Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

“Old man, old man.”

“Huh? Must be me.” That he responded immediately with a single word was likely because the surroundings were quiet and there was no one else around. Otherwise, that wrinkled forehead of his—with the headband loosely tied, bathed in warmly shining spring sunlight, face flushed as if drowsily intoxicated—his serene manner of wielding the hoe (and beneath it, that soft soil seemingly moist with perspiration; those warm peach blossoms fluttering as if to drift into scattered crimson sunset) amidst birds trilling so fervently in blazing branches as though inviting conversation—all formed such an entranced state that even upon hearing a human voice, he seemed unlikely to suddenly realize it was calling to him.

He too—had he anticipated being answered so promptly—might have refrained from calling out altogether.

For in truth, what he meant to say anew now seemed rather inconsequential. Under normal circumstances, this wanderer—merely to pass the time during his aimless stroll—would have planted the cheap cane he recently purchased upright on the path. If it fell toward Kamakura, he would call out to the old man; if it lay toward Zushi, he would remain silent. And that would have sufficed. He probably wouldn't hear; if he didn't, he would simply pass by. Though it was unnecessary meddling; the matter of remaining silent had also somewhat concerned him. To have that response—("Huh? S'pose it's me.")—come echoing back struck him as somewhat unexpectedly abrupt in manner.

“Ah, old man.” Taking a step closer to the low lattice fence, he slowly arched his back and stretched backward as if trying to get a good look behind him. Between him and the old man grew no grass to separate them. The soil—plowed in three rough furrows—swelled vigorously, exuding a lively fragrance like bubbling earth, yet lay in utter solitude. Of course, mingling with the uprooted broad bean sprouts—lush and powdery, destined for fertilizer—Chinese milk vetch could be glimpsed here and there.

Putting a hand to his peaked cap, “I have an odd question—aren’t you someone from that corner estate over there?” The Old Man slowly turned to face him, his deeply wrinkled face fully bathed in sunlight where peach blossoms cast their shadows across his complexion, while opposite him the roof tiles of the house stood tall against a midday sky that set the green wheat aglow. “That house, you mean?”

“That second floor, see.” “Nah, ain’t that.” Though this might seem curt, he didn’t seem intent on ending the conversation—giving his shoulder a single shake, he flipped the hoe’s handle to plant it firmly in the ground and looked straight at him. “I see… Well, I’ve disturbed you,”

Seizing this opportunity, he made to take his leave—with one hand snatched off his headband—

“Not at all—there’s been no disturbance whatsoever. “Why yes, you there—might you have some inquiry?” “That house there may have its front gate closed, but it ain’t no rental...” He gathered up the hand towel along with the hem of his garment as if pinching them from below, tucked it into his obi, and thrust his fingers into the twin pouches at his hips. As it was, he couldn’t get through right away. “Oh, it’s nothing much. Just a trivial matter.” “That so?”

“If you were from that house, I would’ve mentioned it—I’m not actually looking to rent a place. I heard a young woman’s voice inside, so I know it’s not vacant, but—” “I see. There’s about two maids there, so...” “About those maids, you know. When I came around the side of that place onto this road just now, there was one slithering along the stone wall of the ditch—a long one.”

2

With dubious eyebrows raised unabashedly in the sunlight, the Old Man dangled his tobacco pouch. “Huh,” “Actually, I’m not too fond of them,” he said, laughing, “Despite my fear, I couldn’t help stopping to watch—and before I knew it, it had slithered halfway into the fence, splashed its tail into the water, and thrust that triangular head right into the clapboard siding there." "Inside the clapboard—from what I could see—appeared to be a bathroom." “Or perhaps it’s the kitchen—but in any case, since there are young women’s voices inside, I imagine any manner of startling occurrence wouldn’t be out of the question.”

If that thing were to wriggle into the sitting room or storehouse, there’d be no stopping it. But even before that—if they were to carelessly come across it coiled up somewhere on the wooden floor, they’d be in quite a predicament.

In any case—though this was unnecessary meddling—since I happened to see you there and figured if you were someone from that household, I thought I'd just go and give a little warning. “Well, around here snakes might be nothing unusual, but—” “Huh. A green snake, s’pose?”

With that, he opened his mouth wide and laughed—as if his laughter might be dyed by the languid tongue of an endlessly peaceful day. "Ain't nothin' at all." "They're folks from over Tokyo way, see." "Just t'other day, they made a right fuss over some incident." "I'll go have a look for ya." "Though I don't rightly know where it might've slipped off to long ago—but I'm on easy terms with the kitchen folks." "Well then, go ahead and do that." "But I've been thoughtlessly meddling." "Oh, it's nothing, you. The day's long anyway." "Ah, please remain calm."

By the time the two humans had parted ways in quietude, the incident had become something akin to a dragon—a matter beyond mortal reckoning. The Wanderer turned on his heel; then, drawn by the click-clack click-clack of shuttles—a sound like hens beating their wings—he traced along the far fence, passed beneath twin peach trees, and as he walked by three country houses, caught sight of two weaving women: one perhaps eighteen or nineteen, the other around thirty.

The younger one half-opened the damaged shoji of the storehouse and, upon seeing the older sister’s profile, mischievously threw her shuttle. The older woman spread a straw mat on the parched earth of the front garden and sat with her back to the loom, but when she thumped her foot down, it creaked loosely.

He merely observed that much and moved on. Were it not for the frontispiece of Onna-Imagawa, such scenes would rarely be glimpsed these days. A nostalgic sight—he nearly paused to linger, but with no children about and every household likely out in the fields, the place held no human presence beyond this. Women unaccustomed to strangers might have felt bashful; or rather, in this man’s estimation, they might well have taken fright or alarm. Retracing his path backward and rounding the corner of that two-story house where he had encountered the snake earlier, to his left stretched a wheat field whose high ridges sloped down into a shore where pale green waves—their beautiful white crests rippling faintly—spread swiftly across the expanse. Against a cloudless sky, even the Western-style building stood starkly visible; villagers spoke of its hues as “blue foreigner” and “red foreigner,” extolling them as if they were demonic colors—and it was said that a man of such appearance, though beardless, would be called a “hat-wearer.”

To be sure, one side lay open for sea-bathing in such fashion—though villagers might see it as blue demons and red demons—where even butterflies in flight resembled the sails of skiffs; while the right side maintained its ancient mountainous form, jet-black like the wings of a great eagle beating down. From both flanks, peaks hemmed in by seedling paddies pressed layer upon layer, growing ever narrower until they reached a darkly enclosed depth at the far end. There, a thatched hut’s window—stark against this backdrop—resembled a mountain’s opened eye, evoking the air of a giant toad driven back from the dawning sea to lurk within the valley’s shadows.

3

There were kilns for firing roof tiles that stood taller than the house ridges, shrines of unknown ownership, neglected cemeteries, camellias ceaselessly dropping their blooms, and great loaches in the paddies.

The tides of the southwestern sea, bearing white sails upon the waves of this fleeting world, continued transforming each serpentine mountain gorge into bays one by one—and until they came coursing deep inland to greet them, the villagers would forever face away, scattered here and there tilling fields.

Around that two-story house at the recent bend stood this village's center—a cluster of seven or eight layered roofs. From there toward the gorge, dwellings scattered sparsely, while toward the seaside houses ceased altogether for two or three chō. Instead, along both sides of this winding path seven or eight more houses continued intermittently, forming a small hamlet. The young woman who had thrown the shuttle gazed toward the mountains; in the older woman who had stamped her foot's breast too, the sea's waves seemed to find no reflection. Passing through while lost in thought, he walked away.

Rapeseed flowers pressing in on all sides. Dazzling sunlight shone brilliantly. The verdant green of the cliff to the left and the azure of the distant mountains merely served to speak of this vivid yellow’s fleeting dominion. The slender stream at one’s feet, even the cascading water that fell like a sudden curtain—none of it could dilute the flowers’ vivid hues.

Ah, to eyes dazzled by such brilliance - having caught but a fleeting glimpse - the brocade weavers and figured silk weavers appeared as if two forms faintly sketched upon a blank sheet, their figures left hazy while the remaining space was painted vivid yellow. Their clothes, hand towels, sashes, aprons, and even the color of the fabric they were weaving—precisely because none of these bore that vivid yellow—stood out all the more sharply and clearly, vividly imprinted in his mind. Of course, whether filling the background with this coloring - while trying to make the painted figures stand out clearly - constitutes merit or demerit, skill or clumsiness as a pictorial technique, is not for the rapeseed flowers to know.

He stood entranced by the weaver's form beautifully framed within the vivid yellow before him when—from the tip of the shuttle thrown by the young woman—a vermilion-gold streak flared like a spark, flashed beneath feet, coiled into a ring and sprang forth once, pierced his vision with blazing radiance, leapt to grasses by the stream's edge, then vanished like extinguished flame. A red snake glided shining through the rapeseed blossoms.

Shuddering, he turned around—before him stretched a stone staircase that twined from tree branches to treetop leaves, above which a thatched hall’s roof appeared like a single cloud hovering startlingly close. The violet flowers blooming along the ridge were so vivid one could almost pluck them; adorned with the green peaks’ black tresses—that was Kannon Hall in Hisanoya Valley.

Our Wanderer had come aiming for that very place. At that moment, as he prepared to ascend the stone steps ahead, there abruptly surged forth from the thicket—pressing in from both sides of the path nearly to its full width—a large horse’s face bulbously emerging directly before him. He merely saw—even that suddenness—and the torso was not a single entity. Manes connected to manes, bodies overlapping bodies—the beast’s back spanned roughly five or six ken.

In an instant, the Wanderer froze in place, leaning on his staff. If one were to draw lines connecting the green snake at the bend, the red snake amidst the rapeseed flowers nearby, and the horse’s visage ahead, they would form a slender triangle—and there, sealed within its very center, he found himself enclosed. Could this be an uncanny land specter? Yet even amidst encircling young fiends with fearsome fangs and claws, adders and vipers, scorpions with venomous breath and smoke aflame—the Savior abides there. After a moment…

4

The carefree horse handlers, noticing someone’s presence here for the first time, had their three horses lumber heavily into view at the beasts’ snouts—aligned single-file from front to rear—and come swaying leisurely down the slope.

