Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“Old man, old man.” “Oh, this old one.”

The fact that he responded immediately with a single word was likely because the surroundings were quiet and there was no one else around. Otherwise, his deeply wrinkled forehead—despite having loosely tied his headband—bathed in the warm spring sunlight, his face flushed as if mildly intoxicated while peacefully wielding the hoe... that sight of him might have blended into the scene: soft soil below, seemingly damp with perspiration; crimson evening sunlight spilling through fluttering peach blossoms that swayed ardently with their warmth; birds’ voices trilling as if trying to converse—yet even upon hearing human speech, he seemed unlikely to suddenly realize that a voice was calling out to him, so entranced was his demeanor.

On my part as well—having thought he would respond so promptly—I perhaps shouldn’t have called out.

Because truth be told, what I meant to say now felt rather lacking in coherence. By rights, this young traveler should have settled matters by simply planting his recently purchased cheap cane upright on the path during his idle stroll - had it fallen toward Kamakura he'd call the old man; had it tilted toward Zushi he'd stay silent. He likely wouldn't hear anyway; if unheard I'd simply pass by. Though meddlesome, leaving things unsaid also pricked at my conscience. The way that resonant reply - ("Oh, this old one") - had caught me somewhat unawares.

“Ah, old man.” As he took a step toward the low four-eyed lattice fence, he slowly arched his back and stretched backward as if seeking some advantageous position behind him. Between him and the old man grew no grass to separate them. Three freshly tilled furrows lay there—soil swelling with vigorous energy, filled with a lively fragrance that surged upward like steam, yet maintaining an air of desolation. Of course, among the uprooted roots meant for fertilizer and the verdant fava bean sprouts dusted with powdery green, scattered clusters of Chinese milk vetch could still be glimpsed—though.

With his hand on his hunting cap,

“I have an odd question to ask—aren’t you one of the people from that corner house over there?” The old man lumbered around to face me, his deeply wrinkled face fully bathed in sunlight—peach blossoms casting shadows whose hues contrasted against the roof tiles of the house opposite, those tiles standing tall against a midday sky blazing over green wheat fields. “That house there?” “The two-story part.” “Nah, that ain’t me.”

Though this reply might have seemed brusque, he showed no sign of cutting off the exchange; with a single shrug of his shoulders, he flipped the hoe’s handle downward against the earth and looked squarely at my face.

“I see… Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” Just as I began to take my leave at this juncture—he snatched off his headband with one hand and—

“Not at all—there’s no disturbance whatsoever. Yes, you there—do you have something to ask? That house—the front gate’s closed, but it ain’t no rental……” He tucked the hand towel—along with the hem—into his obi as if lifting it from below, then thrust his fingers into both sides of his waistband. In this state, he couldn’t pass through right away. “Well, it’s nothing important.” “Is that all right?” “If this old one were from that house, I’d have said so and moved on—I ain’t lookin’ to rent no place anyway. There was a faint woman’s voice from the back—so I know it ain’t vacant, but—”

“Ah, I see… So there are about two maids as well.”

“About those maids.” “When I was comin’ over here to this road by the side o’ that place just now, there was one slitherin’ along the stone wall o’ the ditch—a long ’un.”

II

Letting his quizzical brows bask unabashedly in the sunlight, the old man dangled his tobacco pouch idly. “Well,” “I’m not particularly fond of them, to tell you the truth,” he said, laughing, “But then you stop to gawk at the scary thing anyway, and what do you know—before long it’s halfway through the fence, tail splashing into the water, and that sickle-shaped head’s probably slipped right into those clapboards, ain’t it? From what I could see through the gaps, it looked like a bathroom. Or maybe it’s the kitchen—but anyway, since there are women’s voices inside, I don’t think they’d be too startled by whatever happens.”

“Once that thing slithers into either the sitting room or storage room, there ain’t no first or second about it. But until then—if it’s coiled up somewhere on the wooden floor, they’d be in a real fix if they stumbled upon it. Anyway, it’s none of my business—but since I spotted you here, and if they’re from that household over there, I thought I’d just mention it to them. Well, around here, snakes ain’t nothin’ special maybe, but—”

“Ah, a Japanese Rat Snake, then?”

As he said this, he opened his large mouth and laughed—a laugh that seemed to seep into the serene day’s endless depths like a tongue with no fathomable bottom.

“It ain’t nothin’ special at all~” “’Cause they’re Tokyo folk~” “Just t’other day, they made a big fuss over some incident~” “I’ll go take a look for ’em.” “Well now~ Been ages since I seen ’em~ Don’t know where they’ve slunk off to~ But I’m friendly with the kitchen folks~”

“Well then, go ahead and do that for them.” “But I’ve made a thoughtless disturbance, haven’t I?” “Ah, not at all, sir—the day’s long anyhow.” “Ah, do keep yourself at ease, sir.”

By the time these humans had parted ways in quiet composure, the incident had perhaps become something akin to a dragon—a matter beyond the reach of mortal consideration.

The Young Traveler turned on his heel; then, with a click-clatter, click-clatter like a shuttle imitating the beat of chicken wings, he traced along the opposite fence line, passed under two peach trees, and as he went by three country houses, caught sight of two women weaving—one eighteen or nineteen years old, the other around thirty. The younger one had slid open the storage room’s torn shoji halfway; glimpsing the profile of an older-sister-style chignon, she playfully tossed the shuttle. The older woman had laid a straw mat over the front garden’s parched soil and sat with her back to the loom platform; when she lifted her foot with a thud, it creaked faintly.

He passed by after seeing just that. Were it not for Onna-Imagawa frontispieces, such sights would rarely be seen these days. The charming figures made him consider lingering a moment, but with even children absent—every household having presumably gone out to the fields—no human presence remained beyond this. Unaccustomed women might shrink in bashfulness—or rather, in this man’s shadow, might well tremble with apprehension. Retracing his path backward and rounding the corner of that two-story house where he had encountered the snake earlier, to his left stretched wheat fields—their high ridges mysteriously sunken—yielding to pale green waters where beautiful white waves rippled faintly along a shore that swept briskly across the vista. Against cloudless skies stood distinct even a Western-style building—referred to by blue foreigners and red foreigners with colors likened to demons—and they say even a beardless man in such garb would be called a “hat-wearer.”

