Pathway to Japanese Literature

Tsugaru's Snow

Powder snow

Granular snow

Cotton snow

Wet snow

Hard snow

Grainy snow

Icy snow

(From the Tōō Nenkan)

Prologue

One spring, I circled the Tsugaru Peninsula at the northern tip of Honshu for the first time in my life over roughly three weeks; this was one of the more significant events in my thirty-odd years of existence.
I was born in Tsugaru and raised there for twenty years, yet despite this upbringing, I had only seen the towns of Kanagi, Goshogawara, Aomori, Hirosaki, Asamushi, and Owani, knowing nothing at all about its other villages.

Kanagi is the town where I was born.
Located roughly at the center of the Tsugaru Plain, with a population of five or six thousand, it was a town without any particular distinguishing features yet somehow put on a slightly urban air.
To put it kindly, it was as bland as water; to put it harshly, it seemed to have earned a reputation as a shallow show-off of a town.
Then, about twelve kilometers south along the Iwaki River lies the town of Goshogawara.
It serves as a distribution hub for local products and apparently has a population of over ten thousand.
Excluding the cities of Aomori and Hirosaki, there are no other towns in this area with a population exceeding ten thousand.
To put it kindly, it was a lively town; to put it harshly, a boisterous one.
There was no scent of the countryside; even in this small town, the shudder of loneliness peculiar to cities had already begun to creep in faintly.
I must confess that even I am at a loss with this exaggerated metaphor, but if we were to take Tokyo as an example, Kanagi would be Koishikawa and Goshogawara Asakusa—something along those lines.
There was an aunt of mine here.
In my childhood, I admired this aunt more than my birth mother, so I very often came to visit her house in Goshogawara.
It would be safe to say that until I entered middle school, I knew almost nothing about the towns of Tsugaru beyond these two: Goshogawara and Kanagi.
When I went to take the entrance exam for Aomori Middle School, it should have been a mere three- or four-hour journey, yet to me it felt like an extraordinary grand expedition. I later embellished that excitement somewhat in a novel I wrote; while those descriptions aren’t strictly factual—being filled with a sorrowful clown’s fabrications—I still believe the essence of that feeling was largely as I portrayed it.
Namely,

"This lonely vanity of his—unknown to anyone—grew more elaborate with each passing year. When he graduated from the village elementary school and set out by carriage and train to the prefectural capital's small city ten ri away to take his middle school entrance exam, the boy's outfit at that time was a pitifully bizarre spectacle."
The white flannel shirt—it seems he had been quite fond of it—he wore at that time as well.
Moreover, this shirt had a large collar resembling butterfly wings, and in precisely the same manner as draping a summer open-collar shirt's collar over a suit coat's lapel, he had pulled this collar outward over the kimono's neckline and layered it atop the kimono's own collar.
Somehow, it looked like a bib.
But the boy, in his sorrowful tension, believed this attire made him appear exactly like a noble prince.
Over a Kurume cotton kimono (kasuri-patterned), he wore white-striped short hakama trousers, long socks, and knitted glossy black shoes.
And then a cloak.

His father had already passed away, and his mother was in poor health, so all matters concerning the boy's appearance were tended with care by his kind sister-in-law. The boy, shrewdly playing the spoiled child toward his sister-in-law, had stubbornly made her enlarge his shirt collar; when she laughed at this, he would grow truly angry, feeling so mortified that tears welled up at how no one could grasp his aesthetic sensibilities. "Elegance, refinement." These words encapsulated the entirety of the boy's aesthetic philosophy. No—they encompassed every aspect of living, every purpose in life itself. He wore his cloak deliberately unbuttoned, draped precariously over small shoulders as though about to slip off at any moment—and believed this to be a feat of consummate style. Where had he learned such affectations? Perhaps this instinct for stylishness invents itself even without models to follow. Since this marked nearly his first time setting foot in what could truly be called a city, for the boy this outfit represented a once-in-a-lifetime sartorial statement. So great was his excitement that upon arriving at that minor city on Honshu's northern tip, even his manner of speech underwent a complete transformation. He affected the Tokyo dialect he had painstakingly learned from boys' magazines. Yet when he settled at his lodgings and heard the maids' speech—identical in every way to the Tsugaru dialect of his hometown—the boy found himself oddly deflated. His birthplace and this small city lay less than ten ri apart.

This small coastal city is Aomori City.
In an attempt to establish Tsugaru’s foremost seaport, the Togahama Magistrate commenced its development in the first year of Kan’ei.
That was roughly three hundred and twenty years ago.
At the time, there were already said to be about a thousand households.
Thereafter, through vigorous maritime traffic with regions such as Ōmi, Echizen, Echigo, Kaga, Noto, and Wakasa, it gradually prospered to become Togahama's most thriving key port; with Aomori Prefecture’s establishment through the Meiji 4 abolition of feudal domains and creation of prefectures, it became the prefectural capital and now guards Honshu's northern gate—few would be unaware of matters like the railway ferries connecting it to Hakodate in Hokkaido.
It currently appears to have over twenty thousand households and a population exceeding a hundred thousand, but travelers find it not particularly pleasant.
While frequent conflagrations left its houses flimsy—an unavoidable circumstance—visitors still cannot discern where the city center lies.
Rows of strangely soot-stained, expressionless houses stand aligned, offering no welcome to passersby.
Travelers hurry through this town with unsettled hearts.
Yet I lived in Aomori City for four years.
And those four years seem to have been an immensely significant period in my life.
Details of my life at that time are recorded with considerable thoroughness in my early novel titled Memories.

"Although my grades were not good, that spring I took the entrance exam for middle school and passed.
I put on new hakama trousers, black tabi socks, and knitted shoes; switched out my usual blanket for a woolen mantle, which I draped fashionably over my shoulders without buttoning it, and set out for that small coastal city.
And then at the kimono shop run by distant relatives of my family in that town, I removed my travel attire.
At that house with a torn old curtain hanging at its entrance, I was to be looked after for a long time.

I have always been prone to becoming utterly elated over trivial matters, but when I first entered school, I would even wear my school cap and hakama to the public bath.
Whenever my reflection appeared in a shop window along the street, I would smile and give it a polite nod.

Yet school held no interest for me whatsoever.
The school building stood at the town's edge, painted white, with a flat park facing the strait directly behind it where waves crashed and pines rustled even during lessons; while the wide corridors and high classroom ceilings gave me an overall favorable impression, the teachers there subjected me to relentless persecution.

I was struck by a certain gym teacher from the very day of the entrance ceremony.
It was because I was impertinent.
This teacher had been in charge of my oral examination during the entrance exams; he had offered me kind words, saying that with my father gone I must have struggled to study properly, and I had even hung my head in response—precisely because it was this same man, my heart was all the more wounded.
After that, I was struck by various teachers.
I was punished for various reasons—smirking, yawning, and the like.
It was even said that my yawns during class were so large they became notorious in the faculty room.
I found it amusing—the faculty room where they discussed such foolish things.

A student from the same town as me called me behind a sandhill in the schoolyard one day and advised me: "Your attitude really does look impertinent. If you keep getting beaten like that, you'll surely fail."
I was stunned.
After school that day, I hurried home alone along the coast.
I walked on, sighing as the waves lapped at my shoesoles.
As I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my coat sleeve, a grey sail—so large it was startling—lumbered past right before my eyes.

This middle school still remains unchanged from the past, located at the eastern edge of Aomori City.
The flat park they spoke of was Gappo Park.
And this park clung so closely to the middle school that one could almost call it the school's backyard.
Except during winter blizzards, on my way to and from school, I would cut through this park and walk along the coast.
It was what you might call a back way.
Not many students walked there.
To me, this back way felt refreshing.
Early summer mornings were especially pleasant.
Moreover, the kimono shop that took care of me belonged to the Toyota family of Teramachi.
It stood as one of Aomori City's foremost long-established shops, having continued for nearly twenty years.
The father here had passed away some years prior, but he cherished me more than his own child.
I could not forget.
Over these past two or three years, I visited Aomori City two or three times, and each time paid respects at this father's grave while unfailingly being lodged at the Toyota family's home.

When I became a third-year student, one spring morning on my way to school, I leaned against the round railing of a vermilion-painted bridge and stood blankly for a while. Under the bridge flowed a wide river resembling the Sumida River, its current gentle. I had never before experienced such complete blankness. Feeling as though someone was watching me from behind, I was always striking some sort of pose. For each and every one of my minute gestures, he would add explanatory phrases from all sides—how he was perplexed and gazed at his palm, how he scratched behind his ear and muttered—so for me, actions like acting suddenly or without thinking were simply impossible. After waking from my daze on the bridge, I was thrilled with loneliness. In such moods, I too would consider my past and future. As I clattered across the bridge, I recalled various things and dreamed. And finally, I sighed and thought this: I wonder if I can become someone great.

(Omission)

It stemmed from a coercive thought—that no matter what, you must stand above the crowd—but in truth, I was studying.
After becoming a third-year student, I was always at the top of my class.
It was difficult to become top of the class without being called a grade-grubbing worm, but not only did I avoid such ridicule—I even knew the art of handling my classmates.
Even the judo club captain nicknamed Tako was obedient to me.
In the corner of the classroom stood a large pot for scrap paper. I would occasionally point at it and say, "Tako, won’t you crawl into that pot?" Whereupon Tako would put his head into the pot and laugh.
The laughter echoed inside the pot, creating an eerie sound.
Most of the handsome boys in the class had also taken a liking to me.
Even when I scattered bandages cut into triangles, hexagons, and flower shapes across the pimples on my face, no one found it amusing.

These pimples tormented me.
During that time, their numbers only increased, and every morning upon waking, I would run my palm over my face to examine their condition.
I bought various medicines and applied them, but they had no effect.
When I went to the pharmacy to buy them, I had to write the medicine's name on a scrap of paper and say, as if acting on someone else's behalf, "Do you have this medicine?"
I considered those pimples a symbol of lust and was so ashamed that my vision darkened.
I even thought of just dying.
The criticism from those at home regarding my face had also reached its peak.
My eldest sister, who had married into another family, apparently went so far as to say there likely wasn't anyone who would come to marry into Osamu's household.
I diligently applied the medicine.

My younger brother also worried about my pimples and went to buy medicine for me countless times in my stead.
My younger brother and I had been on bad terms since childhood; even when he took his middle school entrance exams, I had wished for his failure. Yet now that we were both away from our hometown, I gradually came to recognize his good qualities.
As my younger brother grew older, he grew quiet and reserved.
We occasionally contributed short pieces to our literary magazine as well, but all of them were timid in tone.
He was constantly troubled by his poor academic performance compared to mine, and if I tried to console him, he would only grow sullen.
Moreover, he detested how the hairline on his forehead was shaped like Mount Fuji, making him look feminine.
He firmly believed that his narrow forehead was the reason his mind was so dull.
I forgave this younger brother everything.
At that time, when interacting with people, I was either concealing everything or revealing everything outright.
We talked about everything openly.

On a moonless night in early autumn, we went out to the harbor pier and talked about the red thread while being buffeted by the fluttering wind that came across the strait.
It was something our school’s Japanese teacher had once told us during class—that an invisible red thread was tied to the little toe of our right foot, which would stretch out long and smooth until its other end became securely fastened to the same toe of some girl.
No matter how far apart the two might be, that thread would never break; no matter how close they became, even if they met on the street, that thread would never tangle; and thus it was decided we would take that girl as our bride.
When I first heard this story, I had been so excited that upon returning home, I immediately told it to my younger brother.
That night too, we talked about it while listening to the sound of waves and seagulls’ cries.
When I asked my younger brother, “I wonder what your wife’s doing right now,” he shook the pier’s railing several times with both hands before replying sheepishly, “Walking in the garden.”
The girl wearing large garden clogs, holding a fan and gazing at evening primroses, seemed so much like my younger brother.
When my turn came to speak, I kept my eyes fixed on the pitch-black sea and merely muttered “…with a red sash,” then fell silent.

The ferry crossing the strait lit yellow lights in its many rooms like a large inn and emerged swaying from the horizon.

This younger brother died two or three years later, but at that time, we often went to this pier.
In winter, even on nights when snow fell, my younger brother and I would go to this pier together under umbrellas.
There was something beautiful about snow falling quietly into the deep harbor waters.
Lately Aomori Port had become crowded with ships until this pier too filled with vessels—no scenery remained.
As for that wide river said to resemble the Sumida River—it was the Tsutsumi River flowing through eastern Aomori City.
It empties directly into Aomori Bay.

A river, just before flowing into the sea, will strangely hesitate and slow as if to reverse its current.
I gazed at that sluggish flow and was dazed.
If I may use an affected analogy, my youth too was likely on the verge of flowing from river to sea.
Hence, those four years in Aomori could perhaps be called an unforgettable period for me.
Such are my memories of Aomori in general, but Asamushi—a coastal hot spring about three *ri* east of Aomori City—remains another place I cannot forget.
Indeed, that novel titled "Memories" contains the following passage.

When autumn came, I took my younger brother and set out for a coastal hot spring town that could be reached in about thirty minutes by train from the city.
There, my mother and youngest sister—who was recovering from illness—had rented a house to take the waters.
I stayed there continuously and continued my exam preparation.
For the inescapable honor of being a top student, I absolutely had to enter higher school from the fourth year of middle school and prove myself.
My aversion to school had grown even more intense by that time, but driven by some compulsion, I nevertheless single-mindedly continued studying.
I commuted to school by train from there.
Every Sunday, friends would come to visit.
I would always go on picnics with friends.
On a flat rock by the shore, we prepared a meat hotpot and drank wine.
My younger brother had a good voice and knew many new songs, so we had him teach them to us and sang in unison.
Worn out from playing, we would fall asleep on that rock, and when we awoke to find that the tide had risen—turning what should have been a shore-connected rock into an isolated island—we would feel as though we still hadn’t awakened from the dream.

I suppose one might want to quip that my youth had finally poured into the sea. The sea of Asamushi is clear and pure—not bad—but the inns cannot necessarily be called good. The bleak charm of this Tohoku fishing village was only natural and not something to blame, yet even so, was it only I who felt exasperated by a petty provincial arrogance akin to a frog in a well unaware of the vast ocean? Since it’s the hot spring of my hometown, I can criticize it without reserve, but despite being a rural place, I can’t help feeling an inexplicable unease as if it’s become jaded. I haven’t stayed at this hot spring town recently, but it would be fortunate if the lodging rates haven’t become surprisingly high. This is clearly my overstatement; I have not stayed here recently, merely observed the houses of this hot spring town from the train window and spoken based on the meager intuition of a poor artist—with no other grounds whatsoever—so I do not wish to impose this instinct of mine upon the reader. Rather, the reader might be better off not believing my intuition at all. Asamushi too must surely have now redefined itself as a modest resort town. However, a suspicion flitted through my mind—that the spirited patrons of Aomori City had once, during a certain period, caused this chilly hot spring town to become strangely inflated, making its innkeepers grow intoxicated with illusions of shallow graves in their thatched huts, as if Atami and Yugawara’s lodgings were precisely like this. And so it came to pass that this journey’s cynical poor writer, frequently passing through this nostalgic hot spring town by train of late, resolutely refrained from alighting.

In Tsugaru, Asamushi Onsen was considered the most famous hot spring, with Owani Onsen likely coming next in reputation.
Owani lay near Tsugaru's southern edge, close to the Akita prefectural border, and seemed better known nationwide for its ski resort than its thermal waters.
This mountain-foot hot spring retained faint traces of Tsugaru Domain's historical essence.
Though my relatives frequently visited this spa for recuperation and I too played there as a boy, my memories lacked Asamushi's vivid clarity.
Yet while Asamushi's countless recollections shone brightly yet not always pleasantly, Owani's hazy reminiscences carried deeper warmth.
Was this the difference between sea and mountain?
Having not seen Owani Onsen for nearly twenty years, I wondered if it too now appeared disheveled—hungover on metropolitan dregs like Asamushi.
For me, this remained unacceptable.
Compared to Asamushi, its transportation links to Tokyo proved woefully inadequate.
This very inconvenience became my primary reassurance.
Moreover, nearby Ikari-ga-seki—the old domain-era checkpoint between Tsugaru and Akita—preserved numerous historical sites where ancestral Tsugaru lifestyles surely endured stubbornly; I refused to believe urban influences could easily overwhelm this area.
The ultimate safeguard lay three ri northward at Hirosaki Castle—its keep wholly intact through the ages, proudly mantled in cherry blossoms each radiant spring to proclaim its enduring vitality.
So long as Hirosaki Castle kept watch, I resolved to believe Owani Onsen would never grow intoxicated on civilization's bitter lees.

Hirosaki Castle.
This was the historical heart of the Tsugaru Domain.
Ōura Tamenobu, founder of the Tsugaru Domain, supported the Tokugawa faction at the Battle of Sekigahara; in Keichō 8 [1603 CE], upon Tokugawa Ieyasu's appointment as shogun, he became a daimyo under the Tokugawa regime with a stipend of 47,000 koku. He immediately began planning the castle grounds at Hirosaki Takayaka, and it was during the time of the second lord, Tsugaru Nobuhira, that this Hirosaki Castle finally reached completion.
Thereafter, successive domain lords based themselves at this Hirosaki Castle. During the time of the fourth lord Nobumasa, he established Nobuhide—a clan member—as a branch family in Kuroishi, thereby dividing Tsugaru into two domains governed from Hirosaki and Kuroishi. Nobumasa's benevolent rule—praised as foremost among the Seven Wise Lords of Genroku—greatly restored Tsugaru's honor. However, the great famines of the Hōreki (1751–1764 CE) and Tenmei (1781–1789 CE) eras under the seventh lord Nobuyasu transformed all Tsugaru into a horrific hell, with domain finances reaching utter destitution. Amid these dark prospects, the eighth lord Nobuaki and ninth lord Yasuchika desperately strove to restore domain fortunes. When they barely overcame this crisis by the eleventh lord Junkō's era, the twelfth lord Tsuguyasu finally achieved the auspicious return of domain registers to the throne during his reign—thereby bringing about the birth of present-day Aomori Prefecture. This progression constitutes both Hirosaki Castle's history and the broad outline of Tsugaru's own.

Regarding Tsugaru's history, I intend to elaborate in later pages, but for now, I shall conclude this prologue to Tsugaru by writing a few of my old memories of Hirosaki.

I spent three years in this castle town of Hirosaki.
I spent three years in the liberal arts department at Hirosaki High School, and during that time, I had become deeply engrossed in Gidayū.
It was quite bizarre.
On my way home from school, I would stop by the female Gidayū teacher’s house—it probably began with Asagao Nikki, though I’ve now completely forgotten what was what—but back then, I had memorized pieces like Nozakimura, Tsubosaka, and Kamiji in their entirety.
Why did I ever start such an utterly bizarre and out-of-character endeavor?
I do not intend to make Hirosaki City bear all the responsibility, but I do want it to take on part of it.
Gidayū thrived in this town with curious vitality.
Amateur Gidayū recital gatherings were occasionally held at the town’s theater.
I once went to listen myself and found the town gentlemen properly dressed in formal kamishimo attire, earnestly chanting Gidayū.
None were particularly skilled, but there wasn’t a hint of affectation in their performance; they chanted with utmost seriousness in a thoroughly conscientious manner.
Aomori City had never lacked its share of connoisseurs since antiquity; yet in Hirosaki City, one appeared to encounter far more of these pitiable gentlemen—men who either practiced ballads solely to hear geishas coo “Brother, you’re so good!” or shrewdly wielded their airs of sophistication as weapons in political or commercial schemes, all while breaking into foolish sweats over trivial artistic pursuits without a shred of self-awareness.
In other words, genuine fools still seemed to remain in this Hirosaki City.
The ancient chronicle Eikei Gunki reportedly contains this passage: “The hearts of people in Ōu and Dewa provinces are foolish; they know not how to submit even to mighty powers—declaring ‘That one is our ancestors’ enemy!’ or ‘This one is baseborn!’—following none but those who temporarily boast strong military fortune.” In Hirosaki’s people, there appeared to persist this very brand of genuine fools’ obstinacy: refusing to bow to victors even through repeated defeats, stubbornly guarding their prideful isolation until becoming society’s laughingstock.
Thanks to having spent three years there, I too had become intensely nostalgic, thrown myself into Gidayū, and turned into the sort of man who exhibited such romanticism.
The following passage is from one of my old novels and remains undeniably a playful fiction; however, regarding its general atmosphere, I must confess with a bitter smile that it was indeed roughly like this.

"While drinking grape wine at cafés had been fine, I eventually learned to do things like sheepishly wander into traditional restaurants and eat meals with geisha."
The boy didn't particularly consider this a bad thing.
He believed that dashing, yakuza-esque conduct always represented the pinnacle of refined taste.
After visiting an old quiet restaurant in the castle town two or three times, the boy's fashion instincts once again reared their head—and this time brought utter disaster.
Excitedly preparing an outfit modeled after construction workers from *The Me Group's Quarrel* play he'd seen, he imagined himself sitting cross-legged in the tatami room facing the inner garden and calling out: "Hey there, miss! Ain't today a real scorcher? Damn fine weather, eh?"
A dark blue workman's apron.
That came easily enough.
When he stuffed an old-fashioned wallet into the apron's pouch and walked around with hands tucked in sleeves like this, he looked every inch the yakuza.
He bought a stiff sash too.
A Hakata belt that went *snap* when tightened.
He ordered a single karasan summer kimono from a draper.
He ended up in an outfit that could've been a construction worker's, gambler's, or shop clerk's—utterly incoherent.
There was no unity whatsoever.
Still, if it gave the impression of a stage character, the boy felt satisfied.
It being early summer, he wore hemp-soled sandals on bare feet.
All had gone well until the boy suddenly conceived a strange notion.
It concerned workman's leggings.
The theater construction workers wore snug indigo cotton leggings he now coveted.
With a "Heave-ho!", he'd flare the hems and spin to tuck up his rear.
That's when those indigo leggings would stand out so vividly they stung the eyes.

Just one piece wouldn’t do.
The boy ran all over the castle town from end to end trying to buy those workman's leggings.
They were nowhere to be found.
"Look, you know—those snug dark blue workman’s leggings that plasterers wear? Don’t you have anything like that?" he desperately explained as he asked around at fabric stores and tabi shops, but the shopkeepers only laughed and shook their heads, saying, "Those? Nowadays..."
By then it had grown quite hot, and the boy searched around drenched in sweat until finally being advised by a certain shopkeeper: "We don't have those here, but if you turn at the side street, there's a place specializing in firefighting gear. Go ask there—they might know." Ah, firefighting—he hadn't made that connection.
Construction workers—ah, that meant firefighters, or what you’d now call the fire brigade! Of course! With this realization firing him up, he rushed into the shop in the alley he’d been directed to.
The shop had fire pumps of various sizes lined up.
There were also fireman's standards.
Feeling somehow uneasy yet still mustering courage, when he asked "Do you have workman's leggings?", they immediately answered "Yes" and brought out what were indeed dark blue cotton leggings—except with thick red lines symbolizing firefighting boldly drawn vertically down both outer sides.
Even he lacked the courage to walk around wearing them; the boy had no choice but to sadly abandon the workman’s leggings.

Even in the heartland of fools, there might have been few fools to this extent. While transcribing this, the author himself grew somewhat melancholy. Wasn't the geisha district containing that traditional restaurant where I dined with geishas called Enoki-kōji? After all, it was something from nearly twenty years ago—my memory had grown hazy and indistinct—but I believe it was a place called Enoki-kōji below Omiya Slope. The location where I ran about drenched in sweat seeking dark blue workman's leggings was Dote-machi, the most bustling shopping district in the castle town. Compared to these, Aomori's pleasure quarter bears the name Hamamachi. The name seemed to lack individuality. The shopping district in Aomori corresponding to Hirosaki's Dote-machi is called Ōmachi. This too appeared much the same way. Since I'm on the subject, I shall now list Hirosaki's and Aomori's town names one after another. The difference in character between these two provincial cities might unexpectedly become clear. Honmachi, Zaifu-machi, Dote-machi, Sumiyoshi-machi, Okeya-machi, Dōya-machi, Chabatake-machi, Daikan-machi, Kaya-machi, Hyakkoku-machi, Kami-sayashi-machi, Shimo-sayashi-machi, Teppō-machi, Wakato-machi, Kojin-machi, Takajō-machi, Gojūkoku-machi, Konya-machi—these are the street names of Hirosaki City. By contrast, Aomori City's street names run as follows: Hamamachi, Shin-Hamamachi, Ōmachi, Kome-machi, Shinmachi, Yanagi-machi, Tera-machi, Tsutsumi-machi, Shio-machi, Shijimigai-machi, Shin-Shijimigai-machi, Ura-machi, Namiuchi, Sakae-machi.

However, I was by no means regarding Hirosaki City as an upper-class town and Aomori City as a lower-class one.
The nostalgic names like Takajō-machi and Konya-machi were not at all unique to Hirosaki City; such town names could be found in castle towns throughout Japan.
To be sure, Mount Iwaki in Hirosaki City was more splendid than Mount Hakkōda in Aomori City.
Yet Mr. Kasai Zenzo—a master novelist from Tsugaru—instructed his local juniors thus:

“Don’t get full of yourselves now.
“The reason Mount Iwaki looks so splendid is because there are no high mountains around it.
“Go see for yourselves in other provinces.
“A mountain like that’s common as dirt.
“It only looks grand ’cause there’s nothing taller nearby.
“Don’t get full of yourselves now.”

There were countless historical castle towns across Japan, so why did the people of Hirosaki's castle town so stubbornly flaunt their feudalism as if proud of it? To state it plainly—though it hardly needed saying—compared to Kyushu, Saigoku, Yamato and such regions, this Tsugaru area was practically what you might call frontier land. What history worthy of national pride did it even possess? Even during the Meiji Restoration, what sort of imperial loyalists had emerged from this domain? How had the domain conducted itself? To put it bluntly, had they not merely followed in other domains' wakes and acted accordingly? Where on earth was there any tradition worth boasting about? Yet the people of Hirosaki stubbornly squared their shoulders all the same. No matter how formidable their opponents might be, they dismissed them as upstarts who merely flaunted power through fortunate timing—and refused to yield.

I had heard that General Iinobe Hyōe from this region always wore a Japanese-style outfit with serge hakama when returning home. Had he come back in full military regalia as a general star, his townsfolk would have immediately glared and jutted their elbows, muttering things like "Who does he think he is? Just lucky with timing"—knowing this reaction awaited him, he'd wisely resolved to always wear traditional dress during homecomings. Even if this story wasn't entirely factual, such legends arose not without reason—the people of Hirosaki's castle town possessed an unfathomably jagged rebelliousness that defied explanation.

What was the use hiding it? In truth, I too had such an ill-fated bone in my body—though it wasn't solely to blame—and thanks to that, I still couldn't rise above my hand-to-mouth existence in tenement housing. Several years earlier, when a certain magazine had asked me for "words to my hometown," my response had been:

I love you and I hate you.

I have spoken quite ill of Hirosaki, but this is not hatred toward Hirosaki—it is my own self-reflection.
I am a person of Tsugaru.
My ancestors were peasants of the Tsugaru Domain for generations.
In other words, I am a pureblood Tsugaru native.
That is why I can speak ill of Tsugaru so unreservedly like this.
If people from other provinces were to hear my criticisms like this and then lightly look down on Tsugaru, I suppose I would still feel displeased.
No matter what anyone says, I love Tsugaru.

Hirosaki City.
The current number of households stood at ten thousand, with a population exceeding fifty thousand.
Hirosaki Castle and Saishō-in's Five-Story Pagoda had been designated National Treasures.
They said Tayama Katai had certified Hirosaki Park during cherry blossom season as Japan's finest.
The headquarters of the Hirosaki Division was located there.
The Oyama Sankei mountain pilgrimage—spanning three days annually from the twenty-eighth day of the seventh month to the first day of the eighth month in the lunar calendar—drew tens of thousands of worshippers to Tsugaru's sacred Mount Iwaki summit shrine; pilgrims dancing through town on their way to and from the mountain brought it to frenzied prosperity.
Travel guides typically covered such matters in cursory fashion.
Yet when tasked with explaining Hirosaki City myself, I found these standard descriptions utterly inadequate.
Thus I attempted tracing childhood memories to capture something that might vividly embody Hirosaki's essence—only to find trivial recollections refusing coherence, until even I grew startled by unexpectedly harsh criticisms surfacing unbidden, leaving this author paralyzed with dismay.
I was overinvested in this old Tsugaru Domain castle town.
This place should have been our Tsugaru people's ultimate spiritual anchor, yet my explanations thus far had left its character frustratingly nebulous.
A castle keep swathed in cherry blossoms wasn't unique to Hirosaki Castle.
Were not most castles across Japan similarly cherry-blossom-wrapped?
Did Owani Onsen's proximity to such blossom-clad towers truly guarantee preservation of Tsugaru's essence?
I must have written foolishly earlier with misplaced confidence that "So long as Hirosaki Castle stands guard nearby, Owani Onsen shall never sip urban dregs nor suffer their vile hangover"—yet upon deeper reflection, this too seemed mere sloppy sentimentality dressed in ornate prose, rendering everything unreliable and my spirit faint.
This castle town was fundamentally slovenly.
Despite housing ancestral castles of former lords, it had lost the prefectural capital to some upstart town.
Most prefectural capitals across Japan were former domain castle towns.
That Aomori Prefecture had been forced to relocate its capital from Hirosaki City to Aomori City struck me as encapsulating the prefecture's very misfortune.
Let me be clear—I bore no particular animus toward Aomori City.

Seeing the prosperity of newly developed towns was also refreshing.
I was simply frustrated by Hirosaki City’s nonchalant air despite being defeated.
Wanting to support those who are defeated was a natural human sentiment.
I had wanted somehow to stand up for Hirosaki City and, though my prose was utterly clumsy, devised various approaches and earnestly wrote to that end—but I ultimately could not describe Hirosaki City’s definitive virtue nor Hirosaki Castle’s distinctive strength.
I reiterated.
This place was the spiritual anchor of the Tsugaru people.
There had to be something here.
There had to be a unique and splendid tradition found nowhere else across all of Japan.
I certainly had a premonition of it, but being unable to give it form and clearly demonstrate what it was to my readers proved unbearably frustrating.
This frustration.

I recall it was a spring evening when, as a humanities student at Hirosaki High School, I visited Hirosaki Castle alone. Standing in a corner of the castle plaza and gazing out at Mount Iwaki, I suddenly noticed a dreamlike town quietly unfolding at my feet and shuddered. Until then, I had only ever thought of Hirosaki Castle as something isolated on the outskirts of Hirosaki City. But behold—right below the castle lay a town of ancient elegance that I had never before seen, its small eaves lined up exactly as they had been hundreds of years prior, crouching quietly with bated breath. Ah, there was a town even in a place like this. In my youth, I inadvertently let out a deep sigh, feeling as though I were in a dream. It was reminiscent of the "hidden swamp" often found in the Manyoshu. For some reason, at that moment, I felt as though I understood Hirosaki—understood Tsugaru. As long as this town existed, I thought, Hirosaki could never be an ordinary city. That said, this too may be nothing more than my own self-satisfied assumption, and readers might find themselves utterly perplexed as to what I’m going on about—but faced with this, I now have no choice but to forcibly assert that Hirosaki Castle’s possession of this hidden swamp makes it a rare and exceptional castle among its peers. If ten thousand blossoms were blooming by the hidden swamp’s edge, and the white-walled castle keep stood there in silence, then that castle would undoubtedly be one of the nation’s most renowned. And with the belief that the hot spring near that renowned castle would never lose its simple, unadorned character—or in today’s terms, making a "hopeful observation"—I resolved to bid farewell to this beloved Hirosaki Castle.

