senile?” scoffed know-it-alls. “Ignoring the theft to punish with shrine drums—madness! Even he couldn’t solve it, resorting to half-measures!” An elder countered gravely: “Nay—it’s profound piety! In China, couples carried drums praying for sick parents!” Pressed—“Which text?”—he bluffed: “I forget, but it exists!” before glaring: “Respect your elders!” Crowds swarmed the courthouse chanting “Show us!” When couples emerged bearing drums, some cheered “Bravo!”, others catcalled “Splendid act!”—all dispersed by guards banning spectators. The couples fumed: “What karma forces this drum trudge? Infuriating!” Wives especially seethed: “First our fools squandered ten ryō on New Year’s Eve, dragged us to court, now we’re laughingstocks—unbearable!”
The drum itself worsened matters—crimson-lacquered with gilded celestial dancers blazing under sun, mortifyingly garish.
Its four-to barrel bulk proved grueling even for two.
Wives initially bore it solemnly, but upon reaching the deserted cedar grove, complaints flowed freely.

“Ah, this is heavy.”
“What about you?”
“Isn’t it heavy?”
“You’re walking along looking ridiculously pleased with yourself.”
“This isn’t a festival, you know!”
“We’re not children, yet here we are carrying this garish red drum on a shrine pilgrimage—Lord Itakura must be truly spiteful.”
“Oh, enough! I want nothing more to do with helping others!”
“You’re just using helping others as an excuse to drink and make a ruckus, aren’t you?”
“Ridiculous.”
“On top of that, being made to carry this red drum and turned into a fine spectacle—”

“Now, don’t say that. It’s all a matter of perspective. How about that crowd in front of the magistrate’s office earlier? In all my born days, I’ve never been cheered on by so many people! We’re popular, we are!”

“What are you talking about? No wonder you’ve been fidgeting since morning—changing kimonos three times over, then dabbing on powder too! Admit it!”

“Don’t spout nonsense. Don’t be absurd,” the husband deflected, flustered. “But what splendid weather we’re having.”

The next day’s pair was the neighborhood leader who had initiated the charity and his eighteen-year-old daughter.

“Father,” said the eighteen-year-old daughter who had taken charge of household affairs after her mother’s death and now zealously managed her father’s every need, her breathing heavy with exertion.
“Mother must be weeping beneath the grasses of the afterlife, watching us make this splendid spectacle of ourselves.”
“You may deserve this punishment, Father—but forcing me to carry one end of this gaudy red drum like some street performer? Mother will surely return as a vengeful spirit to haunt you.”

“Don’t try to scare me. It’s not like I’m carrying this drum for fun, and forcing a young lady like you to shoulder this riddle of a contraption troubles my conscience.”

“Listen to you!”
“‘Troubles my conscience’? Where did you learn such a refined phrase?”
“How ridiculous.”
“This drum suits you perfectly, Father.”
“Since you adore gaudy things, red becomes you splendidly.”
“I’ll have a crimson haori made for you next time.”

“Don’t you go teasing me.”
“I’m no daruma doll—you can’t just wear a red happi coat even to festivals.”

“But you’re always fidgeting like it’s festival season year-round—people were gossiping behind your back, calling you a festival nut.”

“Who’s the bastard? Who said that?
“I won’t let this slide.”

“It was me. I’m the one who said it. You’re always scheming to stir up some festival-like commotion by making the neighborhood hold meetings for this and that. Serves you right. That’s what you get. The Magistrate is truly wise after all. He must’ve seen through your festival-obsessed ways—making you carry this bright red festival drum to punish and reform you, no doubt.”

“Damn you! If I weren’t lugging this drum, I’d beat you senseless—curse it all! Just because I took pity on Tokubei and flaunted my natural leadership, look where it’s landed me—nothing but trouble.”

“Your natural disposition?”
“Your leadership qualities?”
“How absurd, Father.”
“The fact you’d say such things yourself proves you’re senile.”
“You need to get a better grip on yourself.”

“Shut your trap, you brat!”

The following day’s couple,

“You’re rather a strange one, aren’t you? You’re usually so stingy—someone who’s always mooching off guests’ tobacco—yet this time you went and handed over a huge sum like ten ryō without batting an eye.”

“Well now, the world of men follows different principles,” the husband began pompously. “To see righteousness yet not act shows cowardice. My daily frugality was all preparation for such charitable—”

“Enough of your nonsense!” The wife cut him off. “I know everything! You’ve always had strange praise for Mr. Tokubei’s wife—you fancy her, don’t you? At your age—making that face like a demon startled by its own sneeze—how utterly ridiculous! Don’t think I’m blind! Three grandchildren you’ve got, yet still making eyes at the neighbor’s wife! Are you even human? Do you know nothing of decency? Oh, I see through you! Because of your idiocy we’re stuck carrying this cursed drum—ah! My neuralgia’s flaring up again! Starting tomorrow, you’ll cook the rice! You’ll chop the firewood! Stir the bran-miso! Haul five buckets from the distant well each morning—serve you right! Having such a fool for a husband has shaved ten years off my life!” she shrieked.

The next day’s pair fared no better—women overflowed with grievances while men endured vulgar abuse. Some men resigned themselves to Confucian maxims (“Women and small men are hard to manage!”), others stormed home to beat their wives and stage divorce theatrics. The couple assigned a snowy day suffered doubly—the wife’s laments reached fever pitch, both caught colds, and lay coughing side by side while trading vicious insults. In the end, the drum punishment achieved nothing but exposing women’s sharp tongues.

After all ten groups had completed their punishments, a new summons was issued to everyone. When the sullen, pouting assembly appeared in the gravel court, Lord Itakura beamed,

“Well now, you have endured much hardship this time. As recompense for drum-carrying labors—modest though it may be—accept this token of gratitude from this magistrate. Forgive my presumption, but receive it with smiles. It seems some couples even took ill abed for days—though surely recovered by now—so I’ve prepared separate convalescence gifts. Take these without reservation. Your pooling of ten ryō each to rescue a comrade from destitution marks rare nobility in these times—let this charitable spirit endure. Yet I burdened you with that heavy drum and watched men thoroughly bested by their wives’ tongues—for which I offer sympathy. Let all grievances flow downstream; henceforth devote yourselves harmoniously to household trades.”