One side indeed presented such a scene—though to the villagers’ eyes it might have seemed like blue and red demons—where even butterflies in flight appeared as sails of pleasure boats along shores open for seaside leisure; while the right side maintained its ancient mountainous form: jet-black peaks resembling the striking wings of a great eagle, closing in from both sides like rice paddies hemmed in by ridges, each layer pressing closer until narrowing into a darkly enclosed cul-de-sac. There, the windows of a thatched cottage at the very end—resembling mountains’ opened eyes—evoked the air of a giant toad, driven back from the brightening sea to lurk in the valley’s depths.

III

There stood a kiln for firing tiles taller than roof ridges; there existed a shrine of unknown origin; there lay a cemetery fallen into neglect; there were camellias that fell incessantly; and in the rice paddies lurked an enormous loach.

The tides of that southwestern sea—bearing white sails upon the waves of this fleeting world—would continue turning each serpentine mountain gorge into bays one by one. Until they came to welcome even the deepest recesses, the villagers would forever face away, tilling their fields in scattered patches.

At the very bend where the two-story house now stood, layered with seven or eight overlapping roofs, lay the heart of this village. From there toward the gorge, dwellings scattered here and there until houses ceased entirely for two or three chō toward the seaside. Yet along both sides of this winding path, seven or eight homes clustered again in scattered fashion, forming a hamlet. The eyes of the shuttle-throwing girl too reached toward the mountains; in the breast of the woman treadling her loom, the sea's waves did not seem to reflect. Thinking these thoughts as he passed through, he moved away.

A sea of rapeseed flowers pressed against every surface. Blinding sunlight blazed without restraint. The verdant cliff to the left and azure mountains beyond existed only to speak of this vivid yellow's bounded dominion. Even the small stream at his feet and a swiftly rustling curtain cascading down stone steps did little to diminish the flowers' chromatic intensity.

In eyes dazzled by the sight, having caught but a glimpse, the weavers appeared as two figures hazily sketched on a blank sheet of paper, their forms left behind while the remaining space had been painted in vivid yellow. On both women’s garments, their hand towels, sashes, aprons, and even in the colors of the loom they were weaving—precisely because not a trace of this hue existed there—they stood out all the more vividly and distinctly within his mind.

Of course, whether filling the background with this vivid coloration to make the depicted figures stand out clearly constituted good or bad technique as a painting method—that was not for the rapeseed flowers to judge.

At that moment when he stood transfixed by the weavers' beauty within the overwhelming yellow before his eyes—when from the tip of the shuttle thrown by the young woman with a sharp flick—there flared a vermilion-gold line that flashed at another's feet, coiled into a ring, sprang once, pierced his vision with blazing radiance, leapt to grasses at the stream's edge, then vanished like extinguished flame.

The Yamakagashi glinted through the rapeseed flowers.

Shuddering, he turned to find the path’s end blocked by stone steps tangled like branches stretching from trunk to treetop. Above them, the thatched hall’s roof loomed like a solitary cloud hovering unnervingly close—so near that the violet of spiderwort flowers blooming along its ridge seemed within reach. There stood Kunōdani’s Kannon Hall, its form arrayed like verdant mountains crowned with black tresses.

Our Young Traveler had set his course for that very place. At that very moment, just as he was about to proceed toward the stone steps ahead—right at their base where the path’s full width was nearly engulfed by thickets pressing in from both sides—a massive horse’s face abruptly surged forth from directly ahead, swelling grotesquely.

Merely seeing it was startling enough on its own—but the torso wasn’t singular. Manes connected to manes, torsos overlapped torsos—the beast’s back spanned roughly nine to eleven meters. In that split second, the Young Traveler stopped short, leaning on his staff. If one were to draw lines connecting the Japanese Rat Snake at the bend, the Yamakagashi amidst these rapeseed flowers nearby, and the horse’s visage ahead, it would form an elongated triangle—trapping him precisely at its center. Could this be some strange earthly specter?

Yet though young vicious beasts surrounded him with fearsome fangs and claws, adders and vipers and scorpions with venomous miasma burning like smoke and flame—all such beings dwelled there in that very place— After a while......

IV

The nonchalant horse handlers had noticed someone here for the first time when three horses emerged sluggishly at the lead horse’s nose—aligned single file from front to rear—trickling down the slope as they came swaying leisurely.

“Thank you for your patience.” “Ah, my apologies for intruding.” “Beg your pardon.”

As the three passed by one after another, each calling out, he pressed himself to the stream’s edge until standing on tiptoe, thinning his form as he avoided them—yet still felt his vision enveloped as if by a vast leather-wrapped bundle. The path grew distinctly narrower, yet he trod softly upon the grass; click-clatter, click-clatter—accompanied by the tranquil sound of a loom—until presently, without incident, he arrived beneath stone steps where azure sky leaked through tree branches.

These stone steps had recently been completely repaired. (Thus, with the steep tiptoe-climbing path now cleared of grass and made plainly visible—snakes would no longer appear—) at that time when they had been severely damaged and just when repairs were about to begin, horses had been hauling stones to the back of the chief priest's annex house—hardly worthy of being called a temple—located below these very steps.

As he climbed the steps—fearing the very stairs might collapse—with corners chipped away, stones missing, earth crumbling, and footing uncertain, he staggered upward. Before his eyes—as the fields below rapidly grew smaller and more distant—the waves’ hue turned blue, lapping ever closer to his feet: a phenomenon common to all mountains embracing the sea. Even upon seeing those early-blooming bellflowers—the pale purple Campanulaceae blossoms drooping amidst moss thicker than the stones themselves in the dimly lit stone staircase among the trees—he felt an inexplicable dampness in the air. Moreover, his skin grew hot with sweat as if he had stepped through a steaming waterfall, only for it to turn icy when a sudden gust swept through. The temple grounds were not particularly spacious.

Indeed, from behind the hall to the corridors on either side stretched a mountain’s curtain—miscellaneous tree branches ink-blackened—while from that very place came the indistinguishable sound of wind through pines.

The shore spread waves like snow—tying to sand, vanishing into rocks—each surge seeming to carry audible sound; yet what stopped abruptly, leaving only regret, was the click-clatter of the loom.

From this vantage point, the figures of the two weavers were not amidst rapeseed flowers but painted upon a blue seascape—a vision adrift upon the waves.

No—I should proceed with my pilgrimage. The five-tiered stairs—so cavernous beneath the veranda that a horse might gallop through—yet their railing cast not even a shadow. In bygone days, it must have commanded such regard. The vermilion-lacquered pillars, floral latticework, and indigo waves adorning the beams—even the golden dragons—all stood faded. A midday moon filtered through the thatch, casting a butterfly’s shadow upon the Chinese-style door—a scene reminiscent of an ancient Tosa-school painting yet harmonizing with a master artisan’s brushwork. Unassuming in its brilliance, it exuded profound elegance, stirring both reverence and nostalgia without ostentation.