Upon reflection, speaking of one's own flesh and blood was as difficult a task as any, and so too was articulating the essence of one's homeland.
I didn't know whether to praise it or criticize it.
In this prologue to Tsugaru, while expanding on my youthful memories of Kanagi, Goshogawara, Aomori, Hirosaki, Asamushi, and Owani, I had also strung together presumptuous blasphemous criticisms and crude phrases—but when I considered whether I had indeed managed to accurately portray these six towns, I couldn't help but grow melancholy.
I might have uttered blasphemous remarks worthy of ten thousand deaths for my transgressions.
These six towns were those that in my past had been closest to me, had shaped my character, and had defined my destiny; precisely because of this, there might be aspects where I remained blind regarding them.
In speaking of these towns, I now clearly realized I had never been a suitable candidate for the task.
Henceforth, in the main text, I resolved to make every effort to avoid discussing these six towns.

I will speak of other Tsugaru towns.

One spring year, I circled the Tsugaru Peninsula at Honshu's northern tip over roughly three weeks—a journey I had never made since birth—but as stated in this prologue's opening passage, I am now returning to that beginning; through this journey, I saw other Tsugaru villages for the very first time in my life.
Until then, I truly knew nothing beyond those six towns.
During elementary school days, I did go on field trips and see several hamlets near Kanagi, but they do not linger vividly in my present self as nostalgic memories.
During middle school summer breaks, even when returning to my Kanagi family home, I would lie sprawled on the Western-style sofa in the second-floor room, guzzling soda in great gulps while indiscriminately reading through my brothers' books—never embarking on trips. In high school, holidays invariably meant visiting my immediate elder brother in Tokyo (this brother studied sculpture but died at twenty-seven) at his home; then upon graduating high school, I came to a Tokyo university and simply never returned home for ten years. Thus, I must say this Tsugaru journey was an event of considerable significance for me.

Regarding the topography, geology, astronomy, finance, historical development, education, public health, and other such aspects of the towns and villages I saw during this journey, I wished to avoid offering pretentious opinions like those of an expert.
Even if I had said such things, they would ultimately have amounted to nothing more than the embarrassing flimsy veneer of overnight study.
As for those matters, those who wished to gain detailed knowledge should have inquired with the local specialists.
I had a different field of expertise.
The world tentatively called this field love.
It was a discipline that studied the interaction between human hearts.
In this journey, I primarily pursued this single discipline.
No matter which field I pursued through this lens, if I could convey Tsugaru’s living present as it was to my readers—then as a Showa-era Tsugaru chronicle—I thought it might at least pass muster... Ah, if only that had gone well.

Main Text

1. Pilgrimage

“Hey, why are you going on this trip?”

“Because it hurts.”

“Your ‘it hurts’ is just your usual line—I can’t trust it at all.”

“Masaoka Shiki thirty-six, Ozaki Kōyō thirty-seven, Saitō Ryokuu thirty-eight, Kunikida Doppo thirty-eight, Nagatsuka Takashi thirty-seven, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke thirty-six, Kamura Isota thirty-seven.”

“What does that mean?”

“Those are the ages they died.”
“They’re dropping like flies.”
“I’m about that age myself now.”
“For writers, this age is the most crucial,”

“So, is this your painful time?”

“What the hell are you saying?
“Don’t mess around.
“You should have at least some understanding of this yourself.
“I won’t say any more.
“It’ll sound pretentious if I say it.
“Hey—I’m setting off on my journey.”

Perhaps because I’d grown reasonably old by then, explaining my own feelings now seemed like pretentious posturing (and besides, such explanations were usually just trite literary affectations), so I had no desire to say anything.

I had been told by a close editor at a certain publishing house to try writing about Tsugaru, and wanting to see every corner of my birthplace while still alive, one spring year I left Tokyo looking like a beggar.

It was mid-May.
The description of myself as "beggar-like" was used with largely subjective intent, but objectively speaking, my appearance was far from presentable.
I did not have a single suit.
All I had were work clothes for labor service.
Nor were they something I had specially ordered from a tailor.
It was work clothes of some unfamiliar, inexplicable style—spare cotton fabric that someone in my household had dyed navy blue and cobbled together into something resembling a jacket and something resembling pants.
Immediately after being dyed, the fabric’s color was indeed navy blue, but after wearing it outside once or twice, it quickly turned into a strange purplish hue.
Purple Western-style clothing does not suit women unless they are exceptional beauties.
I attached green rayon gaiters to those purple work clothes and wore white rubber-soled canvas shoes.
The hat was a rayon tennis cap.
That dandy setting out on a journey in such a state was an unprecedented event since his birth.
Yet even so, in the rucksack on my back, I had concealed a crested single-layer haori—refashioned from my mother’s memento—an Oshima silk lined garment, and Sendaihira silk hakama.
I never know when something might happen.

I boarded the 5:30 PM express train bound from Ueno, but as night deepened, it grew bitterly cold. Under that something like a jacket, I wore only two thin shirts. Beneath my trousers lay nothing but underwear. Even those who had come prepared with winter coats and lap blankets were exclaiming—"It's freezing! What’s with this unnatural cold tonight?"—their voices rising in agitation. To me too, this cold was unexpected. In Tokyo at that time, there were already eager souls strolling about in rayon summer kimono. I had forgotten Tohoku's chill. I curled my limbs as small as possible, assuming a perfect turtle-retraction pose while telling myself, "This is it—the true training of mind-over-matter asceticism." Yet as dawn approached and the cold grew keener, I abandoned my spiritual pretensions and resorted to base thoughts: Oh, to reach Aomori quickly, sit cross-legged by some inn's hearth, and drink scalding-hot sake.

I arrived in Aomori at eight in the morning.
T-kun had come to meet me at the station.
I had informed him in advance by letter.

“I thought you would come wearing kimono.”

“This isn’t that sort of era.”
I forced my voice into a joking tone.

T-kun had brought a young girl with him.
Ah—I should have brought this child a souvenir, I immediately thought.

“In any case, why don’t you stop by my house and rest a little?”

“Thank you. I’m planning to go to N-kun’s place in Kameda by around noon today, but...”

“I am aware,” he said. “I heard from N-san. N-san also seems to be waiting. In any case, how about resting at my house until the bus to Kameda departs?”

My vulgar wish to sprawl with legs outstretched by the hearth while drinking piping-hot sake was miraculously granted. At T-kun’s house, a blazing charcoal fire burned in the hearth, and a sake flask had been placed inside the iron kettle.

“You’ve had quite the journey,” said T-kun with a formal bow to me. “Might beer be preferable?”

“No—sake.”
I cleared my throat softly.

T-kun had once lived at my house. He mainly looked after the chicken coop. Being the same age as me, we played together amiably. "That way he barks at the maids—it's that quality of his that seems both bad and good," Grandmother once remarked in her assessment of T-kun, and I still remember hearing it. Later, T-kun came to Aomori to study, then worked at a hospital in Aomori City where he appeared to be fairly trusted by both patients and staff. Some years ago he was conscripted, fought on a remote southern island, fell ill and returned home last year, then after recovering resumed work at his former hospital.

“What was the happiest thing for you in the war zone?”

“Well,”
T-kun answered without hesitation.
“It was when I drank a cupful of rationed beer in the war zone.”
“Savoring it carefully, little by little, I thought to set the cup down midway to catch my breath, but it simply wouldn’t leave my lips.”
“It simply wouldn’t let go.”

T-kun had also been fond of alcohol.
But now he didn’t drink at all.
And occasionally he would cough lightly.

“How’s your health holding up?”
T-kun had once suffered from pleurisy long ago, and this time it had recurred on the battlefield.

“This time, it’s service on the home front.
When caring for patients in a hospital, there are things you can’t understand unless you’ve suffered from illness yourself at least once.
This time, I’ve learned a valuable lesson.”

“You’ve truly matured as a person.
Actually, something like a lung disease—” I began expounding medical theories to the doctor with uncharacteristic bluntness, my growing tipsiness stripping away restraint.
“It’s a mental illness.
If you forget about it, it’ll heal.
You should drink a lot of sake once in a while.”

“Well, I’m getting by well enough,” he said with a laugh.
My amateurish medical theories did not seem to earn much credence from the professional.

“Would you care for something to eat? Even in Aomori, good fish have become scarce these days.”

“No—thank you.” Gazing absently at the nearby tray, I said, “It’s all sorts of delicious-looking things, isn’t it? This must be such a bother for you. But I don’t really want to eat that much.”

When setting out for Tsugaru this time, there was one thing I had resolved in my heart.
That was to be indifferent to food.
I am no saint—it embarrasses me to say such things—but Tokyoites do seem to crave food excessively.
Perhaps because I’m old-fashioned myself, I find both comical and endearing that foolish stoicism of samurai who flaunt toothpicks despite having empty stomachs—a gesture reeking of reckless desperation.
It seems unnecessary to go so far as brandishing a toothpick, but therein lies male pride.
Male pride tends to manifest in absurd forms.
I’ve heard rumors that some Tokyoites—utterly devoid of dignity—visit rural areas and theatrically declare they’re starving to death, then grovel while devouring the white rice offered by country folk: “Don’t you have anything else? Sweet potatoes? Marvelous—I haven’t tasted such delicious potatoes in months! Might I take some home?”—all delivered with obsequious grins.
Every Tokyoite supposedly receives equal rations.
That any single one should face starvation defies reason.
Perhaps stomach dilation explains it—regardless, such food-begging is disgraceful.
Even without invoking nationalistic excuses, one should maintain human dignity in any era.
I’ve also heard that a few Tokyo exceptions have so wildly exaggerated the capital’s shortages that locals now scorn all visitors from Tokyo as mere food scavengers.

I did not come to Tsugaru to scavenge for food. In appearance I might resemble a purple-clad beggar, but I am a beggar of truth and love—no white-rice panhandler! For the honor of all Tokyoites too, I had resolved to come here ready to strike a grandiose pose with oratorical flourish should the need arise. Even if someone earnestly urged me—"Here now, this rice is pure white! Eat till your stomach splits! Isn't Tokyo simply awful?"—I planned to eat just one modest bowl and declare: "Perhaps from habit, but Tokyo meals taste better. Even side dishes—just when you think they're gone, fresh rations arrive. My stomach's shrunk back on its own somehow—a little fills me right up. Marvelous system!"

However, all my warped precautions proved utterly pointless. I visited various acquaintances’ homes throughout Tsugaru, but not a single person said to me, “This is white rice! Eat until your stomach bursts!” Above all, when it came to my eighty-eight-year-old grandmother at my family home—“Tokyo being the place where every delicious thing exists, you see, I find myself quite at a loss when trying to think of something tasty to offer you. I’d like to give you some pickled gourd in lees,” she said with apparent embarrassment, “but for some reason, there’s been nary a speck of sake lees around lately.” At this, I felt truly happy. In other words, I had only encountered composed individuals who weren’t overly concerned with matters like food. I thanked God for my good fortune. There was no one who insistently forced food souvenirs on me with demands of “Take this! Take that!” Thanks to this, I was able to continue my journey with a light rucksack and carefree spirit; however, upon returning to Tokyo, I was astonished to find my house already filled with packages from kind people at each stop of my travels. That was a digression, but anyway, T-kun didn’t try to push more food on me either, and matters like what state Tokyo’s food situation might be in never once came up in conversation; our main topic remained, as ever, memories of when we two used to play together at the house in Kanagi.

“However, I do consider you a close friend, you know.”
It was truly a brutish, disrespectful thing to say—snidely sarcastic, affectedly pretentious, theatrically pompous in its arrogance.
Having said it, I squirmed in self-loathing.
Was there truly no other way to phrase it?

“That’s actually not pleasant at all.”
T-kun seemed to have keenly perceived my discomfort.
“I am one who served at your household in Kanagi.”
“And you are the master.”
“Unless you regard me that way, I cannot feel content.”
“It’s peculiar, isn’t it.”
“Though twenty years have passed since then, I still frequently dream of your Kanagi home.”
“I saw it even on battlefields.”
“I forgot to feed the chickens—damnation!”
“With that thought, I sometimes jolt awake from the dream.”

The bus was due.

I went outside with T-kun.
It wasn’t cold anymore.
The weather was fine, and I had drunk hot sake; far from being cold, sweat was beading on my forehead.
The cherry blossoms of Gappo Park were said to be in full bloom now.
The streets of Aomori City were whitish and dry—no, I refrained from describing the haphazard impressions that met my drunken eyes.
Aomori City was now working hard at shipbuilding.
On the way, I paid my respects at the grave of Mr. Toyoda, who had looked after me during my middle school years, and hurried to the bus terminal.
How about it—why don’t you come to Kameda with me?—the me of old might have casually said such words, but whether it was because I too had finally aged and learned some measure of restraint, or rather—no, perhaps complicated explanations of feelings should be spared.
In other words, we had probably both become adults.
Adults are lonely creatures.
Even if we love each other, we must be cautious and keep up formalities.
Why must we be so cautious?
The answer was nothing at all.
It was because we had been splendidly betrayed and made to suffer deep humiliation too many times.
The discovery that people are unreliable is the first lesson in a youth’s transition to adulthood.
Adults are the image of betrayed youths.

I walked in silence.
Suddenly, T-kun spoke up.

“I’ll go to Kameda tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll take the first morning bus. Let’s meet at N-san’s house.”

“What about the hospital?”

“Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“Oh, I see. You should’ve said so sooner.”

In us, there still remained a part of carefree boys.

2. Kameda

The eastern coast of the Tsugaru Peninsula was since ancient times called Sotogahama, a place that had long bustled with maritime traffic.
Taking a bus from Aomori City and heading north along this eastern coast, one passed through towns and villages such as Ushirogata, Yomogita, Kameda, Tairadate, Ippongi, and Imabetsu before arriving at Mitsuya, renowned for its Yoshitsune legend.
The travel time was approximately four hours.
Mitsuya was the bus terminal.

From Mitsuya, if one walked north along the treacherous path by the water’s edge for about three hours, one arrived at the village of Tappi.
It was, quite literally, where the road ended.
This cape was, indeed, the very northern tip of Honshu.
However, because this area had recently become quite important for national defense, descriptions regarding distances and other concrete details had to be entirely avoided.
In any case, this entire Sotogahama area was where the oldest history in the Tsugaru region resided.
And Kameda Town was the largest village within that Sotogahama.
From Aomori City by bus, passing through Ushirogata and Yomogita, one arrived in this town in about an hour and a half—though in reality, it was closer to two hours.
It was what was called the central part of Sotogahama.
The number of households was close to one thousand, and the population appeared to far exceed five thousand.
The Kameda Police Station, apparently newly built recently, was likely one of the most imposing and conspicuous architectural structures along the entire Sotogahama route.
Kameda, Yomogita, Tairadate, Ippongi, Imabetsu, Mitsuya—in other words, all the villages of Sotogahama—fell under the jurisdiction of this police station.
According to *Aomori Prefecture General History* by Takeuchi Umpei of Hirosaki, Kameda Beach had once been a sand iron production site—though it yielded none today—and during the Keicho era, the sand iron from this beach had purportedly been smelted for use in constructing Hirosaki Castle. Furthermore, in the ninth year of Kanbun, five large ships had been newly built at Kameda Beach to suppress an Ezo uprising, and during the Genroku era under the fourth lord Nobumasa, it had been designated one of Tsugaru’s Nine Ports, where a town magistrate was established to oversee primarily timber exports. All these facts I later researched and learned; until then, I had known only that Kameda was famous for crabs and that N-kun—my sole friend from middle school—resided there.
When I set out on this journey through Tsugaru, wanting to stop by N-kun's place and impose on his hospitality, I had sent him a letter in advance. In that letter I wrote: "Please don't go to any trouble. You must pretend not to notice me.
Please do not come to greet me or anything of the sort.
But at least apple wine and crab." I must have written something to that effect. Though I admonished myself to be indifferent toward food, I had allowed crab as the sole exception.
I was fond of crabs.
I didn’t know why—I just was.
I only liked things like crab, shrimp, and shako—foods that seemed to have no nutritional value whatsoever.
Next among the things I liked was alcohol.
Even an apostle of love and truth who supposedly had no interest in food or drink had, in this conversation, unwittingly exposed a fragment of his innate greed.

At N-kun’s house in Kameda, they had prepared a large red-lacquered tray with cabriole legs, piled high with crabs like a small mountain, waiting for me.

“Does it have to be apple wine? Is sake no good? Beer too?” said N-kun with evident difficulty.

Far from being inferior—it was certain to be better than apple wine—but knowing as an “adult” how precious sake and beer were, I had written apple wine in my letter out of consideration. I had heard rumors that lately, in the Tsugaru region, apple wine was relatively abundant—much like wine in Koshu.

“Oh, either is fine.”
I let slip a complex smile.
N-kun wore a relieved expression,

“Ah, hearing that put my mind at ease. I just don’t like apple wine. Actually, my wife—after reading your letter—insisted, ‘Dazai must’ve grown tired of sake and beer in Tokyo and wants to try a drink of apple wine that smells like home—that’s exactly what he wrote here. We should serve apple wine.’ But I told her there’s no way that’s true—no way he’d start disliking beer or sake. He’s just being uncharacteristically reserved, that’s all.”

“But your wife’s words aren’t entirely off the mark.”

“What are you saying.”
“Enough already.”
“Shall we start with sake?”
“Beer?”

“Beer can wait until later.”
I had grown a bit bolder.

“I prefer that too.”
“Hey! Sake!”
“Even if it’s lukewarm, just bring it right away.”

In some place, sake proves unforgettable.
At world’s edge we speak of old affections.

We never reached azure clouds together; startle each other as white hairs multiply.

Twenty years ago we parted; three thousand ri away you went.

If there is not a single cup at this moment, with what shall we recount our ordinary lives?
(Bai Juyi)

During my middle school days, I never once visited other people’s houses, yet for some reason, I frequently went to the home of N-kun, who was in the same class. N-kun was boarding on the second floor of a large sake shop in Teramachi at that time. Every morning, we would invite each other and walk to school together. And on our way back, we would stroll along the backstreets by the coast; even when it rained, we never hurried or broke into a run, walking slowly and unperturbed even as we became drenched to the bone. Now that I think back, both of us were rather easygoing children with an air of detachment. That may have been the key to our friendship. We would run and play tennis in the square in front of the temple, and on Sundays, we would take boxed lunches and go play in the nearby mountains.

The “friend” that appears in my early novel titled Memories is mostly this N-kun. After graduating from middle school, N-kun went to Tokyo and apparently worked at a magazine company. I moved to Tokyo two or three years after N-kun and enrolled in university, and from that time our friendship revived. N-kun’s boarding house at the time was in Ikebukuro, and mine was in Takadanobaba, but we met up to spend time together nearly every day. This time, our activities were not tennis or running. N-kun had quit the magazine company and taken a job at an insurance firm, but given his easygoing nature—much like my own—he seemed constantly swindled by people. However, each time I was deceived, I grew darker and more servile, while N-kun, conversely, no matter how much he was tricked, only became more carefree and bright in character. N-kun was a strange man; his lack of resentment was admirable—one could only think that aspect stemmed from his ancestors’ virtue. Even his sharp-tongued companions uniformly admired his ingenuousness. N-kun had visited my family home in Kanagi even during our middle school days, and after coming to Tokyo, he would occasionally visit my immediate older brother’s house in Totsuka. Then, when this brother died at twenty-seven, he took time off work to handle various matters for us, earning gratitude from all my blood relatives. Before long, N-kun had to return home to take over his family’s rice polishing business in the countryside. Even after inheriting the family trade, thanks to his remarkable personal virtue, he gained the trust of the town’s young men, and two or three years ago was elected as a Kameda town council member. He also took on various roles such as youth group branch leader and committee secretary for this or that association, so that now he appears to have become one of Kameda’s indispensable men. That night too, two or three young local leaders came to N-kun’s house to visit, and we drank sake and beer together; N-kun’s popularity seemed quite substantial, and he remained the gathering’s star as always. Among the travel precepts of Master Bashō transmitted in this world appears an article stating: First, one must not drink alcohol for pleasure; even when hospitality makes refusal difficult, stop at mild intoxication and never descend into disorder. However, I interpret that phrase from the Analects—“With wine, set no limit, but avoid disorder”—to mean you may drink as much as you like provided you don’t behave rudely. Therefore, I deliberately refuse to follow the venerable master’s teaching. As long as one doesn’t get so drunk as to lose propriety, it’s fine. That goes without saying. I have a strong tolerance for alcohol. I can’t help but think I might be several times stronger than Master Bashō himself. Being treated to a meal at someone else’s home and then causing a disturbance—I do not consider myself such a fool. If there is not a single cup at this moment, with what shall we recount our ordinary lives? I drank heartily.

Moreover, in those travel precepts of the venerable master’s, there appeared to have been an article stating: First, beyond haikai, one must not engage in idle talk; should idle talk arise, one must nap to conserve energy. Yet I did not follow this rule either. Master Bashō’s pilgrimages make us commoners suspect they might have been little more than provincial tours to promote his Shōfū style—so much so did he travel from place to place holding haikai gatherings and establishing regional branches of his school. If a lecturer surrounded by haikai students wants to avoid unrelated chatter—and should such talk arise, freely feign sleep or do whatever they please—that’s their prerogative. But my journey wasn’t some campaign to establish provincial branches of a “Dazai school.” N-kun certainly hadn’t attended this drinking gathering hoping to hear literary lectures from me, nor had the local leaders who visited N-kun’s house that night—they simply felt some affection toward me as N-kun’s old friend, hence the exchanging of cups. Given these circumstances, were I to suddenly start pontificating about the essence of literary spirit and then feign sleep against the alcove pillar whenever casual conversation arose, it would hardly have seemed like gracious behavior. That night, I did not speak a single word about literature. I didn’t even use Tokyo speech. I made an effort, almost to the point of affectation, to speak in pure Tsugaru dialect. And I engaged only in mundane, everyday small talk. To such an extent that someone at the drinking party must have surely thought “There’s no need to go that far,” I conducted myself as Tsugaru’s Tsushima no Ozukasu. (The name Tsushima Shuji is my registered name from birth, and Ozukasu—perhaps best written with the characters for “uncle” and “lees”—is a term used in this region to disparagingly refer to third or fourth sons.) It wasn’t that I lacked a plan to use this journey to reduce myself once more to that Tsushima’s Ozukasu. It was my wish, feeling uneasy about myself as an urbanite, to grasp myself as a Tsugaru person. To put it differently, I set out on this journey to ascertain what Tsugaru people truly were. I came to Tsugaru to find a pure Tsugaru person who could serve as a model for my way of life. And so I discovered it remarkably easily, everywhere I went. It wasn’t a matter of who or how. A poor traveler in beggar’s garb isn’t permitted such presumptuous criticism. That itself would be the height of rudeness. It’s not as though I discovered it in each and every individual’s words and actions, or in the hospitality shown to me. I don’t believe I traveled with such a detective-like wary gaze. I usually hung my head and walked while looking only at my own feet. But there were indeed many times when something like fate whispered furtively into my ear.

I believed it.
My so-called discovery was something terribly subjective like that—without reason or form, utterly devoid of anything concrete.
Who did what or who said what—I had scarcely any concern for such matters.
This was only natural, for someone like me had no right to dwell on such things, but in any case, reality held no place in my vision.
“Reality exists where one believes, for reality can never make people believe”—this curious phrase I had written twice in my travel notebook.

Though I meant to restrain myself, I ended up voicing clumsy sentiments. My theories were jumbled, and there were many cases where even I didn’t understand what I was saying. There were even times when I told lies. So I hated explaining my feelings. Somehow, I felt like I was putting on a clumsy, transparent act and could only blush with shame. Even though I knew I’d surely come to regret it, when I got excited, I ended up lashing my clumsy tongue again and again—exactly as they say. Pursing my lips and petulantly spouting disjointed nonsense, only to evoke not contempt but even pity in others’ hearts—this too seemed to be one of my sorrowful destinies.

That night, however, I refrained from voicing any such clumsy sentiments and—though this seemed to defy Master Bashō’s dying precepts—without dozing off even once, I wholeheartedly immersed myself in casual conversation alone, gazing at the mounds of my beloved crab before me as I continued drinking until late into the night.
N-kun’s petite and brisk wife, observing how I merely gazed in delight at the mountain of crabs without making any move to touch them, apparently concluded I must be reluctant to peel and eat the crabs myself. She diligently set about skillfully peeling them, packing the beautiful white meat back into each shell until they took on the appearance of those Furutsu things—fragrant, cool-looking fruit confections that retain their original form—then offered them to me one after another.
They were likely crabs that had just been caught this morning from Kameda Beach.
It had a fresh, light taste like freshly picked fruit.
Blithely breaking my self-imposed admonition to remain indifferent toward food, I ate three or even four.
That night, N-kun’s wife served meal trays to every guest who came, and even the locals were astonished enough by the lavishness of those trays’ offerings.

After the influential guests had left, N-kun and I moved our drinking party from the inner tatami room to the family parlor and began the Atobuki.
Atobuki refers to this Tsugaru region custom where, after occasions like weddings or similar household gatherings when all guests have departed, only a few family members gather the leftover dishes to hold a modest banquet of appreciation; it may possibly be a dialectical corruption of "atobiki" (lingering after).
N-kun had an even greater tolerance for alcohol than I did, so together we had no fear of descending into disorder, but

“However—” I sighed deeply—“you still drink like always.”
“Well…you being my teacher and all…can’t blame you.”

The one who truly taught me drinking was indeed this N-kun.
That was precisely how things stood.

“Hmm,” N-kun nodded gravely, his cup still in hand, “I’ve given that matter a lot of thought myself, you know. Every time you’d mess up because of drink, I felt responsible—it was painful.”
“But lately, I’ve been trying to rethink things this way.”
“That guy would’ve become a drinker all on his own even if I hadn’t taught him.”
“It’s not my concern.”

“Ah, so that’s how it is. That’s exactly how it is. You don’t have any responsibility at all. Absolutely, that’s exactly how it is.”

Before long, N-kun’s wife joined us as well, and as we talked about each other’s children and quietly carried on with the Atobuki, a rooster suddenly crowed to announce the dawn—so startled was I that I withdrew to my sleeping quarters.

When I awoke the next morning, I heard the voice of T-kun from Aomori City.
As promised, he had come on the first morning bus.
I sprang up immediately.
When T-kun was here for me, I somehow felt secure and reassured.
T-kun had brought along one colleague from Aomori hospital who liked novels.
Also with them came S-san, who served as administrative director of that hospital's Kameda branch.
While I was washing my face, a young man named M-san—who loved novels and had apparently heard from N-kun or others about my arrival in Kameda—appeared from Imabetsu near Minmaya wearing a bashful smile.
M-san seemed acquainted with N-kun, T-kun, and S-san alike.
A plan coalesced for us all to go flower viewing on Kameda's mountain immediately.

Kanransan.
I had set out wearing a violet jumper and green gaiters, but such elaborate preparations proved entirely unnecessary.
The mountain stood on Kameda Town's outskirts—a modest hill barely reaching one hundred meters in height.
Yet the view from its summit was far from disappointing.
The day blazed with such clarity that not a wisp of wind stirred; across Aomori Bay stretched Natsudomari Cape, while beyond Tairadate Strait loomed Shimokita Peninsula, startlingly near.
Those from southern climes might envision Tohoku's seas as brooding expanses of tempestuous waves, but Kameda's waters showed themselves remarkably mild—their hue pale, salinity faint, even the briny shore-scent but a whisper.
A sea blended with melted snow.
It resembled nothing so much as a lake.
As for depth—perhaps best left unmentioned for national security—the waves lapped playfully at sandy shores.
Along the beachfront stood row upon row of nets, suggesting crabs alongside squid, flounder, mackerel, sardines, cod, anglerfish and more could be readily caught through all seasons.
Here in this town, unchanged since antiquity, fishmongers each morning still loaded handcarts to bursting and roamed the streets bellowing as if enraged: "Squid 'n mackerel here! Anglerfish 'n horse mackerel! Sea bass 'n cod!"
Moreover, these local fish-sellers dealt exclusively in that day's catch—not a scrap of yesterday's leftovers would they handle.
Those remnants might have been shipped elsewhere.
Thus townsfolk dined solely on fish hauled living from the sea that very day—though when storms halted fishing for even a single day, not one fresh catch could be found anywhere, meals then made with dried fish and mountain greens.
This held true not just for Kameda but every Sotogahama fishing village—nay, every western Tsugaru coastal settlement too.
Kameda moreover appeared abundantly blessed with wild vegetables.
Though a coastal town, it boasted both plains and mountains.
Along Tsugaru Peninsula's eastern shore where mountains crowded the coastline leaving scant flatland—forcing cultivation onto slopes here and there—those dwelling beyond the peaks in Tsugaru Plain's broad expanse seemed not entirely free from pitying this Sotogahama region they called "Kage" (mountain's shadow).
Yet Kameda alone possessed fertile plains rivaling the west's finest.
Were Kameda's people to learn of this western pity, how it must tickle their amusement.

In the Kameda region flowed the Kameda River—a gentle waterway with abundant volume that meandered languidly through its basin, where fields spread wide. In this region, however, both east and west winds blew fiercely, making years of poor harvests not uncommon; yet the land was not as barren as westerners imagined. Viewed from Kanransan, the water-rich Kameda River wound like a long serpent, its banks flanked by rows of finely cultivated rice fields arranged with calm composure to form a rich and stalwart landscape. These mountains belonged to the Bonshu Range, a branch of the Ōu Mountain Range. Originating from the base of Tsugaru Peninsula, this range advanced straight northward along the peninsula before plunging into the sea at Tappi Misaki on its northern tip. While low mountains ranging from 200 meters to about 300-400 meters stood lined up, Ōkura-dake—towering blue almost directly west from Kanransan—remained one of this range's highest peaks alongside Masukawa-dake and others, though even it measured no more than about 700 meters. However, since utilitarians unhesitatingly asserted clear-cut notions like "Mountains gain nobility not through height but through trees," Tsugaru's people need not have felt ashamed of their range's low stature. This mountain range stood as one of Japan's leading production areas for hinoki cypress—the product that could rightfully take pride in Tsugaru's ancient traditions rather than apples.

Apples had begun with trial plantings from seeds received from Americans in early Meiji years before achieving sudden success through French pruning methods taught by missionaries in Meiji's twenties, leading locals to focus on cultivation that only gained national fame as an Aomori specialty after entering Taishō era—hardly as frivolous as Tokyo's thunder crackers or Kuwana's baked clams yet far younger than Kishū's mandarin oranges in historical terms. People from Kantō and Kansai immediately thought of apples when hearing Tsugaru yet seemed oblivious to these cypress forests whose dense canopies of interlocking branches stayed green even in winter—so verdant that one might suspect Aomori Prefecture's name itself derived from this perpetual foliage.