“Thank you for your patience, sir.”

“Ah, my apologies for the intrusion.” “Pardon me.” As the three of them passed by one after another calling out warnings—narrowing themselves to tiptoe at the stream’s edge to avoid him—still he felt his vision enveloped by their large leather bundle. The path narrowed markedly, yet stepping softly through the grass and accompanied by the peaceful click-clack, click-clack of looms, he soon arrived without incident at the stone steps beneath trees filtering the azure sky. These stone steps had recently been fully restored. (Thus, as even that steep tiptoe path had become a single clear route with parted grasses—meaning snakes would no longer appear—) Around that time when they were severely damaged and just about to undergo repairs, horses had been transporting stones to the back door of a priest’s residence below these steps—a dwelling not grand enough to be called a temple.

As he ascended the steps, the stairs seemed ready to sway at any moment—corners chipped, stones missing, earth crumbling underfoot. With unsteady steps, he staggered and climbed upward. As he watched, the fields below his eyes grew smaller and more distant while the waves’ hue turned bluer, lapping ever closer to his feet—a common trait of mountains that embrace the sea, wherever they may be.

In the dimly lit stone steps amid the trees, where moss grew thicker than the stones themselves, even upon seeing those early-blooming bellflowers—pale purple, downward-facing blooms of the bellflower family—he couldn’t help but feel a certain dampness in the air. Yet his sweat-dampened skin, as though he had stepped through a hot waterfall, was suddenly struck by a gust of wind that left him chillingly cold. The temple grounds were not particularly spacious.

However, from behind Kannon Hall to its left and right corridors, the mountain had drawn its curtain around them; even the branches of trees turned ink-black, and the sound of pine wind became indistinguishable from their surroundings. The shore spread waves like snow—binding to sand, vanishing into rocks—each time their sound nearly audible; yet what stopped abruptly, leaving behind only regret, was the click-clack of looms. Viewed from this vantage point, the figures of the two weaving women appeared not amidst rapeseed flowers but as though painted upon a blue seascape, with the air of those who might drift upon waves.

No—let us proceed with the pilgrimage.

Five steps of stairs—though so high a horse could gallop beneath the eaves—yet their railing retained not a trace of shadow. In former times, one might have imagined it grander still. The vermilion-lacquered pillars, floral latticework, indigo waves along beams, and golden dragons all stood faded; the scene of butterfly shadows cast upon Chinese-style doors by daylight filtering through thatch resembled an old Tosa painting—yet matched a master artist’s brushwork in its unassuming profundity, feeling both inexplicably noble and nostalgic.

The interior beyond the latticework was dark.

Beside the sacred cabinet with its curtains drawn, where artificial white lotuses stood as noble reminiscent figures, he lowered his head and retreated two or three shaku. Calmly, he surveyed his surroundings. The vaulted ceiling bore peonies in vivid red and white; traces of gofun lingered where their hues had faded, crimson petals scattered yet clinging as if carved into the surface—evoking a dreamlike vision of gazing upon a flower garden. The round pillars go without saying—along with those flowers and pedestals. Fox lattices, Chinese-style doors, beams, rafters—in every nook and cranny where one might peer through—there was scarcely a spot left unadorned with pilgrimage tags.

There were metal engravings; there was Uomasa—Yaneasu, Daiku Tetsu, Sakan Kin. In Tokyo’s Asakusa and Fukagawa. Suō Province, Mino, Ōmi, Kaga, Noto, Echizen, Higo (Kumamoto), Awa (Tokushima). Migratory birds from every inlet and bay—rice-field birds and lesser cuckoos. All devout men and women—their forms unknown—had left their names. In cheap inn pillows on chilly nights or mat-covered boats on rainy nights—dreams must dwell in this place. The pilgrims’ souls sometimes come here to play. …Ah—each house appeared to bear its own votive tag—one per dwelling.

5 The sacred site was for them a garden of equal benefit—joyous and beautiful. Those who had made pilgrimage—even from fifty ri, a hundred ri, three hundred ri away, from Tsukushi’s farthest seas—needed only let the thought arise, and in an instant they would come here to behold flowers falling through empty sky. Under the moon they would pay homage to white-robed forms. Those with fever would drink dewdrops from willow leaves. Those who loved would cling to benevolent hands. They would be embraced by the compassionate bosom. As for those who wandered lost—green roof tiles, vermilion jeweled fences, gold and silver pillars, scarlet railings, agate steps, floral-patterned Chinese doors. Imagining jade towers and golden palaces—gazing at qilin frolicking among peonies in dragon courts where phoenixes danced—they might dream of sharing sacrosanct beds: cherry blossoms as quilts, pearls bright as full moons for pillows, while morning sunlight fell upon the Lion King’s throne. Even so, the Great Merciful and Compassionate Kannon would not condemn.

Therefore, these metal engravings—Uomasa and others—as evidence of souls passing through here: merely by looking at each pilgrimage tag, every single one, even those bearing women’s names, did not their approximate appearances, their bearing, and consequently even their gestures rise before one’s eyes like hazy shadows? When the signatures on various donations published in newspapers and those displayed on contribution boards were realistic, one might say these were ideal. Smiling, he examined each one in turn.

When he turned his back toward the door and noticed—on this side of the large offering box—a round pillar grooved like a mortar’s channel, there on a torn edge of kaishi paper lay flowing feminine script: Since that drowsing hour when I glimpsed my beloved, What men call dreams has become my sole reliance. ――Tamawaki Miwo――

It had been written gently and beautifully.

“This is a holy pilgrimage. “Excuse me? Excuse me?” With a start, he became aware that a monk in layered hemp robes with shortened hems—straw sandals on his feet—had drawn near.

When he turned around, the monk greeted him with a gentle smile,

“Come this way a moment.” He passed by the offering box and reached the lattice door at waist height. Muttering “Namu” while continuing his prayer underbreath quietly creaked open both sides of it． The Buddhist monk went straight before sacred cabinet rustling kesa robes adjusted took match from sleeve stretched lit ritual candle pressed palms together forehead prayer then turned back opened another door before paused figure．

Though insect-eaten, the threshold stood elevated by one step and wide in width, with about four tatami mats laid lengthwise within its thick frame. Though tree shade filtered through gaps in the wall, the borderless tatami mats were freshly green and new. The Buddhist monk sat before a small desk bearing nothing, pushed out smoldering ashes from a fire container holding no tobacco, and drew one knee forward toward this side. “Please rest here a while.” He rustled through his sleeve again,

"Ah! The matches were here after all—hahaha!" he added, pulling them out from beneath yet another desk.

“Well then, pardon the intrusion—I’ll borrow this for a moment.” He sat down across the threshold and inhaled the haze—denser than the sea’s color—that stretched skyward even from here. “This hall is truly splendid—isn’t the view exquisite?”

“Ah, but it’s already severely dilapidated. To say such things to the Buddha we tend to—it’s hardly sufficient, I must say. Hahaha—even with my humble efforts, I cannot readily manage it all, so maintenance tends to be lacking.”

6

“Are there quite a number of pilgrims who visit here?”

The first thing he said was this. The monk nodded as if in agreement and sat neatly at an angle before the desk.

“Indeed it is. “I would like to declare it prosperous, but nowadays there are not many. “In former times, it is said to have been a magnificent, beautiful, and splendid place. “You must have just passed through here, sir. “They can be seen from here as well. “Extending along the foot of this mountain, all the way to that rapeseed field area—it is said that the seven halls and temple buildings once stood in a row there. “It does appear in written records, but in Kunōdani of Miura District, this Iwadono Temple is regarded as the original settler of this land.”

“It was the Second Pilgrimage Site of Bando—a renowned sacred ground—but now one might say it has become little more than a historical relic. Strangely enough, it is rather pilgrims from distant provinces who visit in greater numbers. From nearby areas such as Kazusa and Shimousa to distant regions like Kyushu and Saigoku, there are those who make pilgrimages after hearing tales. But when these pilgrims arrive here and inquire locally, I’ve heard tell of them becoming greatly lost, as many in this vicinity remain unfamiliar with such matters.”

"That’s how it goes." “Hahaha, exactly so,” Having said that, his words momentarily trailed off. The monk’s words had sounded somewhat like a solicitation for donations, which made him slightly uneasy, but as he went to flick his tobacco ash, his eyes caught on the smoldering hue of the fire container and how the spent matchstick was wedged into it. Resembling a Shinshū University dormitory in Sugamo awaiting Maitreya's advent—a place bearing little semblance of domesticity—he deemed it fitting to open his heart wide and freely took in the sight as he pleased.

There, he took another refreshing breath and exhaled smoke toward the mountain's edge—like Tieguai Li as seen from afar,

“It must be quite cool here in summer.” “This place remains entirely untouched by summer’s heat.” “The Kannon Hall goes without saying—even the lower hermitage rooms are supremely cool. Though they’re mere thatched structures, do stop by on your return and rest awhile.” “I could brew some bitter tea over smoldering leaves for you.” “It is quite dilapidated, but—or rather, should a tail emerge from the teakettle, that too would make for an amusing diversion.” “Hahahaha,” “What an enviable existence you lead.”

“Oh no—you are not one so enlightened in wisdom,” “A solitary dwelling in a single house must feel quite lonesome.” “Having observed your pilgrim presence since then, I found myself following after you.”

“By the way, where are you staying?” “Me? I’m staying right near that station—” “For a while—”

“Since around two months ago—” “At the honorable inn, eventually—” “No—I’ve rented a room where I cook for myself.” “Ah, ah—so that’s how it is. Though it may be presumptuous of me—should you wish it—I could ready the hermitage room for your use.” “This may seem rather abrupt, but last summer too—for a solitary soul—through similar circumstances I provided lodging for a noble personage of your kind.” “Even a married couple would find it suitable. Accommodating two would pose no difficulty—”

“Yes, thank you.”