The interior beyond the lattice was dark.

Beside the sacred altar with its curtains drawn stood an artificial white lotus—nobly poised—that bowed its head and withdrew two or three feet. He gazed calmly at his surroundings. The vaulted ceiling bore crimson and white peonies—flecks of white pigment lingering faintly while scarlet still clung scattered—appearing as though carved, their forms evoking the sensation of gazing upon a flower garden in a dream. As for these—both blossoms and stands—the round pillars went without saying. Fox lattices, Chinese-style doors, beams, crossbeams—in every nook and cranny where the eye might wander—there was scarcely a spot left unadorned with pilgrimage votive plaques.

There was one called Chōkin, another called Uomasa—Yaneyasu, Daiku Tetsu, Sakan Kin. In Tokyo’s Asakusa and Fukagawa. Suō Province, Mino, Ōmi, Kaga, Noto, Echizen, Higo's Kumamoto, Awa's Tokushima. Migratory birds from every inlet and bay, rice-laden birds, lesser cuckoos. Unknown in form yet names preserved—all good men and women. In the chill of pillows at firewood-earning lodgings, from reed-mat boats on rainy nights—dreams found lodging in this place. The pilgrims’ souls sometimes came here to linger and play. ……How curious—each house seemed to bear its own nameplate.

V

The sacred site was for them an equally beneficial flower garden—joyous and beautiful. Those who had made even one pilgrimage—whether from fifty ri or three hundred ri away, even from Chikushi Sea's farthest reaches—needed only let the thought arise to instantly come behold flowers falling through void. Under moonlight they would pay homage to white-robed figures. The fevered would imbibe dewdrops from willow leaves. Lovers would cling to gracious hands. They would be embraced by gracious bosoms. As for those who wandered astray—green roof tiles, crimson jeweled fences, gold-silver pillars, vermilion railings, agate steps, floral Chinese doors. Imagining jade towers and golden halls—in dragon palaces where phoenixes danced while watching kylin frolic among peonies—upon lion kings' thrones bathed in morning light with cherry blossom quilts and pearl pillows bright as moon—how presumptuous!—they might dream of sharing beds. Yet Great Compassionate Kannon did not deign to blame.

Therefore regarding these carvings—Chōkin, Uomasa, and others—as evidence of souls passing through this place: merely by viewing the pilgrimage plaques, each and every one—even those bearing women’s names—their features, demeanor, and even their movements appeared hazily before his eyes like shadows. When signatures on various charitable donations announced in newspapers and those displayed on donation boards were realistic, one might call this ideal. Smiling, he examined each one.

When he turned his back toward the door and noticed—near the large offering box—a round pillar bearing fissures like a medicinal mortar's groove, there on a scrap of kaishi paper lay flowing feminine script. Since that doze when first I glimpsed my love, What they call dreams became my sole reliance.

――Tamawaki Miwo―― and there was one written gently and beautifully.

“This is the pilgrimage hall. Excuse me, excuse me,”

When he came to his senses with a start, there stood the monk before him—layered hemp priest’s robes rustling, straw sandals tightly fastened on his short-hemmed vestments.

When he turned around, the monk greeted him with a gentle smile, “If you would step this way.”

Passing by the offering box, he came to a waist-high lattice door. Muttering “Namu—” with the rest under his breath, he quietly slid it open to both sides with a soft creak. The monk moved straight to the front of the honorable altar, rustling his kesa as he adjusted it, produced a match from his sleeve, stretched up to light the sacred candle, pressed his palms together at his forehead—then turned back and opened another door before the person who had paused.

Though it was an insect-resistant platform—raised one step higher with a wide and thick threshold—inside were laid about four tatami mats lengthwise. Tree shade filtered through gaps in the wall, yet the borderless tatami mats remained vividly green and new.

The monk sat before a small desk bare of anything above, pushed out the smoldering ashes from the fire bowl—tobacco absent—and drew one knee closer to this side,

“Please rest a while.” Again rustling through his sleeve, “Ah! The matches were here after all—hahaha,”

he said, pulling them out from under another desk.

“Well then, forgive the intrusion—I’ll just borrow these briefly.” Sitting astride the threshold, he inhaled mist thicker than the sea’s color that stretched skyward even from here. “This hall is truly splendid—isn’t the view exquisite?” “Ah, it’s already fallen to ruin. “Though it’s improper to say this of the Buddha we serve... “Ha ha! Even with this humble one’s efforts, matters don’t resolve easily, so things often go wanting proper care.”

VI

“Are there quite a number of honorable pilgrims here?”

This was the first matter he broached. The monk nodded in acknowledgment and sat neatly at an angle before the desk,

“Indeed it is. “I would like to say it’s thriving... but these days there isn’t much of that. “In its time, it was said to have been a magnificent and splendid sight. “You have just passed through it now, I believe. “It can be seen even from here. “It is said that from the foothills of this mountain all the way to that area near the rapeseed fields, the seven main halls and temple buildings once stood in a row. “It does appear in written records, but here in Kunōdani of Miura District, this Iwadono Temple is what we humble ones call the pioneer of this land.”

“It was Bandō’s Second Pilgrimage Site—a renowned spiritual place—but now one might call it little more than a historical relic. Strangely enough, more pilgrims come from distant provinces these days. From nearby Kazusa and Shimousa to far-off Kyushu and Saigoku—they visit after hearing old tales passed down. Yet when these people arrive here and ask around this area, many find none who know of it, and so they wander lost—or so we’re told.”

“That’s how it goes.”

“Hahaha, indeed,”

With that, his words momentarily trailed off.

Though the monk’s words had sounded somewhat like a solicitation for donations—which made him momentarily concerned—what caught his eye as he tried to flick off his tobacco ash was the fire bowl’s smoldering, ashen hue and the way the spent matchstick lay jammed into it. The place—resembling a Shin Buddhist University dormitory in Sugamo that awaited Maitreya’s advent, seemingly devoid of domestic comforts—was one that ought to open one’s heart wide; this he had casually concluded through his own observations.

There, he took another invigorating breath and exhaled smoke toward the mountain's edge—like Iron Crutch glimpsed through distant mists,

“It must be quite cool in summer.”