Since antiquity counted among Japan's Three Great Forests, even the Showa 4 edition of Japan Geographical and Cultural Compendium stated: "This great forest traces its existence to Tamenobu—founding lord of Tsugaru Domain—whose rigorous systems maintained its luxuriance to this day as our nation's model forestry." During Tenna-Jōkyō eras, afforestation across Japan Sea coastal dunes blocked sea winds while aiding reclamation of Iwaki River's lower wastelands. Subsequent domain policies achieved by Kan'ei era screen-like mature forests enabling over 8,300 chōbu farmland reclamation before establishing hundred-plus domain forests through Meiji-era governmental attention that made Aomori cypress nationally renowned.

The compendium noted: "Prized for architectural suitability—especially water resistance—with abundant yields and convenient transport yielding 800,000 koku annually," though current production likely tripled this Showa 4 figure. While describing Tsugaru-wide forests rather than Kameda-specific pride, Kanransan's view revealed one of Tsugaru's finest forest zones where the compendium featured Kameda River estuary photos captioned: "Nearby lies Japan's Three Great Cypress Forests' national woodland with Kameda thriving as timber port where forest railways diverge coastward to daily transport mountain timber."

An explanation was appended: "The timber from this region is known for being both high-quality and inexpensive." The people of Kameda might wish to take pride in this but found themselves unable. Moreover, the Bonshu Mountain Range that formed the spine of the Tsugaru Peninsula produced not only hinoki cypress but also timbers such as cedar, beech, oak, maple, horse chestnut, and larch, while being renowned for its abundance of wild vegetables. Though the Kanagi region in the peninsula's west was also rich in mountain greens, this Kameda region too had bracken, ostrich fern, udo, bamboo shoots, butterbur, thistle, mushrooms, and similar plants that could be gathered with remarkable ease from the foothills right near town. In this way, Kameda Town—with its rice paddies and fields, blessed by both sea and mountain bounty—must have struck readers as nothing less than an idyllic utopia where people lived in rustic contentment. Yet from Kanransan, the town below exuded an air of listlessness. There was no vitality.

Having written so much praise for Kameda—indeed, to the point of excess—I thought that even if I were to speak a little ill of it here, the people of Kameda surely wouldn’t go so far as to beat me up. The people of Kameda are gentle. Gentleness is a virtue, but townspeople being so listless that it makes the town languid is daunting for a traveler. The very abundance of natural blessings might make one question whether it’s actually detrimental to the town’s vitality—so quiet and utterly still did Kameda Town lie. The breakwater at the estuary appeared half-constructed, as if abandoned midway. They would level the ground intending to build houses, only to abandon construction entirely and plant pumpkins in those red-earth vacant lots instead. From Kanransan—not that one could see everything from there—it somehow seemed there were far too many construction projects abandoned mid-process in Kameda. “Aren’t there some peculiar old-fashioned schemers hindering the vigorous progress of town administration?” I asked N-kun, whereupon this young council member said with a pained smile, “Enough, enough.” Beware the failed ventures of former samurai and the political commentaries of literary figures. My ill-advised questions about Kameda’s town administration only ended in a ridiculous outcome—inviting nothing but smirks from the seasoned town council members. Regarding that, the story that immediately came to mind was Degas’s tale of failure. Edgar Degas, a master of the French art world, once found himself sitting on the same bench as the great statesman Clemenceau in the corridor of a Parisian ballet theater by chance. Degas, without hesitation, expounded to this great statesman the lofty political discourse he had long cherished. “If I were to become prime minister,” he declared with passion, “I would fully grasp the gravity of that responsibility! Severing all bonds of affection, I would choose an ascetic life of simplicity—renting a tiny room on perhaps the fifth floor of an apartment near government offices. There would be only one table and a crude iron bedstead. Returning from work, I’d organize pending affairs at that table until late at night. When drowsiness struck, I’d collapse onto the bed fully clothed—shoes still on—then rise at dawn to gulp down eggs and soup standing up before grabbing my briefcase and heading straight back to the offices!” Yet Clemenceau offered not a word in reply, merely fixing the art world’s master with an utterly exasperated look of contempt as he scrutinized his face. Mr. Degas too seemed utterly disarmed by that gaze. Apparently deeply ashamed, he kept that humiliating episode to himself, and only fifteen years later did he secretly confide it to Monsieur Valéry, who seems to have been his favorite among his few friends. Seeing how he kept it hidden for fifteen long years—truly an eternity—even that arrogant master must have been struck by the seasoned politician’s unconscious contemptuous gaze to his very marrow; one cannot help but feel a surge of sympathy welling up in one’s chest. After all, artists’ political discussions are an invitation to disaster. Mr. Degas serves as an excellent example. Being nothing more than an impoverished writer, it seemed safest for me to speak only of Kanransan’s cherry blossoms and the affection of my Tsugaru friends.

The previous day, a strong west wind had blown, rattling the doors and windows of N-kun’s house, and I had spouted my usual self-satisfied pronouncement: “So Kameda’s a town of wind, eh?” But today, Kameda Town basked in tranquil sunshine, as though quietly chuckling at last night’s wild assertions. There wasn’t even a wisp of breeze. The cherry blossoms of Kanransan appeared to be at their peak now, blooming quietly and faintly. “Luxuriant” hardly suited them. Their petals were thin and translucent—fragile things that seemed to have blossomed washed clean by snow. They might well have been an entirely different variety of cherry altogether. So ethereal were they that one could almost imagine Novalis’s blue flower had been conceived from such blooms.

We sat cross-legged on the lawn beneath the cherry blossoms and spread out the lacquered boxes.
This was N-kun’s wife’s cooking.
Crabs and shrimp filled a large bamboo basket.
Then there was beer.
I peeled shrimp shells, gnawed crab legs, and sampled the boxed meals with just enough decorum to avoid appearing crude.
Among the lacquered box dishes, what struck me as extraordinary was spear squid bodies packed tight with their translucent eggs—soy-glazed and sliced into rounds.
The veteran T-kun stood up shouting "It's hot!", stripped to his waist, and began military-style calisthenics.
His towel-headbanded face somewhat resembled Burma’s Chief Barmaw.
That day’s gathering showed varying degrees of passion, yet all seemed intent on extracting literary confessions from me.
I answered clearly when asked.
"I’d followed Bashō’s precept of answering questions," I reflected, "but spectacularly violated his greater commandments."
First: Never highlight others’ flaws to showcase your own merits.
To criticize others while boasting of yourself is utterly base.
I had committed that baseness.
Even Bashō likely sniped at rival poets—yet surely never sank to my wretchedness: berating novelists without decorum, eyebrows raised, mouth twisted in scorn.
Bitterly, I’d engaged in that shameful conduct.
When asked about a certain fiftyish Japanese writer’s work, I’d carelessly blurted, "Not very good."
Lately Tokyo’s readers received this writer’s past works with near-reverence—some even calling him "god"—as if admiring him proved refined taste. This sycophantic trend troubled me; through Tsugaru-native ignorance, I alone declared him "base! Merely wartime luck..." refusing to comply.
Having now reread most works, I acknowledged his skill but found no loftiness.
Rather, I’d come to think his strength lay precisely in vulgarity.

The world depicted was one of pretentious emotional swings by petty bourgeois devoid of substance.
The protagonist would occasionally engage in “conscientious” reflections about his way of life, but such passages felt especially antiquated—so much so that one might think it better to avoid these insipid reflections altogether. In striving to distance itself from “literary” immaturity, the work instead became mired in it, producing a miserably artificial effect.
There were also a surprising number of sections that seemed to aim for humor, but perhaps because the author couldn’t fully commit—some vestigial inhibition kept quivering—readers found themselves unable to laugh unreservedly.
I had even heard naive critiques calling it “aristocratic,” but that was preposterous—the very epitome of sycophantic favoritism.
True nobles aren’t slovenly so much as magnanimous—or so I thought.
During the French Revolution, when rioters stormed into the king’s chambers, Louis XVI of France—though considered dimwitted—let out a hollow laugh, snatched a revolutionary cap from one rioter, perched it jauntily on his own head, and shouted “Vive la France!”
The bloodthirsty mob, struck by this artless and wondrous dignity, found themselves involuntarily joining the king in roaring “Vive la France!” before quietly withdrawing from the royal chamber without laying a finger on him.
True nobles possess this sort of innocent, uncalculated dignity.
Pursing one’s lips while adjusting one’s collar and putting on airs—that’s the typical manner of a noble’s footman.
One mustn’t use such a pitiful word as “aristocratic.”

That day at Kanransan in Kameda, the people sharing beer with me all seemed devoted admirers of that fifty-year-old writer. They kept questioning me about him until I finally violated Bashō’s pilgrimage precepts and began criticizing his work. Once started, my excitement grew until I found myself raising my eyebrows and twisting my mouth—veering off into that odd tangent about “aristocratic” of all things.
The gathering showed no trace of agreement with my words.
“We’ve never called it anything so foolish as ‘aristocratic’,” M-san from Imabetsu muttered with a troubled expression, as if talking to himself.
He appeared thoroughly worn down by the drunkard’s ravings.
The others merely exchanged glances and smirked at one another.

“In short—”
My voice had come to resemble a scream.
Ah—one shouldn’t speak ill of senior writers.
“You mustn’t be fooled by appearances.”
“Louis XVI was history’s most spectacularly ugly man.”

I was on the verge of completely derailing.

“But I like that person’s works,” M-san declared quite clearly.

“In Japan, that person’s works must be considered good, don’t you think?” said H-san from the Aomori hospital with modest mediation.

My position kept deteriorating.

“Well, they might be considered good.”
“I suppose they’re fine enough.”
“But isn’t it cruel of you all to not say a single word about my works while I’m sitting right here?”
I laughed as I spoke my true mind.

Everyone smiled faintly.
“Speaking one’s heart really is best,” I thought, growing bolder,

“My works may be a mess, but I cherish grand ambitions.”
“This grand ambition weighs so heavily that I stagger under it—this is who I am now.”
“To you all, I must appear as a slovenly, ignorant, grubby figure—but I know true elegance.”
“Even if they present pine needle-shaped dried sweets or show off narcissus tossed into celadon vases, I don’t consider that elegant in the slightest.”
“It’s nouveau riche pretension! How vulgar!”
“True elegance is a single white chrysanthemum upon a jet-black, sturdy boulder.”
“There must be an unsightly great rock at the foundation.”
“That is what true elegance is.”
“You all are still young, so you go around thinking that schoolgirlish lyricism—like carnations propped up with wire and tossed into cups—counts as artistic elegance.”

It was an outburst. “Do not point out others’ shortcomings to display your own strengths. To criticize others and take pride in oneself is utterly base.” This old master’s traveling precepts resembled solemn truth. Indeed, it was utterly base. Because I possessed this base habit, even in Tokyo’s literary circles, I gave everyone an unpleasant impression and was kept at a distance as a grubby fool. “Well, there’s no helping it,” I said, leaning back with both hands behind me. “My works are truly terrible, after all. No matter what I say, it’s pointless. But don’t you think you could at least acknowledge about one-tenth of my work compared to that writer you all adore? Because you all don’t acknowledge my work at all, even I end up blurting out irrelevant things. Acknowledge me. Even one-twentieth is fine. Acknowledge me!”

Everyone laughed uproariously. Being laughed at, I too felt relieved.

The director of the Kameda branch hospital, S-san, half-rose from his seat,

“How about we change venues here?” he said in the compassionate, soothing tone characteristic of a seasoned individual.
At the largest inn in Kameda Town called E, preparations for everyone’s lunch had been made.
"Is this okay?" I asked T-kun with my eyes.

“It’s fine. Let’s have them treat us.”
T-kun stood up and put on his jacket as he said, “We had planned this in advance.
Since S-san has set aside some rationed premium sake, let us all go partake of it now.
It won’t do to keep imposing solely on N-san’s hospitality.”

I obediently followed T-kun’s suggestion. So, having T-kun by my side was reassuring.

The inn called E was quite beautiful. The tokonoma in the room was properly arranged, and the toilet was also clean. I thought it was the kind of inn where even if you came alone to stay, you wouldn’t feel desolate.

Generally speaking, the inns on the east coast of the Tsugaru Peninsula were of higher quality than those on the west coast. This may have been an expression of their long tradition of welcoming travelers from other regions. In earlier times, those crossing to Hokkaido had no choice but to depart by ship from Mitsu-maeya, so this Sotogahama Kaidō road saw travelers from across the nation off each morning and welcomed them back each evening. The inn's meal tray also included crab.

“After all, this is Kameda,” someone said.

T-kun couldn't drink alcohol, so he ate his meal alone first, but the others all drank S-san's premium sake and put off eating their rice. As he grew more intoxicated, S-san became increasingly cheerful.

"I tell you, I like every novel equally," he said. "When I read them, they're all interesting. They're surprisingly skillful things. That's why I can't help loving you novelist types. I absolutely adore any novelist at all."
"My child—he's a boy who just turned three—I intend to make this one a novelist. I've even named him Fumio. It's written with the characters for 'writing' and 'male.' The shape of his head somehow resembles yours. If you'll pardon my saying so, it's formed like an open bowl at the crown."

That my skull was bowl-shaped came as a complete revelation. I had prided myself on knowing every last flaw in my appearance down to the smallest detail, yet I'd never noticed this peculiarity in my head's contour. Having just finished disparaging another writer, I now felt acutely vulnerable—what if there remained countless other defects I'd failed to perceive?

S-san grew ever more animated.

"How about this?" he pressed, his voice honeyed with hospitality. "The sake's nearly gone anyway. Why don't you all come to my place now? Just briefly! You must meet my wife and Fumio—I insist! We've apple wine aplenty here in Kameda. Come drink proper Tsugaru apple wine at my home!" His entreaties came rapid-fire, each phrase layered over the last like winter snowfall.

His goodwill was appreciated, but ever since the comment about my head's shape, my spirits had plummeted, and I wanted to retreat quickly to N-kun's house for a nap. The thought of going to S-san's home—where not just my head's shape but even its contents might be laid bare, potentially leading to beratement—made my heart grow heavier still. Following established custom, I watched T-kun's expression. Had T-kun told me to go, I was prepared to comply. T-kun put on a serious face and pondered briefly,

“Why don’t you go along? S-san seems unusually drunk today, but he’s been eagerly awaiting your visit for some time now.”

I decided to go.
I stopped fixating on my head shape.
I convinced myself S-san must have meant it as a joke.
When you lack confidence in your looks, you can’t afford to dwell on such trifles.
What I lacked most now wasn’t just physical—it might well be “confidence” itself.

Going to S-san’s house, even I—a fellow Tsugaru native—found myself somewhat bewildered by the fervent hospitality that laid bare our people’s essential nature.
S-san had no sooner entered his home than he began barking orders at his wife.
“Hey! I’ve brought the Tokyo guest!”
“Finally brought him!”
“This here’s that Dazai fellow I mentioned.”
“Aren’t you going to greet him?”
“Hurry out here and show proper respect!”
“And bring sake while you’re at it.”
“Wait—we’ve already had sake.”
“Bring the apple wine.”
“What? Only one sho?”
“Not enough!”
“Go buy two more!”
“Wait—”
“Shred the dried cod on the engawa—no wait, you need to pound it with a mallet first to soften it before shredding.”
“Not like that—I’ll do it.”
“To pound dried cod, you go like this—like this—Ow! Damn! Well, like this then.”
“Hey! Bring soy sauce.”
“Gotta put soy sauce on dried cod.”
“We’re short one cup—no, two cups.”

“Hurry up and bring them—wait, maybe these teacups will do.”
“Now, cheers, cheers!”
“Hey! Go buy another two sho! Wait—bring the boy along.”
“We’ll have Dazai see whether he can become a novelist or not.”
“What do you think? This head shape—they say the crown’s spread out like an open bowl.”
“I think it resembles the shape of your head, don’t you?”
“Perfect!”
"Hey, take the boy over there!"
"It's too noisy to bear!"
"Bringing such a filthy child before our guest—how disgraceful!"
"That's nouveau riche taste!"
“Quickly, bring more apple wine—another two sho!”
“The guest’s going to run off!”
“Wait—you stay here and serve.”
“Now, serve everyone.”
“Have the neighbor obasan buy more apple wine.”
“Since the neighbor obasan wanted sugar, give her a little.”
“Wait—you mustn’t give it to the neighbor obasan.”
“Give all our sugar to the guest from Tokyo as a souvenir.”
“Listen, don’t forget.”

“Give it all.”
“Wrap it in newspaper, then wrap it in oilpaper, tie it with string, and give it.”
“Don’t let the child cry.”
“How disgraceful!”
“That’s nouveau riche taste!”
“That’s not what aristocrats are like.”
“Wait—”
“The sugar can wait until the guest is leaving, I told you!”
“Music! Music!”
“Start the records.”
“Schubert, Chopin, Bach—anything’s fine.”
“Start the music.”
“Wait—”
“What’s that—Bach?”
“Stop.”
“It’s too noisy to bear!”
“You can’t hold a conversation or anything.”
“Put on a quieter record—wait, the food’s run out.”
“Make the Ankō fry.”
“The sauce is our house’s pride—that’s the clincher.”

“Whether the guest will actually like it or not—wait, serve the Ankō fry and then the egg-miso kayaki.”
“This is something you can’t eat anywhere but Tsugaru.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s egg miso.”
“Nothing beats egg miso.”
“It’s egg miso.”
“It’s egg miso.”

I was by no means employing exaggeration in my description.
This tempestuous hospitality embodied the Tsugaru people's affection.
Dried cod referred to large specimens freeze-dried in blizzards—a delicacy with the light, refined flavor that might have pleased Bashō himself. Five or six hung from S-san's veranda eaves. He staggered up, seized two or three, battered them wildly with a hammer until injuring his left thumb, then collapsed and crawled about pouring apple wine for everyone. Regarding the cranial bowl matter, I came to understand clearly that S-san had neither meant to mock me nor intended it as humor.
He appeared to sincerely revere broad-brimmed skulls.
He genuinely seemed to consider them admirable.
The Tsugaru people's guileless pathos demanded witness.
Thus he fell to chanting "egg miso, egg miso"—though I suspect general readers require explanation of this kayaki dish.
In Tsugaru dialect, beef hotpot and chicken hotpot become gyū no kayaki and tori no kayaki.
This likely stems from a corruption of kaiyaki.
Though uncommon now, we once cooked meat in giant scallop shells during my childhood.
While not entirely baseless—some dashi might seep from shells—this practice probably preserves Ainu traditions.
We all grew up eating such kayaki.
Egg-miso kayaki uses shellfish pots: simmer miso with bonito flakes, drop in an egg—primitive fare meant for invalids.
When illness saps appetite, we ate this atop rice gruel.
Yet this too stood undeniably among Tsugaru's unique dishes.
S-san had conceived this offering and chanted insistently to make me partake.
I entreated his wife—"No more, please"—and took my leave.
Let me draw your attention here.
That day's hospitality precisely manifested Tsugaru affection.
Moreover, it flowed from pure Tsugaru blood.

This was something that often happened to me too, just as it did with S-san, so I could speak without reservation; but when a friend came from afar, I would become utterly bewildered about what to do.
My heart would race as I darted about aimlessly—I even had the experience of bumping my head on a lamp and breaking its shade.
When an unexpected guest appeared during a meal, I would immediately throw down my chopsticks and rush to the entrance with food still in my mouth, only to have the guest frown at me.
I simply couldn’t perform the feat of calmly continuing my meal while making a guest wait.
And so, like S-san, even when exerting every possible effort in hospitality—dragging out absolutely everything in the house to entertain them—it only ended up overwhelming the guest, forcing me to later apologize for my own discourtesy.
This expression of love—tearing off and throwing, plucking and throwing, taking and throwing, even one’s very life—instead struck people from Kanto and Kansai as something rude and violent, until they finally kept their distance; through S-san, I felt I had been shown my own fate, and on my way back, I found myself both nostalgic and deeply pained for him.
The Tsugaru people’s expression of affection might need to be diluted with water before being administered, or else it could prove too potent for outsiders.
People from Tokyo just put on airs and serve food in miserly little portions.
Though no rare mushroom like Bue’s flat variety, I too—like Lord Kiso—had been scorned all this time by Tokyo’s arrogant aesthetes for this excessive exposure of affection.
“Show it! Show it all!” they would demand.

I later heard that for the following week, whenever S-san recalled that day’s egg miso incident, he became so overwhelmed with shame that he couldn’t go without drinking. He was by nature an exceptionally shy man with delicate nerves—or so he seemed. This too was characteristic of Tsugaru people. A pure-blooded Tsugaru native was no crude barbarian in daily life. They possessed far more elegance and subtle consideration than half-hearted city dwellers. Yet when circumstances caused that restraint to burst through its dam in a torrent, they would lose all composure—blurting out things like “Bue’s flat mushroom is here at last!”—only to suffer the mortification of drawing scorn from frivolous urbanites. The next day, S-san shrank into himself while drinking sake, when a friend came to visit him there,

“So? Did your wife scold you after that?” he asked with a laugh. Blushing like a maiden, S-san answered, “No, not yet.”

He seemed to be bracing himself for a scolding.

3. Sotogahama

After leaving S-san’s house and returning to N-kun’s home, N-kun and I drank more beer, and that night T-kun was persuaded to stay over at N-kun’s house too.
The three of us slept in the back room together; however, T-kun returned to Aomori by bus early the next morning while we were still asleep.
He seemed preoccupied with work.

“He was coughing, wasn’t he?”
Having heard T-kun—who had risen and was getting ready while letting out faint coughs—even in my sleep, I felt an odd sadness well up inside me, so I said this to N-kun the moment I awoke.
N-kun had also gotten up and was pulling on his trousers while,

“Yeah, he was coughing,” he said with a solemn face. Those who drink tend to wear extremely solemn expressions when sober. No—perhaps it wasn’t limited to their faces. Their hearts grew stern too. “It wasn’t a healthy cough, was it?” Even N-kun, though he’d seemed asleep, had clearly heard it.

“We’ll push through with grit,” N-kun said brusquely, cinching his belt tighter. “After all, we fixed ours too.”

Both N-kun and I had been battling respiratory illnesses for a long time.
N-kun had suffered from severe asthma, but he now appears to have completely overcome it.

Before embarking on this journey, I had promised to send a short story to a certain magazine published for soldiers in Manchuria, and with its deadline looming the next day, I borrowed a back room and worked for two full days—that day and the following one.
N-kun worked at the rice mill in a separate building during that time.
On the evening of the second day, N-kun came to the room where I was working,

“Did you get it written?”
“Did you manage even two or three pages?”
“Mine will be done in another hour.”
“Finished a week’s work in two days.”
“Thinking we’ll get to play later gives me drive—makes work efficiency shoot up.”
“Almost there.”
“Let’s give it one last push,” he said, heading straight to the factory. Before ten minutes had passed, he returned to my room:

“Finished writing?”
“Mine’s nearly done.”
“The machines have been running smooth lately.”
“You’ve not seen our factory yet, have you?”
“It’s a grimy place.”
“Better not look.”
“Well, let’s buckle down.”
“I’ll be at the factory,” he said before leaving.
Even my thick skull finally caught on then.
N-kun clearly wanted me to see him working diligently at the mill.
The riddle meant: since his shift would end soon, I should come see before it finished.
I smiled at realizing this.
After rushing to wrap up my work, I crossed the road to the rice mill in the separate building.

N-kun stood beside a massive rice-polishing machine whirling furiously, wearing a corduroy jacket riddled with patches, arms folded behind his back and a look of deep concentration on his face.

"It’s really going strong!" I said loudly.

N-kun turned around with a pleased smile,

“Finished your work?”
“Good.”
“Mine’s nearly done too.”
“Please come in.”
“You can keep your geta on,” he said, though I wasn’t insensitive enough to clatter into the rice mill wearing wooden sandals.
Even N-kun had switched to clean straw footwear.
Finding no indoor slippers about, I lingered at the entrance with an awkward grin.
I briefly considered going barefoot but stopped myself—it felt like some grandiose hypocritical act that’d only embarrass him.
I’ve this wretched tendency when performing basic decencies.

“That’s quite an elaborate machine. I’m surprised you can operate it alone.”
That wasn’t flattery.
N-kun, like me, was not a master when it came to scientific knowledge.

“Oh, it’s a simple thing,” he said while twisting various switches to demonstrate—abruptly halting the motor, conjuring a blizzard of husks, sending finished rice cascading down like a waterfall—all while manipulating the colossal machine with effortless mastery. “If you do this with the switch,”

Suddenly, I noticed a small poster tacked to the central pillar of the factory. A man with a face shaped like a sake flask sat cross-legged with rolled-up sleeves, tilting an oversized cup upon which houses and storehouses perched precariously—this peculiar illustration bore a printed caption: "Sake devours the body and devours the home." I had been staring at it so intently that N-kun must have noticed; he glanced at me and gave a knowing smirk. I smirked back in complicity. Fellow sinners we were. That feeling of resigned acceptance—"What else can one expect?" I found something pitiful about N-kun displaying such posters on factory pillars. There's no drinker who doesn't curse their indulgence. In my case, that giant cup held my paltry collection of some twenty published works—such was my predicament. I possessed neither house nor storehouse left to lose. One might say, "Sake devours the body and devours one's writings."

In the back of the factory, two rather large machines were resting.
"What's that?"
When I asked N-kun, he let out a faint sigh,

“Well, those are a rope-making machine and a straw mat-making machine, but they’re quite difficult to operate, and honestly, I just can’t handle them.”
“Four or five years ago, there was a terrible crop failure around here, and all the rice-polishing orders dried up. No—it was really tough. Every single day, I’d sit by the hearth smoking, thinking things over, and in the end I bought these machines and tried clattering away with them in the corner of this factory. But I’m all thumbs—just couldn’t get the hang of it.”
“It was a lonely time, you know.”
“In the end, the family of six managed to scrape by, barely eating and sleeping.”
“Back then, I really wondered what would become of us, you know.”

N-kun had a four-year-old son and was also caring for three children from his late sister. Since his sister’s husband had died in battle in North China, N-kun and his wife were raising these three bereaved children as a matter of course and cherishing them exactly as they did their own child. According to his wife, N-kun even tended to dote on them excessively. The eldest of these three bereaved children had apparently entered an industrial school in Aomori. One Saturday night around midnight, this boy trudged all seven ri from Aomori to Kameda without boarding a bus, knocking at their entrance door while calling “Uncle! Uncle!” N-kun leapt up to open it, frantically embracing the boy’s shoulders and repeating “You walked here? You really walked here?” beyond coherent speech. He then began harshly ordering his wife about—“Get him sugar water! Grill rice cakes! Heat up udon!”—issuing commands in rapid succession. When his wife started to say “This child must be exhausted and sleepy,” N-kun shouted “Wh-what’s that?!” while raising a fist at her with exaggerated ferocity. The sheer absurdity of this quarrel made the nephew burst out laughing, whereupon N-kun also began laughing with his fist still raised, and his wife joined in until the whole affair dissolved into confusion. To me, this too seemed an excellent anecdote revealing glimpses of N-kun’s character.

“Fall seven times, rise eight.”
“You’ve been through so much,” I said as I related it to my own circumstances and suddenly teared up.
The lonely figure of this good-hearted friend came vividly before my eyes—working alone in a corner of the factory with unskilled hands, weaving straw mats in that clattering rhythm.
I loved this friend.

That night, making some excuse about us both having finished our work, we drank beer and discussed the region's crop failures.
Since N-kun was a member of the Aomori Prefecture Regional History Research Association, he possessed quite a few historical documents about the region.
"Well, you see how it is," said N-kun as he opened a book to show me—its pages bearing what could only be called an ominous chronicle of Tsugaru's famines.

Genna 1: Great Famine

Genna 2: Great Famine

Kanei 17: Great Famine

Kanei 18: Great Famine

Kanei 19: Famine

Meireki 2: Famine

Kanbun 6: Famine

Kanbun 11: Famine

Enpō 2: Famine

Enpō 3: Famine

Enpō 7: Famine

Tenna 1: Great Famine

Jōkyō 1: Famine

Genroku 5: Great Famine

Genroku 7: Great Famine

Genroku 8: Great Famine

Genroku 9: Famine

Genroku 15: Moderate Famine

Hōei 2: Famine

Hōei 3: Famine

Hōei 4: Great Famine

Kyōhō 1: Famine

Kyōhō 5: Famine

Genbun 2: Famine

Genbun 5: Famine

Enkyō 2: Great Famine

Enkyō 4: Famine

Kan'en 2: Great Famine

Hōreki 5: Great Famine

Meiwa 4: Famine

An'ei 5: Moderate Famine

Tenmei 2: Great Famine

Tenmei 3: Great Famine

Tenmei 6: Great Famine

Tenmei 7: Moderate Famine

Kansei 1: Famine

Kansei 5: Famine

Kansei 11: Famine

Bunka 10: Famine

Tenpō 3: Moderate Famine

Tenpō 4: Great Famine

Tenpō 6: Great Famine

Tenpō 7: Great Famine

Tenpō 8: Famine

Tenpō 9: Great Famine

Tenpō 10: Famine

Keiō 2: Famine

Meiji 2: Famine

Meiji 6: Famine

Meiji 22: Famine

Meiji 24: Famine

Meiji 30: Famine

Meiji 35: Great Famine

Meiji 38: Great Famine

Taishō 2: Famine

Shōwa 6: Famine

Shōwa 9: Famine

Shōwa 10: Famine

Shōwa 15: Moderate Famine

Even those not from Tsugaru would find themselves unable to hold back a sigh upon encountering this chronicle.
From Genna 1 (1615), the year of the Osaka Summer Campaign and the fall of the Toyotomi clan, to the present day—a span of approximately three hundred and thirty years—there had been about sixty instances of crop failure.
This worked out to being struck by crop failure roughly once every five years.
Furthermore, N-kun opened another book and showed it to me, which stated: "By the following year of Tenpō 4 [1833], from the auspicious day of Risshun onward, fierce east winds blew ceaselessly; even when reaching the third day of the third month festival, the snow had not melted, and farmers resorted to using snow boats."
By May, the seedlings had grown only to a single bundle, but as they could not delay the seasonal timing, they ultimately proceeded to plant them as they were.
However, the east winds blew fiercely day after day, and even after entering the Doyō period in June [midsummer], dense clouds hung heavily with hazy skies—clear sunny days were scarcely seen (...). The cold each morning and evening remained severe throughout June's Doyō period, forcing people to wear padded garments; nights grew especially chilly as they approached July's Nebuta festival (author's note:
One of Tsugaru’s annual events held around the time of the lunar seventh month’s Tanabata season, where they haul brightly colored giant lanterns—shaped like warriors, dragons, or tigers—on carts through the streets, with young men dressed in various costumes dancing as they parade through the towns.
When their large lanterns collided with those from other towns, fights would inevitably break out.
There was a theory that Sakanoue no Tamuramaro, during his campaigns against the Emishi, displayed such large lanterns to lure the mountain-dwelling Emishi and annihilate them—a surviving custom—but this still remained unworthy of belief.