He broke into a gentle smile and, “When passing through, you wouldn’t think such a place could exist here. Truly an exquisite hall.” “Please do come stroll here whenever you wish.” “That’s too generous—I shall visit to pray.” The monk scrutinized the guileless face that had spoken these words, his gaze tinged with suspicion.

VII The Buddhist monk placed his hands on his knees, "This—I had not expected to hear such words from your lips."

“Why do you say that?”

He had posed the question but found its meaning not difficult to comprehend. The Buddhist monk, though somewhat flat-featured, wore a smile in his plump cheeks, “It’s not that there’s any particular reason… It’s just that the young people these days… well, you see.” “Hahaha, a recent tale indeed.” “Though I say that, I am not yet elderly, but—”

“I understand perfectly.” “You mean a youth—and a student at that—is what you’re suggesting?” “No—it’s precisely because you maintain such reserve that this won’t do.” “That’s why—”

And then, as if uncertain what to do, he restlessly shifted his knees, “Gradually, our sect declines. "As for our sect—though I cannot say what sect it even is anymore." Our followers consist solely of the aged and decrepit—for those young ones who’ve tasted modern schooling, guiding them proves impossible with their notions that Kannon holds no relevance nowadays—it simply won’t do. Lately it’s the old folk growing shameless—slicing their tirades at daughters-in-law with prayer chants, reciting sutra titles through eel skewers clenched in skinning knives... Not that such things were absent in days past, but at least when people still harbored some shadowy notion of hell and paradise—however dubious—matters stayed contained. “Nowadays, all wear faces of those who’ve attained enlightenment in this life—they might even gaze at a hellscape painting and declare, ‘How masterfully rendered!’”

“Those whom you deem utterly beyond reach—the few people—are instead those who yearn for the Patriarch. They are agonized, desperate to attain spiritual peace. Among them, some go mad because of it—aren’t there even those who commit suicide?” “No matter what. Should you witness someone along the way thinking, ‘Ah, so this is a twentieth-century human,’ then whether man or woman, test them by suddenly calling out ‘Namu Amida Butsu.’ Someone might faint on the spot, another might immediately vow to shave their head and become your disciple, while yet another might clap their hands and attain enlightenment. Or perhaps there might be those who want to die on account of that.”

"This is no mere jest. That’s how significant it is, you see. 'Buddhism now enters the era when the Dharma’s light will blaze forth.' 'Yet somehow, you all cling to old ways and timid deliberation.'"

He listened intently, but,

“Yes, precisely. Ah, indeed.” "No—strictly speaking, we find ourselves amidst an ideological world undergoing great reformation—some claim to have seen gods, directly encountered Buddhas, even declared themselves messiahs. I’ve heard scattered reports of uprisings akin to Kumamoto’s Shinpūren of those days. Yet ultimately, these remain matters of lofty debates and scholarly pursuits. As for idols that humble monks like us protect… well—"

He started to speak but stopped short, his gaze shifting toward the altar. “If the craftsmanship is fine, society would deign to view them as art pieces or sculptures.” “Perhaps Buddhism may flourish in days to come, but when it comes to idols... what exactly are we to make of them? Even among those sharing the same faith—as for how one ought to worship the principal image in this present age...” “Hahaha! Thus being the case, I naturally wish you all would consider Buddhism not as idol worship—to regard these statues as refined art objects. That’s why I end up inviting visitors to simply stroll about.”

“No, no—if they aren’t idols, what then? If we don’t venerate their sacred forms, what can we possibly believe in? You’re the one calling them idols—that’s precisely why it won’t do.”

“Each statue must have its own name. Shakyamuni, Monju, Fugen, Seishi, Kannon—do they not all possess names?”

VIII “If you speak of people, they’re merely strangers—nothing more.” “But give them a name.” “When named, they become fathers; become mothers; become brothers; become sisters.” “Would you still treat them as mere strangers then?” “Idols are no different.” “Call them mere idols and they’re nothing—but this hall’s statue is Kannon. You still worship her, don’t you?” “Then idols are wood, metal, or earth.” “Are you claiming they’re just objects gilded with gold and jewels?” “Humans too are bundles of skin, blood, flesh—five organs and six viscera—then draped in clothes.” “First off—you! Even a beauty amounts to nothing more than that.”

"However, one might say humans have souls while idols lack them." "You see—you—it's precisely because we don't understand what the soul is that we wander, attain enlightenment, face peril, find peace, worship, and keep faith." "Can you practice archery without a target?" "Even acrobatics and magic tricks must be learned." "To those who say idols are unnecessary—then does that mean a lover should merely be admired, loved, yearned for, without ever being together? Without ever seeing their face?" "Ask them—is it enough to merely see their face without speaking? To speak without clinging to their hand? To cling yet not share a bed?"

“The truth is, one would at least want to meet that person even in a dream.” “There—wouldn’t one want to see gods and buddhas even in illusions?” “Shakyamuni, Monju, Fugen, Seishi, Kannon—isn’t the very reason their statues exist that they are meant to be revered?”

The monk’s face grew animated, and his eyes gleamed. Around his intently focused mouth—even the pores of his beard seemed as if one could count them—

“You speak well—fascinating!”

He placed his hands firmly on his knees and raised one to his forehead, but—

“—Since seeing my beloved in fleeting sleep, I’ve come to trust in what they call dreams—”

What he recited from behind lips bowed in solitude was the poem inscribed on the pillar. The wanderer too found his gaze drawn there—the spider's thread upon the pillar, how vivid remained the traces of water-plant brushstrokes. “To speak of this brings me shame—yet unless I voice this disgrace, you cannot understand—this poem of fleeting sleep...” “That poem—” He found himself leaning forward without realizing it.

“Yes, please take a look. Throughout that area, they’ve pasted those pilgrimage votive tablets all over—among them, some are apparently used as advertisements for medicines and such, but even those ordinary ones are left undisturbed.” “Since there’s no telling who might come to post them, or when.” “However, that—that pillar there—that…”

“Ah—you mean that poem?”

“You saw it.” “When you called out earlier—” “It must have caught your eye—I know who composed it.”

“It’s a woman, isn’t it?” “Indeed—it’s said to be an ancient poem by Ono no Komachi—” “It does seem that way.” “It wasn’t you who composed it—or rather, she was indeed a beauty akin to the one who did—” “This Tamawaki… or whatever she’s called—the woman—” Though he spoke with perfect composure, his heart fluttered restlessly. “Indeed, when I consider what you just said about the sacred image and those remarks concerning lovers, this—though not born of licentious intent, and differing in approach—might be understood as having likened the heart’s yearning for Kannon to an ancient poem, like that which says ‘the faint moonlit rim of mountains.’ ―Since first placing trust in what they call dreams― To plead ‘show me your form even in dreams.’”

"In truth, there are numerous instances where such rare beauties of this world have swiftly formed karmic bonds and attained Buddhahood." "In rough strokes concerning that matter, he went about scattering love poems." "It may seem improper—well, that depends on the person—but as the sutra states: 'If a woman seeks a man,' I wouldn’t condemn it outright." "For that very reason did he take a life." The listener was startled. More startling than that snake seen among the rapeseed blossoms.

IX

“You must think this unthinkable—my story was rather abrupt,” The monk placed a hand on his cheek, bowed his head, and pondered slightly.

"No—but if we consider them not to be love poems, then it may well be that the deceased was the one deluded here."

“What an extraordinary story! How on earth did that happen?” Before he knew it, he had edged closer onto the tatami mats of the hall. As he listened to this intriguing tale and found his lap uncomfortably confined, he drew out the hunting cap he had stuffed into his pocket and set it beside him.

The pine wind rose into sound. Yet, being a spring day, it blew lighter than any human could, rustling softly through the sky.

The monk glanced at the altar lamp,

“Well, you see…” “The truth is—as I had mentioned earlier—it was that gentleman who came to stay in the makeshift cell beneath this hall through a chance connection.” “That gentleman wrote that poem about fleeting sleep there for the lady’s sake… To put it plainly—it was love sickness, or rather, what we call a death from unrequited longing.” “To put it plainly—” “Well—what sort of man, in this day and age…”

“Exactly someone like yourself—”

“Huh?” Not the tea kettle—this Monk Bunpuku’s conduct, deserving not of bitter tea but thirty blows—made him whirl around in astonishment… leaving only a strained wry smile. “This is quite an outrageous comparison you’ve made,” he said with a hollow laugh, “What you mean—that is, it’s precisely through such matters that we became acquainted—carelessly, this is—” “No, that’s perfectly acceptable. To die for love—that’s a consummation devoutly to be wished. Born into this peaceful age with no battlefield for an honorable death—if one must perish on the same tatami mats regardless, yearning lends a certain panache to it.”

“To be born into an aristocratic family of great wealth and die of love sickness—there could be no greater blessing than this. It might seem preferable for love to be fulfilled—but then you have the agony of parting from the beloved. To love someone enough to die for them—that must be harder than hoarding money.” “Truly, you are quite the jester. Ha ha ha ha—” “I’m being serious.” “Though earnest, it sounds like some jest. What an enviable person you are. You managed to find such a person, didn’t you. Well, you found a woman so lovelorn she’d die for it—impressive.”

“That is something anyone can see. If we speak of beauty, there’s no need to visit the Dragon Palace or celestial realms to behold it.”

“So she’s still here now, then?” “She does indeed.” “She’s a local.” “Is she from here?” “And indeed, this very Kunōdani.”

“Kunōdani’s—” “Why—when coming here today—you must have passed before that house.” “In front of that beauty’s residence?”