“It remains entirely untouched by summer’s heat. “The main hall goes without saying, but even the hermitage rooms below are exceedingly cool. Though they’re merely thatched, please do stop by on your way back and rest awhile. “Let me smolder some leaves and offer you bitter tea. “It’s quite rundown, but well—if a tail were to emerge from the tea kettle, that would make for an amusing diversion indeed. “Hahaha,”

“I must say, your circumstances are enviable indeed.”

said the guest. “Why—you are no sage who’s attained enlightened wisdom.” “A solitary house weighs heavy on this lonely heart, you see.” “Even now, having glimpsed your pilgrim’s form yonder, I’ve trailed after like a shadow.”

"By the way, where might you be staying?" "Me? "I'm staying right near that train station—"

“Just a moment—” “Since around two months prior—”

“Well, at your inn—” “No, I’ve rented a single room and am cooking for myself.”

“Ah, ah, indeed. “Though this is presumptuous of me, should you wish it, I would prepare the hermitage for your use.” “This may seem quite abrupt, but last summer as well, we provided lodging for a single person—a gentleman such as yourself—under similar circumstances.” “A married couple would be quite suitable as well. “Having about two guests would make things easier for us,”

“Yes, thank you.”

With a gentle smile,

“When just passing by, you wouldn’t expect such a place to exist here.” “Truly a splendid hall, isn’t it?” “Please do visit for a stroll from time to time.” “That’s too kind—I shall come to pay my respects.”

He gazed suspiciously at the face that had spoken so guilelessly.

Seven

The monk placed his hands on his knees, "I never expected to hear such words from your lips." "Why is that?" He posed the question, though he had already found no difficulty in understanding its meaning. The monk, though somewhat flat-featured, contained a smile in his plump cheeks, "It’s not that there’s any particular reason… It’s simply that young people these days… well, you see." "Hahaha—a recent matter, you see." "Though I say that—not that I’m elderly yet, mind you—"

“I do understand.” “You mean a young man—moreover a student—is what you imply, I take it?” “No—it’s precisely this courteous restraint of yours that makes it impossible.” “That’s precisely why—”

He shifted his knees restlessly, as if uncertain what to do—

“Our sect is gradually declining.” “As for your sect—I don’t know what it is.” “Our congregation consists solely of the aged—those young ones who’ve experienced modern school life are nigh impossible to guide spiritually, for they hold such notions as ‘It’s not like Kannon herself would appear now of all times’—that’s why this won’t do.” “Lately, it’s the old folks who’ve grown lazy—punctuating their tirades against daughters-in-law with Buddhist prayers, chanting sutras with eel skewers clenched sideways in their teeth while skinning them... Not that such things didn’t exist in the past, but at least when people still held some vague notion of hell and paradise in mind, matters were better managed.” “Nowadays, everyone wears the face of one who’s attained enlightenment in this very life—why, they might even look at a painting of hell and exclaim, ‘Now this is well crafted!’”

“The very people you consider incapable of being worthy opponents are instead those drawn to the Founder.” “They’re tormented by their craving to attain spiritual peace.” “Some go mad from it—why, there are even those who take their own lives, you know?”

“Anything would do. Should you ever see someone midway through thinking ‘Ah! So this is a twentieth-century human,’ test them—man or woman—by suddenly calling out ‘Namu Amida Butsu!’ Some might faint on the spot; others might beg to shave their heads and become disciples then and there; still others might clap their hands in sudden enlightenment. Or perhaps because of that, there may be those who wish to die.”

In truth, this was no mere jest. "That’s simply how things are. Buddhism now enters an era when its dharma lamp shall blaze brightly. Yet why must you all persist in clinging to old ways while shrinking from decisive action?"

He listened attentively, but

“Indeed, precisely—ah, indeed.” “Ah, but if I may speak firmly—while we humble ones hear scattered reports of ideological upheavals akin to the Kumamoto Shinpūren uprising of old, where some claim to have seen gods, encountered Buddhas firsthand, or even proclaimed themselves saviors… in the end, these remain lofty discussions and scholarly pursuits. As for idols like those guarded by us lowly monks—well…”

He started to say but stopped mid-sentence, then looked intently toward the altar.

“If the craftsmanship is good, society would deign to view them as art pieces or sculptures.”

“Though Buddhism may yet flourish in days to come—be that as it may—when we consider these idols... what shall become of them... Even among those sharing our faith, as for worship directed toward the principal image... I find myself pondering what manner of reverence might persist.” “Hahaha! Thus being so, I naturally wish you all would regard Buddhism—that is to say, idol worship—as something distinct from its essence. Deeming these images worthy of appreciation as refined works of art, I consequently found myself inviting you for contemplative strolls and such.”

“No, no—if it weren’t an idol, what would it be? Without beholding your form, what are we to believe? You—it’s precisely because you call it an idol that this won’t do.” “There must be names—for each one.” “Shakyamuni, Manjushri, Samantabhadra, Mahāsthāmaprāpta, Kannon—all have names, do they not?”

VIII

“If you speak of people, they’re strangers—it’s nothing. This will have a name. When a name is given, one becomes a father; becomes a mother; becomes a brother; becomes a sister. So—would you treat those people merely as people?” “It’s the same with idols. If it’s merely an idol, it’s nothing—but the one in this hall is Kannon; you do worship, don’t you?” “Then idols are wood, metal, or even earth. Are you saying they’re nothing more than decorated with gold and silver, jewels and gems, and adorned with colors? Even humans are just bundles of skin, blood, flesh, five organs, and six viscera—then we dress them in clothes. First of all, you—even a beauty is only that much.”

"However, some might argue that while humans possess souls, idols lack them." "You—yes, you—it's precisely because we don't understand what the soul truly is that we wander in delusion, attain enlightenment, face peril, find peace, offer prayers, and nurture faith." "Can one practice archery without a target?" "Even acrobatics and sleight of hand require training." "To those who claim idols are unnecessary—would they have us merely yearn for, love, and pine after a beloved without ever uniting? Without ever beholding their form?" "Ask them: If merely glimpsing their countenance without exchanging words sufficed; if merely speaking without clasping hands sufficed; if merely clinging to hands without sharing a bed sufficed—would that truly satisfy?"

"The truth is, one would at least want to meet that person even in dreams." "There—one would want to see deities even in illusions." "Shakyamuni, Manjushri, Samantabhadra, Mahāsthāmaprāpta, Kannon—are their images not precisely what we revere?"

The Temple Monk’s face grew animated, his eyes shining. Around his mouth, taut with intensity—the pores of his beard so distinct one might count them in a blink—

“You’ve said something quite intriguing.”

He placed his hands firmly on his knees and brought one to his forehead, but— “Since first glimpsing my beloved in fitful slumber, I’ve placed all trust in these visions we call dreams—”

The words he murmured into his lapel as he bowed his head alone were those of the poem inscribed on the pillar.