Not limited to Tsugaru, similar customs exist throughout the Tohoku region. "...and even when reaching the time of Tohoku's summer festival floats—one might consider them as such without much exaggeration—no mosquito buzzing could be heard on the roads. Though faint traces were audible inside houses, there was no need for mosquito nets; cicada songs too remained scarce. From around July 6th, summer heat emerged and people wore unlined garments before Bon festival preparations. Around the 13th, as early rice developed abundant ears, spirits improved remarkably and Bon dances grew lively. Yet on the 15th and 16th, the sunlight took on a white hue like a mirror at midnight. By midnight of the 17th, dancers had scattered and passersby dwindled as dawn approached—when unexpectedly, heavy frost fell causing rice ears to droop. All who saw this along the roads, young and old alike, stood filled with tears." Such utterly indescribable scenes were recorded—even in our childhood, we heard elders speak of Kegazu (in Tsugaru they call crop failures Kegazu; it might be a corruption of 'starvation and thirst'). We would hear these harrowing accounts and, though still children, sink into such gloom that we ended up sniffling through tears. Yet now, returning to my homeland after so long and being confronted outright with these records, I felt something beyond sorrow—an inexplicable fury welling up,

“This is unacceptable,” he said.
“Even if they go on grandly about living in an age of science or what have you, if they can’t even teach farmers how to prevent these crop failures, it’s disgraceful.”

“Well, the engineers have been conducting various research.”
“They’ve improved crop varieties to withstand cold damage and made adjustments to planting times—nowadays we don’t get total failures like in the past. But even so, every four or five years, there still comes a bad spell.”

“Disgraceful.”
I twisted my mouth and cursed with resentment directed at no one in particular.

N-kun laughed and,

“There are people living in deserts, you know.”
“Getting angry won’t change anything.”
“From such a climate also springs forth a unique human compassion.”

“That’s not all that admirable of a human compassion,” I said. “Without any gentle spring breezes to speak of, someone like me always ends up feeling overshadowed by artists from southern regions.”

“Even so, you don’t lose, do you?” he countered. “The Tsugaru region has never been conquered by outsiders since ancient times. They may be beaten, but they never lose. The Eighth Division is said to be a national treasure, isn’t it?”

The blood of our ancestors—struck by famine as soon as they were born and raised by sipping rain and dew—had surely been passed down to us now. The virtue of gentle spring breezes was indeed enviable, but I supposed I had no choice but to strive to make our ancestors’ melancholy blood bloom as splendidly as possible. Perhaps it would be better not to sigh vainly over past tragedies and instead, like N-kun, generously take pride in that tradition of enduring wind and rain. Moreover, even Tsugaru wasn’t endlessly repeating the horrific hellscapes of old.

The following day, guided by N-kun, I traveled north along Sotogahama Kaido by bus, stayed overnight in Mitsu-maeya, then walked along the precarious paths at the water’s edge of the coast to reach Tappi Cape at Honshu’s northern tip. Even in each desolate village between Mitsu-maeya and Tappi, they resisted fierce winds and refused to yield to raging waves, tenaciously supporting their households while proudly demonstrating the enduring vitality of Tsugaru people. Meanwhile, villages south of Mitsu-maeya—particularly Mitsu-maeya and Imabetsu—displayed lives settled into bright harbor atmospheres, unfolding refined existences within stylish seaport settings.

Ah, let us not cower needlessly in the shadow of Kegazu.

What follows is an excellent essay by Sato Hiroshi, a Bachelor of Science, which I shall borrow both to dispel the gloom of this book’s readers and as a toast to our bright new beginning as Tsugaru people.

Sato Hiroshi’s General Treatise on Oshu Industries states: “Oshu—once territory where the Emishi tribe would hide in grass when struck and retreat to mountains when pursued; Oshu—where overlapping mountain ranges form natural barriers that hinder transportation at every turn; Oshu—encircled by the stormy, navigation-hindering Sea of Japan to the west and the Pacific’s many jagged inlets and coves stunted in development by the Kitakami Mountains to the east.
Oshu—a land of heavy winter snowfall, the coldest in all Honshu, struck since antiquity by dozens of crop failures.
Oshu—pitiable Oshu—occupies a mere fifteen percent of cultivated land area compared to Kyushu’s twenty-five percent.
Governed by unfavorable natural conditions no matter where one looks, this Oshu—now, by what industries does it sustain its population of six million three hundred thousand today?

No matter which geography book one consults, the land of Oshu lies remote at the northeastern tip of Honshu, with clothing, food, and shelter all described as crude. Leaving aside the traditional thatched, wooden shingle, and cedar bark roofs of old, it is said that nowadays many people live in corrugated iron-roofed houses, drape themselves in wrapping cloths, wear work trousers, and those of the middle class and below all content themselves with simple fare.

What of its veracity? Was the land of Oshu truly so bereft of thriving industries? Had the civilization of the twentieth century—which prided itself on velocity—alone failed to reach this northeastern realm? No, that described only the Oshu of antiquity. To speak of modern Oshu required first acknowledging within this land that same surging vitality witnessed in Italy on the eve of its Renaissance. In culture as in industry, Emperor Meiji's august educational vision had indeed penetrated with divine swiftness to every inlet and cove of Oshu, promoting both the decline of those grating nasal tones peculiar to its people and the advance of standard language. It bestowed civilizing light upon lands once mired in primitive conditions—habitats of ignorant barbarians. And now behold: development and reclamation, fertile fields multiplying by the hour. Witness too the daily flourishing of enhanced animal husbandry, forestry, and fisheries. With inhabitants so sparsely distributed across this terrain, did not abundant room for future expansion lie here—was this not indeed manifest?

Just as vast flocks of migratory birds—white storks, ducks, Japanese tits, wild geese—wandered this region in search of food, so too had the Yamato people of that expansive era arrived in this Oshu from various regions to the south, conquering the Emishi as they hunted in the mountains and fished in the rivers, drawn by the allure of diverse resources to wander here and there.
Thus, after several generations had passed, there the people settled in lands of their choosing—some planting rice in the plains of Akita, Shonai, and Tsugaru; others attempting afforestation in the northern Oshu mountains; some raising horses on the plains; others devoting themselves to coastal fisheries—thereby laying the foundation for the thriving industries seen today.
“Thus do the six prefectures of Oshu and their 6.3 million people neither neglect the distinctive industries pioneered by their forebears nor cease devising ways to further develop them. Though migratory birds may wander eternally, the simple folk of Tohoku no longer stray—they grow rice and sell apples; across great green plains stretching beyond lush forests, magnificent young steeds with gleaming coats gallop; and fishing vessels return to harbor laden with leaping silver scales.”

It was truly a gracious congratulatory address—the kind that makes one feel almost compelled to rush over and offer a grateful handshake.

Now, the following day under N-kun’s guidance, I traveled north through Oshu Sotogahama—but before departure, the first issue was alcohol.

“What about alcohol? Shall I put two or three bottles of beer in the rucksack?” When N-kun’s wife said this, I broke into a cold sweat that could fill three bushels. Why was I born a man of such a disgraceful breed as drinkers? I wondered.

“No—it’s fine. If there’s none, then there’s none—it’s not a problem,” I mumbled incoherently while shouldering the rucksack and practically fleeing the house, only to be met by N-kun who had come up behind me.

“Ah, well...”
“Just hearing ‘alcohol’ gives me chills.”
“A bed of nails,” I said, voicing my raw feeling.
N-kun seemed to share the sentiment; his face reddened as he chuckled softly,

“I can hold back when alone, but seeing your face makes drinking unavoidable.”
“M-san in Imabetsu’s been collecting rationed liquor from neighbors—shall we stop there?”

I heaved a fraught sigh,

“I’m causing trouble for everyone,” I said.

Initially, the plan had been to take a boat straight from Kameda to Tappi and return on foot and by bus, but that day, the east wind was strong from the morning, creating weather severe enough to be called stormy, so the scheduled ferry we were supposed to take ended up being canceled. Consequently, we decided to change our plans and depart by bus.
The bus was unexpectedly empty, and both of us were able to sit down comfortably.
After heading north along Sotogahama Kaido for about an hour, the wind gradually weakened, a blue sky began to appear, and it seemed that under these conditions, the scheduled ferry might indeed be operating.
In any case, we decided to stop by M-san’s house in Imabetsu, and if it looked like the ferry would run, we would get some alcohol and immediately board from Imabetsu Port.
The idea of taking the same land route both going and returning struck me as unimaginative and rather dull.
N-kun pointed out various landscapes from the bus window and kindly explained them, but since we were now approaching a fortified zone, I should refrain from recording each of his thoughtful explanations here.
In any case, there was not a trace left of the Emishi dwellings from long ago in this area, and perhaps because the weather had improved, every village looked neat and bright.
In Tōyūki (Eastern Travelogue) by Kyoto’s renowned physician Tachibana Nankei—published during the Kansei era—it is written: “Since the opening of heaven and earth, there has never been a time as peaceful as the present. From Kikaigashima Island in the west to Sotogahama in Oshu in the east, there is no place where the sovereign’s commands do not reach.
In ancient times, Yakushima Island was spoken of as if it were a foreign land called Yakuno Province, and half of Oshu may have been Emishi territory; moreover, it appears that until relatively recent times, these remained lands where the Emishi dwelled, as seen in the many altered place names in areas like Nanbu and Tsugaru.
Along Sotogahama Kaido, there are village names such as Tappi, Horozuki, Uchimatsuppe, Sotomatsuppe, Imabetsu, and Utetsu.
These are all Ainu words.
Even today, the customs of areas like Utetsu somewhat resemble those of the Emishi, and the people of Tsugaru refer to them as 'Emishi kind,' disdaining them as such.
In my view, not only those around Utetsu but also most villagers in areas like Nanbu and Tsugaru are likely of Emishi kind.
In regions where they early underwent imperial acculturation and altered both customs and language, it is thought they have been regarded as Japanese since their ancestors’ time.
Therefore, it stands to reason that civility and cultural refinement remain undeveloped here.” So it is recorded, but were we to take Nankei from his grave today and have him ride a bus along these smooth concrete roads—some 150 years after his writing—he might tilt his head in bewilderment, or perhaps utter some lament like “Where now lies last year’s snow?”
Nankei’s Eastern Travelogue and Western Travelogue are counted among the Edo period’s celebrated works, yet even their preface states: “As my wanderings were originally for the sake of medicine, matters pertaining to medical practice—though mere digressions—I have recorded separately to show my fellow scholars.”
As Nankei himself confesses in his preface—“This book merely records things seen and heard during travels, jotted down when the brush happened to record them, without rigorously verifying their veracity, likely containing many errors”—it would be fair to say there are not a few articles resembling outlandish tales that suffice to stimulate readers' curiosity.
To say nothing of other regions, even limiting discussion to articles concerning this Sotogahama vicinity alone: “Oshu Mitsu-maya (Author’s note: Mitsu-maeya’s old name)...
(Mitsu-maeya’s old name.) was the port for crossing to Matsumae, located in Tsugaru’s Sotogahama territory at the northeastern extremity of Japan.
Long ago, when Minamoto no Yoshitsune, having escaped Takadachi, came to this place intending to cross over to Ezo, there was no favorable wind for passage, so he stayed several days. Unable to endure any longer, he placed the Kannon statue he carried upon an undersea rock and prayed for fair winds. At once the wind shifted, and His Lordship crossed safely to Matsumae.

That statue remains at this temple to this day and is called Yoshitsune’s Wind-Praying Kannon. At the water’s edge stood a large rock resembling a stable, with three holes aligned in a row. This became where Lord Yoshitsune’s horses were kept. "Thus this place came to be called Mitsu-maya," he recorded without hesitation, continuing: "In Tsugaru’s Sotogahama territory of Oshu lies a place called Tairadate. To its north extends a rocky promontory jutting into the sea—this they call Ishizaki-no-Hana. Proceeding beyond this point for a short while brings one to Vermilion Valley. From between towering mountains flows a narrow stream that plunges into the sea. The valley’s soil and stones are all vermilion. The water itself runs so red that the morning sun glinting off wet stones dazzles the eyes with its brilliance. Even pebbles where the stream meets the sea bear this crimson hue. They say all fish in northern waters are red."

No sooner had he stated with perfect composure, "It is wondrous how both sentient and insentient things here resonate with the valley’s vermilion essence," than he introduced Okina—a monstrous fish dwelling in northern seas said to span two or three *ri*, though none have seen its full form. When glimpsed floating offshore, it appears as clusters of islands—said to be fragments of Okina’s back, tail, and fins. "It swallows thirty-fathom whales like sardines," they warned, "making whales flee east and west."

He also recounted: "During my stay at Mitsu-maya, an elder visited one night. The household grandparents gathered us round the hearth to share tales of how even Matsumae’s great tsunami decades prior paled beside recent marvels—calm winds and distant rains under an oddly oppressive sky giving way to nightly lights streaking east-west through the void. By the fourth day, deities rode dragons and elephants through daylight skies—some robed in white, others in red or blue vestments, figures large and small thronging the air. We paid daily homage outdoors until one twilight revealed a snow-white mountain looming offshore—no mountain, but a tsunami cresting island peaks. ‘Flee!’ we cried, scrambling over each other until wave turned all to seabed debris—houses, fields, beasts—leaving coastal villages empty. Then we understood: those skyborne gods had foreseen doom and abandoned us."

Such solemn fantasies flowed through his plain prose. As for this region’s present scenery—best left undescribed here. Though absurdities abound, transcribing these antique travelogues lets me savor their fairy-tale air—indeed why I excerpted Tōyūki passages—but let me share another tale novel-lovers might relish.

"When I was in Sotogahama of Tsugaru in Oshu, the local officials persistently investigated whether there were any people from Tango present."
When I inquired why this was so, they told me: The deity of Mount Iwaki in Tsugaru detests people from Tango; should even one secretly enter this land, the weather would greatly worsen with continuous wind and rain, preventing ships from coming or going and plunging Tsugaru into severe hardship.
During my travels too, when foul winds persisted, they investigated whether people from Tango had entered.
If the weather turned bad, they would strictly investigate at any time and promptly expel any found to have entered.
When people from Tango crossed beyond Tsugaru's borders, the weather would immediately clear and winds calm.
Not only did local customs traditionally shun them, but even officials conducted regular inspections—a most peculiar practice indeed.
Aomori, Mitsu-maya, and all other ports along Sotogahama Kaido harbored particular aversion toward people from Tango.
Finding this too strange, I pressed for details and learned that Mount Iwaki's deity in this province is worshipped as Princess Anju's birthplace.
This princess wandered in Tango and suffered under Sanshō Dayū; thus even now, mention of that land's people provokes divine wrath through storms.
The ninety-odd ri of Sotogahama Kaido depend on fishing and maritime trade—all livelihoods requiring constant prayers for fair winds.
Yet with weather persistently troublesome, the entire province came to abhor people from Tango.
This practice spread to neighboring Matsumae and Nanbu regions where ports likewise expelled them.
"How profound must human resentment be!"

It’s a strange story.
The people of Tango are the ones who’ve been greatly inconvenienced.
Tango Province corresponds to what is now northern Kyoto Prefecture, but people from that area would have had to face terrible hardships if they came to Tsugaru during this period.

The tale of Princess Anju and Zushiō was one we had known since childhood through picture books, and anyone fond of novels surely knew Ōgai’s masterpiece *Sanshō Dayū*. However, the fact that those beautiful siblings from that tragic tale were born in Tsugaru and came to be enshrined on Mount Iwaki after death did not seem widely known—though in truth, I found this story somewhat suspicious as well. Given how Mr. Nankei had casually written of Yoshitsune visiting Tsugaru, three-ri-long fish swimming offshore, and rocks dissolving to turn river water and fish scales red, this too might well have been another instance of his signature “without rigorously verifying their veracity”—an irresponsible account in the same vein.

Yet this theory that Anju and Zushiō were Tsugaru natives also appeared in the Iwaki-san Gongen section of the *Wakan Sansai Zue*. The *Wakan Sansai Zue* proved somewhat difficult to read due to its classical Chinese prose, but it stated: “Tradition holds that long ago, there was a lord of this province (Tsugaru) named Iwakino Hōgan Masauji.” In the winter of Eihō’s first year [1081], while residing in the capital, he had been exiled to Saikai due to a slanderer’s schemes. In his home province remained two children. The elder sister was named Anju; the younger brother Zushio-maru.

The text began with confident assertions like “Together with their mother, they wandered through Dewa, reached Echigo’s Naoeura, and so on,” but by its conclusion descended into self-contradiction, inadvertently remarking: “Iwaki and Tsugaru’s Mount Iwaki lie over a hundred *ri* apart north to south—it seems doubtful they would enshrine them here.” In Ōgai’s *Sanshō Dayū*, it was written: “departed from their home in Shinobu District of Iwashiromori.” In other words, this likely resulted from reading the characters for “Iwaki” sometimes as “Ihaki” and other times as “Iwashiro” until they became thoroughly muddled, ultimately leading Tsugaru’s Mount Iwaki to inherit the legend.

Yet the fact that Tsugaru’s people of old had so firmly believed Anju and Zushiō to be their own children—cursing Sanshō Dayū with such fervor that they became convinced even Tango natives entering their land would worsen Tsugaru’s weather—offered us sympathizers of those tragic siblings a grim sort of satisfaction.

Having indulged this much in Sotogahama's old tales, I shall cease here; now, our bus arrived around noon at Imabetsu, where M-san resided.
Imabetsu, as I had mentioned before, was a bright port town—one might even call it modern.
The population appeared to be close to four thousand.
Guided by N-kun, we visited M-san's house, but his wife came out and informed us he was not home.
She seemed slightly lacking in her usual energy.
When I saw such a state in another household, I immediately thought—Ah, could it be they had fought over me?
I had this habit of always assuming such things.
There were times when I was right, and times when I was not.
The emergence of writers and journalists tended to easily instill unease in decent households.
That matter must have caused considerable pain for writers too.
A writer who had never experienced this pain was a fool.

“Where have you been?” N-kun asked calmly.
Putting down my rucksack, I said, “Anyway, please let me rest for a moment.”
I sat down on the entrance step.

“I’ll go fetch him.”

“Ah, I’m terribly sorry.”
N-kun remained unperturbed.
“Would that be the hospital?”

“Uh, I think so.”
The beautiful, seemingly timid wife said in a small voice and slipped into her geta before heading out.
M-san was employed at a certain hospital in Imabetsu.

I too sat down on the entrance step alongside N-kun and waited for M-san.

“Did you arrange things properly in advance?”

“Yeah, sort of.”
N-kun was calmly smoking a cigarette.

“Unfortunately, it was lunchtime, so we couldn’t go, huh?”
I was anxious about various things.

“Well, we brought our own lunch boxes too,” he said with composure.
It was such that one might have thought of Saigō Takamori.

M-san arrived.
Bashfully smiling,
“Well now,” he said with a shy grin as he gestured us inside.

“Well, we really can’t stay,” said N-kun as he rose to his feet. “If the boat’s about to depart, I want to head straight to Tappi by ship.”

“Right.”
M-san gave a slight nod. “Then I’ll go check whether it’s departing.”

M-san had gone out of his way to inquire at the harbor, but the ship had indeed been canceled.

“It can’t be helped.”
My reliable guide showed no sign of disappointment. “Well then, why don’t we rest here for a bit and have our lunch?” he said.

“Yeah, staying seated here is fine.”
I feigned modesty.

“Won’t you come in?”
M-san said timidly.

“Why don’t we have them let us come inside?”
N-kun calmly began untying his gaiters.
“Let’s take our time planning the next leg of the journey.”

We were led to M-san’s study.
There was a small hearth where charcoal crackled as it burned.
The bookshelves overflowed with volumes, complete collections of Valéry and Kyōka neatly arranged.
“The lack of developed etiquette and culture is only natural,” Mr. Nankei had declared with confidence, but even he might have swooned upon arriving there.

“We have sake.”
The refined M-san, contrary to his usual composure, blushed as he said this.
“Let’s drink.”

“No, no—if we drink here—” N-kun began to say, then chuckled and brushed it off.

“That’s no problem,” M-san quickly interjected, sensing their concern. “The sake you’ll be taking to Tappi has been set aside separately.”

“Heh-heh,” N-kun jested, “well, but if we start drinking now, we might not reach Tappi today—” As he was saying this, his wife silently brought a sake decanter.
This wife had always been a quiet person, and perhaps she wasn’t actually angry with us—I reconsidered the situation in a way that suited me,

“Then how about we drink just enough not to get drunk?” I proposed to N-kun.

“If we drink, we’ll get drunk,” N-kun said with a senior’s air. “Well then—staying at Mitsu-maeya tonight?”

“That would be best,” M-san agreed. “Let’s enjoy Imabetsu today and walk to Mitsu-maeya afterward—a leisurely stroll would take about an hour? We’ll reach it comfortably no matter how drunk we get.”

Having settled on staying at Mitsu-maeya that night, we drank.

For me, there had been one thing that had been preoccupying me since I entered this room.
It was that the essay collection by that writer in his fifties I had carelessly criticized in Kameda was neatly placed on M-san’s desk.
Devoted readers are truly remarkable; even though I had so harshly denounced this writer that day at Kanranzan in Kameda, it appeared M-san’s faith in him had not wavered in the slightest.

“Lend me that book for a moment.”
Unable to settle my restless preoccupation, I finally borrowed the book from M-san, flipped it open haphazardly, and began scouring that section with hawk-eyed scrutiny.
I had wanted to find some flaw and triumphantly declare victory, but the section I read seemed to be one where the writer had also written with particular care, leaving no opening to attack.
I read in silence.
I read one page, two pages, three pages, and finally five pages—then threw the book down.

“The part I just read was somewhat good. But his other works have their flaws too,” I said begrudgingly.

M-san looked pleased.

“It’s just the fancy binding,” I muttered under my breath, adding another excuse. “If you print most writing on such high-quality paper with such large type, it’ll look impressive.”

M-san did not engage, only smiling silently. It was his victor’s smile. But in my heart, I wasn’t all that bitter. Having read good writing, I felt relieved. I don’t know how much better it feels than picking at flaws and triumphantly declaring victory. It’s true. I want to read good writing.

In Imabetsu, there was a famous temple called Hongaku-ji.
It was known because Priest Teiden—a distinguished monk—had served as its head priest.
The details of Priest Teiden were also recorded in Takeuchi Umpei’s *Aomori Prefecture General History*.
Specifically, it stated: “Priest Teiden was the son of Shinyama Jinzaemon of Imabetsu. He entered Hirosaki Seigan-ji as a disciple at a young age, later trained for fifteen years at Senshō-ji in Iwaki Taira, and became head priest of Hongaku-ji in Tsugaru Imabetsu at twenty-nine. Until reaching forty-two in Kyōhō 16 [1731], his teachings extended not only throughout Tsugaru but also to neighboring provinces. During events like the memorial service for erecting a gilt bronze stupa in Kyōhō 12 [1727], devotees gathered in crowds not just from within the domain but also from Nanbu, Akita, and Matsumae regions.”
The guide from Sotogahama, Town Council Member N-kun, proposed, “Why don’t we go take a look at that temple now?”

“Literary discussions are all well and good,” said N-kun, “but yours aren’t meant for general audiences. There’s something offbeat about them.”
“That’s why you’ll never become famous no matter how long you try.”
“Now Priest Teiden—” he continued, thoroughly drunk by now— “Priest Teiden put off preaching Buddhist doctrines and first worked to improve people’s livelihoods.”
“If he hadn’t done that, the people wouldn’t have listened to any Buddhist teachings at all.”
“Priest Teiden would establish industries, or—” He suddenly burst out laughing alone. “Well anyway, let’s go see it.”
“It’d be shameful to come to Imabetsu and not visit Hongaku Temple.”
“Priest Teiden is Sotogahama’s pride.”
“Though honestly,” he admitted, “I haven’t seen it myself yet.”
“Since it’s a good opportunity, I want to go see it today.”
“Why don’t we all go together?”

I had wanted to engage in what you might call offbeat literary discussions with M-san while drinking here.
M-san had also wanted the same.
However, N-kun’s passion for Priest Teiden was formidable, and in the end, it made us lift our heavy behinds.

“Then let’s stop by that Hongaku Temple and walk straight to Mitsu-maeya.”
I sat on the genkan’s step fastening my gaiters and said, “How about you?” inviting M-san.

“Yes, I’ll accompany you to Mitsu-maeya.”

“That’s a relief. With this momentum, I’ve actually been dreading the thought that our town council member might launch into a full-blown lecture on Kameda’s municipal affairs tonight at our Mitsu-maeya lodgings. Having you with me gives me confidence. Ma’am, I’ll be borrowing your husband tonight.”

“Yes,” she said with a smile. She seemed somewhat accustomed by now. Or perhaps she had given up. We had our flasks filled with sake and set off in high spirits. And even along the way, N-kun kept saying “Priest Teiden, Priest Teiden,” which was quite a nuisance. Around the time the temple roof came into view, we encountered a fish seller. The cart being pulled was loaded full with various fish. I found a sea bream about two shaku long and,

“How much is that sea bream?”
I had no idea at all.

“One yen and seventy sen.”
I thought it was cheap.

I ended up buying it.
However, after buying it, I found myself at a loss about what to do.
We were now going to the temple.
To carry a two-foot sea bream to the temple made for a strange sight.
I was utterly perplexed.

“What a useless thing to buy,” N-kun sneered, his mouth twisting in contempt. “What are you going to do with that?”

“Well, I thought we’d take this to the Mitsu-maeya inn, have them grill it whole with salt on a big platter, and all three of us could share it.”

“You really do come up with the strangest ideas,” he retorted. “Makes it look like we’re holding some celebration feast.”

“But for one yen and seventy sen, we can treat ourselves to something slightly luxurious—shouldn’t we be grateful?”

“There’s nothing to be grateful for. One yen and seventy sen is expensive around here.”
“You really made a terrible purchase.”

“Is that so?”
I grew dejected.

In the end, I entered the temple grounds still dangling the two-foot sea bream.

“What should we do?” I whispered to M-san.
“This is troublesome.”

“You’re right.”
M-san considered with a serious face. “I’ll go get some newspaper from the temple.”
“Please wait here a moment.”

M-san went to the temple kitchen, soon returned with newspaper and string, wrapped up the troublesome sea bream, and placed it in my rucksack.
I felt relieved and looked up at the temple’s main gates and such, but it didn’t appear to be particularly remarkable architecture.

“It’s not much of a temple, is it?” I whispered to N-kun.

“No, no—no, no.”
“It’s better in substance than in appearance.”
“Anyway, let’s go into the temple and hear what the monk has to say.”

I felt heavy-hearted.
I reluctantly followed N-kun, but after that encountered a truly terrible ordeal.
The temple priest seemed to be out, and a woman who appeared to be the priest’s wife in her fifties came out, guided us to the main hall, and then a long, long explanation began.
We had to properly kneel, sit formally, and listen attentively.
Just as the explanation came to a brief pause and we were about to stand up in relief, N-kun edged his knees forward,

“Then, I would humbly ask one more thing,” he said.
“Now then—about when did Priest Teiden found this temple?”

“What do you mean?
“Priest Teiden-sama did not found this temple.
“Priest Teiden-sama served as this temple’s restorer and fifth head priest—” Once again, a lengthy explanation followed.

“Is that so?” N-kun said blankly. “Then, I would humbly like to ask another question—this Priest Teizan—”
He said “Priest Teizan.”
It was utterly nonsensical.

N-kun, alone in his fervor, inched his knees forward again and again until they were a hair’s breadth from the old woman’s, continuing their question-and-answer exchange.
As it gradually grew dark around us, we began to feel uneasy about whether we could make it to Mitsu-maeya from here.

“That magnificent large hanging scroll over there is one that Ōno Kurobee-sama honorably inscribed.”

“Is that so?” said N-kun with admiration. “Regarding Ōno Kurobee-sama—”

“You must be aware of him.
“He is one of the loyal retainers and righteous samurai.”
She had referred to him as a loyal retainer and righteous samurai.
“That person passed away in this land at the age of forty-two. It is said he was a man of deep faith who honorably made vast donations to this temple on numerous occasions—”

At this point, M-san finally stood up, went over to the caretaker, took out something wrapped in white paper from an inner pocket, presented it, bowed silently and politely, and then turned to N-kun—

“It’s about time we took our leave,” he said in a small voice.

“Ah, well—let us depart,” N-kun said with magnanimity, then offered a polite remark to the caretaker—“We have heard most edifying accounts”—and at last stood up. Yet when asked later, it turned out he had retained not a single word of her stories.
We were astonished,

“You were asking all sorts of questions so passionately, weren’t you?” someone said.

“No—it was all just pretense.”
“After all, I was completely drunk.”
“I thought you all would want to know various things, so I endured it and kept conversing with that caretaker for your sake.”
“I am a victim.”
It was a trivial act of self-sacrifice.

When we arrived at the inn in Mitsu-maeya, the sun was already beginning to set.
We were shown to a small, tidy room on the second floor facing the street.
The inns of Sotogahama are all unexpectedly refined for the town.
From the room, the sea was immediately visible.
A light rain began to fall, and the sea lay pale and calm.

“Not bad, eh?”
“We’ve got sea bream too. Let’s drink slowly while watching the rain over the sea.”
I took out the wrapped sea bream from my rucksack, handed it to the maid, and said, “This is sea bream. Please grill it whole with salt and bring it over.”

This maid had a face that didn’t seem particularly sharp. She merely said, “Right…,” vacantly accepted the package, and left the room.

“Did you get that?”
N-kun must have felt some unease about the maid too, just like me.
He called her back to double-check.
“You need to grill it whole with salt.
“Just because there are three of us doesn’t mean you have to cut it into three pieces.”
“There’s absolutely no need to divide it into thirds.”
“Understood?”
N-kun’s explanation wasn’t exactly masterful either.
The maid, true to form, just gave another vague “Right…” in reply.

Before long, the meal tray was brought out.
"The sea bream is now being salt-grilled, and it seems there is no sake today," said the usual not-particularly-clever maid without a trace of a smile.

“It can’t be helped. Let’s drink the alcohol we brought.”

“I suppose that’s how it goes,” N-kun said briskly, pulling the canteen closer. “Excuse me, but could we have two sake decanters and about three cups?”

While we were joking about how it didn’t necessarily have to be three pieces, the sea bream arrived.
N-kun’s warning that it needn’t be cut into three pieces had produced an utterly absurd result.
There was no head, tail, or bones—just five or so slices of salt-grilled sea bream, faded to a pale white and arranged on the plate with no aesthetic grace whatsoever.
I am by no means fixated on food.
It wasn’t out of hunger that I bought that two-foot sea bream.
I trust the reader will understand.
I wanted it grilled whole as it was, then served on a large platter for me to contemplate.
Whether I ate it or not was irrelevant.
I wished to drink sake while gazing upon it and feel a sense of luxurious satisfaction.
Though N-kun’s phrasing—“There’s no need to specifically cut it into three”—had been peculiar enough, the sheer insensitivity of these inn people—who then concluded “In that case, let’s make five slices”—left me both exasperated and resentful; I felt like stamping my feet in frustration.

“You’ve done something utterly pointless.”
Gazing at the five pieces of grilled fish foolishly piled on the plate—it was no longer sea bream, just ordinary grilled fish—I felt like crying.
If they had at least made it into sashimi, I thought, I might have been able to resign myself to it.
What happened to the head and bones?
It was such a large, splendid head—did they throw it away?
Inns in regions abundant in fish paradoxically become oblivious to fish and know nothing of proper cooking methods.

“Don’t get mad. It’s good!”
The ever-equable N-kun calmly picked up his chopsticks and said this.

“Is that so? Then you should eat it all yourself. Go on, eat it. I won’t touch this. Who could eat something so preposterously absurd? This is fundamentally your fault. That dimwit of a maid got flustered because you had to add that pretentious commentary—‘No need for exact thirds’—using language better suited to Kameda Town Council budget meetings. It’s your fault. I’ll hold this against you.”