As he spoke, the younger of the two weaving women floated into his mind’s eye—blazing bright amidst the rapeseed flowers. “Well… then—she’s after all a farmer’s daughter—” “No no—she is wife to a wealthy family.” “No—that wasn’t it—”

he muttered, lost in himself, “I see, so she’s the wife of a wealthy family. Then she’s already a flower claimed by another.” “That she is.” "For that very reason, you—"

“Ah, I see—she belongs to someone else.” “And so—is she beautiful in everyone’s eyes? A true beauty, is she?” “Yes, in Natsumuki there are quite some thousands of guests from Tokyo—those of such eye-opening beauty among them—but hardly any compare to her.” “Then even I would likely fall lovesick if I saw her. Dangerous, dangerous.”

The monk said earnestly, “Why do you say that?” “I’ll have to mind myself on the return journey.” “Where is it—that wealthy family’s house?”

10

Amidst rapeseed fields intermingled with thatched houses, white waves to one side and pine winds to the other, there in the haze like a banner where peach blossoms bloomed a moist crimson as if dyed—among those rooftops, none stood taller.

“At the corner—that two-story house,” “Huh?” “That is the residence of the writer of these songs, you see.” The listener shuddered.

The monk, completely unaware,

“However, only the wife moved there last autumn.” “The very gentleman whom I provided lodging to… I shall not speak his name.”

“That would be best.”

“Well, as for that guest—let me tell you.” “That gentleman—while staying in the temple quarters—entered the sea late one night and died.”

“Did he drown?” “Well... it would appear so, as his remains had been cast upon the rocks. Whether from mishap or resolve—that remains for your own discernment. But as I said before, it was all due to these songs.” “Good heavens—what an extraordinary turn!” “After that guest’s passing, once some two months had gone by, she moved there—”

As if covering the distant two-story house from above the clouds, the monk raised the sleeve of his hemp robe,

“Since the wife moved here.” “During that commotion of love and madness, the entire family was at the main house here by the coast… Even now, that remains their principal residence, and they still maintain a splendid shop in Yokohama. The master is likely there at present.” “Here in Kunōdani, only maids truly live in tranquility.” “So it’s a villa, then.” “No, no—the story branches in many directions—but that two-story house in Kunōdani is said to be their main residence. They say even the current master was born beneath that roof.”

In those days, they led a quiet life, and the roof—if one could call it that—was surely not as it is now. A roof patched with moonlight and drizzles. Still, the previous head—though long deceased now—was a tenant farmer yet an extremely frugal man who fulfilled his lifelong wish by leasing a small plot of land adjacent to the area behind my temple quarters where a grand temple had once stood. It is said to have been the site of that head priest’s retirement residence.

It was a time when he intended to plant beans—truly fine weather, serene, with heat haze fluttering along the ridges.

Old Man-dono shouldered a hoe and came down to this slope to begin preparing his leased land. When a child came calling—"Tosama! It's midday hustle-time!" as they say—it must have been around noon. From early morning, when he first went out into the cold, he had worn a padded cotton haori. But as the day grew warm, he worked straight through without pause. There he was—wearing a headband and stripped to the waist—laboring vigorously away. He had finished work on just the land certificate portion of his leased plot and now intended to shave down the mountain a bit more at Homachi. He had been digging into the mountain's base when the child came to call him. Thinking he might take a break after one last strike, he thrust his hoe down with a thud—only for the soil to suddenly soften, the blade sinking squelchily up to the handle.

“When he yanked out the hoe, what clung to it, oozing thickly, was a crimson, viscous liquid—” “A corpse?” he interjected.

“No, no—completely wrong!”

And the monk shook his head vigorously,

“Exactly as ordered—it was gold, you see,”

“Ah, so he struck gold after all.” “He struck gold. Even in the sea, crimson scales startle the eye. Water that wells up when digging earth—in such cases, more than purple, yellow, or blue—that red color most shocks the beholder. ‘Well, whatever it might be,’ Old Man-dono steeled himself. When he dug two or three more times, the ground gave way with a thud, leaving a hollow cavity. Clinging to the mountainside, he peered inside like this—so they say.”

Eleven “When he scraped out with the tip of his hoe the substantial black mass visible within the crimson soil hollow—like a giant serpent opening its jaws—it was a jar.” The lid was apparently chipped, they say, and from there thickly oozed that vermilion clay-like substance with a clear, gleaming base. “Since there was nothing else of note inside, Old Man-dono unhesitatingly overturned it, revealing another one—also a jar—that was apparently stacked vertically deeper within. Ah, this one was the real deal.”

"He hurriedly pressed down the half-opened lid and restlessly peered around the area, so they say." "Even his own child, who had been peering beside him, he glared at with a sharp stare—and yet how calmly he pressed that substance against his bare skin." "Against his bare skin—you see—as if carrying an infant, he wrapped that substance tightly in the tattered haori he had removed and left behind, hoisted it onto his back, and using the hoe as a cane to steady his buckling waist, heaved himself up." "He kept saying, 'Stay quiet! Don’t say a word! I swear you won’t blab to anyone!' then returned home, shut the storage room tight and darkened it, laid a straw mat before the family altar, and there clattered down his burden." "However, it had apparently darkened with age, but from that night onward, people in the neighborhood said the hut seemed somehow bright even in the darkest hours."

It must have been an intensely vivid crimson—the spilled contents of the jar—blooming like untimely red spider lilies that blazed along the mountain's edge before dissolving like early summer rains. Some days later, Old Man-dono—while attending to village business that took him to Tokyo—detoured to the Shibaguchi exchange house. From a grimy tobacco pouch, he discreetly produced a single tobacco-flecked piece and tested them by inquiring, "What might this fetch?" Why, even the fingernail that had gripped it turned golden—irrefutable proof of its authenticity—yet when they proffered seven ryō, he haggled more fiercely until securing seven ryō and one bu. This marked the genesis.

Patiently converting assets into gold here and there, he eventually purchased a ship and acquired old goods, transporting firewood and charcoal cargo by sea. As he gradually began venturing into timber and expanded his fleet to seven ships, he promptly put them all up for sale. Then came purchasing land, expanding his shops, and embarking on construction. Once the foundation was solidified, he became a moneylender in the mountains and could conduct business from his seat—lending at high interest. The mountain forests were stripped completely bare, while shops sprouted up briskly along the streets, leaving gold behind before vanishing somewhere unnoticed.

“That’s precisely how it was.”

He borrowed interest-bearing gold to purchase mountains, began felling trees, and sustained it with capital. There, he used timber as collateral to borrow again. Interest accrued immediately; he began felling again, sustained it with capital, borrowed again—all through interest. The borrowers did nothing but vigorously cut down trees and line up the timber at the lender’s shop. Hounded into liquidating their assets, they sold everything cheaply—which he snapped up to turn another profit. Those who came and went, passing by the house, left gold behind and vanished.

“His wives, children, and dependents swelled rapidly in number—people could only click their tongues in amazement, saying it was like a tengu swallowing a mountain whole. But behind closed doors… ha ha ha… they whispered about that incident where he trembled so hard he used his hoe as a cane! ‘Even the vermilion from that other jar,’ they’d say, ‘would turn to blood if you pressed it!’—so they gossiped.” “Those people never quite strike upon the truth, do they?”

The two exchanged glances and laughed. "It is a well-ordered thing." "No matter how deeply one may conceal something—through what means could anyone ever come to know of it?"

“No—regarding that—” The monk, as though recalling something,

"I have a story like this. That young boy Sainosuke—the one who'd been strictly warned 'Tell no one'—let slip: 'Father went to the fields and came back shouldering unholed Tenpō coins with a hefty thud!'" "...How about that? Ha ha ha ha!" “Ah, unholed Tenpō coins.” “Those unholed Tenpō coins became the head of the household. Tamawaki Sainosuke—high-taxpaying councilman. Your esteemed wife Miwo-dono—the beauty who composed those poems. How about that, sir?"

Twelve

“First, a cup of tea. “As promised, it’s bitter tea—though lacking a proper tea stand, this emptiness keeps itself naturally tidy.” “Please relax at your ease.” “When autumn comes—remote as we are from town—we’ll want for neither chestnuts nor persimmons. We’ll chase off crows to gather persimmons, startle shrikes with shrill cries to shake down chestnuts, and lay them before you.”

“Well, above all else, please relax,” He removed his kesa and hung it on a nail; on the shoji screen lay the silhouette of a scarlet peach tree. Resembling the vermilion from this tale—warmly burning through its wooden grain—the kesa rippled playfully in such a manner.

From the hermitage they gazed upward—stone steps entangled in treetops, the hall’s roof floating like an apparition as its body sank plumply into green clouds; where the mountain’s hem pressed close in fresh verdancy, beneath a hanging mosquito net with none to await, two people lingered by an unsmoking brazier as butterflies came fluttering.

“Inside Kannon Hall, my spirit feels somehow renewed,” “Though having you serve tea here and share such an exquisite tale is more than enough, now that we’ve strayed onto those poems, I find myself reluctant to part with them.” “But even with just these stone steps, the path to our elegant principal image has grown shorter, ha ha ha ha.” “Truth be told, before Buddha’s presence, I feel uneasy—as though confessing something to myself.” “Here, one may relax most thoroughly.”

“Once you step seven feet from the teacher’s shadow, you tread the path of indolence—most vexing indeed.”

“And now we come to the Guest.—” “His daily manner of speech, conduct, esteemed demeanor…” “What sort of man was he?” “I shall not speak of that. Though I myself—closer than a blind fence-peeper, a desk-peeper, you might say—overheard tales of the books he read and came to know his nature, even scriptural truths risk being mistaken for foolish prattle if babbled carelessly. Since it would be improper to misrepresent the departed or pass judgment, I shall simply recount the circumstances concerning that lady.”