He too involuntarily looked there—the spider’s thread upon the pillar; its water-reed trace was vividly apparent.

“If I must accept this truth, it shames me deeply—yet unless I confess this shame, you would never understand—this is the classical poem of fitful slumber.” “That poem—”

He too found himself unconsciously leaning forward. “Ah yes, please look. “All around there—those pilgrimage tags are scattered about, you see. Among them, some are apparently used for patent medicines or other advertisements—but that too is commonplace, and we do not mind them.” “And since we never know who might come to post them or when. “However, that—the pillar there—that…” “Ah, that poem?” “You saw it, didn’t you?” “Earlier, when you called out—”

“It must have caught your eye—we know who composed it.” “A woman, I see.” “Indeed—it is said to be a most ancient poem—by Ono no Komachi—” “Most likely so.” “Though she did not compose it herself—no, but she was every bit as beautiful as its poet—” “This Tamawaki… or so they call her—the woman—” Though he spoke those words with composure, his heart quickened imperceptibly.

“Indeed—considering your earlier remarks about sacred images and lovers’ discourse—this may not stem from lewd intent. Though the approach differs, like ‘the moon faintly illuminating the mountain ridge’ as the verse goes, perhaps it likens one’s yearning for Kannon to motifs in classical poetry. ‘Since first trusting in what we call dreams—’ Even in dreams, they say, let me behold your form.” “Truly, there are numerous instances where such rare beauties in this world have swiftly formed karmic bonds and attained Buddhahood after all.”

They had come to compose love poems in great profusion. “While it may not be inherently wrong—well, such things depend on the person—and as the sutras say, ‘If a woman sets her mind on seeking a man,’ I would not condemn it outright.” “Because of that, one person was killed.”

The listener received a shock. More than that of the snake seen in the rapeseed flowers.

Nine “You must find this inconceivable—my tale did come rather abruptly,”

The Temple Monk placed a hand on his cheek, bowed his head, and pondered slightly. “No, but if we consider it not to be a love poem, then perhaps it was the dead person who was deluded.”

“Isn’t that an outrageous tale? How on earth did that come about?” Before he knew it, he had edged up onto the tatami mats of the hall. While listening to this promising story—his lap feeling cramped—he pulled out the hunting cap stuffed in his pocket and set it down beside him. The pine wind rustled audibly. But being a spring day, lighter than human presence, it blew softly through the sky.

The Temple Monk glanced briefly at the Buddhist altar’s lamp, “Well then…”

“In truth, it concerns that gentleman I mentioned earlier—through some trivial connection, he took lodging in the hermitage beneath this hall.” “That gentleman wrote that poem of fitful slumber there for the lady’s sake… To put it plainly—love sickness, or rather, they say he perished from unrequited longing.” “To put it plainly—” “Well now—in this modern age—what sort of man...”

“Precisely someone like you—” Huh? Not the tea-kettle tale, but this Bunpuku priest—thirty blows meted out for conduct unbefitting bitter tea—left one wide-eyed after the fact… There remained only a wry smile… “This is quite the comparison you’ve drawn,” he chuckled, “What you say—though indeed, it’s through such matters that we became acquainted—carelessly, this is…”

“No—it’s quite all right.” “To die of love—that’s true fulfillment.” “When born into this peaceful era without battlefield deaths—longing to perish on tatami mats has poetic flair.” To have been born into an aristocratic fortune only to die lovesick—could any fate hold greater blessing? Love’s requital seems preferable—yet brings only anguish of parting.

“To love someone enough to die for them must be harder than hoarding gold.” “You are truly quite the jester. “Ha ha ha ha.”

“I’m serious. Though sincere, it rings like some jester’s prank. What an enviable person. How ever did you find such a one? To think you discovered a woman who’d die of unrequited love.” “That is something anyone might witness. When we speak of beauty—there’s no need to visit Dragon Palaces or heavenly realms to behold it.”

“So she’s currently here, then?”

“She certainly is.” “She’s a local.” “Is she from this area?” “And it is indeed this Kunōdani.” “Kunōdani’s...” “You—for what reason could it be—in coming here today, you must have passed before that house, and...” “You mean… in front of that beauty’s residence?” As he spoke these words, the figure of the younger woman weaving at her loom floated into his vision—resplendent amid the rapeseed flowers. “So, uh... she’s still a farmer’s daughter after all, and...”

“No, no—she is the wife of a great wealthy family.”

“No—” He muttered absently, “I see—the wife of a great wealthy family? Then she’s already a flower with an owner, I suppose.”

“That is indeed so.” “For that reason, you—” “I see—she belongs to another.” “And would everyone who sees her call her beautiful? Is she truly such a beauty?”

“Yes—in summer we get thousands of visitors from Tokyo, some truly stunning beauties—but none compare to her.” “Then even I might catch lovesickness if I saw her—dangerous, dangerous.” The temple monk responded earnestly, “Why do you say that?” “I must take care on my return journey. Where is it—that wealthy family’s house?”

10

Amidst rapeseed flowers mingling with thatched houses—white waves to one side, pine winds to the other—there in a banner-like haze where peach blossoms bloomed moist and crimson-stained, not one roof rose higher than that dwelling’s ridgepole.

“That two-story house at the corner—” “What?” “That there is indeed the residence of the one who composed this song.” The listener shuddered.

The temple monk, completely unaware, “However, only the wife moved there last autumn.” “The very person with whom I lodged... I shall not mention the name.” “That is quite acceptable.” “Well then, about the guest—let me tell you. “That person, while staying at the hermitage, went into the sea late at night and died.” “Did he drown?” “Well... it would seem so. Since the body had been washed up onto the rocks—whether from injury or resolve—that is first for your own discernment based on what you’ve heard. But as I stated before, it was all because of this song—”

“In any case, that was an extraordinary turn of events.” “After that guest had died—about two months later—she moved there—”

As he spoke, the temple monk raised the sleeve of his priest’s robe as though to shroud the distant two-story house from above the clouds— “Since the wife moved here.” “When there was that commotion about love and delusion, the whole family had gathered at the main house in Hamagata… Even now that remains their main residence, and they still maintain a splendid shop in Yokohama—so the master is probably there now, but—” “Here in Kunōdani she lives in genuine peace with only her maids.” “So it’s a villa then?”

“No, no—this story does tend to branch off—but that two-story house in Kunōdani is said to be their main residence, and they say even the current master was born beneath that roof.”