N-kun chuckled breezily,

“But isn’t it amusing?”
“When I said not to do things like cutting it into three pieces, they went and cut it into five.”
“That’s stylish.”
“They’re stylish, the people here.”
“Come on, let’s toast.”
“Cheers, cheers!”

Bewildering toasts were forced upon me, and whether from lingering resentment over the sea bream or not, I became terribly drunk, nearly causing a scene before retreating to bed alone.
Even now when I recall it, that sea bream vexes me.
They’re utterly insensitive.

The next morning, when I woke up, the rain was still falling.
I went downstairs and asked the inn staff, and it seemed today's ship had been canceled as well.
There was no choice but to walk along the coast to Tappi.
Once the rain let up, we resolved to depart immediately; burrowing back into the futon, we waited for it to stop while chatting idly.

“There were an elder sister and a younger sister,” I abruptly launched into a folktale. “Their mother gave them equal amounts of pine cones and told them to try making rice and miso soup with these. The stingy, cautious younger sister carefully tossed her pine cones into the hearth one by one to burn them, but couldn’t even properly cook rice—let alone make miso soup.”

“The easygoing elder sister threw all her pine cones into the hearth at once without hesitation. That fire cooked the rice effortlessly, and leftover embers even let her make miso soup too.”

“Ever heard that one?” I continued. “Hey, let’s drink. Last night we left another canteen of sake for Tappi, right? Let’s drink that now. No use being stingy. Why not go all out at once? Then maybe we’ll have embers left over.”

“Or not—doesn’t matter either way. Things’ll work out when we reach Tappi. Who needs to drink sake there anyway? We won’t die without it. Might even be nice—go to bed sober and quietly ponder past and future.”

“Understood, understood.”
N-kun heaved himself up. “Let’s handle everything the elder sister’s way—do it all at once and be done with it.”

We got up, gathered around the hearth, heated sake in the iron kettle, and while waiting for the rain to let up, drank all the remaining sake.

Around noon, the rain cleared up.
We ate a late breakfast and prepared for departure.
It was a chilly, cloudy day.
In front of the inn, we parted ways with M-san, and N-kun and I set out northward.

“Shall we climb up?”
N-kun came to a halt before the stone torii of Yoshitsune Temple.
The name of a certain someone from Matsumae who had donated the torii was carved into its pillar.

“Yeah.”
We passed through that stone torii and climbed the stone steps.
It was quite a distance to the summit.
From the treetops lining both sides of the stone steps, raindrops fell.

“This is it?”

At the summit of the small hill we climbed via the stone steps stood a weather-beaten hall. On the hall's door was attached the sasa-rindo crest of the Genji clan. For some reason, I was filled with an intensely bitter feeling,

“This is it?” I said again.

“This is it.”
N-kun answered in a dull voice.

Long ago, when Minamoto no Yoshitsune—fleeing Takadachi and seeking passage to Ezo—had come to this place, there being no favorable wind for crossing, he stayed several days. Unable to endure further delay, he placed the Kannon statue he carried upon an undersea rock and prayed for fair winds. At once the winds shifted direction, allowing him to cross without incident to Matsumae.
That statue remains in this temple to this day and is known as Yoshitsune’s Wind-Praying Kannon.

The temple introduced in the aforementioned *Tōyūki* (Eastern Travelogue) is this one.

We descended the stone steps in silence.

“Look, you see these depressions here and there on the stone steps?”
“They say these are Benkei’s footprints or Yoshitsune’s horse’s hoofprints or some such story.”
N-kun said this and laughed weakly.
I wanted to believe, but it was no good.
There was a rock just past the torii.
The Eastern Travelogue further states:

“By the waterside there is a large rock resembling a stable, with three holes aligned.”
This is said to be where Lord Yoshitsune’s horse stood.
“It is said that this led to the place being called Mitsu-maeya.”

We hurried past that giant rock.
Legends like these from one’s hometown are strangely embarrassing.

This must surely trace back to a pair of delinquent youths who drifted here from elsewhere during the Kamakura period, going around deceiving country girls with lines like, “What’s there to hide? I am Kurō Hōgan, and this bearded man is Musashibō Benkei—we beg a night’s lodging.”
Honestly, Tsugaru has far too many Yoshitsune legends.
Not only in the Kamakura period—even by the Edo era, Yoshitsune and Benkei might still have been wandering about.

“But Benkei’s role must have been rather dull, don’t you think?”
N-kun had an even thicker beard than I did, so he seemed to feel some anxiety that he might be forced into the role of Benkei.
“Since you have to walk around carrying those heavy seven weapons, it must be a real pain.”

As we talked, I found myself fantasizing about those two delinquent youths’ wandering life as something tremendously enjoyable, even growing envious.

“There sure are a lot of beautiful women around here,” I said in a low voice. The girls from the passing hamlets—glimpsed fleetingly from house shadows before vanishing—were all fair-skinned, neatly dressed, and carried an air of dignity. Their hands and feet showed no signs of roughness.

“Hmm, you think so?”
“Now that you mention it, I suppose so.”
Few people were as detached toward women as N-kun.
For him, it was solely about sake.

“Even if someone claimed to be Yoshitsune now, no one would believe them, right?”
I indulged in imagining this foolish notion.

At first we exchanged such idle remarks while strolling, but gradually our pace quickened.
It took on the form of a walking competition between us, then we fell completely silent.
The sake from Mitsu-maeya was wearing off.
It was bitterly cold.
We had no choice but to hurry.
We both adopted solemn expressions and walked briskly.
The sea breeze grew increasingly fierce.
My hat kept nearly blowing away—each time I yanked the brim down hard—until finally the base of the staple fiber hat’s brim tore with a sharp rip.
Rain fell intermittently in scattered drops.
Pitch-black clouds hung low, blanketing the sky.
The swelling waves grew larger, their spray striking our cheeks as we walked along the narrow coastal path.

“Even so, the road had improved considerably,” N-kun said. “Six or seven years ago, it wasn’t like this. There were several spots where you had to wait for the waves to recede before dashing through.”

“But even now, at night it’s impossible,” I replied. “You couldn’t walk here after dark.”

“Right,” N-kun agreed. “No good at night. Not even Yoshitsune or Benkei could manage it.”

We kept up our brisk pace while exchanging these remarks with straight faces.

“Not tired yet?” N-kun turned to ask. “You’re holding up better than expected.”

“Yeah, I’m not old yet.”

About two hours into our walk, the surrounding scenery began to take on an eerily fierce aspect.
It was a bleak, heartrending sensation.
This was no longer a landscape.
A landscape—over long years of being viewed and described by countless people, licked into softness by human eyes, domesticated into tameness—even the Kegon Falls with its 35-jo height faintly exudes the human odor of a caged beast.
All celebrated sites and perilous passes immortalized in paintings and poetry since ancient times bear traces of human expression without exception—but this northernmost coast of Honshu utterly fails to qualify as any sort of landscape.
It does not allow even the presence of figures within it.
If one were to forcibly place figures in this scene, they would need to borrow an Ainu elder clad in a white attush robe.
A smirking man in a purple jumper would be instantly rejected.
It defies rendering in painting or verse.
There were only rocks and water.
Was it Goncharov? When sailing across the ocean and encountering a storm, the seasoned captain said, “Do come out on deck for a moment.
How should one describe these great waves?
You literary types will surely bestow some splendid adjective upon them.”
Goncharov gazed at the waves, then sighed and uttered a single word: “Terrifying.”

Just as no literary adjectives came to mind when facing the violent waves of the ocean or the storm winds of deserts, so too were the rocks and water at Honshu's path's end merely terrifying; I averted my eyes from them and walked while watching only my own footsteps. When we were about thirty minutes away from reaching Tappi Cape, I smiled faintly,

“Well now, we really should’ve kept some sake back after all.
“I can’t imagine there being any at Tappi’s inn, and this cold is just unbearable,” I found myself complaining.

“No—I was actually thinking the same thing myself.
“A bit further on, there’s a house belonging to an old acquaintance of mine—there might be rationed sake there.
“It’s a household that doesn’t drink alcohol.”

“Go ask them.”

“Yeah, you really can’t do without sake.”

In the hamlet just before Tappi Cape, there was that acquaintance’s house.
N-kun took off his hat and entered the house; after a while, he emerged with a face that seemed to stifle laughter,

“Talk about tough luck!
I got them to fill the canteen to the brim.
There’s over half a gallon here.”

“So the embers were still glowing.
Let’s move forward.”

Just a little more.
We bent forward against the gale, charging toward Tappi Cape at a hurried trot.
Mid-thought about the narrowing path, we suddenly crashed headfirst into what felt like a chicken coop.
For a moment, I couldn’t make sense of anything.

“Tappi,” said N-kun in an altered tone.

“This is it?”
When I calmly looked around, what I had perceived as a chicken-coop-like structure was in fact the hamlet of Tappi.
Against the violent storm winds and rain, the small houses stood clustered tightly together in a single mass, sheltering one another.
This is the northern extremity of Honshu.
Beyond this hamlet, there was no road.
All that remained was to tumble into the sea.
The road had come to a complete end.
This was Honshu’s dead end.
Readers, engrave this upon your flesh.
When you walk northward, tracing that path back endlessly, ever backward, you will inevitably arrive at this Sotogahama Kaido coastal highway. The road grows narrower still, and if you press further back, you will plunge abruptly into this strange world resembling a chicken-coop-like structure—and there, your path will utterly end.

“Anyone would be surprised,” said N-kun. “When I first came here, I thought, ‘Oh no, I’ve wandered into someone else’s kitchen,’ and got a real chill.”

However, this was a land of great strategic importance from a national defense perspective. I had to avoid speaking any further about this hamlet.

Passing through the dew-laden path, we arrived at the inn.
The old woman came out and guided us to our room.
The rooms of this inn were also—oh!—surprisingly neat, and the construction was by no means flimsy.
First changing into padded work coats, we sat cross-legged around the small hearth and finally, somehow, felt human again.

“Well, do you have any sake?”
N-kun asked the old woman in a calm, thoughtful tone.
The answer was unexpected.

“Yes, we do have some.”
She was a long-faced, refined old woman.
Having answered thus, she remained perfectly composed.
N-kun gave a wry smile,

“Well, ma’am,
we’d like to drink a bit more.”

“Please, have as much as you like,” she said with a smile.

We exchanged glances.
We even began to suspect that this old woman might not know the fact that sake had recently become a precious commodity.

“There was a ration today, you see. Since there are quite a few households nearby that don’t drink, we gathered from those,” she said, making a gathering motion with her hands, then spread her arms wide as if carrying many large bottles. “Earlier, someone from our household brought this much.”

“That much is plenty,” I said, finally relieved. “I’ll heat it in this iron kettle, so pour sake into the flasks—four or five bottles—no, to hell with the hassle, six bottles—bring them right away.”
I thought it best to order a large quantity while the old woman’s disposition remained unchanged.
“The meal can wait until later.”

The old woman did exactly as she was told, placing six sake flasks on a tray and bringing them over.
While we were drinking one or two flasks, the meal was also served.

“Please, do take your time.”

“Thank you.”

The six flasks of sake were gone in the blink of an eye.

“They’re already gone.”
I was surprised.
“That’s ridiculously fast.”
“Too fast.”

“Did we really drink that much?” N-kun asked with a dubious look, shaking each empty flask one by one. “Nothing left. Well, it was cold—we must’ve drunk like madmen without thinking.”

“Every flask was filled to the brim with sake,” I said. “If we tell her we’ve already finished six bottles this fast, the old woman might think we’re monsters and get suspicious.”
“We can’t have her getting needlessly scared and refusing us more. Let’s heat the sake we brought ourselves first—stall for a bit—then ask for another six bottles.”
“Why don’t we drink through the night here at Honshu’s northern edge?” This ill-advised plan of ours became the seed of our undoing.

We transferred the sake from the canteen into flasks and drank as slowly as possible this time. Before long, N-kun suddenly began to get drunk.

“This won’t do.”
“I might get drunk tonight.”
“No—it’s not that I might.”
He already appeared thoroughly intoxicated.
“This won’t do.”
“Tonight, I will get drunk.”
“You hear me?”
“Is it all right if I get drunk?”

“Don’t mention it.”
“I plan to get drunk tonight too.”
“Well—let’s take it slow.”

“Let me belt out a song.”
“You’ve never heard me sing before, have you?”
“I don’t do this often.”
“But tonight, I want to sing one.”
“Hey, you don’t mind if I sing, do you?”

“Can’t be helped. I’ll listen properly.”
I braced myself.

N-kun closed his eyes and began softly chanting Bokusui’s travel song—“Ikuu, mountains and rivers...” It wasn’t as dreadful as I’d feared.
Listening quietly, something pierced through me.

“How was that? Was it strange?”

“No… I was a bit moved.”

“Then, another one.”

This time, it was awful. Perhaps having developed an expansive spirit from coming to this inn at Honshu’s northern extremity, he too raised a shockingly ferocious bellow.

He began singing Takuboku’s song—“The eastern sea’s small islands and shores”—but his voice was so rough and loud that it drowned out even the sound of the wind outside.

“That’s awful,” I said.

“Awful? Then I’ll start over.”
He took a deep breath and raised his bellow even louder.
He mangled the lyrics to “Tōkai’s Small Island Shores,” then suddenly—for reasons unknown—burst into a *Masukagami* song (“If writing of times past now as then…”), his voice groaning, shouting, bellowing until it became truly unbearable.
I had been desperately hoping the old woman wouldn’t hear, but sure enough, the sliding door opened smoothly and she emerged,

“Well now that we’ve had some singing too，it’s about time you retired for the night.” With that，she cleared the trays and briskly laid out the futons.
Even she seemed utterly overwhelmed by N-kun’s expansive-spirited bellow.
I had fully intended to keep drinking much more，yet things had turned utterly absurd.

“That was awful. The song was awful. I should have stopped after one or two. Well，anyone would be shocked by that，” I muttered complaints，resigned to tears.

The next morning, while still in bed, I heard the lovely singing voice of a young girl. The wind had subsided by daybreak, morning sun streamed into the room, and there she was—a girl singing a handball song on the road outside. I raised my head and listened intently.

*Se-tse-tse*

*Summer draws near*

*The eighty-eighth night*

*In fields and mountains*

*Fresh green*

*Wisteria waves in wind*

*When they sway*

I felt overwhelmed. Here at Honshu's northern tip—still dismissed by Tokyo sophisticates as some Ezo backwater—I never imagined hearing such crisply enunciated, refreshing melody. It brought to mind Sato Hiroshi's academic assertion: "To discuss modern Oshu, one must first acknowledge here that same vital resurgence witnessed in pre-Renaissance Italy.

"In culture and industry alike, Emperor Meiji's educational vision penetrated with divine speed into every cove of Oshu. It diminished our people's grating nasal tones while spreading standard Japanese, casting enlightenment upon lands once deemed primitive barbarian territories—behold now..." Through this child's song, I sensed something like dawn's hopeful glow, and felt utterly overcome.

4. Tsugaru Plain

“Tsugaru”
An ancient appellation for the northeastern tip of Honshu facing the Sea of Japan.
During the reign of Empress Saimei, Abe no Hirafu, governor of Koshi Province, subjugated the Ezo territories in the Dewa region, reaching Aketa (present-day Akita), Nushiro (present-day Noshiro), and Tsugaru, ultimately extending as far as Hokkaido.
This marks the first appearance of the name Tsugaru.
Thereupon, the chieftain of that land was appointed as governor of Tsugaru District.
At this time, Ambassador to Tang China Sakai no Muraji Iwafu presented the Emishi to the Emperor of Tang.
The accompanying official, Ikihi no Muraji Hirotoku, responded to the imperial inquiry and explained the types of Emishi, stating: “There are three categories: those nearby are called Niki Emishi; next, Ara Emishi; and those far away, Tsugaru.”
The other Emishi seem to have been naturally recognized as a separate kind.
The designation “Tsugaru Emishi” also appears frequently during the Dewa barbarian rebellion of Jōgan 2.
At that time, General Fujiwara no Yasunori quelled the rebellion, advanced from Tsugaru to Watarishima (present-day Hokkaido), and all the various barbarian peoples who had never submitted in previous generations were brought under imperial control.
Watarishima is present-day Hokkaido.
Tsugaru’s affiliation with Mutsu is believed to date from when Minamoto no Yoritomo established Oshū and placed it under the control of Mutsu’s guardian.

“Aomori Prefecture History”
The land of this prefecture, until the early years of Meiji, formed a single province together with the lands of present-day Iwate, Miyagi, and Fukushima Prefectures—known as Mutsu. In the early Meiji era, this region contained five domains: Hirosaki, Kuroishi, Hachinohe, Shichinohe, and Tōnan. In July 1871, they abolished the various domains and converted them entirely into prefectures; in September of the same year, the abolition and consolidation of prefectures took place.
For a time, all were merged into Hirosaki Prefecture; however, in November of that same year, Hirosaki Prefecture was abolished and Aomori Prefecture established, placing the aforementioned domains under its jurisdiction. Later, Ninohe District was attached to Iwate Prefecture, thus arriving at the present configuration.

“Tsugaru Clan”
A clan descended from the Fujiwara Clan.
Hidetsugu, eighth-generation descendant of Chinjufu Shōgun Hidesato, governed the land of Mutsu Tsugaru District during the Kōwa era. Later, he built a castle in Tsugaru Jūsanminato and resided there, adopting Tsugaru as his clan name.
During the Meiō era, Konoe Hisamichi’s son Masanobu succeeded to the family headship.
When it reached Tamenobu, Masanobu’s grandson, the clan achieved great prominence.
Their descendants split to become the various families that were the former feudal lords of Hirosaki and Kuroishi.

"Tsugaru Tamenobu"
A military commander of the Sengoku period.
His father was Ōura Jinzaburo Morinobu, and his mother was the daughter of Horikoshi Castle Lord Takeda Shigenobu.
He was born in the first month of Tenbun 19 (1550).
His childhood name was Sen.
In the third month of Eiroku 10 (1567), at age eighteen, he became the adopted son of his uncle Tsugaru Tamenori and the foster son of Konoe Sakihisa.
His wife was Tamenori’s daughter.
In May 1571, he fought and killed Nambu Takanobu; on July 27, 1578, he defeated Namikage Castle Lord Kitabatake Akimura and annexed his territory; subsequently subjugated nearby domains; by 1585 had roughly unified Tsugaru; and in 1587 set out to pay his respects to Toyotomi Hideyoshi, but Akita Jōsuke Abe Sanesue blocked his path, forcing him to return unsuccessful.
In the seventeenth year, he presented hawks, horses, and other gifts to Hideyoshi to establish friendly relations.
Therefore, because he had promptly joined Hideyoshi’s forces in the eighteenth-year Odawara Campaign, Tsugaru along with Gappo and the entirety of Sotogahama were confirmed as his secure domain.
In the nineteenth year [1591], he also dispatched troops to the Kuno Rebellion; in April of Bunroku 2 [1593], he proceeded to Kyoto to have an audience with Hideyoshi and paid respects at the Konoe household, whereupon he was permitted to use the peony flower crest.
Thereafter, he dispatched envoys to Hizen Nagoya to reward Hideyoshi’s camp; in the first month of the third year [1594], he was appointed Junior Fourth Rank, Lower Grade, and Governor of Ukyō; during the Battle of Sekigahara in Keichō 5 [1600], he sent troops to join Tokugawa Ieyasu’s forces, advanced westward to fight at Ogaki, and was granted an additional 2,000 koku in Ōta, Kōzuke Province.
On the fifth day of the twelfth month of the twelfth year [Keichō 12], he died in Kyoto.
He was fifty-eight years old.

“Tsugaru Plain”
A plain spanning the three Tsugaru districts of South, Central, and North in Mutsu Province.
It forms the valley of the Iwaki River.
To the east lies the mountain range constituting the spine of the Tsugaru Peninsula that runs northward from west of Lake Towada; to the south, its watershed follows passes like Yatate and Tateishi along the Dewa border; to the west stand the Iwaki Mountain Range and coastal dunes known as Byobuyama.
The Iwaki River flows westward as its main current, converges with the Hirakawa River from the south and Asaseishi River from the east north of Hirosaki City, runs due north into Jūsan Lagoon, then meets the sea.
The plain extends approximately fifteen ri north-south and five ri east-west, narrowing northward to three ri along the Kizukuri-Goshogawara line and a mere one ri at Jūsan Lagoon’s shore.
This low-lying terrain lies threaded with tributaries and canals like a net—most rice from Aomori Prefecture grows across this plain.

(The above is based on the Japanese Encyclopedia.)

Tsugaru’s history remained largely unknown to people. Some even seemed to consider Mutsu and Aomori Prefecture identical to Tsugaru. This was hardly surprising—in the Japanese history textbooks we studied, the name Tsugaru appeared only once, fleetingly. To elaborate: In the section on Abe no Hirafu’s subjugation of the Emishi, there was a passage stating, “After Emperor Kōtoku passed away and Empress Saimei ascended the throne, Prince Naka no Ōe continued assisting governance as crown prince, dispatching Abe no Hirafu to pacify what are now Akita and Tsugaru.” Here Tsugaru’s name surfaced—but truly, that was all. Beyond this solitary mention in Hirafu’s section, Tsugaru vanished from elementary school textbooks, middle school textbooks, even high school lectures.

The dispatch of the Four Circuits Generals in the 573rd year of the imperial calendar reportedly reached only as far north as present-day Fukushima Prefecture. Then, some two hundred years later, Prince Yamato Takeru’s subjugation of the Emishi extended northward merely to Hitakami Province—likely corresponding to northern Miyagi Prefecture today. After another five hundred fifty years passed came the Taika Reform, and through Abe no Hirafu’s campaign against the Emishi, Tsugaru’s name first emerged—only to sink back into obscurity. By the Nara period, records spoke only of building Taga Castle (near present-day Sendai) and Akita Castle (in modern Akita City) to pacify the Emishi—Tsugaru’s name had already disappeared.

In the Heian period, Sakanoue no Tamuramaro advanced far north to destroy an Emishi stronghold and build Izawa Castle (near present-day Mizusawa Town, Iwate Prefecture) as a garrison—yet apparently never reached Tsugaru. Later during the Kōnin era came Funya no Watamaro’s expedition; then in Gangyō 2 [878], a Dewa Emishi rebellion arose that Fujiwara no Yasunori suppressed—with Tsugaru Emishi said to have participated. Yet we non-specialists learned only this about Emishi campaigns: Tamuramaro first, then a leap of two hundred fifty years to the Early Nine Years’ War and Later Three Years’ War at the Genpei era’s dawn.

Even these Early Nine Years’ War and Later Three Years’ War unfolded in present-day Iwate and Akita Prefectures, where so-called assimilated Emishi like the Abe and Kiyohara clans dominated. As for pure Emishi movements in remote hinterlands like Tsugaru, our textbooks recorded nothing. Then came over a century of Hiraizumi’s splendor under three Fujiwara generations until Minamoto no Yoritomo pacified Oshū in Bunji 5 [1189]. From then on, our textbooks increasingly distanced themselves from Tōhoku. Even during the Meiji Restoration, Oshū domains merely rose briefly to adjust their hems and reseat themselves—token gestures lacking Satsuma or Chōshū’s proactive vigor.

One might say they rode the times without major missteps—there was an air of inevitability to it. Ultimately, nothing remained. In our textbooks—the Age of the Gods aside—from Emperor Jimmu’s reign to modernity, “Tsugaru” appeared only in that single Hirafu reference—truly disheartening. What had Tsugaru been doing all that time? Merely adjusting hems and sitting straight, repeating this for twenty-six centuries without venturing out—just blinking vacantly?

No—that couldn’t be right. If you asked Tsugaru itself, it might retort: “Looks can deceive—we’ve been quite busy here.”

“Ouu is the combined name for Oushuu and Dewa, with Oushuu being the abbreviation for Mutsu Province.”
Mutsu was originally a general term for the entire region north of the two barriers of Shirakawa and Nakoso.
The name derives from "Michi no Oku" (Path’s End), which was abbreviated to "michinoku".
The name of this "Michi" country came to be pronounced "Mutsu" according to the old regional dialect, thus becoming the land of Mutsu.
This region, situated at the farthest reaches of both the Tokaido and Tosando roads and being the remotest land inhabited by different ethnic groups, was thus vaguely referred to as Michi no Oku (Path’s End).
The kanji “陸” carries the meaning of “道” (path).

Next, Dewa is 'ideha,' interpreted as meaning 'starting point.' In ancient times, the area from central Honshu to the northeastern regions along the Sea of Japan was vaguely referred to as Koshi Province. This inner region too, like Mutsu, had long been an outland inhabited by different ethnic groups, and they likely called this the "starting point." "That is to say," Dr. Kida explained concisely, "the name indicates that this region, along with Mutsu on the Pacific side, had long been a remote backwater excluded from imperial rule." Explanations are best when simple and clear.

Since Dewa and Oshu were already regarded as remote outlands beyond civilization, when it came to the northernmost Tsugaru Peninsula, it might well have been thought of as a land where bears and monkeys lived. Dr. Kida further elaborated on Ouu’s historical development: "Even after Yoritomo’s pacification of Ouu, governing it as one would other regions proved impossible. On the grounds that 'Dewa and Mutsu remain barbarian lands,' they had no choice but to abandon the land system reforms they had begun to implement and instead mandate adherence to Hidehira and Yasuhira’s old regulations." He continued: “Consequently, in northernmost regions like Tsugaru—where many inhabitants still retained the old ways of the Emishi—direct governance by Kamakura warriors proved difficult under the circumstances. They therefore appointed the local magnate Andō clan as deputies, commissioning them as Emishi Governors to pacify and subjugate the area.”

From around the time of this Andō clan, Tsugaru’s circumstances begin to come into somewhat clearer focus. Before that time, it might have been nothing more than the Ainu wandering about aimlessly. However, these Ainu cannot be underestimated.

They were a kind of so-called indigenous people of Japan, but they appear to have been fundamentally different in nature from the Ainu now remaining in Hokkaido, who linger listlessly there. Their artifacts and ruins are said to surpass pottery from any Stone Age culture worldwide in sophistication; yet the ancestors of today’s Hokkaido Ainu had long resided in Hokkaido with scant exposure to Honshu’s culture—geographically isolated and lacking natural bounty, they failed to achieve even the developmental level seen among their kinsmen in Ouu during the Stone Age. Particularly in recent centuries, since the Matsumae domain’s rise, they suffered intense oppression from mainland Japanese, becoming severely emasculated and reaching utter degradation. In contrast, the Ouu Ainu prided themselves on their vibrant distinct culture: some migrated to mainland provinces, while mainlanders also flocked into Ouu, until gradually they became indistinguishable from the Yamato people of other regions.

Regarding this matter, Dr. Takuiji Ogawa presented the following argument: “The *Shoku Nihongi* records that around the time of the Nara court, Sushen and Balhae peoples crossed the Sea of Japan to pay tribute.” Among these events, particularly notable were instances such as in Tenpyō 18 (746 CE) under Emperor Shōmu and Hōki 2 (771 CE) under Emperor Kōnin, when over a thousand Balhae people arrived in what is now Akita, followed by over three hundred more; it was not hard to imagine that traffic with Manchuria had been conducted quite freely.

There had been discoveries of Wuzhu coins unearthed near Akita, and apparent shrines dedicated to Emperor Wen and Emperor Wu of Han in Tohoku; all of this led one to infer that direct communication had occurred between the continent and this region. The Konjaku Monogatari’s account of Abe no Yoritoki crossing over to Manchuria should by no means be dismissed as mere folktale when considered alongside these archaeological and ethnological materials.

“We can affirm,” Ogawa concluded, “that the Tohoku barbarian tribes’ level of cultural refinement—gained through direct continental contact prior to imperial influence—was not inferior, contrary to assumptions based on central Japan’s fragmentary records.” The considerable difficulty faced by commanders like Tamuramaro in subduing them only began to make sense when recognizing their adversaries were not primitive tribes akin to Taiwan’s raw barbarians.

Furthermore, Dr. Ogawa added that it might be interesting to consider whether the Yamato court’s high-ranking officials frequently adopted names like Emishi, Easterners, or Hairy People partly out of a desire to appropriate the valor of Ouu’s people—or perhaps their exotic sophistication. Considering this, it seemed the ancestors of Tsugaru’s people had not merely wandered aimlessly at Honshu’s northern tip; yet for some reason, they remained entirely absent from central historical records. Only faintly, beginning around the aforementioned Andō clan, did Tsugaru’s circumstances become discernible. Dr. Kida stated, “The Andō clan claimed descent from Takaboshi, son of Abe no Sadato, asserting their distant ancestor was Anhi—elder brother of Nagasunehiko.” Nagasunehiko had resisted Emperor Jimmu and been executed, while his brother Anhi was exiled to Togarano-hama in Oshu, his descendants becoming the Abe clan. In any case, they were undoubtedly a great clan of Northern Mutsu predating the Kamakura period. Regarding Tsugaru’s administrative divisions—with three outer districts under Kamakura’s jurisdiction and three inner districts as untaxed imperial lands unlisted in national registers—this arrangement revealed how the Kamakura shogunate’s authority never reached its hinterlands, leaving the Andō clan to govern freely in what became known as guardian-free territory.

“At the end of the Kamakura period, when internal strife arose among the Andō clan in Tsugaru, eventually escalating into an Emishi uprising, the shogunate’s regent Hōjō Takatoki dispatched a general to suppress it—but even the might of the Kamakura warriors proved insufficient to prevail, and in the end, they withdrew under terms of peace.”

Even Dr. Kida himself seemed to adopt a somewhat uncertain tone when recounting Tsugaru’s history.
Truly, Tsugaru’s history appeared unclear.
However, it did seem true that this northernmost country had fought other lands and never been defeated.
They seemed to have completely lacked the concept of obedience.
Generals from other provinces, exasperated by this, appeared to have turned a blind eye and let them behave as they pleased.
They resembled someone in the Shōwa literary world.
Be that as it may, since other nations would not engage with them, they began exchanging insults and brawling among themselves.
The disturbances by the Tsugaru Emishi, which originated from internal strife within the Andō clan, were one such example.
According to Takeuchi Umpei—a man of Tsugaru—in his General History of Aomori Prefecture: “This disturbance of the Andō clan ultimately became turmoil across the Eight Kantō Provinces, forming what the Hōjō Kudai-ki calls ‘the initial crisis destined to overturn heaven and earth’s mandate,’ which then developed into the Genkō Incident and the Kenmu Restoration.” This might perhaps be counted as one of the remote causes contributing to those grand historical enterprises.
If this were true, then Tsugaru’s having influenced central politics even slightly would indeed have been limited to this single instance, and this internal strife of the Andō clan would have had to be called a glorious record in Tsugaru’s history worthy of special mention.
The Pacific-facing region of present-day Aomori Prefecture had long been called Nukabe, an Emishi territory. After the Kamakura period, the Nambu clan—a branch of the Kai Takeda clan—migrated and settled there, their influence growing immensely. Through the Yoshino and Muromachi periods until Hideyoshi’s unification of Japan, Tsugaru clashed with this Nambu clan. In Tsugaru, the Tsugaru clan emerged in place of the Andō clan, securing control over the entire province. The Tsugaru clan continued for twelve generations until the Meiji Restoration, when Lord Tsuguyasu dutifully returned his domain’s registry to the throne—this, in broad strokes, was Tsugaru’s history.
There were various theories regarding the distant ancestors of the Tsugaru clan.
Dr. Kida also touched on this, stating, “In Tsugaru, the Andō clan declined, and the Tsugaru clan became independent, sharing a border with the Nambu clan and entering into a prolonged relationship of mutual hostility.”
The Tsugaru clan claimed to be descendants of Konoe Kanpaku Hisamichi.
“Yet on another front,” he continued, “some claim they are a branch of the Nambu clan; others that they descend from Fujiwara no Motohira’s second son Hideyoshi; and still others pass down traditions suggesting they belong to the Andō clan—with theories so numerous and conflicting that one cannot discern which to follow.”
Mr. Takeuchi Umpei had also addressed this matter:
“Throughout the Edo period, the Nambu and Tsugaru clans maintained a marked emotional estrangement.”
The aforementioned causes appeared to stem from the following: the Nambu clan regarded the Tsugaru clan as ancestral enemies who had seized their former territories; the Tsugaru clan, originally a branch of the Nambu, stood accused of having betrayed their lord despite having held vassal status; while conversely, the Tsugaru clan asserted that their distant ancestors were of the Fujiwara lineage and that even in the medieval period, they had incorporated the Konoe family’s bloodline.
“Of course,” he elaborated, “in fact, Nambu Takanobu was destroyed by Tsugaru Tamenobu—and not only were all Nambu-aligned castles across Tsugaru District seized—but Ōura Mitsunobu’s mother herself had been the daughter of Nambu Kuji Bizen-no-kami. Moreover, their lineage had for generations claimed the title of Nambu Shinano-no-kami. Thus,” he concluded, “it is hardly unreasonable that the Nambu clan harbors profound resentment toward the Tsugaru house as kin who betrayed their own.”