One evening at the height of a sweltering heat. He returned from his walk along the beach and said, “Priest, would you not go and see the sea for a moment? There’s a beautiful person there.” (Hmm, what sort of... you...) (From that pine grove’s sandy path—when you cross Komatsu Bridge—the opposite shore suddenly becomes a circular sea as if fitted with a telescope lens, and Mount Fuji comes into view—) “You must be familiar with this.” “I know it well.” “I go out nearly every day, you see,”

“At the approach of that bridge, encircled by pine trees—the pine grove stretched across the river to become a vast forest on a sandbar, you see—and with a spacious garden laid out, its grand entrance paved with stones, there stood an estate bearing a splendid gate.” “That—there—is the Tamawaki residence.” “In truth, that estate was modeled after a villa built by someone from Tokyo,” he explained, “but as the master was fond of socializing and frequently hosted guests, ultimately the sea remained its greatest attraction.” “As for this Kunōdani area, since the footing became somewhat distant, all the visual decorations had been brought over there, making Komatsu Bridge appear as the main residence.”

“Now, last summer—the Madam. Needless to say, she was there. And then—when crossing Komatsu Bridge—suddenly reflected in full upon the circular pane of sea-glass that resembled a telescope’s lens—there was a persimmon-hued figure, swaying beautifully into the space between blue waves and white mountain peaks as though a delicate rainbow were arching across it all... As was said—that is, that Tamawaki… person.”

However, at that time, she herself was unaware of who it was, and the listener could not discern it either. “What kind of lovely woman was she?” he inquired in jest, fanning himself with a round fan all the while—or so I must relate.

The guest had just removed his seaside hat and, not yet having entered the room, sat down on the veranda while—

“(Someone—almost noble in bearing.)”

Thirteen “She appeared quite noble, didn’t she?”

The guest had said: “Keeping a distance of several yards, someone who appeared to be a maid—wearing a similar yukata with her obi neatly tied—followed and passed by.” It had been just a glimpse as they crossed paths, but her features were distinct—her complexion pale, her lips a striking crimson. Though dressed in formal attire, she wore her seaside hat pulled low—appearing as nonchalantly as any local might. As she approached—gazing downward, shielding herself from the sun with the hat’s brim—their eyes met when she moved straight ahead. When they both turned away, hers—coolly opened beneath thick lashes—resembled ink washes from Sesshū’s brush dipped in Murasaki Shikibu’s inkstone, blurred in gradations of depth.

"It was an indescribable beauty." "Ah—in recounting this tale—I might resemble a Toba-e caricature." "Well then, having partaken of our meal, shall we venture out again in a manner befitting our station? To view moonlit pumpkin fields or such?" "That evening—you understand—was simply thus." The next day he went walking again and returned to the hermitage at the same hour, so I jested: "And how fared Sesshū's brush today?" "(Perhaps due to the clouds—she wasn't visible.)"

Two or three days later, “The weather still hasn’t cleared up,” he said. “Though it’s rather too cool—ideal for walking—yet she remained cloud-hidden after all?” “No—though no chapter titled Komatsu Bridge exists in The Tale of Genji—today upon that bridge—” “How auspicious.”

He laughed in such a manner. "(It was refined, as though he'd mistaken someone for another.) Just as I was about to cross the bridge, from the opposite approach came a woman leading three boys—the eldest twelve or thirteen, another around ten, and the smallest about seven or eight—patting the youngest's shoulder with one hand while peering down at him, ascending onto the bridge with a gentle smile. She wore a yukata that would make any woman envious—modest yet elegant, with tasseled flower-and-moon patterns on pale grayish-blue fabric where glimpses of skin seemed to glimmer through undefined motifs, all perfectly arranged at the collar."

The fabric must have been sheer silk gauze—sky blue and white interwoven—though its pattern remained unclear. The white section of her obi, tied in a drum-shaped bow where it met her waist sash, resembled early summer snow embraced there, sending shivers through those who glimpsed it. As they passed each other, she let her hands hang forgotten—those limp hands appearing powerless—yet her shoulders seemed to quiver faintly, as if struck by the presence of the man walking beside her. When I clung to the railing—how it happened, I can’t say—I found myself sitting on that low balustrade as though my mind had emptied. I mustn’t claim I’d gone mad. “Below flowed the river—with such a current, falling would mean certain death. No deep pools or shallows to draw rescue boats, and even if you screamed, people would think it a jest—laughing as they let you drown, not knowing how to swim—”

...he said with a bitter smile...and that became truth. How strange it is—when it comes to this lovesickness, those nearby simply laugh and let you perish. Starting with myself—half in jest and half in teasing—I asked how matters stood today regarding that usual affair.

“This must indeed be the case for you as well.”

So how should one respond? Brushing cigarette ashes away, "But... I simply cannot tend to this matter earnestly. When girls fall lovesick, their wet nurses settle it by custom—but a man’s case proves troublesome indeed." "At such times, I’d have rather fished for gobies in that river." "Ha ha ha—how preposterous." The monk clapped his hands with keen interest.

Fourteen

“This is absurd—speaking of fishing, right at that moment, there was someone crouched on the far bank, plop-plop fishing away. “The shopkeeper at the bridgehead—a dealer of household sundries—was a gaunt man whose loose loincloth defied his wiry frame, fishing nonstop in such disarray that he looked positively precarious.” He goes by the nickname Ichirin Kawarake. “The crossbeam at the center of the skylight resembled exactly—Ichirin Kawarake of the riverside—he was fishing then as well.”

When the hermitage guest sat upon the railing I just mentioned and watched the snow-white collar hem flutter through stray wisps of hair as she passed by—it was at that moment, after she had crossed the small bridge, when the middle child—around ten years old—playfully clung to her waist, that she arched her pale fingers and lightly struck the boy’s back, or so it is told. ("Young master, young master,")

called out in a loud voice, ("A handkerchief has been dropped,") he reportedly informed them, but it appears Mr. Kawarake himself was intent on offering bait as he watched that elegant figure retreat into the distance. With a "Hey," the eldest child—twelve or thirteen—reportedly dashed back, picked up the white handkerchief that had been dropped on the bridge, stuffed it into his pocket, and silently darted off again. Being children, they neither bowed nor offered any greeting. The young mistress, turning only her face in polite acknowledgment, rested her chin against her shoulder, curved her lips slightly, and fixedly met our gaze with those cool eyes—this seems to have been the misunderstanding. I must have come face to face with the guest at my hermitage.

He was drawn in, startled into returning a bow—but that was all. The young mistress was no longer visible, and when [he] turned aside, there you were—Ichirin Kawarake with a puzzled expression. Well now, he was damp with cold sweat—ah, that explains it. The situation had taken a dire turn. If an outsider were to consider it without any particular concern, it would seem a trifling matter—but look closely, and you’ll find allure there. First came his coarse country voice—hopelessly off-key—addressing children not even his own masters' with fawning terms like "young masters" or "those dear ones"—a complete lack of discernment in his conduct that would diminish his standing if ever told.

From another perspective, this situation also brought slight embarrassment to Mr. Kawarake himself. It was as if he’d achieved something through another’s kindness, yet found himself in an awkward predicament. The man himself never voiced it as such, but from then on, his growing despondency became visible even to bystanders.

He remained secluded for four or five days.

According to what he later confessed when laying everything bare to me, that very misunderstanding had become a bond—might they not somehow begin exchanging greetings when they next met? If so, how overjoyed he would be—it seemed he believed this would fulfill his deepest aspiration.

“What we call delusion is a most dreadful and pitiable thing.” “Even the average fool in this world does not reach such depths.”

“The third time involved the very person themselves—”

“Did they meet again?” The one who had asked also waited in readiness. “This time, conversely, it is said that he—returning from the direction of the beach—and the young mistress—heading out to the beach—met at that usual exit spot.” It had grown quite dim by then... After the midsummer period, when days grew conspicuously shorter, each and every time her walk home grew later still. Unable to endure even mosquito coils any longer, I would hang up a mosquito net here and retreat inside—only for her to appear returning thereafter, with even dinner already mentioned on occasion.

At that time too—already dusk—a human face became visible in the dimness like the moon emerging through haze. Upon realizing it was unmistakably her, he saw five men, among whom was likely the master. "The young mistress alone was there as a woman, surrounded as if engulfed by them, passing noisily in somewhat hurried steps toward the surf's edge—but with that number of men, it became such a commotion that even distant onlookers exchanged polite nods—you see, those five men."

Fifteen "There was one with thick eyebrows and a wrathful nose; another with a broad forehead and pointed chin glaring downward; yet another lying on his back, thrusting an unlit cigar into his bearded cheek." One had pulled up the hem of his garment with a flourish; another tapped it with a folding fan. All wore coarse yukata befitting their rustic air, but among them stood out one with a pale yellow heko obi—its knot dangling loosely some two feet down to his calves—and another whose scarlet crepe sash wound tightly around his chest made for a spectacle beyond words. "The former likely wore his own obi, while the scarlet crepe sash fellow had apparently snatched the maid’s in some drunken escapade."

This strangely soured the guest’s mood—coinciding with how the evening waves had begun turning ominous—and those red and blue demons seemed to be dragging some fragile soul down to the underworld. Whether imagined or not, the hemmed-in young mistress now appeared somehow desolate, unpleasantly dispirited in her bearing, stirring such pity that he felt compelled to risk his life rescuing her from their midst. "It seems he had come to understand the household’s circumstances and said he was anxious, but you see—this was impossible."

"In hell paintings, there are depictions of heavenly maidens descending—look at those." "Hungry ghosts being saved—how noble it seems." "When he heard people say the snake was a divine messenger, he thought of Benzaiten—'Ah, how pitiful—she must find this utterly repulsive.'" "That’s delusion speaking." The Wanderer crossed his arms slightly here. "But here's the thing—when a woman's beloved man has a beautiful wife, she seems prone to jealousy." "Men are the opposite,"

He said in a somewhat argumentative tone. “Ah,”

“Men are not like that. When the woman they love aligns with poetic pairings like ‘Ono no Komachi’s flowers and Ōe no Chisato’s moon,’ they find reassurance.” “But when faced with that pale yellow heko obi and scarlet crepe sash from earlier, one cannot help but ponder. The heart’s response upon hearing how a Christian believer’s wife dreamed of being embraced by Lord Christ must surely differ from its response to a Kai-kai sect follower dreaming of being beaten by a demon god.”