“Now—among you was one pair: upon entering cedar woods with drum in tow, the wife raged demon-like, cataloging her husband’s past indiscretions. Though he pleaded, her shrieks crescendoed until, near fields beyond the grove, he whispered strangely: ‘Cease noise and grudges! Bear the drum’s trial a little longer. The hundred ryō gold is ours—check the cupboard drawer at home.’ The speaker surely recalls this.”

“No—I wield no mystic arts. That crimson drum proved heavy indeed because I’d concealed a young monk within. From him I learned particulars. Naming the culprit here would be simple—yet even he likely joined your noble effort with true compassion before drink loosened his hand. I spare his life. Let him feel official mercy: tonight, unseen, discard those hundred ryō before Tokubei’s dwelling. Thereafter, let shame guide him—if capable—to quit the capital. No further directives from authorities. Rise, all.”

“That concludes my statement.”

(*Honchō Ōin Hiji*, Volume 1, Part 4: *The Drum’s Hidden Truth: Ignorance Begets Consequence*)

“In all matters, there is such a thing as patience,” he declared. “You must not forget this mindset. It must be tough, but endure it. After night comes morning. After winter comes spring. It’s all settled. The world continues through yin and yang, yin and yang, yin and yang. Happiness and misfortune are next-door neighbors. Terrible misfortune’s immediate neighbor is the great auspiciousness of returning yang. You mustn’t forget this principle. Next year will bring great fortune without fail. Then you’ll ride in palanquins to every theater intermission. I’ll permit such luxuries.” With these empty pronouncements, he finished his meager breakfast and stood up. Maintaining false solemnity, he threw on his haori, tucked in his short sword, and steeled himself to flee their debt-choked home—for today was New Year’s Eve.

Though every coin mattered this day, he scraped the handbox’s bottom for two ichibu-gin coins and thirty silver pieces, stuffing them into his purse. “I’ve left some money. Set aside your New Year’s allowance from this, then dribble the rest to debt collectors. When it’s gone, just sleep. Lie facing away so you don’t see their faces—it eases the mind. In all matters, there is patience. Endure just today.” He strode out muttering, “Yin and yang, yin and yang.”

“Lie facing away and pretend to be dead or something.”
“The world is yin and yang, yin and yang,” he muttered dismissively before scurrying out of the house.

Upon leaving home, he suddenly assumed a solemn expression, adjusted his collar, arched his back, and walked with measured steps—affecting the manner of a wealthy lord leisurely observing the commoners' affairs and society's changes.
Yet within his heart, he chaotically invoked every deity's name—from Tenjin-sama and Kannon-sama to Namu Hachiman Daibosatsu, Fudō Myōō Marishiten, Benzaiten Daikokuten, even the Niō guardians—praying desperately: "Have mercy! Let this day's calamity pass! Save me!" His vision darkened completely; goosebumps erupted across his flesh as greasy sweat streamed down his spine. With nowhere in this world to stand, there remained but one destination for a debtor enduring such hellish torment.
The pleasure quarter.
Yet this man owed debts at every teahouse.
Skirting past creditors' establishments with body angled sideways like a crab, he slipped through the kitchen entrance of a grimy teahouse he had never before visited,

“Is the old woman here?” he called out loudly.
The man’s character and bearing were originally not base.
The more distinguished a man’s appearance, the more debts he tended to accumulate.
He grandly entered the kitchen. “Well! This place hasn’t settled its year-end payments yet—look at all these unpaid bills scattered about.”
“Do these promissory notes here amount to thirty or forty ryō altogether?”
“The world varies—some households greet New Year’s Eve unable to settle even thirty or forty ryō in payments. Then there’s my house: a hundred ryō owed to the draper alone. Not that I begrudge the money, but my wife’s clothing indulgences set a poor example for our many servants. This time she simply must exercise restraint.”
While considering sending her back to her hometown as punishment, she had unfortunately become pregnant—and amid today’s New Year’s Eve bustle, gone into labor, throwing the household into chaos since dawn.
“Bringing in a wet nurse before the child’s even born, summoning three or four midwives—absurd!”
“To begin with, marrying into a wealthy family was my mistake.”
“From my wife’s family came crowds of well-wishers this morning—ascetics performing prayers—while we called three or four midwives ourselves. Still insufficient, we brought a doctor to wait in the next room with some sort of early labor medicine simmering away.”
“Claiming they needed charms for an easy birth, they sent people scurrying everywhere for cowrie shells, seahorses, mushroom stems—nonsensical things! I’ve grown thoroughly weary of rich people’s extravagant fuss.”
“They say masters shouldn’t stay home at such times—a fortunate excuse to come scampering here.”
“I might as well have been fleeing debt collectors.”
“Since it’s New Year’s Eve, there must be others like me about.”
“Pitiful creatures.”
“What could they be feeling?”
“Even drinking sake wouldn’t help them get drunk.”
“Ah well—people differ!” He gave a hollow laugh. “Now then—”
“It’s crude to mention, but I’ll pay cash tonight—let me stay here playing discreetly until the child arrives.”
“Occasional discreet fun in small establishments isn’t so bad.”

“Oh, you bought a New Year sea bream.”
“It’s small.”
“You needn’t hold back just because this place is modest.”
“It’s merely for good luck.”
“Why not buy a larger one?” he said airily, tossing an ichibu-gin coin onto the old woman’s lap.

The old woman had smiled and nodded throughout his tale, but inwardly scoffed: What a fool! To spin such outrageous lies! If we trusted customers’ sweet talk, our trade would collapse.
True, some eccentric masters enjoyed flustering us by sneaking through kitchens—but your eyes betrayed you. That furtive glance through our kitchen entrance? Pure debt collector’s gaze.
You were running from creditors.
Every New Year’s Eve brought two or three like you.
The world teemed with your kind.
That iridescent haori and white-hilted dagger might impress strangers—to her eyes, mere pathetic pretensions.
Marrying some crone fifteen years older for her paltry dowry, squandering it all while his bloated wife sat sweating through evening drinks—too lazy to work properly, pawning everything in sight. Making his mother grind cheap rice, his brother peddle rancid beans—then glaring when Grandma ate too much of their wretched meals!
Still—what inventiveness! Four midwives? A doctor brewing early labor potions? Admirable fiction.
We all crave such station, don’t we?
Utter imbecile!
But he did have some coin—and cash-paying customers couldn’t be refused. Let him play lord awhile.
At least this ichibu-gin seemed genuine enough to pocket.