Furthermore, while the Tsugaru clan traces its distant ancestors to the Fujiwara and Konoe families, from a present-day perspective, this claim is not necessarily accompanied by fundamental evidence that compels one's assent. Even works like the *Kāsoku-ki*, which adopt the defensive stance of claiming they are not of the Nambu clan, present remarkably feeble arguments. In Tsugaru’s early records too—such as the Takaya Family Records—the Ōura clan is presented as a branch of the Nambu clan. The Kodate Diary likewise states, “The houses of Lord Nambu and Lord Tsugaru are united as one.” Moreover, against recent publications like *Essentials for Reading History* that classify Tamenobu under the Kuji clan (a Nambu branch), I think there currently exist no definitive materials to refute this. “However, Tsugaru did indeed have Nambu lineage in the past, and while they were vassals, one cannot say there were no other pedigrees on different aspects of their lineage.” Like Dr. Kida, he avoids drawing any definitive conclusions. Since it was only the Japan Encyclopedia that defined it clearly and straightforwardly without doubt, I included it at the beginning of this chapter as a reference.

Having expounded at such tedious length, when I consider it now, Tsugaru appears truly insignificant when viewed against the whole of Japan. In Bashō’s *The Narrow Road to the Deep North*, he writes at departure, “The thought of three thousand ri ahead fills my heart”—yet even that northern limit reached only Hiraizumi, what today marks Iwate Prefecture’s southern tip. To attain Aomori Prefecture would require walking twice that distance. And that single peninsula along Aomori’s Sea of Japan coast constitutes Tsugaru itself. In former times, Tsugaru centered on the Tsugaru Plain—developed along the Iwaki River’s twenty-two-ri-eight-chō course—stretching eastward to areas like Aomori and Asamushi, westward down the Sea of Japan coast to Fukaura in the north, and southward roughly to Hirosaki. Though the cadet-domain Kuroishi lies to the south, this area cultivated traditions distinct from Tsugaru domain’s so-called cultural character and is thus excluded; Tsugaru’s northern extremity remains Tappi. It feels desolately narrow. Given this scale, one understands why central histories deemed it unworthy of notice.

I spent the night at the inn at the northernmost point of the "Deep North," and the next day—with still no sign of boats departing—I retraced my path from the previous day to Mitsu-maeya, ate lunch there, then took a bus directly back to N-kun's house in Kameda.
Yet when I walked through it, Tsugaru did not seem so small after all.

Around noon two days later, I departed Kameda alone via scheduled ferry, arriving at Aomori Port by three in the afternoon; from there I took the Ōu Line to Kawabe, transferred to the Gonō Line at Kawabe and reached Goshogawara around five o'clock; then immediately boarding the Tsugaru Railway to travel north across the Tsugaru Plain, I arrived at Kanagi Town—the place of my birth—as twilight was deepening.
The distance between Kameda and Kanagi spans merely one side of a square; however, with the Bonju Mountain Range lying between them and there being no proper roads through the mountains, one has no choice but to make a great detour around the other three sides of the square.
Arriving at my birthplace in Kanagi, I first went to the Buddhist altar room. My sister-in-law followed me, opened the sliding door to the altar room wide, and I gazed for a while at the photograph of my parents inside the altar before bowing deeply.
Then I moved to the family sitting room called Tsunei and formally greeted my sister-in-law again.

“When did you leave Tokyo?” my sister-in-law asked.

A few days before departing Tokyo, I had sent her a postcard stating that while I wanted to tour the Tsugaru region this time, I also intended to stop by Kanagi to pay respects at my parents’ graves, and would kindly ask her to look after me when the time came.

“About a week ago.”
“I was delayed on the east coast.”
“N-kun in Kameda took good care of me.”

She must have known about N-kun.

“I see.”
“Here too, even after your postcard arrived, you didn’t show up for quite some time—we were worried about what had happened.”
“Yoko and Hikari-chan were so eager that they took turns going to the station every day, you know.”
“In the end, some even got angry and said they wouldn’t care even if you showed up.”

Yoko was the eldest daughter of my eldest brother. About half a year earlier, she had married into a landowning family near Hirosaki and seemed to visit Kanagi frequently with her new husband; on this occasion too, the two of them had come. Hikari-chan was the youngest daughter of our eldest sister, still unmarried and always coming to help at the Kanagi house—a good-natured girl. The two nieces came out giggling playfully intertwined, greeting their slovenly drunken uncle with exaggerated laughter. Yoko still seemed like a schoolgirl and didn't behave like a married woman in the slightest.

“What a strange outfit,” she said, immediately laughing at my clothes.

“You dummy.”
“This is what’s in fashion in Tokyo.”

Led by my sister-in-law, my grandmother also came out.
She was eighty-eight years old.

“You’ve come.”
“Ah, you’ve come!” she said loudly.
She had been a lively person, but even so, she now seemed to have weakened somewhat.

“What would you like to do?” my sister-in-law asked me. “Will you eat here? Everyone’s upstairs though.”

It appeared that the eldest and second brothers had begun drinking upstairs with Yoko’s husband at the center.

Among brothers, I still didn’t quite understand to what degree one should maintain propriety or how unreservedly open one should be.

“If it’s not inconvenient，shall we go upstairs?”
Drinking beer alone here would make me seem sulky and feel rather unpleasant，I thought.

“Either way is fine.”
With a laugh，my sister-in-law instructed Hikari-chan and the others，“Then have them bring the meal to the second floor.”

I went up to the second floor still wearing a jumper.
In the finest Japanese-style room with gold-leaf sliding doors，the elder brothers were quietly drinking sake.
I clattered in，

“I’m Shuji—this is my first time meeting you,” I said, first greeting my brother-in-law before apologizing to my eldest and second brothers for my long absence. Both brothers responded with a simple “Ah” and slight nods—this being our household’s custom. Or perhaps I should say Tsugaru’s way. Accustomed to such formality, I unperturbedly took my seat and drank in silence as Hikari-chan and my sister-in-law poured sake. The brother-in-law sat with his back against the alcove pillar, his face already flushed crimson. Though my elder brothers had been strong drinkers in their youth, they now appeared markedly diminished, exchanging polite refusals—“Please have another,” “No really, you should”—with affected refinement. To me, fresh from rowdy drinking in Sotogahama, this felt like the Dragon Palace itself; I grew tense, newly astonished by the gulf between my brothers’ lives and my own.

“What shall we do about the crab? Later?” my sister-in-law whispered to me in a low voice.
I had brought some Kameda crabs as a souvenir.

“Well...”
Crabs, I thought, were perhaps too rustic and had a tendency to cheapen an elegant meal, so I hesitated slightly.
My sister-in-law might have felt the same way.

“Crab?” the eldest brother interjected. “It’s fine. Bring them out. And napkins too.”
“Bring them out.”
“And napkins too.”

Tonight, perhaps because the brother-in-law was present, even the eldest brother seemed to be in good spirits.

The crab was served.

“Won’t you have some?” urged the Eldest Brother to the brother-in-law as well, then proceeded to be the first to crack open a crab shell.

I felt relieved.

“Excuse me, but who are you?”
The brother-in-law said to me with an innocent-looking smile.
I was startled.
I immediately reconsidered, thinking it was only natural,

“Ah, well, I’m Eiji-san’s younger brother,” I answered with a laugh, but my spirits sank. Oh no—had it been improper to mention Eiji-san’s name? Servilely checking my second brother’s expression, I found him feigning ignorance, leaving me without a lifeline.
“Well, never mind,” I thought, slouching my posture and having Hikari-chan pour me beer instead.

At my ancestral home in Kanagi, I grow mentally exhausted.
And this—this habit of writing it all down later—is precisely what ruins everything.
A man cursed with the karma of surviving by peddling manuscripts about his own flesh and blood gets his hometown confiscated by God.
In the end, I’ll likely spend my days dozing in some Tokyo shack, pining for nostalgic dreams of home while drifting rootlessly until death claims me.

The next day was rainy.
When I awoke and went to the second-floor reception room of my eldest brother, he was showing paintings to my brother-in-law.
There were two gold-leaf screens—one depicting mountain cherry blossoms, the other what might be called an elegant rural landscape of fields and waterways.
I examined the artist’s seal.
But I couldn’t decipher it.

“Who is it?” I asked timidly, my face flushing.

“Sui-an,” my eldest brother replied.

“Sui-an.”
I still didn’t comprehend.

“You don’t know?”
Without reproach, my brother calmly added, “Hyakuho’s father.”

“Oh?”
I had heard Hyakuho’s father was also a painter, but I hadn’t known this father was someone called Hoan who created such splendid works.
I didn’t dislike paintings myself—no, far from it; I even fancied myself something of an expert—yet my ignorance of Hoan amounted to a grave faux pas.
Glancing at the folding screen—Oh?
Had I casually uttered “Hoan,” my eldest brother might have revised his opinion of me slightly—but instead, I’d blurted “Who is it?” in that imbecilic voice. How mortifying.
I writhed over this irreparable blunder, but my brother disregarded such a me—

“In Akita, there are great people,” he said quietly to the brother-in-law.

“What about Tsugaru’s Ayasoku?”
With intentions both of restoring my honor and offering flattery, I nervously blurted it out.
When it came to Tsugaru painters, one might say Ayasoku was about the only name—but in truth, even this I had only learned when, during my previous visit to Kanagi, my eldest brother showed me Ayasoku’s paintings he owned, thereby discovering for the first time that Tsugaru had such a distinguished artist.

“That is another matter altogether,” my brother muttered in a thoroughly disinterested tone and sat down in his chair. We had all been standing and looking at the paintings on the folding screen, but when my elder brother sat down, the brother-in-law also took a seat in the chair facing him, and I settled a little apart on the sofa near the entrance.

“Well, this one here is the genuine article, I suppose,” he said, again addressing the brother-in-law.
My elder brother had long avoided speaking to me directly.

Come to think of it, in Ayasoku’s thick, heavy sense of weight, there was an anxiety that with just a little more push, it might descend into something grotesque.

“Cultural tradition, if I may put it that way,”
Hunching his back and staring at the brother-in-law’s face, he said, “After all, I believe Akita possesses something enduring.”

“So Tsugaru is hopeless then?”
No matter what I said, it would only end up awkward—I resigned myself to this truth and muttered the words with a hollow laugh.

“So you’re writing something about Tsugaru this time?” my eldest brother suddenly asked me.

“Yes, but... I don’t really know anything about Tsugaru,” I stammered, flustered. “I was wondering if there might be some good reference books?”

“Well,” my brother laughed, “I’m afraid I’m not particularly interested in local history myself.”

“Wouldn’t there even be a very popular book, like a guide to Tsugaru’s famous places? It’s as though I know absolutely nothing at all.”

“No, no,” my elder brother responded with a wry smile that seemed exasperated at my slovenliness, shaking his head. Then he stood up and addressed the brother-in-law: “Well then, I’ll be off to the agricultural association for a bit. Please feel free to look through whatever books are around here. The weather today really is dreadful,” he said as he left.

“The agricultural association must be quite busy now too, I imagine,” I asked my brother-in-law.

“Yes, right now they’re finalizing the rice procurement quotas, so it’s quite hectic,” replied my brother-in-law, who—though young—was well-versed in such matters as a landowner.
He explained with various detailed figures, but I didn’t understand even half of it.

"I myself had never seriously considered matters like rice before," I said, "but in times like these, I found myself watching the paddies from the train window—truly as if they were my own concern—with alternating hope and anxiety."
"This year has been so chilly for so long—won't the rice planting be delayed?"
Following precedent when facing experts, I put on a show of superficial expertise.

"It should be fine."
"We've been devising countermeasures precisely for this cold weather."
"The seedlings' growth seems about normal."

“Is that so?” I nodded with an air of plausibility. “My knowledge comes solely from gazing at the Tsugaru Plain through the train window yesterday, but what they call horse-drawn plowing—that method of having horses till the fields—it seems many are now using cows instead. In our childhood, not just for plowing but for everything—pulling carts or any task—we used horses for all of it, and there was hardly any use of cattle. As for me, when I first went to Tokyo and saw cows pulling carts, I found it quite strange.”

“That’s right. The number of horses has drastically decreased. Most were conscripted. And cows require less effort to raise. But in terms of work efficiency, cows are only half as good as horses—no, they might be even worse than that.”

“Speaking of conscription, well—”

“Me? I’ve received conscription orders twice now, but both times they were sent back midway. It’s rather shameful.” A healthy young man’s easy smile was a good thing. “This time, I don’t want to be sent back,” he added lightly in a natural tone.

“Isn’t there some hidden great figure in this region—someone truly admirable whom one can genuinely respect?”

“Well, I can’t say I know much about such things, but perhaps there might be someone among those they call model farmers.”

“I suppose so.”
I wholeheartedly agreed.
“As for me, I’m no good at logic either, and I suppose I want to live with the single-minded devotion of what you might call a devoted scholar, but somehow, with all these trivial vanities and such, I end up becoming this common-sense, affected sort of person—it never amounts to anything.”
“However, even model farmers—if they’re labeled too grandly as model farmers—mightn’t they end up ruined?”

“That’s right.
“That’s correct.
Newspaper companies make irresponsible uproars and drag people out to give lectures and such—even dedicated model farmers end up turning into odd men.
Once they become famous, they’re ruined.”

“Absolutely.”
I agreed with that too.
“Men are pitiful creatures.
Fame makes them brittle.
Journalism—trace its roots—was invented by capitalists in America or such places. Shoddy business.
It’s poison.
The moment they gain fame, most turn spineless.”
I vented personal frustrations in this strange venue.
Such complainers—though they say these things—often secretly crave fame in their hearts. Beware.

In the afternoon, I walked alone through the rainy garden, holding an umbrella and gazing around.
Not a single tree or blade of grass seemed to have changed.
In this way, I realized that my elder brother’s efforts to preserve the old house as it was must have been no ordinary undertaking.
When I stood by the pond, there was a small plopping sound.
When I looked, a frog had jumped in.
It was a trivial, futile sound.
At that moment, I understood Bashō’s old pond poem.
I couldn’t understand that poem.
I had absolutely no idea what was supposed to be good about it.
I had been declaring that “famous local products have nothing delicious,” but that was due to the poor education I had received.
Regarding that old pond poem—what explanation were we given in school?
We were taught that Bashō’s poem depicted an ancient pond, bluish and still in the dim light of a hushed midday—a frog leaping into it with a plop (not some grand suicide plunge into the Ōkawa River)—and that this was the essence of lingering resonance, where “a bird’s cry deepens the mountain’s silence.”
What a trite, mediocre verse, so affectedly suggestive it must be.
It’s nauseatingly pretentious—makes my skin crawl, I tell you.
Unbearable—for a long time, I had avoided this verse, but now—no, rather—I’d come to think otherwise.
It’s because they go on about “plop” that it becomes impossible to understand.
There’s no lingering resonance—nothing at all.
It’s just a plop—nothing more.
It is, so to speak, a truly meager sound from a mere corner of the world.
It is a meager sound.

Bashō heard this and found himself struck to the core.
An old pond—a frog jumps in: the sound of water.
Thinking this way and re-examining the poem, it wasn’t bad.
It was a good verse.
It splendidly kicked away the smug mannerisms of the Danrin school of that time.
It was, so to speak, an unprecedented concept.
No moon, no snow, no flowers.
No poetic grace either.
Only meager things and a meager existence.
It also became clear why the masters of poetic grace at that time had been astonished by this verse.
It was the destruction of the conventional concept of poetic grace.
It was innovation.
"A good artist must come at it like this, or it’s a lie," I excitedly wrote alone in my travel notebook that night.

Kerria blooms—a frog leaps in, the water’s sound.
Kikaku—what of it?
They know nothing.
Come play with me, parentless sparrow.
It’s a bit too close.
But its bluntness makes it distasteful.
“Old pond—peerless it is.”

The next day was clear.
Yoko, my niece; her husband; myself; and Aya—the four of us carried everyone’s bento boxes on our backs and went to visit Takatsuru, a gentle hill less than two hundred meters high located about one ri east of Kanagi Town.
Aya, I should note, is not a woman’s name.
It means something like "old man."
It can also mean "father."
The *femme* corresponding to Aya is Apa.
It is also called Aba.
I had no idea where these words came from.
Oh—perhaps it’s a corruption of *Oba*? But making wild guesses like that was pointless.
There must be countless theories among scholars.
As for the mountain called Takatsuru, my niece claimed its true name was Takanagane—the way its base spread out gently supposedly resembled a long ridge or something of that sort—but here too, scholars likely had endless conflicting theories.
It seemed the true appeal of local studies lay precisely in this swirling chaos of unresolved academic disputes.

Since Yoko and Aya were delayed with preparing the bento boxes and such, only the son-in-law and I left the house a step ahead of them.
It was fine weather.
Travel in Tsugaru should be confined to May and June.
As seen in the example of *Tōyūki*: “Since ancient times, people who travel to northern regions do so only in summer—when vegetation turns verdant, winds shift southerly, and seasides grow calm—so that they need not gain fearsome reputations.
When I arrived in the northern region, as it was the period from September to March, I never encountered any travelers along the way.
Since my journey was for medical training, it was an exceptional case.
The text states, 'For those who go with the sole intent of seeking out famous sites, this is a country one must visit after April.' As the words of a travel master, readers would do well to trust and remember this much.”
In Tsugaru, plum, peach, cherry, apple, pear, and Japanese plum trees all bloom simultaneously around this time.
With an air of confidence, I led the way to the edge of town but couldn’t find the path to Takatsuru.
I had only been there two or three times in elementary school, so it was no wonder I had forgotten—but the area’s appearance was completely different from my childhood memories.
I was perplexed,

“With the station and such being built, this area has completely changed, and I no longer know how to get to Takatsuru. That mountain over there...” I said, pointing at the pale green, U-shaped hill rising in the distance. “Let’s stroll around here for a bit and wait for Aya and the others,” the son-in-law proposed with a smile.

“Let’s do that,” the son-in-law also said with a laugh. “I’ve heard there’s an Aomori Prefecture Training Farm around here.”
He knew better than I did.

“I see.”
“Let’s look for it.”

The Training Farm was located on a small hill about half a cho to the right of that road. It appeared to have been established for training rural leaders and pioneer settlers, yet here at Honshu’s northern extremity stood facilities of such grandeur they bordered on extravagance. When His Highness Prince Chichibu had served with the Hirosaki 8th Division, he had graciously extended exceptional support to this farm. Thanks to his patronage, the lecture hall became a structure of rare magnificence for the region, while workshops, livestock barns, fertilizer storage buildings, and dormitories stood completed—I could only gape in astonishment.

“Huh?
“I had no idea.”
“Isn’t this too grand for Kanagi?”
Even as I said that, I was strangely, unbearably happy.
After all, it seems I must secretly be flexing my muscles for the land where I was born.

At the farm’s entrance stood a large stone monument, upon which were solemnly inscribed layer upon layer of honors: the visit of Prince Asaka in August 1935; that of Prince Takamatsu in September of the same year; those of Prince Chichibu and his consort in October of the same year; and Prince Chichibu’s return visit in August 1938.
The people of Kanagi Town should take even more pride in this farm.
Not just Kanagi—this must be the eternal pride of the Tsugaru Plain.
What you might call a training ground—the fields, orchards, and rice paddies created by model rural youths selected from various villages across Tsugaru—were truly beautifully spread out behind those buildings.
The son-in-law walked around the cultivated land, scrutinizing it from all angles,

“It’s truly impressive,” he said with a sigh.
Because the son-in-law was a landowner, he probably understood these matters far better than someone like me.

“Oh! Fuji,” I called out.
“Fuji.”
“How lovely,” I exclaimed.
It was not Fuji.
Mount Iwaki—dubbed Tsugaru Fuji at 1,625 meters—hovered ethereally where endless rice paddies met their limit.
It truly seemed to float weightlessly.
Drenched in deepest indigo, more feminine than Mount Fuji itself, it spread its hem like a twelve-layered robe—flaring open like upturned ginkgo leaves in perfect bilateral symmetry—serenely suspended against blue skies.
Though no towering peak, it radiated an unearthly beauty of crystalline purity.

“Kanagi isn’t half bad after all, is it?”
I said in a flustered tone.
“Not bad at all.”
He said, pursing his lips.

“It’s lovely.”
The son-in-law said calmly.

During this journey, I viewed Tsugaru Fuji from many directions: from Hirosaki it appeared ponderous and solid, making me think Mount Iwaki might indeed belong to Hirosaki; yet I could not forget the mountain’s elegant, delicate form as seen from Kanagi, Goshogawara, and Kizukuri across the Tsugaru Plain. The mountain’s appearance when viewed from the western coast was completely unimpressive. It had crumbled away, no longer bearing any semblance of beauty. There is said to be a legend that in lands where Mount Iwaki appears beautiful, rice grows abundantly and there are many beautiful women. Be that as it may with the rice, in this northern Tsugaru region—though the mountain looks so splendid—the number of beauties seemed rather sparse to my eyes. This may perhaps be due to my own superficial observations.

“Aya and the others—I wonder what has become of them.”
All at once, I began to worry about that.
“I wonder if they’ve gone on far ahead.”
We had become so engrossed in the Training Farm’s facilities and scenery that we had nearly forgotten about Aya and the others.
We had returned to the original path and were looking around when Aya popped out from an unexpected side trail in the fields and said with a laugh, “We’ve been splitting up to search for you all this whole time.”
Aya had searched around these fields, while my niece had gone straight along the path to Takatsuru, steadily giving chase, he said.

“That’s too bad. Yoko-chan must have gone quite far ahead by now, huh?” I called out loudly toward the front, but there was no response.

“Let us proceed,” said Aya, hefting the load on his back. “After all, it’s a single path.”

In the sky, a skylark was chirping busily.

It must have been about twenty years since I last walked the spring country paths of my hometown like this. The area was a grassy expanse with occasional thickets of low shrubs and small marshes, its terrain gently undulating. A generation earlier, city people would likely have praised it as an ideal golf course. Moreover, behold—now even this wilderness was steadily being cultivated with hoes, the roofs of houses gleaming beautifully. As Aya explained, “That is the rehabilitation hamlet, and that is the branch village of the neighboring community,” I felt deeply moved thinking how Kanagi too had developed and grown lively. Even as we gradually approached the mountain slope, the niece’s figure was still nowhere to be seen.

“What could have happened?”
I am, by nature, a worrier—a trait inherited from my mother.

“Ah, she must be around here somewhere.”
The son-in-law, though bashful, maintained an air of composure.

“Let’s just ask and see.”
I took off my sufu fabric hat and bowed to a farmer working in a roadside field. “Did a young lady in Western clothes pass along this road?”
The farmer replied that she had passed by.
She had hurried past almost at a run, they said.
I imagined my niece rushing along the spring country path after the groom and found the thought rather pleasing.
After climbing partway up the mountain, we found the niece standing laughing beneath a row of larch trees.
Since she hadn’t managed to catch up this far, she reasoned we must be coming from behind and had been picking bracken here while waiting.
She showed no particular signs of fatigue.
This area appeared to be a veritable treasure trove of wild vegetables—bracken, udo thistle, bamboo shoots, and such.
In autumn, mushrooms like early-fall mushrooms, earth-caps, and nameko grow so thickly that, as Aya described it, they “carpet the ground.”
People even come from as far as Goshogawara and Kizukuri to gather them, it’s said.

“Yoko-chan is a master mushroom picker,” Aya added.
As we climbed the mountain,
I remarked, “I hear His Highness visited Kanagi.” Aya formally responded, “Yes.”
“It’s truly an honor.”
“Yes,” he answered tensely.
“How extraordinary that His Highness would come to a place like Kanagi.”
“Yes.”
“Did His Highness arrive by automobile?”
“Yes. His Highness came by automobile.”
“Did you also pay your respects?”
“Yes. I was granted that privilege.”
“How fortunate you are.”
“Yes,” he replied, wiping sweat from his face with the towel around his neck.

“Did Aya also get to pay his respects?”

“Yes. I was permitted to pay respects.”

“Aya is fortunate.”

“Yes,” he answered, wiping sweat from his face with the towel around his neck.

A bush warbler sang.
Violets, dandelions, wild chrysanthemums, azaleas, white deutzia, akebia, wild roses, and unknown flowers bloomed brightly in the grassy verges of the mountain path.
Low willows and oak trees had sprouted new buds, and bamboo grass grew increasingly abundant as we climbed.
Though less than two hundred meters high, the hill offered an excellent view.
One could nearly claim to see every corner of the Tsugaru Plain spread below.
We stopped to gaze down at the plain, listened to Aya’s explanations, walked a bit further before pausing again to admire Tsugaru Fuji—until we found ourselves at the small hill’s summit.

“Is this the summit?”
I asked Aya, feeling slightly deflated.

“Yes, this is it.”

“Huh,” I muttered dismissively, yet found myself entranced by the springtime vista of Tsugaru Plain unfolding before me.
The Iwaki River shimmered like a slender silver thread.
Where that thread seemed to end, something glowed dully like an ancient mirror—perhaps Tamamitsu Swamp?
Further in the distance, a pale expanse spread hazily like mist—likely Jūsan Lagoon.
Known as Jūsan Lake or Jūsan Lagoon, it was described in the *Jūsan Ōrai* thus: “Here converge thirteen tributaries from Tsugaru’s rivers, both great and small, forming a vast lake.”
The text continues: “Yet each river retains its distinct hue.” This lake at Tsugaru Plain’s northern edge gathers thirteen waterways including the Iwaki River, spanning some eight ri around—though sediment from the rivers keeps it shallow, its deepest points said to measure no more than three meters.
Brackish from seawater inflow yet fed substantially by the Iwaki’s freshwater flow, its estuary area remains fresh enough to host both freshwater and saltwater fish.
At the lagoon’s southern mouth opening to the Japan Sea lies the hamlet of Jūsan.
This region had purportedly been settled seven or eight centuries past—some say as the stronghold of Tsugaru’s Andō clan—and during Edo times thrived alongside Kodomari Port to its north as a hub for exporting timber and rice from Tsugaru, though no vestige of that prosperity remains today.
North of Jūsan Lagoon rose Gongen-zaki.
Yet beyond this point lay territory crucial for national defense.
We shifted our gaze to where beyond the Iwaki River stretched a crisp blue line—the Japan Sea itself.
Shichiri Nagahama lay entirely within our view.
From Gongen-zaki in the north to Ōtose-zaki in the south, nothing obstructed our vision.

“This is wonderful.
If it were me, I’d build a castle here—” I began,

“What about winter?” Yoko cut in, leaving me at a loss.

“If only it wouldn’t snow here,” I sighed, feeling a faint melancholy.

We descended to a mountain stream in the shadow of the hills and opened our lunch on the riverbank.
The beer chilled in the mountain stream wasn’t bad.
The nieces and Aya drank apple juice.
In the midst of this, I suddenly noticed.

“Snake!”

The son-in-law grabbed his discarded coat and began to rise.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” I said, pointing at the rock face on the opposite bank of the mountain stream. “It’s trying to climb that rock wall.”

The creature emerged abruptly from the rapids, scaled about a foot up the cliff in an instant only to tumble back down. Again it would begin climbing smoothly upward before falling once more. After stubbornly attempting this some twenty times—finally exhausted or resigned—it let itself be carried by the current, floating lengthwise on the water’s surface as it approached our shore.

Aya stood up at that moment.

He seized a branch roughly six feet long, ran over without a word, splashed into the stream with a crash, and struck decisively.

We averted our eyes,

“Is it dead? Is it dead?”
I uttered a pitiful cry.

“I took care of it.”
Aya threw the branch into the mountain stream along with it.

“Isn’t that a viper?”
Even so, I remained terrified.

“If it were a viper, I would’ve caught it alive—that was a rat snake.”
“Viper gallbladders make good medicine.”

“Do vipers live in these mountains too?”

“Yes.”

I drank my beer with a heavy heart.

Aya finished eating before anyone else, dragged over a large log, tossed it into the stream as a foothold, and nimbly leaped to the opposite bank.
There he climbed the sheer cliff face and began gathering wild vegetables—udo and thistles.

"That's dangerous! You don't need to go all the way to such a risky spot—there are plenty growing elsewhere anyway." I watched Aya's perilous venture with bated breath and commented, "He must be excited, deliberately choosing that dangerous place to show off his bravery to us—no doubt that's his scheme."

"That's right, that's right!" Yoko agreed, bursting into laughter.

"Aya!" I shouted. "Enough! It's dangerous—that's enough now."

“Yes,” Aya replied, smoothly descending from the cliff.
I felt relieved.

On the way back, Yoko carried the wild vegetables Aya had gathered.
This niece had never cared much about appearances or decorum from the start.

On the return journey, even the “still-youthful stalwart walker” in Sotogahama at last grew weary and fell markedly silent.
When we came down from the mountain, a cuckoo was calling.
At the sawmill on the edge of town, lumber was piled up in abundance, and trolleys bustled ceaselessly back and forth.
It was a landscape of a bountiful village.

“Kanagi has really come to life, though,” I remarked offhandedly.

“Is that so?”
The son-in-law also seemed slightly tired.
He said listlessly.

I suddenly became embarrassed,

“Well, I don’t understand a thing myself, but I get the feeling Kanagi wasn’t like this ten years ago.”
“It seemed to be a town that was only growing more and more desolate.”
“It wasn’t like this now.”
“Now I somehow feel as if it’s been revitalized.”

When I returned home and told my brother, "The scenery of Kanagi is rather splendid—I’ve renewed my appreciation for it," he responded, "As one grows older, one comes to feel that the scenery of the land where one was born and raised might be finer than Kyoto or Nara."