"In either case, it’s clear neither brings joy—but the former can be endured for now, while the latter would prove intolerable." "Well, setting that aside—why on earth is it always such unpleasant people surrounding that Mrs. Tamawaki?" "There you have Tamawaki—propping himself up with a hoe handle for a cane, wrapped in that tattered short coat affair—living in a style even your average peerage family couldn’t match, yet stingy as can be about social expenses. The pity is, his very manner of conduct means no one of status or reputation will associate with him. Alas, what gathers round him now is naught but a disreputable crowd."

“Wait a moment—ah, I see. So then, what sort of standing does that Mrs. Tamawaki have?”

The Buddhist Monk nodded again and cleared his throat, "Therein lies the matter—as for the young mistress’s age, well, anyone’s eyes could roughly discern it—first as twenty-three or four, or perhaps twenty-five or six."

“So she’s the mother of three?” “So the eldest is twelve or thirteen, is that it?” “No, none are her own flesh and blood.” “Stepchildren?” “All three were born to the former wife.” “As for that former wife—well, there’s a tale or two there too, but it’s beside the point.” Two or three years back, he took in the current one—and here we are. Where she was born, how she was raised—whose daughter or sister she might be—no one knows. “Was she borrowed? Taken as collateral? Sold off?” “Some say she’s a fallen noble’s daughter. Others claim she’s from some scattered great house.” “Then you’ve got those who swear she’s a gilded geisha, while vulgar tongues call her a ‘high-class’ courtesan risen from the brothels—such wild talk! Like the master of some bottomless pond, her origins stay murky. Not a soul’s ever truly known.”

Sixteen

“Well, what can I say—even if someone like me were to pass by and catch a glimpse of her, I wouldn’t be able to discern anything at all.” “Of course, there’s no way a mere monk like me could appraise her properly.” “It’s not merely that her arched brows, her gaze, possess charm—” Her mouth too was dignified—she did not seem the type to utter a single word of flattery—yet somehow she appeared wise, with an air of one who had fathomed both love and impermanence. “In both her figure and countenance, it’s as though emotion drips from her very being.”

If someone were to adore her—be they a stablehand, boatman, even us monks—she wouldn’t cruelly rebuff them; even if their love went unrequited, she’d likely offer some fitting reply. “From the knot of her obi to the edge of her sleeve—wherever one might lightly brush against her—the dewdrops of passion would surely dissolve a man’s bones,” such was her aura. Thus, though we speak of her nobility, it bore no resemblance to celestial maidens—rather, picture one perusing writings beneath Himeji Castle’s keep in crimson hakama trousers, her grace like dripping dew, yet this was no common tap-water-washed coiffure. As though she were alone in a mountain hot spring untouched by human footprints, bathing snow-pale skin while wringing out her excessively long black hair—such was her semblance.

Rather than inspiring yearning or nostalgia, hers was the immense power to enchant any man who glimpsed her even once. "A woman not insignificantly tethered to hell, paradise, and this earthly realm; thus, her sins and karmic retribution appear profound indeed." Now then—being a deluded soul, he must have imagined that pale yellow obi and scarlet sash were being dragged by ox-headed demons toward twilight’s crashing waves—our guest—and precisely because he viewed things through such a lens, he began passing before the Tamawaki residence...

From the town leading to the beach, veering sideways toward the small stream flowing behind the house—from behind the reed fence encircling it—between pine trunks emerged a figure visible only from collar to shoulders, ears sharply outlined, with neither obi nor hem discernible, floating into view as if surfacing. Before and behind, only upper shoulders were visible; at that moment, three men materialized just beneath pine needles, swaying like bellflowers and miscanthus before gradually sinking from sight. To [the guest], it seemed they were being escorted—for reasons concerning himself—to a detached room or perhaps a prison cell. The ferocity etched in the heads of those three brutes flanking him made this meaning unmistakably clear. “It seemed he thought we would never meet again, not even in the future,” [the guest] uttered such an unreasonable thing.

“Well now—if one were to imagine the guests of the Tamawaki household amusing themselves with the young mistress in the garden’s artificial hill alongside the master—that would be explanation enough. But eventually, it seems merely strolling the main streets no longer satisfied him; he began wandering deep into that pine grove beyond the river—the very back entrance and rear approach I mentioned earlier. Though this pine grove remains Tamawaki’s property, we’ve opened it to public access. Within lies Shioiri Pond—a rather sizable one. A carpet of green grass beneath layered pine verdure—violets now in spring, everlasting summer blooms when hot, bush clover come autumn—truly a secluded emerald haven. You ought to take a stroll there and see.”

“Is it a dim place?” “Not like a thicket.” “A place of deep verdure.” “Most suitable for strolling while perusing a book.” “Are there snakes?”

he abruptly asked. “Do you dislike them?” “Well, it’s not exactly that…”

“Nay—by some twist of fate, few things in this world are as reviled as they are.” “However, observe them carefully—even those snakes prove meek creatures. When they stretch their faces along roadsides like this and someone comes to stare intently...” “They’ll look back at you—awkwardly lowering their sickle-shaped heads and turning away shyly.” “Not hateful creatures at all—hahahaha—they do have hearts, you see.” “If they have hearts, wouldn’t that make them even more troublesome?”

“No, they seem to dislike saltiness—there aren’t any around that pond at all.” “At the manor these days—though that bewitching young mistress still resides there, and though the holes have turned pitch-black and honeycombed underfoot like wasp nests—there’s no fear of crab burrows collapsing.”

Seventeen

“As for the guest,” continued the monk, “even those holes must have appeared as white skull’s eyes.” Encircling the pond where it faced the river, Tamawaki’s house—to the young mistress, it might well have seemed a prison. Now, it wasn’t that the water flowed with the tides—along that dull mouse-gray stagnant shore, neither floating nor sinking, their ends perpetually crumbling as if to become carp or crucian carp—when he saw five or six logs submerged since who knew when. Ah, cut and joined, they might make a boat. “Tie them together and they become a raft.” “Yet without rope or pole—must one cross love’s abyss with such as this?”

In the flesh, one cannot cross. "If only the soul could ride." Within that tree-encircled gate, that person—he would stand on tiptoe and such. Even from a butterfly’s eyes, he must have appeared too unsteady. Even as he staggered through the young pines, he somehow felt as though only from the shoulders up—his hem and legs vanished—a peculiar bat in broad daylight—or so it seemed. He took out a book from his pocket, 蝋光高懸照紗空、　　　　花房夜搗紅守宮、 象口吹香毾㲪暖、　　　　七星挂城聞漏板、

寒入罘罳殿影昏、　　　　彩鸞簾額著霜痕、 Yes—this is the place where crickets chirp beneath moonlit balustrades, where Empress Zhen, once favored by Emperor Wen of Wei, later declined and was imprisoned—Locking away Lady Zhen. And with that,

夢入家門上沙渚、　　　　天河落処長洲路、 願君光明如太陽、 “Release me—if you do, I shall mount a fish and part the waves to depart,” he murmured softly, when suddenly tears spilled onto his collar. He opened his eyes wide and glared at those submerged logs in the water—"Rise! Float! Flap your fins and come greet me at the gate!"—staring as if to command them through sheer will. “This is far from an ordinary matter.” “Would that poem be from the Tang Poetry Anthology?”

“What do you think?” “Well, you see—in his dream, he enters his family home and ascends the sandy shore.” “It’s as if a soul wanders through a desert—*Tianhe luochu Changzhou Road*—how pitiful it is!”

“When I hear that, even I somehow start thinking that woman is confined.” “Then what did he do?” “To put it plainly—his jaw hollowed out day by day, his eyes sank deeper, his complexion grew ever more sallow.” One day, declaring “I’ll make a grand effort!”, he went to have his face shaved at the barber before the station. “That was when it happened, as they say.” After washing his head—something he hadn’t done in ages—and feeling somewhat refreshed, he wandered out to find the countryside teeming with general stores: shops selling paper, tobacco, mosquito coils, kitchenware—what might be called “everything shops.” Across from the street stalls stood that same general store—where they’d sprinkled water outside, left the eaves’ lanterns unlit, straddled a bench from gutter stones to roadway, and were playing shogi face-to-face. The edge pawn was an attached piece—the usual sort.

Being a man with no pressing business, the guest approached and stood by the roadside, where both players recklessly traded rooks and bishops—flipping them over with spirited cries of “Hah!” each time they swapped positions. Moreover, one old man—apparently handed a child while the women were bathing—sat cross-legged holding the infant on his lap, clenching a pipe with its bowl pointed downward. With the pipe still clenched in his mouth, every time he said, “Wait now, hold on,” it would nearly hit something, so the child being held wrinkled his forehead even more than the old man did and tried to grab at the pipe’s bowl. Since there was no fire lit, it wouldn’t burn him, but the old man frantically shook it to keep it from being grabbed; the child reached out, the rook made its escape.

“Drooling profusely, he grabbed it! As if shouting ‘Now!’, that ruddy-faced monk—with his high back and broad chest, mouth twisted into a ‘へ’ shape—suddenly seized the opponent’s king piece. Then with an iron-crowbar thumb, he yanked the victor’s nose—‘Impressive!’—stretching it out like this, you must imagine—hahahaha.”

Eighteen

“When he let out a big, hacking sneeze, he dropped his tobacco.” “A solid knock on the forehead made the child burst into tears; the one who’d lost erupted in laughter—all mixed with drool and whatnot.” The monk pinched his nose, his face bitter as he fumbled with his fingers—a scene in perfect disarray. Seizing this chance to leave, when he turned to look back, there stood the general store with its single reed screen and the neighboring house serving as a makeshift post office. From that entrance emerged that very person with graceful poise. The train must have arrived—five or six carriages and carts rattled past—and from beneath the post office’s eaves came a gaze peering through the street until those eyes suddenly met the guest’s.