“Oh, how delightful!” The old woman oozed charm as she accepted the ichibu-gin coin. “Rather than buying sea bream, I’ll hide this from my husband to get myself an obi. Ohohoho! I’d braced for the god of poverty this year-end, but then you Daikoku-sama came waltzing in—now next year’s happiness is sealed! My thanks, sir. Now then—goodness, you mustn’t sit in this grimy kitchen! Too refined by half! You’re making me sweat cold with such kindness! Truly now, it’s always you wealthy sirs who fancy kitchen entrances—most inconvenient! A poor household’s kitchen must seem exotic indeed. Well, even elegance has its limits. Please—inside.”

The most terrifying thing in this world was the flattery of a teahouse proprietress.

The master deliberately feigned bashfulness, scratched his head, and said, “No match for you, old woman,” then swayed effeminately as he made his way up to the sitting room.

“Since you’re so particular about food, I mustn’t be careless here. I beg your understanding,” she said with affected elegance.
The old woman grew increasingly appalled within—that face pretending to discern culinary nuances? What nonsense!
Here was a man drowning in debt, gasping like a fish out of water, his pathetic countenance suggesting he couldn’t even blow out a candle—yet putting on airs about gourmet tastes? Laughable.
He’d likely choke on half a bowl of gruel.
Deeming elaborate cooking wasteful, she tossed two eggs into a copper pot, prepared the simplest boiled eggs with salt, and served them with sake—whereupon the man made a strange face,

“Is this an egg?”

“Oh, does it suit your taste? How does it fare?” The old woman remained perfectly composed.

The man, for his part, found himself unable to touch it; crossing his arms, he made a sour face,

“Is this area an egg-producing region? If they have any pedigree, I’d like to hear it.”

The old woman stifled the urge to burst out laughing.

“No pedigree whatsoever for these eggs. This is this old woman’s little gesture, thinking they might be tied to childbirth. And besides—you who’ve grown tired of fine dishes often enjoy boiled eggs during your drunken revelries, ohohoho.”

“Ah, I see.
“No—that’s quite enough.”
“The shape of an egg is always pleasing to behold.
Why don’t we have someone draw a face on this while we’re at it?” he said with an excruciatingly poor jest.
The old woman, understanding the situation, called over one geisha who hadn’t found a client and whispered instructions: though he was an ill-bred, utter fool of a customer, since he still seemed to have some money left, he might bring in a bit of earnings for New Year’s Eve—flatter him as much as possible—before pushing the homely geisha into the guest room.
The man, unaware of this,

"Behold—an egg graced with eyes and nose!" he exclaimed with forced merriment, peeling the boiled egg, eating it, smearing yolk at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps today I'll be adored, he thought, momentarily forgetting his household's dire straits as he drank one bottle of sake, then another—until gradually it struck him that this geisha seemed somehow familiar.
Though a fool, he was a man with a tenacious memory when it came to women.
The woman, while calculating her year-end payments, maintained a springlike facade, laughing incessantly and pouring sake for the customer,

“Oh, how dreadful!
“I’m another year older.
“This New Year, when customers teased me about my ‘nineteenth spring,’ I thought maybe something nice would happen while idly playing battledore, but before I knew it—look—the night passes and now I’m already twenty.
“Twenty years old—how dreadful!
“Happiness only lasts until your teens.
“Even this gaudy furisode will look ridiculous come next year, won’t it?
“Oh, how dreadful!” She struck her obi and pretended to writhe in anguish.

“I remembered.”
“I remembered from how you struck your obi.”
The man displayed his idiotically tenacious memory.
“Exactly twenty years ago today, you sat before me at a flower shop banquet, said these same things, and struck your obi just like that—yet even then you claimed to be nineteen.”
“With twenty years having passed since then, you’re thirty-nine this year.”
“This ‘teenage’ nonsense—next year you’ll be forty.”
“Were you to wear a furisode until forty, there’d be nothing left of it but shreds.”
“Your petite frame makes you look young, but still claiming nineteen? Outrageous!” Even this self-styled aesthete unwittingly raised his voice in crude accusation, whereupon the woman wordlessly lowered her gaze and pressed her palms together in prayer.

“I’m no Buddha.
“How ill-omened.
“Don’t bow to me.
“You’re spoiling the mood.
“Let’s just drink.”
She clapped her hands to summon the old woman, who—having instantly sensed trouble in the parlor—came rushing in with exaggerated cheer, laughing boisterously,

“Why, sir!
“Congratulations!
“The divination leaves no doubt—it’s a boy.”

“What?” The customer looked baffled.

“How carefree you are.
“Have you forgotten about the childbirth at home?”

“Oh, right. Was it born?” He found himself utterly bewildered.

“No, I wouldn’t know about that—but just now, when this old woman tried tatami-mat divination, even after three recalculations it still came out the same every time: a fine boy without fail. My divinations always come true. Congratulations, sir!” she said, pressing both hands to the floor and bowing deeply.

The customer made a dazzled-looking face,

“No, no—it pains me to receive such formal congratulations.
‘Here—a congratulatory gift.’ Once again, he took out a single ichibugin gold coin from his purse and tossed it before the old woman’s knees.
He was utterly infuriated.

The old woman humbly received the ichibugin gold coin and,

“Oh my, what am I to do? Since the year’s end, nothing but such happy things. When I think of it—this morning at dawn, I dreamed of a thousand cranes dancing in the sky and ten thousand turtles swimming through parted waves across the four seas,” she began narrating with a dreamy upward gaze as she stowed the money into her obi, adding, “It’s truly real, sir. I awoke thinking, ‘What a strange yet marvelous dream!’ and was terribly preoccupied with it when suddenly you, sir, came through the kitchen entrance demanding lodging until the birth was over—so you see, the dream turned out to be true after all! This must be thanks to my daily devotion to Fudō. Ohohoho,” she pressed on with desperate flattery, seizing this critical moment.

So excessive—nauseatingly transparent in its flattery—that the customer felt utterly helpless.

“Alright, alright. How auspicious. By the way, got anything to eat?” he declared bitterly.

“Oh my!” The old woman leaned back in exaggerated surprise. “I was so worried, but it seems you found the eggs to your liking—you’ve eaten every last one. You’re so easygoing—that’s why I adore you!” To the master who had grown tired of food, such a thing must have seemed quite novel. “Now then, what shall I serve you next? How about some herring roe?” This too required little effort.