The next day, my brother and his wife joined the previous day's group, and we set out for Kanokogawa Retention Pond located about one and a half ri southeast of Kanagi. Just as we were about to depart, a guest arrived at my brother's place, so we alone set out a step ahead. We wore work pants, white split-toe socks, and straw sandals. For my sister-in-law, walking nearly two ri away might have been her first time doing so since coming to Kanagi as a bride. That day too was clear, even warmer than before. Guided by Aya, we trudged along the forest railway tracks following Kanokogawa River. The spacing between railroad ties proved maliciously designed—too narrow for full steps yet too wide for half steps—making walking extremely arduous. I grew tired quickly, fell silent, and kept wiping sweat. When weather turns too fine, travelers grow listless rather than invigorated.

“This area shows the aftermath of the great flood,” Aya said, stopping to explain.
Across several acres of fields near the river, enormous stumps and logs lay scattered so thickly that one might have mistaken it for the aftermath of a fierce battle.
The year before last, a massive flood—one that even my family’s eighty-eight-year-old grandmother had declared she’d never experienced in all her years—had struck this town of Kanagi.

“All these trees were washed down from the mountains,” Aya added, his face clouded with sorrow.

“This is awful…”
I wiped my sweat and said, “It must have been just like the ocean.”

“It was like the ocean.”

Leaving the Kanokogawa River behind, we now ascended for a while along the Kakanokogawa River, finally freed from the forest railway tracks and turning slightly to the right, where a large reservoir—its circumference likely exceeding half a *ri*—lay before us. With a single bird’s cry only deepening its serene countenance, it brimmed with deep blue water.
This area was apparently once a deep valley called Shōemonzawa, but damming the Kakanokogawa River at the valley’s base to create this reservoir had been done in Showa 16 (1941), a relatively recent endeavor.
On the large stone monument by the reservoir’s edge, my brother’s name was also engraved.
Around the reservoir, the red clay cliffs left by construction still lay raw and exposed, so that while they lacked what might be called natural grandeur, one could nevertheless sense Kanagi’s communal strength; even such human-made achievements could not help but be deemed pleasant landscapes—or so mused this clumsy traveling critic as he paused to smoke his pipe, gazed about, and assembled half-baked impressions.
With an air of confidence, I led the group along the reservoir’s edge,

“This spot is good. This area is good,” I said and sat down in the shade of a tree on the reservoir’s cape. “Aya, take a look at this. This isn’t a lacquer tree, is it?” If I were to develop a rash from lacquer trees, I’d be unbearably depressed about continuing this journey ahead. He stated it was not a lacquer tree.

“Then, that tree.”
“Somehow, it looks suspicious.”
“Check it for me.”
Everyone laughed, but I remained earnest.
He confirmed that one wasn’t a lacquer tree either.
Now fully reassured, I resolved to unpack our lunch here.
As I drank beer, I grew talkative in my cheerfulness.
I recounted how in second or third grade, during a school excursion to Takayama on the west coast—three and a half *ri* from Kanagi—I’d first seen the ocean.
Our teacher had gotten excited first, lining us up in two rows facing the sea to sing “We Are Children of the Ocean.” But for children beholding the ocean for the first time to chant verses like “We are children of the ocean / In pine groves where white waves crash” felt utterly unnatural—even my child’s heart burned with shame and disquiet.
Then I told them how I’d absurdly overdressed for that trip: a broad-brimmed straw hat, a whitewood cane studded with shrine seals from my brother’s Mount Fuji climb, and—defying the teacher’s order to wear light straw sandals—an unnecessary hakama over long socks and knitted shoes, mincing along coquettishly. Yet before we’d walked one *ri*, I collapsed. They stripped off my hakama and shoes, gave me mismatched sandals—one with red cords, one with straw—worn-down wretched things. Soon they confiscated my hat, impounded my cane, and finally loaded me onto the cart reserved for invalids. When I returned home, clutching a shoe and leaning on my cane, not a shred remained of my earlier splendor—and as I launched into this tale with theatrical flair, amusing everyone,

A voice called out, “Hey!”
It was my brother.

“Hey!” we all called out in unison.
Aya ran to greet him.
Before long, my brother appeared carrying a pikestaff.
Having drunk all the beer there was, I felt quite unwell.
My brother quickly ate his meal, then we all walked toward the reservoir’s inner reaches.
With a loud flapping sound, waterfowl flew up from the pond.
The son-in-law and I exchanged glances and nodded meaninglessly at each other.
Whether they were geese or ducks, neither of us felt confident enough to say aloud.
In any case, they were unmistakably wild waterfowl.
The essence of deep mountains and secluded valleys suddenly permeated the air.
My brother walked silently with hunched shoulders.
How many years had it been since I last walked outdoors like this with him?
About ten years prior—along some country path in Tokyo’s outskirts—he had walked just like this, back bent and silent, while I trailed a few steps behind watching his retreating figure, sobbing quietly as I walked. This might have been the first time since then.
I do not believe my brother has forgiven me regarding that incident.
It may remain unresolved for life.
A cracked bowl cannot be mended.
No matter what you do, it will never return to its original state.
The people of Tsugaru are a breed that never forgets the fractures in their hearts.

I also thought that after this, there might never be another opportunity to walk outside with my brother again.
The sound of falling water gradually grew louder.
At the edge of the reservoir was Kanoko Falls, a waterfall known as a famous spot in this region.
Before long, the narrow waterfall—about fifteen meters in height—came into view at our feet.
In short, we were walking along a nerve-wrackingly narrow path—about one shaku wide—that traced the edge of Shōemonzawa Valley, with a mountain like a standing folding screen immediately to our right and a cliff dropping from our feet to the left, where at the valley’s bottom the waterfall basin coiled in a deep blue that seemed to promise unfathomable depth.

“This is rather dizzying,” my sister-in-law said in a joking tone, clinging to Yoko’s hand as she walked timidly.

On the mountainside to the right, azaleas were blooming beautifully.
My brother carried a pikestaff on his shoulder, and each time he came to a spot where azaleas bloomed splendidly, he would slightly slow his pace.
The wisteria flowers were also beginning to bloom.
The road gradually sloped downward, and we descended to the waterfall’s mouth.
It was a small mountain stream about six feet wide, with a tree stump placed near the middle of the current. Using this as a foothold, one could nimbly leap across in two steps.
One by one, they nimbly leaped over.
The sister-in-law was left alone.

“I can’t.”
She kept making excuses with a laugh, not even trying to jump over.
Her legs had frozen stiff, refusing to move forward.

“Carry her on your back,” my brother ordered Aya.
But even when Aya drew near, the sister-in-law only laughed harder, waving her hands in frantic refusal.
At that moment, Aya displayed herculean strength—hoisting a massive tree stump and heaving it into the waterfall’s mouth with a thunderous splash.
Well, somehow a bridge had formed.
The sister-in-law edged partway across but still couldn’t will her legs forward.
Clutching Aya’s shoulder, she managed half the distance before leaping from the makeshift bridge into the shallow river below, sloshing through the water to reach the other side.
Her work trousers’ hem, white tabi socks, and sandals were all thoroughly drenched.

“You look exactly like someone who’s just returned from Takayama.”
My sister-in-law seemed to suddenly remember the story I had just told about my miserable return from the excursion to Takayama. She said this with a laugh, and when Yoko and the son-in-law burst into laughter too, my brother turned around.

“Huh? What?” he asked.
Everyone stopped laughing.
Seeing my brother’s puzzled expression, I considered explaining—but the story was too absurd to muster courage for solemnly recounting the origin of the “Takayama return” episode.
My brother started walking in silence.
My brother was always solitary.

5. West Coast

As I have mentioned many times before, though I was born and raised in Tsugaru, until today I had hardly known the land.
As for Tsugaru’s West Coast along the Japan Sea, aside from that "Takayama trip" when I was in the second or third grade of elementary school, I had never once been there.
Takayama refers to a small coastal hill located roughly three and a half ri directly west of Kanagi, past Shariki—a fairly large village with a population around five thousand—and easily reachable from there.
The Inari shrine there is said to be famous, but since these are memories from my boyhood, only that wardrobe failure remains vividly etched in my mind; everything else has faded into a vague, indistinct blur.
I had also had a plan for some time to take this opportunity to tour Tsugaru’s West Coast.
The day after our outing to Kanokogawa Reservoir, I departed Kanagi and arrived in Goshogawara around eleven in the morning.
At Goshogawara Station, I transferred to the Gonō Line, and within about ten minutes, we reached Kizukuri Station.
This place was still within the Tsugaru Plain.
I had thought I wanted to take a look at this town as well.
When I got off and looked around, it was an old, quiet town.
With a population of just over four thousand—fewer than Kanagi Town—the town’s history appeared long.
The sound of the rice mill's machinery thudded listlessly into the air.
Under the eaves of some house, a pigeon was cooing.
This is the land where my father was born.
In my family in Kanagi, for generations, there had been mostly women, and we had typically welcomed adopted sons-in-law.
My father was the third son of the old-established M family in this town and had been welcomed into my family to become its head after several generations.
Since this father died when I was fourteen, I must say I know almost nothing about the man he was.
Once again, I will borrow a passage from my own Recollections: "My father was an extremely busy man and was rarely at home.
Even when he was at home, he was not with us children.
I was afraid of my father.
I longed for my father’s fountain pen but couldn’t bring myself to ask for it.
After agonizing alone over how to get it, one night I lay in bed with my eyes shut and pretended to talk in my sleep, murmuring 'fountain pen, fountain pen' toward my father as he conversed with a guest in the next room.
Needless to say, it seems my ploy never reached his ears—or his heart.
My younger brother and I were inside a spacious storehouse tightly packed with rice bales, amusing ourselves, when Father blocked the entrance and scolded, 'Out, brats! Out!'"

Because he was backlit, my father’s large figure appeared pitch-black.
Even now, recalling the terror of that time fills me with revulsion.
(Omitted) The following spring, when the snow was still piled deep, my father vomited blood and died in a Tokyo hospital.
A nearby newspaper reported my father’s death in an extra edition.
I felt more excitement over such a sensation than over my father’s death.
Alongside the names of the bereaved family members, my name also appeared in the newspaper.
My father’s corpse was laid in a large coffin and returned to our hometown on a sled.
I went with a crowd of townspeople to near the neighboring village to meet him.
Before long, as I watched the numerous sleds in a continuous line, their covers gliding out from the shadow of the forest under the moonlight, I thought it was beautiful.

The next day, the people of my household gathered in the Buddhist altar room where my father’s coffin had been placed. When the coffin lid was removed, everyone burst into loud sobs. My father appeared to be sleeping. His high nose bridge had turned completely ashen. Hearing everyone’s weeping, I found myself moved to shed tears as well.

These roughly constitute all my memories regarding my father. After his death, I felt toward my current eldest brother the same awe I had felt toward our father, and precisely because of this, I found reassurance in relying on him; never once did I feel lonely due to Father’s absence.

However, as I grew older, I began indulging in presumptuous speculations—what kind of man had my father truly been?—until even during fitful naps in my Tokyo hovel, he would appear in my dreams. I realized he hadn’t actually died but had instead gone into hiding for some political reason, his visage slightly more aged and weary than in my memories, and I found myself yearning terribly for that apparition. Though dream talk is trivial, it remains true that my interest in my father has grown intensely strong of late.

All my father’s siblings had weak lungs, and though Father didn’t have tuberculosis, he too died from some respiratory ailment that caused him to vomit blood.

He died at fifty-three. Through a child’s eyes, that age had seemed tremendously old, and I’d considered it a peaceful passing at a venerable age. But now I’ve come to regard his death at fifty-three not as a serene departure in old age, but rather as a terribly premature demise.

If they’d kept Father alive a bit longer—I catch myself entertaining such impertinent thoughts—he might have accomplished even greater things for Tsugaru.

I had wanted to see for myself what kind of house that father was born in and what kind of town he grew up in.

The town of Kizukuri consisted simply of houses lining both sides of a single road. Behind these houses spread beautifully plowed rice fields. Here and there among the paddies stood rows of poplar trees.

This visit to Tsugaru marked my first time seeing poplars here. Though I must have seen them elsewhere too, none remain as vividly in my memory as Kizukuri’s poplars. The pale green young leaves swayed delicately in the gentle breeze.

From here, Tsugaru Fuji looked no different than it did from Kanagi—slender and exquisitely beautiful. They say places where mountains appear this beautifully yield both rice and beauties through legend.

As for rice production, this region does seem abundant enough—but regarding that other matter of beauties, I wonder how it fares.

This too, like the Kanagi region, might be somewhat precarious.
As for that particular matter, I even came to suspect the legend might rather be inverted.
In places where Mount Iwaki appears beautiful—no, I shall say no more.
Such matters tend to be fraught with complications; perhaps it isn't fitting for a casual traveler who merely toured the town to make hasty judgments.
That day too was splendidly clear. From the station along the single straight concrete road of the main street hung something like a thin spring haze, drifting smokily through the air. Walking soundlessly in rubber-soled shoes like a cat, I found myself growing faint-headed from the spring warmth as I shuffled along—until reading the Kizukuri Police Station signboard as "Wooden Police Station," I nodded in agreement thinking "Ah yes, a wooden structure," then catching myself with a wry smile.

Kizukuri is also a town of covered walkways. What we call *komohi* can be understood this way: long ago in Ginza, when the afternoon sun grew strong, all the shops would set up sunshade awnings over their storefronts. You readers would walk beneath those awnings looking cool and composed, thinking they formed something like an impromptu long corridor—that is, if you imagine that corridor not as temporary canvas but as sturdy, permanent structures where house eaves are extended forward by about six feet, you’d grasp northern Japan’s *komohi* without significant error. Moreover, these weren’t built to block sunlight. Nothing so refined. In winter, when snow piles deep, they join house eaves to create long corridors for convenient passage between homes. During blizzards, one could shop without fearing exposure to wind and snow—invaluable for daily life. As playgrounds for children, they lacked Tokyo sidewalks’ dangers. On rainy days too, this passageway aided pedestrians greatly. Even travelers like myself, dazed by spring’s warmth, would dart inside for cooling relief—though being scrutinized by shopkeepers proved slightly awkward—yet it remained a corridor to appreciate. It’s generally believed *komohi* derives from a dialectal corruption of “small shops,” but I privately fancied that kanji like “hidden shoals” or “hidden sun” might make the term more intuitive. As I walked along the *komohi*, I came before M Drug Wholesaler—the house where my father was born. Without stopping, I passed by and continued straight along the *komohi*, wondering what to do.

The covered walkways in this town were truly long.
In Tsugaru’s old towns, there generally seemed to be these covered walkways called *komohi*, but few places were likely as thoroughly interconnected by *komohi* as Kizukuri Town. Indeed, Kizukuri had truly become the town of *komohi*.
After walking for some time and finally reaching the end of the *komohi*, I turned right, let out a sigh, and retraced my steps.
I had never been to M's house before now.
I had never been to Kizukuri Town either.
Perhaps in my early childhood I might have been brought here by someone to play, but nothing remained in my present memory.
The head of M’s household was a lively man four or five years older than me who had occasionally visited Kanagi since long ago and was acquainted with me.
Even if I were to visit now, they surely would not make an unpleasant face, but still, my visit would be rather abrupt.
If I were to call out to M-san with a servile smile for no reason while looking this disheveled—"M-san, it's been a while"—he would surely startle and think, "Has this guy finally hit rock bottom in Tokyo and come to borrow money?"
Wanting to see my father’s birthplace once before I die—even phrasing it that way felt so dreadfully affected.
A man of his age couldn’t possibly say such a thing.
As I walked on, agonizing over whether to just turn back now, I found myself once again before M Drug Wholesaler.
I would never have another chance to come here.
I didn't care if I was embarrassed.
Hairau.

I steeled myself on the spot and called out toward the back of the shop, "Excuse me!"
M-san came out and—"Oh! Well now! Come, come!"—with such overwhelming vigor that he didn’t let me utter a word, practically dragging me up to the tatami room and forcing me to sit before the alcove.
“Ah, this—sake!” he instructed the household members, and within two or three minutes, sake had already appeared.
It was truly swift.

“Long time no see.
“Long time no see,” said M-san, gulping down his own drink. “How many years has it been since you were last in Kizukuri?”

“Well, if I did come here as a child, it must have been about thirty years ago.”

“Of course, of course. Now drink up.
When you come to Kizukuri, there’s no need to hold back.
You made it!
Truly, you made it!”

The layout of this house closely resembled that of the Kanagi house.
I had heard that the current house in Kanagi was extensively remodeled by my father’s own design shortly after he came to Kanagi as an adopted son, but that was not the case at all—he had simply rebuilt it with the same layout as his birthplace home in Kizukuri.
I felt I had grasped something of my adoptive father’s psychology and found it amusing.
When I thought about it and looked, even the arrangement of trees and stones in the garden seemed somehow similar.
Even having discovered just such a trivial thing, I felt as though I had touched upon my deceased father’s "humanity," and thought there had been merit in stopping by M-san’s house.
M-san kept trying to entertain me in every way possible.

“No, really, that’s enough. I must catch the one o’clock train to Fukaura.”

“To Fukaura? What for?”

“No particular reason—I just want to see it once.”

“Are you going to write about it?”

“Yes, partly,” I replied, though I couldn’t bring myself to add something that might dampen his enthusiasm—like how I might die any day now.

“So you’ll write about Kizukuri too?” M-san continued without hesitation. “If you’re writing about Kizukuri, first thing—you must mention our rice delivery yields. Among police jurisdictions nationwide, Kizukuri Station’s district ranks first! How about that? Number one in Japan! I’d say it’s no exaggeration to call this the fruit of our efforts.” He leaned forward, eyes bright. “When the fields around here dried up, I went to beg water from neighboring villages—ended up such a success they started calling me Suiko Daimyojin instead of O-Tora! Just because we’re landowners doesn’t mean we can idle about.” He thumped his chest. “Bad spine and all, I still did the weeding myself! Well—” he grinned broadly “—this time even you Tokyo folks’ll get heaps of good rice rationed out.”

M-san had always been this way—open-hearted since childhood. His round, childlike eyes held a charm that made him beloved throughout the region.

Sweating through my farewells despite his protests, I barely caught the one o’clock train to Fukaura.

From Kizukuri, the train followed the Gono Line for about thirty minutes past Narusawa and Ajigasawa—where the Tsugaru Plain too came to an end—then ran along the Japan Sea coast. For roughly an hour, with the sea visible to the right and the foothills at the northern edge of the Dewa Hills immediately to the left, Otonase's spectacular scenery unfolded outside the right window.
The rocks here were all said to be angular tuff. The mottled green bedrock flattened by marine erosion had emerged specter-like from the sea in the late Edo period, forming a platform spacious enough to host seaside banquets for hundreds—thus named Senjōjiki ("Thousand-Tatami Hall"). Parts of this bedrock bore rounded depressions filled with seawater that resembled oversized cups brimming with sake, earning them the name Haishinuma ("Sake Cup Marsh"). Yet only a true heavy drinker could have interpreted every one of these numerous holes—each one to two shaku across—as drinking vessels.
To write in guidebook prose that "jagged rocks tower along this coast, their bases ceaselessly lashed by raging waves" might capture it aptly enough—yet unlike Sotogahama's unnerving northern beaches, this scenery had settled into an ordinary "landscape" found nationwide, stripped of Tsugaru's peculiar complexity that might baffle outsiders.
In other words, it had opened up.
Licked clean by human gazes, it had grown bright and familiar.
Takeuchi Umpei notes in *Aomori Prefecture General History* that records indicate this southern area originally belonged to Akita domain before being incorporated into Tsugaru in 1603 through negotiations with the neighboring Satake clan.
Speaking from a vagabond's irresponsible intuition, I couldn't help feeling this area no longer resembled Tsugaru.
Tsugaru's cursed fate didn't linger here.
That distinctive Tsugaru "clumsiness" had vanished from these parts.
One could tell simply by gazing at the mountains and rivers.
Everything stood thoroughly sensible.
What you might call cultured.
No trace of foolish arrogance remained.
It took about forty minutes from Otonase to reach Fukaura, where this port town greeted travelers with a modestly gentle expression—never showy—much like fishing villages along Chiba's coast; or less charitably, with a neatly composed cleverness.
In short, they feigned complete indifference toward visitors.
I wasn't presenting this atmosphere as Fukaura's flaw.
I rather thought such expressions might be necessary for survival in this world.
This might be the face of full-fledged adulthood.
Some deep confidence lay submerged within.
None of northern Tsugaru's childish thrashing could be seen here.

Northern Tsugaru resembled half-boiled greens, but here it had been simmered to clarity.
Ah—exactly.
Comparing them side by side made everything apparent.
The truth was that the people of inland Tsugaru lacked any faith in their history.
None whatsoever.
Thus they found themselves thrusting out their chests needlessly, spouting insults like “That wretch is base-born,” compelled to adopt this posturing arrogance.
This very quality might have crystallized into Tsugaru’s defiance—its obstinacy and contrariness—thereby forging its sorrowful destiny of isolation.
People of Tsugaru! Raise your faces and laugh!
Had there not been those bold enough to declare this land thrummed with pre-Renaissance vigor?
At this hour when Japan’s polished culture grows cramped and stagnant—how might Tsugaru’s grand unfinishedness nourish our nation’s hopes? Yet no sooner does one muse thus by lamplight than they all stiffen their shoulders so unnaturally.
Confidence brewed from others’ blandishments amounts to naught.
Let us feign ignorance yet keep faith—let us persist in striving awhile.

Fukaura Town currently had a population of about five thousand and was a port at the southern end of the former Tsugaru domain’s west coast.
During the Edo period, along with Aomori, Ajigasawa, and Jūsan, it had been one of the Four Ports where town magistrates were stationed and served as one of the Tsugaru domain’s most important ports.
Nestling a small inlet between hills with deep waters and calm waves, it featured coastal attractions such as the striking rocks of Azuma Beach, Benten Island, and Yukiai Cape.
It was a quiet town.
In the gardens of fishermen’s houses, large splendid diving suits hung upside down to dry.
It felt as though something had been relinquished, settled into a profound calm.
Following a single straight road from the station to the edge of town stood the Nio Gate of Enkaku-ji Temple.
The Yakushi Hall of this temple was said to have been designated a National Treasure.
I paid a visit to that and thought perhaps I should now take my leave from this Fukaura.
A town that had been fully developed also gave travelers a lonely feeling.
I descended to the seashore, sat on a rock, and was greatly troubled over what to do.
The sun was still high.
I suddenly thought of the child in the Tokyo thatched house.
I tried not to think of them as much as possible, but in moments when my heart felt hollow, the child’s face suddenly flashed into my chest.
I stood up, went to the town post office, bought one postcard, and wrote a short message to the Tokyo home.
The child was suffering from whooping cough.
And then, the mother was going to give birth to her second child soon.

Feeling unbearable, I entered the first inn I came across, was shown to a dirty room, and while removing my gaiters, said, “Sake.” Immediately, a meal tray and sake appeared. The speed was unexpectedly quick. I felt somewhat saved by this promptness. Though the room was grubby, the tray bore a lavish spread—all variations prepared from just two ingredients: sea bream and abalone. These seemed to be the port’s specialty products. I drank two bottles of sake, but it remained too early to sleep. Having done nothing but accept others’ hospitality since arriving in Tsugaru, I now conceived an idle notion—perhaps I should try drinking copiously on my own account. Catching the twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl who had brought my meal earlier in the hallway, I asked if more sake remained. “There isn’t,” she replied. When I inquired about other drinking places, she answered instantly, “There is.” Relieved, I asked directions to this establishment and found myself at a surprisingly tidy restaurant. Guided to a ten-mat room overlooking the sea on the second floor, I sat cross-legged before a Tsugaru lacquerware table and bellowed, “Sake! Sake!” Only the alcohol arrived immediately—another small mercy. Typically they’d dawdle over food preparation, leaving customers stranded, but a gap-toothed woman in her forties came straightaway with just the flask. I considered asking this matron for Fukaura legends or suchlike.

“What are the famous places in Fukaura?”

“Have you visited the Kannon Hall?”

“Kannon Hall?”
“Ah, so they call Enkaku-ji ‘Kannon Hall’?”
“Yes.”
I thought I might hear some old tales from this middle-aged woman.
However, into that parlor barged a stout young woman who began cracking pretentious jokes, and finding it utterly unbearable—thinking a man must always be forthright—

“I beg you, would you go downstairs?” I said.

I offer a word of caution to my readers. Men must not go to restaurants and speak frankly. I met with a terrible ordeal. When the young maid, sulking, stood up, the middle-aged woman also rose with her, and both of them vanished. If one person was driven out of the room, it seemed that for another to remain sitting in silence would be improper—against the code of solidarity among colleagues. In that spacious room, I drank alone, gazed at the light of Fukaura Port’s lighthouse, and having only succeeded in profoundly deepening my travel weariness, returned to my inn. The next morning, as I was eating breakfast in a forlorn mood, the innkeeper brought a sake flask and a small plate,

“You’re Mr. Tsushima, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yes.”

I had written my pen name, Dazai, in the guest register.

“That’s right. I really thought you looked alike. I was in the same year as your brother Eiji-san in middle school—I didn’t realize it because you’d written ‘Dazai’ in the guest register—but you really do resemble him so much.”

“But that isn’t a pseudonym either.”

“Yes, yes, I know that too. I’d heard there was a younger brother who writes novels under a different name. I must apologize for last night’s rudeness. Now then, please have some sake. This small plate has salt-cured abalone entrails—they make a good accompaniment for sake.”

I finished my meal, then used the salt-cured abalone entrails as a side and was treated to that one bottle. The salt-cured abalone entrails were delicious. It was truly delicious. Even having come to the edge of Tsugaru like this, I was still under the lingering influence of my brothers' power. In the end, realizing that I could do nothing by my own power, the delicacy seeped all the more deeply into my core. In short, what I gained at this southernmost port of the Tsugaru domain was merely learning the extent of my brothers' influence, and I boarded the train in a daze once more.

Ajigasawa.
On my way back from Fukaura, I stopped by this old port town.
This area had been the center of Tsugaru’s western coast during the Edo period—a flourishing port from which most of Tsugaru’s rice was shipped, serving as both a departure point for Osaka-bound vessels and a hub for abundant seafood that likely graced tables from the castle town across the Tsugaru Plain.
Yet now its population stood at around four thousand five hundred, fewer than Kizukuri and Fukaura, seeming to have lost much of its former formidable influence.
Though its name suggests a place once teeming with splendid horse mackerel, we never heard tales of such fish here in our childhood—only hatahata were famous.
The hatahata fish has lately begun appearing sporadically even in Tokyo, so readers may know it: written with characters like 鰰 or 鱩, this scaleless fish measuring five or six sun [15–18 cm] could be likened to a sea-dwelling ayu sweetfish without much exaggeration.
A specialty of the western coast though more quintessentially Akita’s domain.
Tokyoites apparently find it greasy and distasteful, but to us it tastes remarkably light.
In Tsugaru, people commonly simmer fresh hatahata in light soy sauce and casually devour twenty or thirty at a sitting.
I often heard of hatahata-eating contests where top gluttons won prizes.
Those reaching Tokyo must be stale and poorly prepared—hence their ill repute there.
The fish appears in haiku almanacs; I recall an Edo-period verse describing its delicate flavor, suggesting connoisseurs then prized it as a delicacy.
Regardless, eating hatahata remains undeniably one of Tsugaru’s winter hearthside pleasures.
I had known Ajigasawa’s name since childhood through this fish, but now saw the town for the first time.
Astonishingly elongated and narrow, mountains at its back and sea at one flank.
The streets held a strangely stagnant sweet-sour odor evoking verses like Bontsū’s “scent of things.”
The river water flowed thick with sediment.
The whole place seemed weary.
Like Kizukuri Town, it had long covered walkways here too—crumbling slightly and lacking Kizukuri’s cool respite.
Though the day was splendidly clear, walking those shaded paths brought an oddly suffocating feeling.

There seemed to be many restaurants.
In the past, I imagine this was a place where so-called renowned sake breweries thrived quite significantly.
Even now—perhaps as remnants of that era—four or five soba shops stood in a row along the street, calling out to passersby with invitations like “Why not rest a while?”—a gesture rare in these times.
As it was precisely noon, I entered one of these soba shops to take my rest.
The soba came with two plates of grilled fish and cost forty sen.
The broth wasn’t bad either.
Even so, this town felt interminable—a single coastal street where identical houses stretched endlessly without variation no matter how far you walked.
I felt as if I’d trekked two and a half miles before finally reaching the town’s edge and turning back.
There existed no true center here.
Most towns concentrate their vital forces in one area—a weighty core that makes even passing travelers sense “Ah, this must be the climax.” But Ajigasawa lacked this entirely.
It felt like a fan whose rivet had shattered, leaving its ribs scattered and undone.
With such disarray, wouldn’t power struggles inevitably arise? My habitual Degas-style political musings flitted through my mind—this was a town whose pivot point seemed perilously fragile.
As I write this, I wear a faint wry smile—for had Fukaura or Ajigasawa housed dear friends who welcomed me with cries of “How splendid you’ve come!” and guided me about explaining everything, I’d have doubtless abandoned my own perceptions to rhapsodize about these towns embodying Tsugaru’s very essence. Truly, travel impressions prove utterly unreliable things.
Should any Fukaura or Ajigasawa natives read this book of mine—pray laugh lightly and let it pass.
My impressions hold no inherent authority to besmirch your homeland’s truth.

I left the town of Ajigasawa and, taking the Gono Line once more, arrived back in Goshogawara Town at two o'clock that afternoon.

I went straight from the station to Nakahata-san’s residence.
As for Nakahata-san, I believe I have already written extensively about him in recent works such as *Return* and *Hometown*, so I shall refrain from tediously repeating myself here. But he was my benefactor—the one who, without ever showing the slightest displeasure, took care of the aftermath of countless blunders from my twenties.
After some time apart, Nakahata-san had aged terribly to a pitiable degree.
Last year, he had fallen ill, and since then, had become this thin, I was told.

“It’s the times, you know. You’ve come all the way from Tokyo looking like this,” he said with apparent delight, scrutinizing my beggar-like appearance. “Oh, your socks are torn.” He then stood up himself, took out a pair of fine socks from his dresser and handed them to me.

“I was thinking of going to Haikara Town next.”

“Ah, that’s good—go on then. There, Keiko, please guide him.” Though Nakahata-san had grown noticeably thinner, his impetuous nature remained just as it had been in years past. The family of my aunt in Goshogawara lived in that Haikara Town. In my childhood, that town had been called Haikara Town, but now it seemed to go by a different name—Ōmachi or something like that. Regarding Goshogawara Town, I had already written about it in the preface, but there were many memories from my childhood there. Four or five years earlier, I had published an essay of the following sort in a certain newspaper in Goshogawara.

"Because my aunt was in Goshogawara, I often went there to play when I was little. I went to see the opening performance at Asahi-za too. I think it was when I was in third or fourth grade. It must have been Saemon. Ume no Yobei made me cry. When I saw the revolving stage for the first time then, I was so startled I jumped to my feet without thinking. That Asahi-za caught fire soon after and burned completely. The flames were clearly visible from Kanagi. They said it started in the projection room. About ten elementary school students watching the movie burned to death. The projectionist was charged. The charge was something like negligent manslaughter. Even as a child, I couldn't forget that technician's charge and fate for some reason. I also heard rumors that Asahi-za burned because its name used the 'fire' character. That was twenty years ago."