At that time they led a secluded life, and the roof they spoke of was likely not as it is now. Moonlight and showers alike pierced through its scattered thatching. Even so, the previous Old Man—though he had since passed away—was, you see, a tenant farmer yet a man of great frugality, who fulfilled his long-held wish by borrowing a small plot of land. This land adjoined the rear of my hermitage, where once stood a splendid temple. “That is said to have been the site of that head priest’s retirement residence.”

It was truly pleasant weather for planting beans—a peaceful time when heat haze fluttered over the paddy banks. The venerable Old Man, shouldering his hoe, came down to the foot of this slope and first set about preparing his borrowed land.

When the children came calling—"Get to work now, past noon!" as people say—it must have been around midday. From early morning, it had been cold when he set out, so he’d worn a padded cotton jacket—but with the day turning warm, he worked straight through. The venerable Old Man, wearing a traditional headband and bare-chested, was working vigorously. Generally, he had finished work on just the land deed portion of the borrowed area and now intended to slightly trim the mountainside. He had just begun digging roughly into the foothills when a child came to call him. Thinking to take a break after one last thrust of the hoe, he drove it in with a thud—only for the soil to suddenly soften, swallowing the tool handle-deep with a sickening slurp.

“With a yank, what oozed out clinging to the pulled-up hoe was a crimson, viscous liquid—” “A corpse?” he interjected. “Wrong, utterly wrong!”

With that, the temple monk shook his head vigorously, “As requested—it was gold.” “Ah—so he struck upon it after all.” “He struck upon it. Even in the sea, crimson scales arrest the eye. When water wells from dug earth—more than purple, yellow, or blue—that crimson hue startles most.” “Well, whatever it was—the venerable Old Man stiffened. When he dug two or three more times, it gave way with a thud, hollow beneath. Clinging to the mountainside, he peered in like this.”

Eleven

“Within a crimson earthen hollow that gaped like the opened maw of a giant serpent, he spied a hefty black mass. When he prodded it out with his hoe’s tip—it was a jar.” The lid was apparently chipped, and from there oozed thick vermilion clay—clear at the bottom yet gleaming—that filled the jar. Finding nothing else inside, the venerable Old Man overturned it without hesitation. They say another one had been there too—also a jar—standing vertically deeper within. Ah—this one was the genuine article.

They say he hurriedly pressed down the half-opened lid and peered about restlessly. Even his own child, who had been peering in beside him, he glared at sharply—how could he then calmly expose his bare skin? Against his bare skin—you see—as if carrying an infant, he wrapped it tightly in the tattered coat he’d removed, hoisted it onto his back, his buckling waist steadied by the hoe as a staff—heave-ho! “Shut up! Don’t say a word! You better not blab to anyone!” he kept repeating—then went inside, shut tight the storage room to darken it, laid a straw mat before the Buddhist altar, and clattered as he piled [the jars] there. Though they had apparently grown dusky over the years, neighbors said that from that night onward, the hut somehow remained bright even on moonless nights.

“It must have been polarized vermilion—the spilled contents of those brimming jars blazed along the mountainside like Red Spider Lilies blooming out of season, then vanished like May rains.”

After some days had passed, the Old Man—while attending to village errands in Tokyo—stopped by the Shibaguchi currency exchange. From a grimy tobacco pouch, he gingerly pulled out a single [coin] covered in tobacco dust and tested them: “How much’ll you pay for this?” To his surprise, though the clerk’s pinched fingernails were yellower than the item itself, they declared it undeniably genuine—offering seven ryō in exchange. “Push harder for me, won’tcha?” he pressed, until at last they settled on seven ryō and one bu. Thus began it all.

Here and there, he patiently converted [his holdings] into gold; eventually purchased a ship and old goods; transported fuel loads by sea; gradually moved into timber; and when he had built his fleet up to seven ships, sold them off decisively—then bought land, expanded his shop, and began construction. “Once the foundation was firmly laid,” he became a mountain moneylender—“able to conduct business while sitting idle”—“and lent at high interest.” The massive mountain forests—were they to become bare—would stand tall in neat rows before the shops, and before one knew it, leaving money behind, they would disappear somewhere.

That is as it should be, you see. Borrow interest-bearing gold to buy mountains, start cutting trees, and sustain with capital. “Here, they use timber as collateral and borrow again.” “Interest accrues quickly—they start cutting again, sustain with capital, borrow once more—that is interest.” The borrowers do nothing but cut down trees to the utmost and line up timber at the lender’s shop. They’re hounded into selling off everything at rock-bottom prices, which he then buys up cheaply to profit again. Those coming and going, passing by the house, would leave gold and vanish.

“His wives, children, and dependents multiplied so swiftly that folks marveled as if tengu had swallowed the mountains whole—but in secret… well… they’d whisper about that time he trembled using a hoe for a crutch! Ha ha ha! ‘Why, even the vermilion from one of those jars,’ they’d say, ‘turns to blood if you press it!’ Such were the rumors they exchanged.” “Those sorts never quite strike true when digging things up, you see.”

The two exchanged glances and laughed.

“How cleverly things are arranged. No matter how deeply something is hidden—how could anyone possibly discern where or by what means?”

“No, regarding that—”

The temple monk, as if he had recalled something,

“There’s a tale like this,” “About a boy named Saishinosuke who’d been sternly warned—‘Don’t tell a soul!’—(Father went to the fields and came back shouldering holeless Tenpō coins with a thud!).” “…What do you make of that? Ha ha ha ha!” “Ah—holeless Tenpō coins.” “Those holeless Tenpō coins are the family head.” “Large Taxpaying Councilman Tamawaki Saishinosuke and his esteemed wife Madam Miwo—she being the beauty who penned that poem—what say you to that?”

Twelve

“First, let me serve you a cup of tea.” “As promised, it’s bitter tea—though lacking a proper tea stand, this empty space remains naturally tidy.” “Please make yourself comfortable.” “When autumn comes, though we’re far from town here, we never lack for chestnuts or persimmons.” “We chase crows to gather persimmons, startle shrikes with shrill cries to knock down chestnuts—all to offer you.” “Well, above all else, please relax,” he said as he removed his kesa and hung it on a nail—the scarlet peach casting its shadow figure upon the shoji. The cracks glowed warmly like vermilion from his tale—the priest’s robe appeared to play with the light in such fashion.

Gazing upward from the hermitage cell—stone steps reached into treetops while only the hall’s roof floated suspended, sinking plumply into green clouds where the mountain’s hem pressed close in fresh verdure. Beyond the descended mosquito net lingered two souls awaiting none—butterflies fluttered about an unsmoked brazier. “Inside Kannon Hall, one’s spirit feels inexplicably renewed.” “The tale shared over tea you served here surpasses splendor itself—yet having strayed into that poem’s realm, I cannot help this lingering wistfulness.”