“Herring roe?”
The customer made a pained expression.

“Oh, but herring roe is traditional for childbirth! Say, Ms. Tsubomi. It’s an auspicious item, you see. Isn’t that a rather stylish touch? The master likes such tipsy-inspired dishes best, I hear,” she said abruptly before quickly leaving.

The master’s face grew increasingly stern.

“Just now, that old woman called you ‘Ms. Tsubomi,’ but is your name Tsubomi?”

“Yes, that’s right.”
The woman was defiant and reckless.
She answered curtly.

“So—Tsubomi as in a flower bud?”

“How tedious.”
“No matter how many times I say it, it won’t change!”
“You’re one to talk with your thinning hair!”
“It’s cruel—so cruel!” she said and burst into tears.
Through her tears, she blurted out bluntly: “Do you have any money?”

The customer was astonished.

"I have some."

"Give it to me." There was no coquetry or pretense whatsoever. "I'm in trouble. I've never been in such dire straits as this year's end. I finally breathed easy after marrying off my eldest daughter elsewhere, but then—can you believe it?—within a year she comes back to my place four or five days ago dressed like a beggar clutching an infant, crying that her husband went out to the bathhouse with a towel and never returned—he'd run off to another woman! Isn't this the most absurd thing? My daughter may be airheaded, but that husband of hers is downright awful, don't you think? They say he's from a good family and fancies himself a haiku master or something with that flat face of his. I never liked him from the start, but my daughter fell head over heels, so I reluctantly let them be together. And then he goes to the bathhouse and never comes home? It's downright trampling on people! This is no laughing matter. What will become of my daughter now that she has a baby to care for?"

“So you have a grandchild then.”

“I do,” she declared flatly without smiling, jerking her head up sharply—her expression fearsome. “Don’t mock me. I may be just a shred of a human being. When there are children, grandchildren follow. What’s so strange about that? Give me money. You’re supposed to be some big-shot rich man, aren’t you?” she said, her cheek twitching into a strange smile.

The playboy was stung by that laugh.

“No—it’s not like that, but I do have a little,” he said flusteredly, tossing out the last ichibukin from his wallet. Ah—even now, his wife must be lying with her back turned to the moneylenders at home, pretending to be dead. If only he still had this single ichibukin, he could at least see three or four moneylenders smile. Thinking through this folly—regret, terror, restlessness—his chest churned until he felt he couldn’t go on living,

“Ah, how auspicious.”
“The old crone’s fortune-telling—a boy! How delightful.”
“She’s quite the silver-tongued witch, that one.”

Tsubomi attempted to speak hoarsely but snorted derisively—

“Why don’t we drink lots of sake and make noise?” she said, reading his disposition as she rose to fetch the sake flask.

Left alone, the customer wallowed in gloom and melancholy—utterly helpless—until a desperate fart escaped him. Deeming even this futile, he stood up and slid open the shoji screen to air out the smell,

He tried humming a nonsensical tune—“Are waisa no sa”—but his spirits remained leaden; soon, guzzling bowl after bowl with Tsubomi—the thirty-nine-year-old “Bud”—only rendered them both solemn, exchanging glances only to heave sighs,

“Hasn’t the sun set yet?”

“You must be joking.”
“It’s not even noon yet.”

“Ah… How the day drags on.”

Half a day in hell is a hundred—a thousand—years in the Dragon Palace. He did nothing but belch thick, egg-like burps, his sadness without end.

“Go home now. I’m going to take a nap,” he said, smiling bitterly at his own lie as he flopped down onto the floor. “By the time I wake up, the birth will be over.”

“Really, go home already. Never show me that face again,” he pleaded in a withered voice.

“Yes, I’ll go home,” said Tsubomi calmly, tossing two or three pieces of the client’s herring roe into her mouth. “And while I’m at it, I’ll treat myself to lunch here.”

The customer could not sleep even with his eyes shut, his body gripped by the sensation of being dragged into the churning depths of a whirlpool. He tossed and turned with loud thumps, and just as the prayer "Namu Amida Butsu" escaped his lips unbidden, rough footsteps echoed down the hallway—

“Ah, here you are,” said two young men dressed like apprentices as they burst into the room. “Master, this is unforgivable.
“We were certain you’d be in this neighborhood and searched every single house—quite the hassle, I tell you.
“We’re not asking for what you don’t have, but if you’ve got enough to idle about like this, you could at least spare some for us.
“Now then, this year’s settlement,” they said, presenting a document. They yanked him up from where he lay sleeping, pressed in close for whispered negotiations, then took every last bit of small silver coins from his purse. They even made him remove his iridescent haori, white-handled short sword, and kimono—wrapping each item in cloth bundles.

“The remaining payment is due by the fifth day of the New Year,” they dismissed him and hurriedly left.

The playboy, wearing nothing but undergarments in a bizarre manner, laughed with a sinister grin,

“I tell you... A friend begged me in tears to co-sign his loan—then he goes bankrupt or some such nonsense, dragging me into this absurd predicament."
“Lend money if you must, but never put your seal to anything—that’s the moral here.”
Come New Year’s Eve, unforeseen troubles always surface.
In this state, going outside was impossible.
“I’ll nap here till dark,” he declared—another torturous act of feigned sleep. Muttering “yin-yang, yin-yang” through clenched teeth, he struck the same death-pretense pose as his wife back home.

In the kitchen, the old woman and Tsubomi were talking and laughing uproariously. "An idiot is someone who still has a shred of pulse left!" they said.
In days of old—or so recounted a venerable elder who himself had once numbered among Naniwa's famed dandies—there were many such aesthetes and notorious teahouses around those parts.