Seeming hesitant, she immediately withdrew into the shadow of the dividing reed screen—yet without turning her face away—and there, facing directly forward, looked this way. When he withdrew beneath the eaves, he felt as though her gaze had pulled him there—so he too peered through the reed screen. At that moment, her hair was styled in a pinned-up ginkgo-leaf fashion with a single coral bead hairpin; perhaps because of her hair, her eyebrows appeared longer than usual, it is said. She wore a golden chain over her yukata sash—it swayed with such audible clinking as she moved her chest to peer through toward this side. Her face—ah—seemed to draw misty trails as it flickered sideways behind the reed screen. Dazzled by this vision, he involuntarily gave a slight nod.

She too lowered her gaze, and no sooner had she done so than ring-ring—to you—the high-pitched sound that resounded was the telephone’s signal. "He had been waiting for this," he said. She immediately entered the phone booth, her figure hidden, but through Asama’s clarity, every word carried distinctly. "(Oh... I... "You’re being too much." "You’re being too much." "Why won’t you come?" "I resent you." "Well... you see—I can’t sleep at night either." "Oh—there’s no reason a train would arrive at this hour—yet still I think you might come any moment now.")

“On my end… well… it’s just… No matter how far apart we are, I can hear your voice even without the phone.” “You wouldn’t understand, would you.”

“It’s just as I thought.” “Even so—waiting this earnestly for my sake... You needn’t fret so.” “This may seem like petty neglect—no, I wouldn’t call it neglect toward Father and Mother—but know this: I’ll stake my life on it.” “I shall stay awake waiting tonight too.” “Ah—ah—don’t say such things! Since I can’t sleep anyway, it matters not.” “I resent you.” “Perhaps we’ll meet in a dream—no, I won’t be made to wait—won’t be kept waiting…”)

O-Michi? O-Hikari? A woman’s name.

(...Mi-chan, goodbye—we’ll meet in dreams.)— “With a sharp click, she hung up the phone.” “Oh,” He found himself spellbound. “That day, after returning in high spirits—as per that poem I mentioned about coolness—I dangled my legs from the veranda. The guest entered the portable tub heated at the wellside there and, while using the water, held forth with his naked body exposed. Over here and there, we were speaking loudly—though mind you, there were no neighbors about. Reckless as anything, with that phone-tinged falsetto or what have you—”

“Hey, Priest—from the plum’s fresh leaves into the steam, something drawing a thread glistening in the moonlight—a spider’s come down!” he proclaimed with grandiose theatrics. “Banzai! Banzai! Will you steal away tonight?” “Of course,”

“Of course,” he answered, shaking his head vigorously as he gazed skyward with unabashed defiance. Yet judging by his usual conduct—however resolved he might have been to die—I never imagined him capable of such impropriety toward a married woman. And yet it came to pass.

With chilled tofu garnished with shiso seeds and pickled white melon, when I served the meal on my tray, he tightened his obi again, and— (Once more around there.) "No—wait—" I started, startled, but his figure that had emerged beyond the fence wasn't heading toward the sea—there, toward those stone steps. Across the sunlit expanse, wispy clouds drifted lightly over the mountain grasses—their movement like the flutter of butterfly wings—yet when viewed through the eaves, the peaks lay shrouded in shadow, for the warmth had grown too intense.

Nineteen

Rain might fall. When snakes appear in sunlit areas, they say it brings rain—I saw it twice on my way here. With clouds blanketing the sky and the air grown damp, flute-and-drum festival music—from beyond what seemed a mountain’s crest—reached us like frogs croaking in the distance: faint yet palpable, a sunken melody straddling dream and waking. Like a mist-shrouded wax cylinder phonograph, it resonated remotely.

Until then, there had been some similar sounds, but they were extremely scattered, not coalescing into any discernible voice. It seemed as though the villages' lattice shutters, pillars, sliding doors, and kitchen utensils—bored by the long daylight—were stretching and letting out yawns. Although it was still before noon—intermittent lowing of cows mingling with what sounded like people laughing and enjoying themselves—the voices remained motionless, quietly carried by the wind. He suddenly pricked up his ears, but it immediately became the monk's words, "The direction of Oita Town is quite lively."

“Is there a festival underway?”

“I understand you reside near the station, so it’s quite close by.” “The new station’s inauguration.”

Today was indeed the day that had been talked about for nearly a month now. A completion ceremony for the grandly rebuilt station—with a stage erected there, actors arriving from Tokyo, villagers performing farcical acts, mochi being scattered—had kept up its all-night revelry since yesterday evening, and even this morning’s passersby had to weave through the crowds; yet he seemed to have completely forgotten about it all. “I was utterly absorbed in your story—perhaps because this place is so secluded and tranquil—that I didn’t notice a thing.” “Truthfully, it was too clamorous there, so I took refuge here.” “Though it does seem rain is approaching.”

The monk’s forehead tilted back as he passed under the eaves, “A persistent spell of rain, perhaps.” “It likely won’t turn into a steady rain.” “Oh, we also have rain gear.” “If you have no intention of watching the play, then please take your time here leisurely.” “That noise too—being so amusing and intriguing—makes one feel restless enough that they can’t sit still, as if they might even go to watch. But then, when you recklessly distance yourself like this, doesn’t it feel as though you’ve been cut off from the world? Leaving you with this lonely, gloomy, peculiar sensation?”

“Verily.”

“In times of old, they say that when digging wells, one could hear sounds beneath the earth—the barking of dogs and crowing of chickens, human voices, the creaking of oxcarts.” “It does resemble that.” In places viewed from mountain passes—under veils of fog, along dark shorelines where faint lights glimmer, or behind lands crossed beyond the mountain’s flank—what one heard seemed strangely inhuman. “When heard at midnight, calling it phantom drumming is most fitting.” “No—and regarding that guest we spoke of,”

With that, he hurriedly drank a mouthful of tea and set it aside, “Now, as I mentioned earlier, he ascended these stone steps at night.” “However, this was not an act driven by passion or sudden fervor.” “For one such as myself—accustomed through daily life to this hermitage—the stone steps come to feel like a corridor running lengthwise through a residence.” “They say when the guest went to the hall, he beheld a vista where the moon’s shadow fluttered broadly across the pillar-lined floor, while at the sea’s edge lingered remnants of sunset clouds burning crimson. In that chaotic twilight hour—when both water and mountains seemed submerged in a vast lake—he witnessed evening light filtering through eaves and fragments of sunset clouds, creating a view like red and white lotuses blooming riotously.” “Had he not strayed from the hall’s edge—this being akin to the ship of Dharma—no incident of drowning at sea would have occurred.”

“Here lies an extraordinary occurrence—the fact that behind Kannon Hall, the sounds of flutes, drums, and festival music were heard incessantly.” “Even now—that sound can be heard, you see.” “That—the direction is entirely different from that one.”

With that, the monk stood up abruptly in his priestly robes, extended his finger from under the eaves, and thrust it decisively toward the mountain to the left of Kannon Hall. The abruptness of his rising—with the black robe that blocked their view seeming to spill ink across the sky—left his sleeves enveloping the shoji screen.

Twenty “If you turn left before the hall, it leads to the back mountain through what resembles a tunnel piercing the sky—passing between rocks jutting from both sides and through stands of trees.” Both valleys—on the seaward side, where mountains split—had a train running through their central path. “One side drops into a valley, and from there onward—mountain after mountain—the peaks gradually multiply as the mist thickens step by step.” “In some places, mountain ridges cluster like tree roots—there are areas embracing vast green rice paddies, and others enclosing charcoal kilns.”

There, this mountain-hugging path followed a high embankment along the cliff—occasionally emerging to vistas of islands and white sails—but otherwise growing so thick with vegetation it turned pitch-dark. At this season, it wasn’t yet so overgrown, but when the grass thickened, one couldn’t pass without parting it. In the valleys were places where bush warblers sang; on the peaks where Japanese tits trilled; at the roots of indigo-hued crags where violets bloomed in spring and gentians in autumn. The mountain spring water trickled softly through a path resembling a medicinal mortar’s groove; after crossing dwarf bamboo on both sides and proceeding through what felt like half a mile’s distance, there stood a solitary peak. Then it became a cliff where county boundaries shifted and the sea’s aspect changed—but upon that cliff, if I may compare it, sat a stone Jizo statue back-to-back with this Kannon Hall, leaning against the mountain’s ridge, roughly the size of a Great Buddha sitting cross-legged without arms. "That thing—they call it a stone Jizo, but with such crude carving, you might as well say it’s just a natural rock shaped like a monk’s head." "The strangely pointed part of its face makes it look fearsome when you pray to it."

“Although Kannon Hall retains its form, it has been tragically ruined—even if one were to visit quietly, they’d sink right through the floorboards.” “The roof and pillars lie in disarray like a spider’s web—collapsed toward the cliff without allowing entry to the temple grounds. But since the site where the building once stood has become a viewing platform, those who cross the mountain hereafter might happen to wander there and find themselves startled by the sudden mountain Buddha statue, or so they say.” Taking that place as the mountain range’s end, the path descending beyond bore no resemblance to these stone steps. Though merely a brief stretch of switchback slope—steep and studded with jagged stones—one had to descend nimbly on tiptoe, flanked by stone Buddhas not numbering five hundred or a thousand. “They were countless—small stone figures no taller than one foot, none reaching three feet—standing in rows. Over years untold, some had tumbled roadside or fallen over, yet none seemed stepped upon.” “Even leaning, they remained aligned like comb teeth.”

As for these [stone Buddhas]—whether there was some legend about them—each had women’s names engraved alongside Boar years, Horse years, ages upon ages; thus it must have been that in some bygone era, women from various provinces all gathered here to infuse them with their heartfelt wishes. “Now, black hair has vanished like frost under rain and dew, hems transformed into moss—only shadows linger. Yet that sharply tapered visage makes one think they might have once been female forms—or rather, there’s no such thing as a female Jizo—but doesn’t that very notion make it all the more unnerving?”