When I was around seven or eight years old, I was walking along a bustling street in Goshogawara and fell into a ditch. It was quite deep, with water reaching up to my chin—perhaps nearly ninety centimeters deep. Night had fallen. A man above extended his hand, and I grabbed onto it. After being pulled up, I found myself stripped naked before the watching crowd and utterly mortified. As it happened right in front of a secondhand shop, they promptly dressed me in used clothes from the store—a girl’s yukata with a green soft sash for the obi. I felt terribly ashamed. My aunt came running over, her face pale with worry. She had doted on me throughout my upbringing. Though my poor looks as a man often invited teasing that left me sulking alone, my aunt alone insisted I was handsome. Whenever others criticized my appearance, she would grow genuinely angry. “All of them have become distant memories.”

I left Nakahata-san’s house together with his only daughter, Kei-chan,

“I want to see the Iwaki River for a bit.”
“Is it far from here?”
“It’s right there,” she said.

"It’s right nearby," she said.

“Well then, take me there.”

With Kei-chan guiding me, we walked no more than five minutes through the town when there was the great river.
I remembered being brought to this riverbank many times by my aunt in my childhood, though I recalled it being much farther from town.
To a child's legs, even this distance must have felt terribly long.
Moreover, since I had always stayed indoors, found going out daunting, and became so nervous when venturing outside that it made me dizzy, it must have seemed even more distant.
There was a bridge.
This bridge didn't differ much from my memory; seeing it now, it remained just as long as ever.

“Was it called Inui Bridge, I wonder?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Inui—what characters were used for that, I wonder? Was it the ‘Inui’ for the northwest direction, I wonder?”

“Well, I suppose so.” He laughed.

“No confidence, huh? Never mind. Let’s just cross over.”

I slowly crossed the bridge, stroking the handrail with one hand.
It was a beautiful view.
Among rivers in Tokyo’s suburbs, the Arakawa Floodway resembled it most.
Heat haze rose from the green grass blanketing the riverbank, making my vision swim.
And there flowed the Iwaki River, shining white as it licked at the verdant banks on either side.

“In summer, everyone comes here to cool off in the evening.”
“There’s nowhere else to go anyway.”

Because the people of Goshogawara were fond of fun, I thought that must be quite a lively affair.

“That’s the newly built Memorial Hall.”
Kei-chan pointed upstream and showed me, then added in a small voice with a laugh, “My father’s proud Memorial Hall.”

It looked quite splendid as a building.
Nakahata-san was a leader of the reservists.
In the renovation of this Memorial Hall as well, he must have demonstrated his customary chivalrous spirit and worked tirelessly.
Having finished crossing the bridge, we stood at its foot and talked for a while.

“I heard they’re already thinning the apple trees—or whatever it’s called—cutting them down bit by bit and planting potatoes or something in the cleared areas.”

“Doesn’t that depend on the region? Around here, we haven’t heard anything like that yet.”

In the shade of the great river’s embankment lay an apple orchard, its white powdery flowers in full bloom. Whenever I see apple blossoms, I sense the fragrance of face powder.

“You sent me quite a lot of apples too, Kei-chan. I hear you’re getting a groom soon?”

“Yes.”
Without the slightest hesitation, she nodded earnestly.

“When?”
“Is it that soon?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“What?”
I was surprised.
But Kei-chan remained completely unfazed, as if it were someone else’s affair.
“Let’s go back. You must be busy, I suppose?”

“No, not at all.”
She was remarkably composed.
Being an only daughter and taking in an adopted son to carry on the family line—even at nineteen or twenty, such a person still differed in some way, I secretly marveled.

“Tomorrow I’ll go to Kodomari and—” Turning back and crossing the long bridge again, I brought up another matter.
“I mean to meet Take.”

“Take.”
“That Take—the one who appears in your novel?”

“Yeah.”
“That’s right.”

“She must be so happy.”

“Hard to say.”
“I hope I can meet her.”

This time when I came to Tsugaru, there was someone I absolutely wanted to meet. I consider that person to be my own mother. Though nearly thirty years had passed since I last saw her, I still remembered her face clearly. My entire life may well have been shaped by her influence. What follows is an excerpt from my work *Memoirs*:

"When I was six or seven, my memories began to solidify. A housemaid named Take taught me how to read, and together we devoured book after book. She became utterly absorbed in my education. Being sickly, I did most of my reading lying down. Whenever we ran out of books, Take would march down to the village Sunday school and borrow stacks of children's stories for me. Having mastered silent reading early on, I could pore over them endlessly without tiring.

Take also instructed me in morality. She often took me to the temple where we'd study hanging scrolls depicting the realms of hell and paradise. There I learned that arsonists must carry baskets blazing with crimson flames upon their backs, while adulterers writhe beneath the coils of azure serpents with twin heads. Blood lakes stretched endlessly beneath mountains of needles; pale wraiths with sunken cheeks stood screaming in the Avici Hell's bottomless pit of billowing smoke. When she told me liars had their tongues ripped out by demons, I trembled so violently that tears streamed down my face."

The back of that temple formed a slightly elevated cemetery where, along a hedge of kerria or some such shrub, numerous sotoba stood like a forest.
The sotoba had black iron wheels about the size of full moons attached to them, and Take said that if you spun one of those wheels with a clatter and it eventually stopped completely motionless, the spinner would reach paradise—but if it seemed about to stop only to reverse direction with a clang, they would fall into hell.
When Take spun them, they would clatter pleasantly for a while before coming to a quiet stop without fail, but when I spun them, they sometimes reversed.
I recall an autumn day when I went alone to the temple and tried spinning every one of those metal wheels, only to have them all clang-clang into reverse rotation as if conspiring together.
Clutching a fraying wheel rim, I spun it obsessively dozens upon dozens of times.
As dusk approached, I abandoned the cemetery in despair.

(Omitted) Eventually I entered elementary school in my hometown, and with that my recollections transformed entirely. Take was gone before I knew it. She had married into a fishing village, but perhaps fearing I might chase after her, she vanished without saying a word to me. The following year during Obon, she came to visit my house yet acted strangely aloof. She asked about my school grades. I gave no answer. It seemed someone else had relayed the information instead. Take merely said, "You must never let your guard down," offering no particular praise.

Because my mother was in poor health, I never drank a single drop of her milk. Immediately after birth, I was taken into the arms of a wet nurse. When I turned three and could stand unsteadily to walk, we parted from that wet nurse, and the one hired as her replacement to care for me was Take.
At night, I slept in my aunt’s embrace, but otherwise, I spent all my time with Take.
From age three until eight, I was educated by Take.
Then one morning, I awoke suddenly and called for Take, but she did not come.
It struck me for the first time.
I had sensed something through intuition.
I burst into loud sobs.
Take’s not here, Take’s not here—I cried with heartrending grief, and then for two or three days, I did nothing but sob.
Even now, I have not forgotten the pain of that time.
Then about a year later, I unexpectedly met Take again, but she acted strangely distant, and I felt deeply resentful.
Since then, I have not seen Take.

Four or five years ago, I was asked to do a radio broadcast titled "Words for My Homeland," and at that time, I read aloud the passage about Take from that Memoirs.
When I think of my hometown, I recall Take.
Take probably did not listen to my recitation broadcast at that time.
There was no word at all.
Things have remained that way up to this very day, but from the very start of this Tsugaru journey, I had earnestly wished to meet Take even just once.
I have a peculiar fondness for quietly savoring self-restraint by leaving the best parts for last.
I had saved my visit to Take’s Kodomari Port for the very end of this journey.
But no—before going to Kodomari, I had planned to go straight from Goshogawara to Hirosaki, walk through Hirosaki’s streets, then stay a night at Ōwani Onsen or such, and only afterward make my final way to Kodomari. However, the meager travel funds I had brought from Tokyo were growing precarious, and perhaps the fatigue of the journey had finally caught up with me, for the thought of traipsing around here and there now felt burdensome. Thus I revised my plans: abandoning Ōwani Onsen, resolving instead to briefly stop in Hirosaki City on my eventual return trip to Tokyo. This day, I would stay overnight at my aunt’s house in Goshogawara, and tomorrow set out directly from Goshogawara to Kodomari.
When I went with Kei-chan to my aunt’s house in Haikara Town, my aunt was not there.
Because my aunt’s grandchild had been hospitalized in Hirosaki due to illness, she had gone there to tend to them.

“Mother already knows you’ve come here, and she called to ask that you be sent over to Hirosaki because she absolutely wants to see you,” my cousin said with a laugh.
My aunt had this cousin take a doctor’s adopted son to succeed the household.

“Ah, I plan to stop by Hirosaki when returning to Tokyo, so I’ll certainly visit the hospital too.”

"I hear you're going to meet Take in Kodomari tomorrow."
Kei-chan, who must have been busy with her own preparations, did not return home and was leisurely playing with us.

“To Take.”
My cousin’s face turned serious. “That is a good thing.
“I can’t even imagine how overjoyed Take would be.”
My cousin seemed to know how deeply I had yearned for Take all this time.

"But will I actually be able to meet her?"
That was what worried me.
Of course, there had been no prior arrangements whatsoever.
Take Koshino of Kodomari.
With nothing but that name and place to go by, I would set out to find her.

“I heard there’s only one bus a day to Kodomari,” Kei-chan said as she stood up to check the timetable posted in the kitchen. “If you don’t leave here on tomorrow’s first train, you’ll miss the bus from Nakasato.” She added sternly, “Don’t you dare oversleep on such an important day,” though I seemed to have completely forgotten my own crucial date looming ahead.

The itinerary was set: depart Goshogawara on the 8 AM train heading north along the Tsugaru Railway line; bypass Kanagi; arrive at Nakasato Station by nine; then board the Kodomari-bound bus for a two-hour ride. By these calculations I’d reach Kodomari around noon tomorrow.

That evening after Kei-chan finally returned home—crossing paths with “the Doctor” (we’d always called my aunt’s physician son-in-law by that title as if it were his proper name)—we drank sake together while I rambled through trivial conversations late into night.

The next morning, I was awakened by my cousin, hurriedly ate my meal, rushed to the station, and barely managed to catch the first train. Today was another fine day. My head was hazy. I was slightly hungover. At the house in Haikara Town, there being no one to restrain me, I had drunk a bit too much the previous night. A greasy sweat welled up thickly on my forehead. The refreshing morning sun streamed into the train car—I alone seemed turbid, filthy, and decaying—leaving me with an utterly unbearable feeling. Though I had experienced this self-loathing thousands of times after overdrinking, I still could not resolve to quit alcohol entirely. This weakness as a drinker causes others to look down on me. "If only alcohol didn’t exist," I earnestly pondered this absurd thought while gazing absently at the Tsugaru Plain outside the window. After passing Kanagi, we arrived at Ashino Park Station—a tiny stop no larger than a crossing guard’s hut—where I recalled an old anecdote: The Mayor of Kanagi once demanded a ticket to "Ashino Park" at Ueno Station in Tokyo and indignantly insisted when told no such station existed until staff finally issued it after thirty minutes of confusion. Leaning out the window to observe this diminutive station, I saw a young woman in Kurume kasuri kimono and matching monpe trousers come running to the ticket gate with two large bundles in her hands and a red ticket clenched between her teeth. Closing her eyes lightly, she tilted her face toward the handsome young station attendant who—understanding perfectly—skillfully snipped the ticket lodged between his pearly teeth with scissors like a dentist extracting a tooth. Neither laughed nor faltered. They behaved as if this were perfectly ordinary. The train jolted forward the moment she boarded—as though the engineer had waited just for her arrival. Such tranquil stations must be rare even nationwide. The Mayor of Kanagi could surely shout "Ashino Park" louder next time at Ueno Station if he wished. The train ran through larch woods now part of Kanagi’s parkland. A marsh came into view—Lake Ashino.

To this marsh, my elder brother must have once donated a pleasure boat.
Soon I arrived at Nakasato.
A small town with a population of about four thousand.
From this point onward, even the Tsugaru Plain grows narrower; upon reaching northern villages like Uchigata, Ainouchi, and Wakimoto, rice fields become markedly scarce—so perhaps this area might well be called Tsugaru Plain’s northern gateway.
In my early childhood, I once came to visit a relative’s kimono shop here called Kanemaru, but I must have been about four years old at the time, and aside from a waterfall at the edge of the village, I have no memories of anything else.

“Shūcchā!” When I turned at the call, Miss Kanemaru stood there laughing. She must have been a year or two older than me, yet showed little sign of aging.

“Long time no see. Where are you headed?”
“Kodomari.” By now my mind was wholly consumed with meeting Take—everything else had turned to haze. “I’m taking this bus. Well then, I’ll be off.”

“Right. Do stop by on your way back,” she said. “We’ve built a new house up on that mountain.”

When I looked in the direction she had pointed, a single new house stood atop a green hillock to the right of the station.
Had it not been for Take, I would surely have delighted in this chance reunion with my childhood friend, visited that new house without fail, and leisurely listened to stories about Nakasato—but as it was, I felt needlessly rushed as if racing against time,

“Well, see you later,” I said with a perfunctory farewell and hurriedly boarded the bus.
The bus was rather crowded.
I remained standing for nearly two hours all the way to Kodomari.
The land north of Nakasato was entirely new to me—a place I was seeing for the first time in my life.
The Andō clan, said to be Tsugaru’s distant ancestors, had lived in this area, and though I had previously written about Jusan Port’s prosperity, it seemed the historical heart of the Tsugaru Plain lay between Nakasato and Kodomari.
The bus climbed the mountain road northward.
The road must have been poor, for we shook violently.
I gripped the rod beside the luggage rack, hunched my back, and peered out at the scenery through the bus window.
This was Kita-Tsugaru after all.
Compared to Fukaura’s landscapes, everything here felt rougher.
There was no trace of human presence.
The mountain trees, brambles, and bamboo grass all lived utterly detached from humankind.
Though gentler than Tappi on the eastern coast, even this vegetation remained half-formed as “scenery,” never deigning to converse with travelers.
Soon Lake Jūsan spread cold and pale before us.
This lake resembled a shallow pearl shell filled with water—dignified yet ephemeral.
Not a single wave stirred.
No boats floated there.
Silent yet vast,

It was a desolate pool forsaken by people.
It felt as though neither drifting clouds nor the shadows of birds in flight were reflected upon its surface.
After passing Lake Jūsan, we soon emerged onto the coast of the Sea of Japan.
As we were now entering an area of national defense importance, I resolved henceforth to refrain from detailed depictions in accordance with regulations.

A little before noon, I arrived at Kodomari Port.
This is the northernmost port on Honshu's west coast.
Beyond the mountains to the north lies Tappi on the east coast.
Here marked the end of the west coast villages.
To put it another way—like a grandfather clock's pendulum centered around Goshogawara—I had drifted back from Fukaura Port at the southern tip of old Tsugaru's west coast, then swung all the way up to Kodomari Port at its northern extremity in one sweep.
Though a modest fishing village of about 2,500 people, since medieval times foreign vessels had frequented this port, particularly Ezo-bound ships that would invariably take shelter here when avoiding strong easterly winds.
During the Edo period, alongside nearby Jusan Port, it thrived as a hub for shipping rice and timber—matters I believe I've often documented before.
Even now, the village's port alone retained an incongruous grandeur.
While rice fields existed only in sparse patches at the village outskirts, marine bounty seemed plentiful—rockfish, greenling, squid and sardines among the catches, with kelp and wakame seaweed also gathered in abundance.

“Do you know someone called Koshino Take?”
I got off the bus, collared someone walking nearby, and asked right away.

“Do you mean Koshino Take?”
A middle-aged man in a national uniform—likely a town office worker or something of the sort—tilted his head and said, “In this village, there are many families with the surname Koshino.”

“She used to live in Kanagi.”
“And now she’s a woman in her fifties.”
I was doing my utmost.

“Ah, I see.”
“That person does live here.”

“Is she here?”
“Where is she?”
“In what area is her house?”

I walked as instructed and found Take’s house—a compact hardware store with a three-ken frontage, ten times grander than my Tokyo thatched hut. The shop curtain had been lowered. This can’t be right, I thought, rushing to the glass entrance door only to find a small padlock firmly fastened. Testing the other doors proved equally futile—all remained tightly locked. Empty. Standing bewildered, I wiped sweat from my brow.

She couldn’t have moved away.
Had she stepped out briefly?
But unlike Tokyo, country folk don’t shutter shops for quick errands.
A two- or three-day absence—or longer?
This is hopeless.
Take must have gone to another village.
Entirely possible.

I was a fool to have thought everything would be alright if only I could find the house.
I knocked on the glass door and called out, "Koshino-san! Koshino-san!" but of course there was no response.
With a sigh, I left the house, walked a short distance, and entered a tobacco shop across the street. I asked if they knew where Koshino-san might have gone, explaining that no one seemed to be at her house.
The emaciated old woman there answered matter-of-factly that she had probably gone to the athletic meet.
I perked up,

“So where exactly is this athletic meet being held? Is it nearby, or somewhere else?”

“It’s right there,” she said.
“If you go straight down this road you'll come to rice fields—then there's a school behind them where they're holding the athletic meet,” she explained.
“This morning she took a lunchbox and went there with her children,” she added.
“I see.”
“Thank you.”

As I went exactly as instructed, there were rice fields, and following the path between them brought me to a sand dune where a national school stood. When I circled around to the back of the school, I stood dumbfounded. This must indeed be what they call a dreamlike feeling, I thought. Here at the northern tip of Honshu’s fishing village, a festive ritual—unchanged from ancient times and beautiful in its sorrow—was unfolding before my eyes. First came the international flags. Girls dressed in their finest attire. Daytime drunkards scattered about. Around the athletic field stood nearly a hundred temporary huts packed tightly together—no, even that space proved insufficient, for they had built huts neatly enclosed with straw mats atop a small hill overlooking the grounds. Now during what seemed to be the midday break, within these hundred small huts each family had spread out their lunchboxes: adults drinking sake while children and women chattered and laughed merrily over their rice.

Japan truly is a blessed land, I thought profoundly. Yes—this was indeed the Land of the Rising Sun. Even amid this great war determining our nation’s fate, here in this remote northern village they held such a bright, mysteriously grand banquet. It felt as though I were witnessing firsthand the boisterous laughter and spirited dances of ancient gods in this far corner of Honshu. Crossing seas and mountains, walking three thousand ri in search of my mother only to arrive at this sand dune on the nation’s edge where a magnificent Kagura ritual unfolded—I had become like the protagonist of some fairy tale.

Now I had to find my foster parent within this lively Kagura crowd. Nearly thirty years had passed since we last met. She was a large-eyed woman with red cheeks. A small red mole sat on either her right or left eyelid—that was all I remembered. If I saw her, I’d know her. Though confident in this, surveying the athletic field made me pout at how daunting it would be to find her in this throng.

There was simply nothing I could do.
I was merely wandering around the perimeter of the athletic field.

“Do you know where someone called Koshino Take might be?”
I summoned my courage and asked a young man.
“She’s around fifty and runs the Koshino hardware store.”
That was all I knew about Take.

“Ah, Koshino the hardware store.”
The young man pondered. “Hmm, I think she might’ve been over near those huts.”

“Is that so?
Over there?”

“Can’t say for certain.
But I feel like I saw her somewhere... Why don’t you go look yourself?”

The searching itself was a major task.
It wasn’t as if I could make some affectedly dramatic confession to the young man about it having been thirty years since we last met.
I thanked the young man and went fumbling around in the vaguely indicated direction, but there was no way I could find her that way.
Finally, I abruptly thrust my face into one of the makeshift huts where people were gathered for their midday meal and lively conversation,

“Excuse me.
“Um, pardon me—would you happen to know if Koshino Take from the hardware store is here?”

“She’s not here.”
The plump proprietress furrowed her brows with displeasure and said.

“I see.”
“My apologies.”
“Haven’t you seen her around here somewhere?”

“Well, I really couldn’t say.”
“There’s just so many people here.”

I peered into yet another hut and asked.
No luck.
Yet another hut.
Like a man possessed, I walked around asking "Is Take here? Is Take from the hardware store here?" and circled the athletic field twice, but found nothing.
Still hungover, my throat grew unbearably parched. I went to drink from the school well, then returned to sit on the sand, removed my jumper to wipe sweat, and blankly watched the cheerful crowd of young and old alike.
She was here among them.
She had to be here.
Even now she probably knew nothing of my struggles, spreading out lunchboxes to feed children.
I even considered asking a teacher to shout through a megaphone—"Ms. Take Koshino, you have a visitor"—but recoiled at such crude methods.
I detested manufacturing joy through these exaggerated pranks.
There was no connection.
God himself forbade this meeting.
I'll go back.
I put on my jumper and stood.
Following the ridge path back to the village, I wondered—the meet would end around four?
Couldn't I wait four hours at some inn for Take's return?
But lying in some filthy room that long would only make me resentful—resentful of Take herself.
I wanted to meet her while this feeling lasted.
Yet meeting proved impossible.

In other words, there is no connection.

Having come all this way here, knowing full well she was right there at this very moment, yet returning without meeting her—perhaps this too was an event befitting my life thus far, which had been so ineptly managed.
The plans I made in ecstatic excitement always ended up like this—inevitably resulting in mismatched outcomes.
Such was my ill-fated destiny.
I would go back.
When I thought about it, even if she was my foster parent, to put it bluntly, she had been a servant.
Wasn't she just a maid?
Were you the child of a maid?
A man of decent age yearning for his former maid, going on about wanting to meet her—that's exactly why you're hopeless, they would say.
No wonder my brothers thought of you as a vulgar, sentimental fool and felt nothing but coldness toward you.
Why, even among your brothers, were you alone so undisciplined, filthy, and base?
Get a hold of yourself.

I went to the bus terminal and asked about the departure times. The Nakasato-bound bus would leave at 1:30. That was the last one; there were no others after that. I decided to return on the 1:30 bus. There was still about thirty minutes left. My stomach was beginning to grow hungry too. I entered a dimly lit inn near the terminal and said, "I need lunch quickly," while secretly clinging to some lingering hope—thinking if this inn felt suitable, I might ask to rest there until around four—but was refused. "Everyone's gone to the athletic meet today, so we can't prepare anything," replied a seemingly ill proprietress who peeked out from the back with a cold tone. Having fully resolved to leave, I sat on a bench at the bus terminal, rested for ten minutes, then stood up and wandered about. With a bitter smile, I thought *Well then, I'll go one last time to Take's empty house and make my secret farewell in this life*, walking up to the hardware store—only to find the entrance padlock undone. Then I saw the door slightly ajar by two or three inches. Heaven help me! With courage surging a hundredfold—so intense that I needed to resort to a vulgar descriptor like *guwarari*—I thrust open the glass door,

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”

A voice answered “Yes” from within, and a girl of fourteen or fifteen wearing a sailor uniform appeared.
Through her face, I clearly recalled Take’s features.
No longer hesitating, I approached the girl in the back of the earthen-floored room.

“I’m Tsushima from Kanagi,” I announced.

The girl went “Ah” and laughed.
Take must have long told her own children about having raised Tsushima’s child.
That alone dissolved all formality between me and the girl.
I thought it was a blessing.
I am Take’s child.
Even if I’m a maid’s child, I don’t care.
I can declare it aloud.
I am Take’s child.
Let my brothers despise me.
I am siblings with this girl.

“Ah, thank goodness.”
I blurted out without thinking, “Take? Is she still at the athletic meet?”

“Yes,” she replied with a slight nod, pressing a hand to her stomach.

The girl showed not a trace of wariness or shyness toward me, calmly nodding as she said, “I had a stomachache and came back just now to get medicine.”
I thought it unfortunate, but that stomachache had turned out to be a blessing.
I felt grateful for the stomachache.
Now that I’d gotten hold of her, I could rest assured.
It would be alright—I would meet Take.
No matter what, I resolved to cling to this girl and not let go.

“I searched all over the athletic field but couldn’t find her.”

“Yes,” she said with a slight nod, pressing a hand to her stomach.

“Does it still hurt?”

“A little,” she said.

“Did you take the medicine?”

She nodded silently.

“Does it hurt a lot?”

She laughed and shook her head.

“Then I’ll leave it to you. Take me to where Take is now. Your stomach must be hurting, but I’ve come all this way. Can you walk?”

“Yeah,” she nodded emphatically.

“Good girl, good girl. Well then, I’m in your hands.”

She nodded twice with vigorous “uh-huh”s, immediately stepped down to the dirt-floored entrance and slipped on her geta—holding her stomach while bending her body into a C-shape—then left the house.

“Did you run in the athletic meet?”

“I ran.”
“Did you get a prize?”
“I didn’t get one.”

While holding her stomach, she briskly walked ahead of me.
We walked along the ridge path again, emerged onto a sand dune, circled around to the back of the school, cut straight across the athletic field, then the girl broke into a trot, entered a makeshift hut, and immediately—as if passing each other at the entrance—Take came out.
Take looked at me with vacant eyes.

“It’s Shuji.”
I laughed and took off my hat.

“Oh!”
That was all.
She didn’t laugh.
Her expression remained solemn.
But she soon broke that rigid posture and said in a tone that seemed casual yet oddly resigned, “Well then, come watch the athletic meet,” leading me to Take’s hut. “Please sit here,” she instructed, having me sit beside her. Take said nothing more after that—sitting properly in seiza with both hands placed neatly on the rounded knees of her monpe trousers, intently watching the children run.
Yet I felt no dissatisfaction whatsoever.
It was as if I’d already settled into perfect tranquility.
I stretched out my legs and gazed vacantly at the athletic meet, my mind utterly empty of thought.
This was a state of complete carefreeness—as if nothing that might happen mattered anymore.
Is this what they call peace?
If so, then I might say I experienced true peace of mind for the first time in my life.
My birth mother, who passed away years ago, had been a noble and gentle woman of great dignity—yet she’d never given me this strange sense of relief.
Do all mothers in the world grant their children this sweet respite of mindless ease?
If that’s true, then filial piety would naturally follow—no question.
I can’t fathom those who fall ill or laze about when such a precious thing as mother exists.
Filial piety is natural feeling.
It wasn’t ethics.

Take’s cheeks were still red, and on her right eyelid was a small red mole no larger than a poppy seed.
Though her hair was now streaked with white, Take sitting properly beside me at this moment hadn’t changed one bit from the Take of my childhood memories.
I later heard that when Take first came to serve at our house and began carrying me on her back, I had been three years old and she fourteen.
For about six years after that I had been raised and taught by her, yet the Take in my memories was never that young girl but rather a mature person indistinguishable from the Take now before me.
I later learned from her that the navy obi with iris patterns she wore that day was the same one she had worn during her service at our household, and that the pale lavender half-collar too had been received from my family during those years.
Perhaps because of this, she sat there exuding exactly the same scent as in my recollections.
It was likely my own partiality, but Take seemed to possess a dignity wholly different from the other *aba*—female servants like Aya—in this fishing village.
Her kimono was new striped handwoven cotton, matched by monpe trousers of the same fabric; while the striped pattern could hardly be called stylish, her choice showed deliberate care.
There was nothing crude about it.
She carried an air of quiet strength throughout.
When I too remained silent for a time, Take—still watching the athletic meet straight ahead—eventually heaved her shoulders and released a deep, prolonged sigh.
Only then did I realize she too felt unsettled.
Yet still I kept silent.

Take, as if she’d suddenly noticed something,

“Would you like something to eat?” she asked me.

"I don't need any," he replied.
I truly didn’t want to eat anything.

“There’s rice cakes.”
Take reached out to the stacked boxes that had been put away in the corner of the hut.

"I'm fine. I don’t want to eat."

Take nodded lightly and made no further attempt to persuade him.

“It’s not the rice cakes, you see,” she said in a small voice and smiled.
Even after nearly thirty years without contact, she had accurately discerned my drinking habit.
It’s a curious thing.
When I was grinning, Take furrowed her brows,

“You shouldn’t smoke either.
“You’ve been puffing away nonstop since earlier.”
“I taught you how to read books, but I never taught you things like smoking or drinking,” she said.
It was a prime example of carelessness being one’s greatest enemy.
I stopped laughing.

When I had turned serious-faced, this time Take was the one who laughed and stood up,

“Shall we go see the Dragon God’s cherry blossoms? How about it?” she invited me.

“Ah, let’s go.”

I followed Take and climbed the sandhill behind the hut. Violets were blooming on the sandhill. Low-growing wisteria vines crawled and spread across the ground. Take climbed in silence. Without saying a word, I ambled along after her. After cresting the sandhill and meandering down the slope, we came to the Dragon God's forest where double-flowered cherry blossoms bloomed here and there along the paths. Take suddenly thrust out her hand and snapped off a small branch of blossoms. As she walked, she plucked flowers from the branch and scattered them on the ground before stopping abruptly, turning sharply toward me, and bursting into speech like a broken dam.

“It’s been so long...”
“At first, I didn’t realize.”
“My child said it was Tsushima from Kanagi, but I thought it couldn’t be you.”
“I never thought you would actually come.”
“Even when I came out of the hut and saw your face, I didn’t recognize you.”
“When they said it was Shuji, I thought ‘Huh?’ and then I couldn’t speak.”
“I couldn’t see the athletic meet or anything anymore.”
“For nearly thirty years, I’ve lived thinking of nothing but whether I might meet you again or not—and now here you’ve come all the way to Kodomari as a proper adult just to see me. Whether this makes me grateful or happy or sad hardly matters anymore—ah, you’ve really come! When I worked at your house, you’d go toddling around only to stumble, toddling again only to stumble, still unsteady on your feet. At mealtimes you’d wander about clutching your bowl, most fond of eating beneath the storehouse’s stone steps while making me tell old tales. You’d stare right at my face as I fed you spoonful by spoonful—such trouble you were, yet so dear. To see you grown like this now—it all feels like a dream.”
“I occasionally went to Kanagi as well, and while walking through the town, I would look at each boy around your age, wondering if you might be playing somewhere nearby.”
“You’ve really come,” she said, each word punctuated by her frantically plucking the blossoms from the small cherry branch she held—plucking and discarding, plucking and discarding.

“Your child?”
Finally snapping and discarding that small branch too, she spread her elbows to hike up her monpe and asked, “How many children do you have?”

I leaned lightly against a cedar tree by the path and answered, “One.”

“A boy?
“A girl?”

“A girl.”

“How old?”

She fired off questions in rapid succession.
Facing Take’s forceful yet unguarded way of showing affection, I thought: Ah—I take after her.
I realized my being the only crude and rough-mannered one among my siblings stemmed from this sorrowful foster parent’s influence.
At that moment, I became clearly aware of my upbringing’s true nature.
I am decidedly not a man of refined breeding.
Naturally, there were aspects unbefitting a rich man’s child.
Behold—those I cannot forget are T-kun in Aomori, Nakahata-san in Goshogawara, Aya in Kanagi, and Take here in Kodomari.
Aya still serves at my house even now, but all the others too were once people who had been part of my household.
These are my friends.

Now, though I make no pretense of emulating the ancient sage who ceased his chronicles upon capturing a qilin, it seems there would be no great fault in bringing this *New Tsugaru Topography*—penned under the Holy War—to a temporary halt with the author’s confession of having gained these friends.
There were still so many things I wanted to write about—this and that—yet I feel I have now more or less conveyed the living essence of Tsugaru in what I’ve written thus far.
I did not engage in pretense.
I did not deceive the readers.

Farewell, O readers—if life permits, we shall meet again another day.
Let us go forth in good spirits.
Do not despair.
Well, see you.