“Yet even just the stone steps—since the path to the graceful Kannon statue has grown nearer—ha ha ha!” In truth—before Buddha—I felt uneasy as though confessing to myself. When one was here，one could relax most comfortably． Once one strayed seven feet from the priest’s shadow，laziness took over—it was quite troubling indeed．

There was the guest.—

“Her usual manner of speech, actions, appearance—” “What sort of person was she?”

“I shall not speak of that. Though I too—being closer to desk-peeping than blindly peering through fences—have heard tell of the books she read and know what manner of person she was reputed to be, even what’s written in sutras becomes distorted when foolishly prattled about. To neither mislead regarding the departed nor presume to judge—as both would be improper—I shall confine myself to recounting the circumstances surrounding that lady.”

One evening, during the peak of intense heat. Having returned from a walk along the beach, he said, “Priest, why don’t you take a look at the sea for a bit? There’s a beautiful person there.” “Ah—what kind of—” came the response. “From that sandy path through the pine grove—when you cross Komatsu Bridge—suddenly the other side becomes a circular sea as if viewed through a telescope. And there you see Mount Fuji over it.” “You must be familiar with this.”

“I know that full well.” “She goes out to stroll nearly every day, you see,” “At that bridge’s approach—pine trees encircling it—the pine grove extends clear across the river to form a vast wooded shallows, you understand—and with gardens spread wide, stones paving up to the grand entrance—there stands an estate with a splendid gate.” “That being—well—the Tamawaki residence.” “In truth, that structure was patterned after a villa built by a Tokyo gentleman, but since the master relishes society and constantly entertains guests, ultimately the sea remains its prime attraction.” “As this Kunōdani area proves rather inconveniently situated, they’ve transferred all ostentatious adornments yonder, rendering Komatsu Bridge akin to the main household.”

So then—around last summer—the young madam... Needless to say—she had been there. And then—when one crossed Komatsu Bridge—suddenly, as though peering through a telescope’s lens, the circular sea-glass would—all at once flare into view—a figure in russet garments fluttering forth beautifully amidst blue waves and white peaks, like a faint rainbow arching across them…… The one referred to was none other than Tamawaki's... However, at that time, the person herself remained unaware of who she was, and those hearing it could not comprehend it either. "What manner of beauty she was," he jestingly inquired while fanning himself with a round uchiwa.

The guest had just removed his sun hat and, not yet having entered the room, sat on the veranda.

“(Who she was—her dignity was almost regal.)”

Thirteen

“She appeared quite noble, didn’t she?” The guest said,

“(Keeping two or three ken behind, wearing an identical yukata with her obi neatly tied, what appeared to be a maid followed along. I only caught a glimpse as we passed each other, but her facial features were distinct—a fair complexion and lips of such crimson they defied description.”

Despite being in formal attire, she wore her sun hat tilted downward—appearing as casually as a local might. She approached with gaze downcast, shielding herself from the sun beneath her hat’s brim—when meeting face-to-face with one advancing straight ahead, and as both veered aside, her eyes—coolly opened beneath thick lashes—resembled Sesshū’s brush dipped in Murasaki Shikibu’s inkstone, blurred with soft gradations of light and shadow. It was an indescribable beauty.

“No—in telling this tale—I might resemble a Toba-e caricature myself. Well then, having partaken of our meal, shall we go view the moonlit pumpkin fields again in a manner befitting our station?)”

That evening—for you—it was nothing more than that. The next day, when you went out walking again and returned to the hermitage at the same hour as before, I teased,

“How was Sesshū’s brush?” “Perhaps because it was cloudy today—I couldn’t see it.”

Then, after two or three days had passed,

“The weather still hasn’t cleared up, has it? A bit too cool for comfort—though perfectly suitable for your walk—the clouds still haven’t parted.” “No, there’s no chapter titled Komatsu Bridge in *Genji*, but today on that bridge—” “How auspicious.”

The monk chuckled at such remarks. "It was elegant, as though she had mistaken me for someone else," he continued. "When I was about to cross the bridge, from the opposite approach came a woman leading three boys—the eldest around twelve or thirteen, another about ten years old, and the smallest perhaps seven or eight—patting the little one’s shoulder with one hand while peering down from above, smiling as they stepped onto the bridge. "A floral-patterned sash that would make any woman envious—simple yet gracefully adorned—over a yukata of pale indigo-gray whose fabric shimmered translucently through its indistinct pattern, all arranged with impeccable formal drapery."

It was likely sheer gauze—sky blue and white interwoven, though the pattern remained indistinct—with the white portion of her drum-shaped obi knot resting against her waist sash like snow in June. What made me startle when passing was how she let her hands hang forgotten—those limp-seeming arms—yet her shoulders faintly trembled as if quivering, perhaps overcome by the presence of the man walking past.

As I clung to the path—for some reason, as if losing myself—I ended up sitting on that low railing. "You mustn't say it was because I'd gone mad." “Since below was a river—even with that current—had I fallen, that would’ve been the end. It being neither deep pool nor shallows, no rescue boat would come—and even if I screamed, people would think it a jest and laughingly let me drown—since I couldn’t swim.)” He said with a bitter smile... and that became the truth.

For some reason, when it comes to this love sickness, those nearby simply laugh—ha ha—and let one perish. We, half in jest and partly to tease, would say things like, "How about that usual matter today?"

“This would hold true for you as well.”

How should he respond? Brushing the ash from his cigarette,

“But… I’m afraid I simply cannot treat this matter with proper seriousness. When a daughter falls ill, it’s customary for a wet nurse to manage it—but a man’s case proves troublesome indeed.” “At such times, I would have wanted to angle for gobies in that river.” “Ha ha ha—how preposterous.”

The Temple Monk clapped his hands sharply with evident interest.

Fourteen

“This is absurd—speaking of fishing, right at that very moment, there was someone squatting on the opposite bank’s edge, fishing away.” The proprietor of a small shop at the bridge’s foot—a household goods dealer—was a man whose gaunt frame belied his slackened loincloth, fishing away at karma with such disheveled exposure that he made a truly perilous sight. He was called by the nickname Ichirin Kawara. At the very center of the skylight’s framework—strikingly—there was Ichirin Kawara of the riverside—this one too had been fishing at that time.