“Ah, I may have spoken out of turn, but there is something I have considered regarding the guest’s story.” “The guest—well—proceeded along that mountain path, leaving this Kannon Hall behind—” “Indeed—to that indescribable place with the stone statues—” He leaned forward and looked into his face. “No, no—not to that place.” “He simply took that mountain path—the one passing through the rocks to the left of Kannon Hall.”

“It was because he could hear the festival music as vividly as if he could grasp it in his hand. Since they say the thudding reverberated through the mountainside as if from that lively valley village nearby, it followed that had he merely circled around to the back mountain, he might have looked down directly upon it beneath his feet. The guest had meant to observe from a high vantage point. The entrance still held traces of moonlight. When one proceeds beneath the trees, parting through the grass, the mountains split here and there like windows—from these openings extend countless paths where pine needle gatherers, branch collectors, and wild yam diggers pass toward the valley below, all leading down to the lower village.”

“When he emerged onto those paths—where everything appeared expansive—he first came to bayside eaves on the left, then a thatched roof on the right, peering through two or three such gaps in the terrain. Nowhere could he find any place resembling festival grounds. The sea brightened; the valley grew hazy.”

Twenty-One "But that festival music sounded so close—as if passing just one clump of grass or a small grove would bring him right upon it." As two steps became three, five became ten, he pressed deeper—not only reluctant to return empty-handed after coming this far, but somehow convinced the path ahead looked brighter than retreating. When he quickened his pace slightly, the trail steepened sharply, thrust upward as he pushed resolutely through pitch darkness, parting grasses while drawing his body toward higher ground. Emerging onto a dimly lit hilltop—its flattened earth evoking a cemetery's bounded space—the moon had either clouded over or sunk into the sea. Behind lay his path; ahead loomed cliffs, valleys, or beaches indistinct beneath a shroud of mist. Within that haze glowed a distant crimson clarity like bonfire light below—from there came drumbeats, flute shrills, and a roar of voices.

"It certainly seemed lively, yet he couldn’t determine where," the monk narrated. "The guest stood upon that hazy summit—though it bordered Mino and Ōmi provinces where customs and human sentiments all differed—and thought he might be witnessing here the festival of Nemogatari Village, or so they say." "Moreover, this felt too bustling for the eve—could it be the night of the main event?" Thus mused the guest as he gazed at the scene that seemed deep into the night, remaining dazed for some time—or so it was told.

And then, somehow, he felt a pang of loneliness. Feeling as though he had walked an immense distance, he grew dazedly exhausted and was about to turn back when the mist tinged with fire's glow—seeming to stir with some phantom wind—began deepening in hue from the valley floor upward, its hem rising until the scene reflected across the distant mountains burned before his very eyes like a conflagration, all while remaining shrouded in that same mist.

Feeling compelled to discern something, he proceeded straight across the flatland—and there, suddenly, the mountainside came into view.

“Good heavens!” The festival appeared to stretch from the valley village up to this place as its terminus. Where he gazed, the light waned while descending step by step; below, lantern shadows thickened and gradually swelled with liveliness.

It was a spot formed like a winnowing basket between the hill where the guest stood and the opposite hill, both on the same flat earth. Without even his nails slipping, he descended quietly and calmly. However, of the winnowing basket-shaped area, one side was likely the valley path leading to the festival. Near the valley lay an area about eight tatami mats in size—its surface widely stained with oil, where the grass had gone completely bald." He began to speak but stopped short; the monk shifted the Seto-ware brazier slightly toward the edge, leaned forward, and drew a line across the tatami with his hand.

“Just this—on top of where the red earth was exposed, there was something vaguely crouching.” He shifted his legs, adjusted himself, and placed his hands on his knees. Without thinking, the Wanderer—who had looked outside—realized that the clouds had drawn somewhat near the eaves. “They say it raised a hand and beckoned—slowly—and though he hadn’t meant to approach, he found himself stepping forward anyway. Yet he halted two or three yards away, and when he looked, the crouching figure remained hunched over without lifting its face, wearing something like leggings. From beside its thick grass-colored knees spread wide in a squat, it took up the wooden clappers left there and began clacking them—the sound resounding like something gnashing its teeth, they say.”

“And then,”

“Ah... ah...” "A stained sailcloth-like curtain, full of holes, had been opened—" “The curtain...” “Precisely. “It had been drawn across the mountainside ahead, but since it still appeared as mist through the haze, it seemed a rope had been pulled by that being’s hand—all while remaining crouched without rising.” A sunken, shallow horizontal cavity. "It was large, they say." "The front measured about one ken in width—though around here, such things are often glimpsed." Farmhouses near the back entrance place pickling tubs there or arrange leafy greens, finding them convenient. “Since it had opened the curtain, that must have been the stage.”

Twenty-Two “Indeed, when he considered it that way—there before the stage, amidst leaves scattering every which way—coins seemed to be flying about among them, or so they say.” The curtain had opened—or so one might put it—but there was only a shallow, flattened hollow. “No decorations or props whatsoever.” They say his body shivered, and though he hardly wanted to keep watching, having come this far to observe with no one else around, he found himself unable to turn back now. Reaching into his breast pocket, he stared vacantly—or so it’s told.

Again came a gloomy, damp sound as it clacked the wooden clappers. A thread seemed to stretch all the way from that figure's hand. On both sides of the stage, swaths of white mist slanted across the mountainside served as curtains too. When drawn thickly toward the edges from both directions, they say the smoke swirled and coiled like a vortex.

Crude though they were, like windows or boxes, thirty to fifty small black horizontal holes—each one partitioned off and lined up along one side—housed women standing in perfect rows within them.

Some sat rigidly upright while others stood tall; still more knelt haphazardly on one knee. There were those wrapped solely in scarlet underrobes. There were those with blood trickling down their cheekbones. Some lay bound—he cast but a single glance before those distant figures shrank into diminutive specters, their faces alone persisting like white lilies blooming across a valley floor.

Shuddering, trapped in a place with no escape, once more came the clack-clack of wooden clappers. Then, you see—from one of those partitions extending toward the valley—a small woman unsteadily emerged and soundlessly walked over, soon ascending that stage. When she arrived there, she grew to ordinary height, her figure now slender, and with her chin resting upon drooping shoulders, she fixed an intent gaze upon the guest—ah, that beauty!

“It was indeed Madam Tamawaki.”

Twenty-Three “Coiling a sash around her nightgown, her frost-pale bare feet facing forward onto the stage—she bent one knee as though crumbling with a thud.” With a clang, wood slid into place. From behind the guest—nailed rigid where he stood—something emerged, grazing his back as it passed. A black shadow. He thought others might be watching, but there were none. “The shadow staggered onto the stage, sat flush against Madam’s back, then turned this way—and when he saw its face, it was himself.”

“What?!” “That was none other than the guest himself.” And in what was recounted to me—

"(If it had been real, he would have had to die there,)" Having uttered those words with a sigh—turning deathly pale myself as I did so—or so I recall.

“What he would do—he apparently wanted to watch.” “Of course, flesh quivered and blood surged.” After some time, he—that very self—twisted his body slightly and gazed entranced at Madam’s retreating figure. Then, with his fingertip, he drew a mountain shape upon her pale nightgown—downward once—a △. A triangle—a perfect one. As he watched, his chest grew chillingly cold and drenched in cold sweat. Madam merely kept her head bowed. This time, he drew a square—□—.

That man—none other than the guest himself. The tip of the finger placed upon Madam’s knee quivered violently… and that was all. On the third attempt, as he drew a circle—round and complete—a sudden gust of wind swept across the ground and tore into the sky. The reflections of lamps in the valley bottom sharpened into clarity, vivid as pale pink plum blossoms. To his senses, trying to discern whether it was the beach or the sea’s color, came a jingling sound—scattered coins and rustling leaves—that whirled around in circles.

When he noticed, four or five people were pressing down from behind like a mountain—before he knew it, other spectators had formed.

At that moment, through her disheveled locks spilling with luster, Madam’s complexion grew still more beautiful—and no sooner had this thought struck him than she smiled faintly at the corner of her lips, swayed unsteadily backward to lean against the man’s legs, and rested her head upon his knee. Her black hair slipped upward as she tilted her face back, baring her snow-white chest. Under that weight, the man too collapsed; the stage slid rapidly downward, and with a gasp—there lay the familiar earth. A roar reverberated from peak to valley depths. From there he fled in frenzy back to cling to me beneath my mosquito net,

“Please give me water.” He was helped up at these words, but his body was covered in wounds and soaked through with night dew. Then came his full confession through the hours until dawn. The next day, he slept all day. “When I saw Madam Tamawaki visiting this hall past noon with two maids in tow—despite the sweltering heat—I hurriedly closed these shutters so you wouldn’t notice, you understand.” Since then, that pillar bears her poem of half-slumber. For two or three days afterward, the guest remained shut away like one entombed in a stone sarcophagus, binding himself hand and foot with solemn rigor while I kept ceaseless watch—but in that sliver of a moment when I lowered my guard, he vanished somewhere. Then came the Woodcutter at lighting time,

("I saw them over there—at Hebi no Yagura—on my way here,") he reported.

“The guest must have wanted to see another play like that night’s performance. The corpse was found in the sea. Hebi no Yagura—as we call it—is an ancient waterlogged cave at the base of the second peak behind this mountain. If you shout ‘wah,’ it echoes ‘oh—’ endlessly through its bottomless depths, reverberating for miles. They say the water connects all the way to the sea—though how true that might be, I cannot say.”

The rain came from the direction of the two-story house. It made only sound, not wetting the grass, with a hem that seemed to glide along the path. The beautiful spirit must have been lured. With cloud-like black hair and peach-colored robe, accompanied by butterflies above rapeseed blossoms, she came to the garden, stood alongside the heat haze, and calmly peered through the window.