(Munezan'you, Volume 2, Part 2: An Inn Where Even Rumors Fall on Deaf Ears)

*Admonition Against Revelry*

In days of old, there were three playboys of Kamigata—Kichibei, Rokiemon, and Jindayu—young men of wealth, indulged by their parents, not unhandsome in appearance, nor yet utter fools. The three invited each other to carouse about town until even Kamigata’s pleasures began to feel tepid. Hearing rumors of Edo’s cutthroat eastern revelries, they grew enamored and one autumn set off on a leisurely journey filled with laughter. Yet along the way they found no beautiful women to their liking—those fair-skinned had flat noses; those with elegant brows had stubby chins. Resolving it better to be loathed than loved, they swore to heaven they’d find some cruel beauty to scorn them utterly. Upon reaching Edo, they roved its pleasure quarters but found no sign of those fabled ruthless amusements—everywhere welcomed them lavishly so long as they had coin, leaving them sorely disappointed. “Edo holds no terrors!” they grumbled, tucking hands into sleeves as they strolled aimlessly from Ueno’s Black Gate toward Ikenohata. At Shinchūya—a famed goldfish shop run by one Ichiemon—they paused. Peering into the courtyard, they saw seventy or eighty pristine breeding tanks arrayed in rows, each filled with clear water where green algae swayed at the bottom. Goldfish and silverfish darted through the fronds, scales glistening—some with tail fins over five sun long. Even these cocky playboys gaped in innocent wonder, exclaiming they’d found Japan’s greatest beauty here. As they watched, people kept buying fish at outrageous prices—five ryō, ten ryō—without haggling. “Edo truly differs from Kamigata! Those ten-ryō fish must be toys for some daimyo’s son—eaten by his cat in three days, yet he’ll return unfazed to buy more! Ah, Musashino’s vastness makes one reconsider Edo!” they babbled excitedly. Just seeing this made their trip worthwhile—what a tale to bring home! Nodding in shared delight, they were interrupted by a shabbily dressed little man scurrying into the shop with a bucket and net in hand, bowing obsequiously to the clerk with flattering smiles.
Peering into the small bucket, they saw countless mosquito larvae swarming within.

“Goldfish food,” one of them muttered with a look of disillusionment.

“It’s feed,” another sighed and said as well.

They found themselves overcome by a strange, sobering gravity. There were those who nonchalantly bought a single goldfish for ten ryō as if it were nothing, while others eked out meager livings selling the mosquito larvae used as their feed. “Edo is an unfathomably terrifying place,” even these three carefree playboys couldn’t help feeling profoundly moved.

One of them watched the retreating figure of the small man—who, having sold a bucketful of mosquito larvae for a mere twenty-five mon, still wore a delighted expression while scattering obsequious charm even toward the goldfish shop’s servant with a “Well then, until next time!” before scurrying off.

“Oh, isn’t that Riza?” one said, making the other two start.

Rizaemon—infamous as “Moonlit Riza,” a man of fine looks and wealth who had caroused with these three dandies as one of the Four Heavenly Kings, who years prior had ransomed the celebrated courtesan Yoshishū only to vanish—the more they looked, the more he resembled that man, though they deemed it impossible.

“It’s Riza—no doubt,” another declared. “That slight hike of his right shoulder when walking—Riza’s old trademark. Some woman once found it so dashing she pestered even me to mimic it—drove me half-mad.”
“Must be Riza.”
“Stop him—now!”

The three ran and caught up to the mosquito larvae seller—alas, it was indeed Riza in his fallen state.

“Riza, you’re cruel.”
“Yoshishū—sure, I was a bit infatuated with her myself, but it’s not like I hold any grudge against you over that.”
“Disappearing without a word—isn’t that a bit standoffish?”

When Kichibei said this, Jindayu also—

“That’s right, that’s right.”
“No matter how dire your circumstances were, you should’ve at least said a word to us before disappearing.”
“When trouble strikes, we’re all in this together.”
“Friends aren’t just for drinking and carousing at teahouses.”
“When I look—what a wretched state! So this is the Moonlit Riza we knew?”
“If you’d just told us a single word, things wouldn’t have come to this—‘mosquito-larva seller’ is a bit much for a joke,” he spat through tears, while Rokiemon put on a reasonable face and patted Rizaemon’s bony shoulder,

“Riza… Still, it’s good we met again.”
“We’d been worried sick about where you’d gone.”
“Everything turned dreary without you.”
“The diversions back in Kamigata grew stale—that’s why we came all this way to Edo. But without you, no amusement holds any savor.”
“Finding you here makes a century’s wait worthwhile!”
“What say you? Come back west with us now—let’s revel like old times, all four together!”
“Never mind about money.”
“Presumptuous as it sounds, we three stand with you.”
“We’ve shouldered responsibility for your whole life.”

he said with confidence, but Riza turned pale, snorted a laugh, and averted his face,

“What the hell are you talking about? You think you’re in any position to help anyone? Did you come all the way from Kamigata just to torment this Riza? How kind of you. I’m doing this because I want to. Don’t interfere. The end of revelry looks like this for everyone. Hmph.”

“You’ll see—before long, who knows what’ll become of you all.”
“You make me laugh—taking responsibility for my whole life?”
“But well, for old times’ sake, I’ll treat you to a bowl of Edo’s cheapest swill.”
“Even fallen, Riza won’t be your charity case.”
“If you want a drink, come along.”
“Ha ha,” he laughed hollowly, swinging his little bucket as he stalked off.
The three men exchanged uneasy looks and trailed after Riza regardless. When they did, Riza ducked into a grimy izakaya and shook his wallet upside-down,

“Old man, there’s this much.”
“I’m treating my old comrades here.”
“Four bowls,” he said, intending to display the same generosity he’d shown in better days. When he flung down all twenty-five *mon* he’d earned earlier, the three men loitering at the entrance grew somber—Ah, that money was surely meant for Riza’s wife and children to buy tonight’s rice. Even now, they’re probably scrubbing pots and waiting. Though fallen, he might have been trying to prove he wasn’t stingy out of some trivial pride and vanity—how pitiful it was.

“Hey, quit dawdling and sit down here to drink.”
“The taste of chawan-zake isn’t something you forget,” he said, twisting his mouth into a bitter smile as he deliberately gulped down the drink in coarse swallows. Wiping around his mouth with the back of his hand, he muttered lowly, “Ah, hits the spot”—not entirely insincere.
The three men also timidly sat down in a corner of the shop, held chipped bowls and silently toasted, and as they grew slightly drunk, their tongues began to loosen:
“By the way, Riza—are you still with Yoshishū?”

“What do you mean, ‘still’?” Riza demanded harshly, taking offense. “Not very becoming of a playboy.
“Watch how you speak,” he snapped, then immediately grinned obsequiously again. “Because of that woman—as you can see, I’m a mosquito-larva seller now.”
“I’m not just being harsh here.
“You lot ought to quit your teahouse carousing already.”
“Even the woman once called Kamigata’s finest—if you view her as a flower of labor, she’ll wither within three days.”
“Now she’s become an old hag in a tenement and doesn’t even care about skipping her monthly bathhouse visits.”

“Do you have children?”

“The hell I do! Don’t ask such idiotic questions.” Four four-year-old boys with faces like monkeys—resembling neither parent—were playing calmly in the tenement, like true children of paupers. “Want me to show you? Might serve as a bit of a lesson for you all.”

“Take me there. I want to see Yoshishū too,” Kichibei voiced his true feelings. Riza wore an eerie smile on his face.

“If you see her, you’ll lose all affection,” he said, and staggered out of the izakaya.

The autumn twilight in Yanaka felt desolate—Edo in name only—as the area rustled like wild bamboo thickets. At Hatsunechō’s edge where bush warblers gave way to sparrows, they passed through dim, damp alleys catching drips from forehead cloths on their brows, stepping over pumpkin vines. An old woman collected morning glory seeds from pods clinging filthily to a hedge’s withered leaves. “Planting these will bring next year’s joy,” she muttered with bottomless greed, oblivious to her own crumbling frame—over eighty years old and unlikely to see tomorrow, let alone another spring. The three men exchanged appalled glances while Riza alone casually stooped: “Granny, spare a seed or two for my place? Looks like rain’s coming.” Offering strained neighborly pleasantries, they ducked under ropes hung with shade-dried tobacco leaves until reaching a shack where a four-year-old boy at the window cried, “Look! Papa’s back with zee-zee!”—so pitiful it froze all three men mid-step.
Riza feigned composure,

“Here it is. This house.”
“If you three come in, there’s nowhere to sit,” he laughed, then called out to his wife: “Hey! We’ve got guests!” From inside came a thin voice:

“Of you three—Lord Kichibei of Izumiya—please return home now.
“There was a time when I received kindness from that person.”
Kichibei faltered,

“Oh—you’re being too formal. Let’s just wash away the past.”
As he spoke these words, Riza laughed painfully—

“That’s right, that’s right.
What fucking sympathy does a tenement hag deserve?
Don’t go getting conceited now,” he said in a haggard tone, creaked open the broken door, and ushered the three men inside. “Ain’t got no fancy cushions here.
I’ll at least serve tea.”

The wife turned pale, hurriedly adjusted the hem of her tattered kimono as she sat sideways, swept back her disheveled hair, looked up at the three men, and smiled faintly,

"Oh," she said in a small voice, then forgot even to bow.
The husband busily walked about the cramped room, tore off the half-detached door panel from the Buddhist altar, split it with a vegetable cleaver, fueled the clay stove to boil tea, and when he looked for the child who had earlier peered out the window, found him already curled up like a lump asleep on a single futon in the corner.
Seemingly completely naked, his lips purple, he was shivering uncontrollably from the cold.

“The boy looks cold,” one of the guests inadvertently blurted out. Without rising from her seat, the wife turned to look at her child and said, “He says he doesn’t like wearing clothes.”
“It’s a strange habit—even if you dress him in clothes, he immediately takes them off and sleeps naked like that.”
“It must be his nerves acting up,” she said offhandedly, but the boy burst into tears and,

“That’s a lie! That’s a lie!”
“The boy fell into a ditch earlier and lost his clothes, so he’s being made to lie here waiting for them to dry.”
Even the wife, resilient as she was, could no longer hold back there and collapsed in tears without regard for those present.
The husband pretended to choke on the clay stove’s smoke and rubbed his eyes.
The three guests became utterly perplexed. Silently exchanging glances, they began preparing to leave. After offering hurried farewells, they slipped into their sandals at the entranceway. Then whispering together in low voices, they gathered all the gold coins they carried—thirty-eight koban and about seventy me of small coins—piled them atop a discarded saucer by the door, muffled their footsteps, and departed.
As soon as they emerged from the narrow alley, the three of them heaved a great sigh of relief in unison.

“Don’t pull such idiotic stunts!” came Rizaemon’s voice from behind them. When they turned in shock, Rizaemon stood holding the saucer laden with gold coins and gasping for breath. “You come to someone’s house, leave without even drinking tea, and then dump this dogshit-like thing at the entrance? You snot-nosed brats who don’t know the first thing about human decency! How dare you look down on Tsukiyo no Riza like that! I never want to see your snot-nosed mugs again! Take this and get the hell out of here!” he screamed, his eyes wild, then smashed the saucer against the ground with a “Don’t mock me!” before vanishing into the twilight of the alley.

“No, that was awful,” Kichibei said, wiping his cold sweat. “Still, Yoshishū’s turned into such a filthy woman.”

“Form is emptiness, huh?” Jindayu mocked.

“Truly,” Kichibei sighed without laughing. “I’m quitting my carousing from today onward. I’ve seen Sotoba Komachi before my very eyes, clear as day.”

“I might as well become a monk,” Rokiemon muttered to himself. “I thought I’d be killed back there. Nothing’s more terrifying than down-and-out old friends. Even if we meet them on the road, maybe we shouldn’t speak first ourselves.” His voice sharpened. “Who was it? Who started talking to him first?”

“It wasn’t me,” Kichibei said, puckering his lips, then stammered, “I just... I wanted to see Yoshishū again. That’s all.”

“It was you,” Jindayu said in a calm tone. “You were the first to run over, first to call out—and on top of that, you suggested going to his house too. All that nonsense was entirely your doing.”
“What you need to restrain are your lustful thoughts.”

“I’m ashamed,” Kichibei apologized earnestly. “I’ll give up my indulgences completely from now on.”

“Since you’re turning over a new leaf,” Rokiemon snapped irritably, “why not start by picking up these coins scattered at your feet? Even these are treasures of the realm. Long ago, Lord Aoto Saemon no Jō Fujitsuna—”

“When crossing Namekawa River, was it?
"I get it, I get it.
Am I to be a ditch-digger now?
I’ll search! I’ll collect!” said Kichibei, hiking up his robes as he crawled across the dim ground gathering koban coins and small change. “When you pick them up one by one like this, you start appreciating money’s true worth.
Why don’t you lend a hand?
It’ll put you in a proper frame of mind.”

Even these three libertines grew so disillusioned by their old carousing companion Riza’s wretched existence that all revelry turned tasteless. With newly sober faces, they returned to their inn. The next day saw them piously touring Edo’s shrines and temples, and on the eve of their Kyoto return, they had an inn servant deliver substantial gold to Riza’s Yanaka home—knowing the husband would refuse it, they secretly pressed instructions upon the wife with excessive repetition. Yet when the messenger returned later wearing pity like a cloak, reporting the family had fled to the countryside yesterday and none could trace their whereabouts, the three men shuddered at Riza’s fate. Reflecting on their own lives through fresh tears, they swore, “Enough of this debauchery!” Battered by intensifying winter gales, they raced along the Tōkaidō highway homeward. Thereafter they transformed into pinchpenny watchful men—so thoroughly that pleasure districts reportedly declined—this chapter standing as warning that carousing must be abandoned in due measure.

(Parting Gift, Volume 2-2: Where People Are Thought of as Mere Stick Insects)

Mount Yoshino

Respectfully,
I have been remiss in corresponding since our last meeting.
I was overjoyed to hear of your son's auspicious birth.
The evident prosperity of your household fills me with growing envy.
Your family must thrive in business with vigor, and your evening gatherings after supper must be particularly delightful.
This New Year brought twin blessings - your heir's arrival and Kyoto's early spring - which you've no doubt claimed as your own, making your household's laughter all the more splendid. As your old companions gathered to share the capital's finest sake, reveling in townsmen's pleasures, I imagine my name arose in mirth - that fool Kubeita who abandoned sense to become Ganmu the monk, vanishing into Yoshino's depths. What became of him, you surely jested.
I speak without sarcasm.
This Ganmu now sits shivering in his Yoshino hermitage, bitterly regretting his reckless renunciation of the world.
When I reflect on my monastic vows, they held no meaning beyond making kin weep and friends plead in vain. Your dissuasions only hardened my resolve - "Don't stop me!" I'd cry, spouting nonsense about fleeting existence and treacherous cherry blossoms. After shaving my head in frenzy, I peeked at a mirror to find myself resembling Chinsai - that back-alley quack I'd always despised - with bald patches I'd never noticed before. Disgusted, I began regretting my choice that very hour.

Now confessing all, I'll bare my true motives: though you included me in teahouse outings, women never favored me. Yet craving merriment, I'd embezzle shop funds through agonizing schemes to host you all - only to foot bills alone. One desperate night I told a courtesan: "A man needs rejection to amount to anything!" She nodded gravely: "How commendable that resolve!" Humiliated, I roared "Insolence!" and struck her violently - thus perceiving life's impermanence and taking vows. Now I smile bitterly - a boorish pedant like me should've wed some country girl my father suggested.

Mountain solitude defies hardship's very notion. While cooking rice distracts me, mending underwear cross-legged or washing loincloths by the well feels more wretched than cleaning privies. Chanting sutras without listeners becomes absurd - I abandon them mid-verse, laughing alone.

Surveying Yoshino's winter vistas differs from capital poets singing of snow-blossoms - here snow stays snow, merely cold, breeding rage at those lying versifiers.

This cold makes black robes insufficient - I layer coats over them, wrap dog fur round my neck, keep my face wrapped against my shivering scalp.

The dog pelt came from villagers swindling me as bear hide - its long tail mixed with white fur making me protest it was spotted dogskin. They claimed white patches were bears' "moon rings" sometimes found near rumps - leaving me speechless at their audacity.

Truly, the villagers at the foot of this mountain were wicked through and through, deceiving me at every turn. One might think someone who renounced the world upon perceiving life’s impermanence would have no need for money—yet against all expectation, the villagers brought rice and miso at outrageous prices. If I dared mention the cost, they’d put on indignant faces and make a show of taking their goods back, muttering things like “We wasted a whole day hauling this up the mountain for your poor monk’s sake—take it or leave it!” With no choice but to accept their extortionate prices through tears—knowing full well other villagers would charge the same—I resigned myself to starvation otherwise.

I’d imagined mountain seclusion meant leisurely living off wild nuts and berries, but here lay the truth of “heaven in tales becomes hell in reality”—every inch of these hills had owners. That autumn when I carelessly picked two or three matsutake mushrooms, I nearly got beaten to death by mountain guards.

This hermitage was originally a chestnut grove watchman’s hut I rented for a steep price. Only the five-tsubo plot behind it offered me any autonomy—vegetables being too costly to buy. I’d obtained daikon and carrot seeds cheaply to sow there, though I’m ashamed to admit it’s all so mundane. Even as a monk, I had to hike up my robes and wield manure ladles. The harvest had to be buried under the veranda for winter storage. Though I gazed upon a thousand-tree forest daily, firewood still required buying from scowling villagers. Having come here, I’d abruptly tasted life’s bitterness anew—now I couldn’t fathom what purpose this renunciation served.

I’d never imagined renouncing the world would prove so costly. With limited funds brought along, my purse grew alarmingly light—I’d lost count of how often I contemplated descending the mountain.

Yet for a monk who’d rejected this filthy world to slink back weeping to his parents’ home—such a thing seemed unprecedented in history. Still clinging to shreds of pride, I also faced accumulated debts to villagers and potential disputes over returning borrowed bedding and cookware—all weakening my resolve.

To put it respectably—though truthfully—there remained another painful reason preventing my immediate return.

My eighty-eight-year-old Kyoto grandmother had buried her secret hoard—a hundred ryō in a tea caddy twenty years prior—beneath a serving-tray-sized stone under our ancestral Inari shrine’s veranda, deep among garden shrubs under three cedars. She’d inspect it four times daily—thrice by daylight, once at night—leaning on her bamboo cane while feigning casual strolls. Having doted on me as a five-year-old, she likely thought me too young to suspect anything when she led me to the spot one day, pointing with her hoarse voice: “A hundred ryō under there! Treat me well and I’ll give half—no, ten percent!” From then on, that stone tormented me until twenty years later when you all taught me carousing and I grew desperate for funds.

One moonlit night I finally dug beneath it, found the caddy, “borrowed” thirty ryō without permission, then reburied it. For weeks I trembled awaiting discovery—meals sticking in my throat as I kowtowed praying for safety. Whether from aged eyes or simple oversight, Grandmother continued inspections unperturbed. Emboldened, I stole ten then twenty ryō intervals until renouncing the world, when I took the remaining coins as travel funds. So long as she lived, returning home terrified me.

Grandmother surely remained unaware of the tea caddy's emptiness, continuing her four daily inspections as ever. Should she pass without discovering this truth, it would grant her peace in death while letting my crime fade into obscurity—allowing me to return home unashamed. Yet given her vigorous health, she might well live to a hundred, meaning her grandson here could freeze to death in these mountain winters long before any sudden demise. The more I dwelled on it, the more my anxiety grew.

To every former playmate—bathhouse acquaintances, pawnshop clerks, regular carpenters, even Kurōsuke the palanquin bearer—I sent letters extolling Yoshino's cherry blossoms. I carelessly transcribed classical verses like "How white clouds cling to every blooming ridge!" without crediting their poets, passing them off as my casual compositions. Each missive concluded with an affected quote: "'At Yoshino I resolve to stay—yet when petals scatter, might someone await me?'" I begged villagers daily to deliver two or three such letters to the capital. My true sentiments were laughably desperate—"'From Yoshino I long to flee—when blossoms fall, send someone for me!'"—and though self-reflection brought bitter smiles, I convinced myself these crimson lies embodied monastic endurance. I painted Yoshino as tranquil and welcoming in every dispatch. Yet wait as I might, no one came—not even a reply! That Kurōsuke—whom I'd tipped so generously, who'd shadowed me everywhere vowing "If the young master dies, I'll die too!"—to think he'd ignore my painstakingly polite letters without a single response! Wasn't this cruelty itself?

Nor was Kurōsuke alone—what became of all those companions who'd once praised me as generous, honest, reliable? Since taking vows, their correspondence ceased entirely. Had I become useless to them? Was this their way of turning their backs? Even so, wasn't this too blatant? Too cruel?

To be so thoroughly spurned by everyone wounded me deeply. What grave sin had I committed? Even if I'd borrowed Grandmother's savings, that was family business! Unearthing buried treasure for society's benefit could be seen as virtuous! Moreover, perceiving life's impermanence and renouncing worldly ties is refined—the very path great men of old took! This much you all should comprehend!

Yet you scorn me—seek to cast me out! This goes too far! I assure you, I'm no vulgar man! I intend to devote myself to earnest study henceforth! Monastic life is noble! Don't dismiss me as a fool—I implore you not to abandon our bond! Write occasionally!

Having urged everyone to visit through countless letters, I spent days vainly hoping—perhaps someone might come!—startling at windblown leaves scraping ground like capital footsteps, rushing out to find only barren winter trees sighing in reply. Retiring early, I'd jolt awake when shutters rattled—could it be Father coming? Throwing them open revealed only a frosty moon glaring down. Chanting "Namu Amida Butsu" with true devotion, I flipped my quilt inside-out before sleeping—they say this summons lovers' faces in dreams. "Such lonely nights demand it!" Yet having no particular sweetheart, I wondered—whose visage would appear? The absurdity struck me; alone in midnight darkness, I stifled giggles.

Grandmother's face appearing would've been unbearable! These dreary nights beg for drink, but local sake sits sour and heavy—exorbitantly priced too! Resentfully, I endure buying mere five gō every ten days.

The villagers here are deeply avaricious in all matters. Though sweetfish teem in the stream below, I—despite my monastic vows—must occasionally eat meat lest my bones grow brittle and my limbs unbearably weak. I tried catching them myself through various methods, but these living creatures proved too nimble for my clumsy hands. When the villagers discovered me in these futile efforts, they saw through my guise as a meat-eating monk. Seizing this advantage, they now arrive smirking with sweetfish skewers in hand, demanding exorbitant prices.

I have been thoroughly mocked by these villagers—relentlessly extorted for money, forced to buy dog fur passed off as bear hide. Just the other day they brought an inverted grinding bowl they claimed was a Mt. Fuji ornament—"perfect for your monastic alcove," they said—treatment so contemptuous I choked back bitter tears.

This makes me crave money all the more—it must be time for lottery results now. Mine was number I-689.

Did it win?

I hid that ticket in the knothole at my Kyoto bedroom's pillar base—please go to my house under pretext of business with Father, sneak into my room, fish it out with your finger and check.

I doubt it won—but check anyway.

While you're there, retrieve the two-inch Kannon statue I pawned across the bridge for one ryō.

Dispose of other items.

That statue alone—retrieve it without fail.

Grandmother gave me that coral-carved charm in childhood—one ryō insults its worth.

Sell it to toolseller Sahee for twenty ryō.

He'd promised that price.

Take the colored paper hidden under my bedroom's northwest tatami corner to Sahee too.

I tore that paper from a teahouse's pillow screen—spite over being unpopular.

It might be Sesshū's work—or forgery.

Show Sahee—negotiate shrewdly for proper price.

Even if fake, claim fifty ryō given decent craftsmanship.

If sold, send proceeds with statue money immediately.

For your troubles, I offer this striped haori as thanks.

That haori remains in Kurosuke's possession at present.
Its rather chic stripes and fine silk lining made it quite superior in quality.
Though merely a palanquin bearer by trade, Kurosuke fancied himself a man of fashion and persistently begged to wear that garment, so I temporarily lent it to him—whereupon it stayed indefinitely in his keeping.
Let me clarify—this was never intended as a gift! I earnestly entreat your lordship to reclaim it from that ingrate and don it yourself.
How I yearn to make that thankless wretch Kurosuke writhe in proper chastisement!
Pay no heed to his protests—simply wrest it back from him on my behalf.
Given your lordship's fair complexion, that haori would surely become you most admirably.
As for myself—being swarthy of hue—the garment suited me not at all.
Contrary to my hopes that ink-dyed robes alone might lend me dignity, my broad shoulders instead gave me the aspect of some Benkei-like warrior monk—a veritable wolf in priestly garb finding no joy in anything. Though already ordained, I found myself craving renewed renunciation of this world, lost in confusion and bored nigh unto death,

I know not the way to renounce this grief-worn world; they say even Yoshino’s depths prove hard to abide.

I earnestly hoped you might grasp this song’s essence—though in truth, this too was no creation of mine. These days I could no longer distinguish between others’ possessions and my own; since renouncing the world, I had become thoroughly debased.
Regarding this truly reckless renunciation of mine, I implored your compassion—pray do not forget the lottery ticket, the Kannon statue, nor the colored paper. Kindly extend my regards to our old companions, and come spring’s arrival, I vowed to await with all my heart your gracious collective visit to Yoshino.
Respectfully,

(Countless Discarded Letters, Volume 5, Part 4: The Harsh Winter of Cherry Blossom Yoshino Mountain)