The hermitage guest had been sitting on the aforementioned railing, watching those snow-white collar hems flutter past trailing locks, when—just as they crossed the small bridge—the middle child of about ten years playfully clung to her waist. It was then, they say, that she bent back her pale fingers and lightly struck the child’s back. (“Young master, young master,”)

and called out loudly, "They informed her that her handkerchief had fallen," it seems, but Kawara-san—likely intent on baiting his hook—appears to have been watching that stylish figure retreat into the distance. "Hey," called out the eldest child—twelve or thirteen years old—who ran back, picked up the white handkerchief dropped on the bridge, stuffed it into his pocket, and wordlessly dashed off again. Because they were children, there was no bowing or greeting. The young madam had turned only her face in polite acknowledgment—chin tilted toward her shoulder, lips slightly curved—and likely misinterpreted how those cool eyes gazed back intently from this direction. It must have been when the guest at my place came face-to-face with her.

Withdrawn, he startledly returned a bow, but that was all. The young madam was nowhere to be seen, and when you turned aside, there stood Ichirin Kawara wearing a baffled expression. Well now—he'd broken into a clammy sweat, they say—ah, that explains it. It bodes ill. To an outsider giving it no thought, this might seem mere foolishness—but look closer and you'll find sensual allure at work. "First consider how his rustic voice clashed absurdly with tone—fawning over another's children as 'young sir' or 'that dear boy.' To address them as 'young master' marks the height of indiscretion—a tale that diminishes one's standing, if I may put it so."

From another perspective now, even Kawara-san found himself in a somewhat embarrassing situation—he had ended up in an awkward position, as if claiming credit for another’s kindness. He himself never voiced such feelings, but from then on, his growing despondency became visible even to bystanders. He had secluded himself for four or five days. Later, when he had confessed everything to me, the story went that this very misunderstanding became the connection—so that when they next met, might they not somehow end up exchanging greetings? "If that were done," he supposedly thought, "how overjoyed he would be! It would fulfill his deepest wish." “What we call delusion is dreadful—truly a pitiable thing.” “Even the average fool in the world does not reach such depths, truly.”

"The third time, the young madam herself—" “Did they meet again?”

The questioner waited poised for the answer. “This time, conversely, they say that as someone was returning from the beach direction and the young madam was heading toward the beach, they met at that usual exit.” It had grown quite dim by then, they say... After the Doyo period when days noticeably shorten, each time without fail their evening strolls would end later. Unable to endure even mosquito coils any longer, I would hang my mosquito net here and slip inside first—only for them to return afterward, when even being told “Dinner’s ready” had become only an occasional occurrence.

At that time too—already dusk—there was a face in the dim light, like a hazy moon emerging. Just as he thought it unmistakably her, there were five men, among whom was likely the master himself. "The woman was none other than the young madam alone, surrounded as if by an entourage, passing toward the wave-lapped shore in a boisterous rush—but with their numbers, those five men merely created a showy disturbance, you see, a commotion fit for distant ceremonial bows rather than true courtesy."

Fifteen "There was one with bushy eyebrows and a wrathful nose; another with a broad forehead and pointed chin glaring downward; and yet another sprawled on his back, cigar jammed into his cheek whiskers without producing smoke." Another had twisted around to bare his buttocks and slapped them with a fan. Though all were coarse men in summer yukata, among them stood one sporting a pale yellow heko-obi—its knot dangling nearly two feet down to his calves—and another whose crimson crepe shigoki-obi was wound haphazardly high across his chest in scandalous fashion. "The former likely wore his own belt properly, but that 'gentleman' with the crimson obi apparently snatched a maid's while drunk."

This had strangely unsettled the guest; coinciding as it did with the evening tide growing fearsome—those red and blue demon-like figures appeared to be dragging some frail soul toward the netherworld—and whether imagined or not, there was the young madam caught among them, appearing somehow forlorn with an unpleasant air of dejection that stirred such pity he felt compelled to risk his very life rescuing her from those wretches. “It seems he had come to grasp their household circumstances well enough—they said he was fretful over it—but you see, this was impossible, we tell you.”

“In a hell painting—look where a heavenly maiden has descended.” “How noble it appears—as if even starving ghosts might find salvation.” “When he claimed the snake was her divine messenger—ah, how pitiful—Benzaiten herself must have shuddered in revulsion.” “Delusion, I tell you.”

The young traveler folded his arms slightly here.

“However, what is it about women? When the man they love has a beautiful wife, they seem prone to jealousy.” “Men are the opposite,” he argued with a pointed tone. “Ah,” “Men are not so. When a woman in love becomes like 'Ono no Komachi’s flower' paired with 'Ōe no Chisato’s moon'—a perfect poetic couplet—they can rest assured."

"But when it comes to that pale yellow heko-obi and crimson crepe obi just mentioned, one cannot help but ponder a little. The feeling when hearing a Christian believer’s wife say she dreamed of being embraced by Lord Christ as they slept must surely differ from hearing one say they dreamed of being beaten by an Islamic demon god. Either way, it's clear neither is pleasant—but with the former, one can manage to endure it; with the latter, there’s no tolerating it at all."

“Well, setting that aside—why on earth does that lady find herself surrounded only by such unpleasant people?” “There you have it—Tamawaki props his hoe handle like a walking stick, bundled in that tattered coat business. He maintains a lifestyle too austere even for your average aristocrat to match, yet begrudges every coin spent on socializing. The pity is, his very way of carrying himself drives away those of status and honor—leaving naught but unsavory sorts about, alas.”

“Wait a moment—I see. So then, what social standing does that lady hold?”

The monk nodded once more and cleared his throat, “Now then—the young madam’s age—well, any eye could roughly gauge it. Twenty-three or four first comes to mind, though perhaps twenty-five or six would be more accurate, we might say.”

“So she’s the mother of three?” “So the eldest is around twelve or thirteen?” “No, none of them are her biological children.” “Stepchildren?” “All three were born to the former wife.” “Regarding this former wife as well, there is certainly a tale or two to tell—but as it is a digression, it would be best if I did not speak of it.” “It was two or three years ago that he welcomed the current one, but here we are.” “We know nothing of her origins—where she was born, how she was raised, whose daughter or sister she might be.” “Was she lent out and claimed as collateral, or put up for sale and purchased?” “Some say she was a young lady from an impoverished aristocratic family, while others claim she was the daughter of a dispersed great household.” “Then again, some insist she must be a gilded courtesan, while others make outrageous speculations—claiming she’s risen from the ranks of upper-class courtesans—so that her origins remain as unknowable as the master of a pond with unfathomable depths, with none ever truly grasping her nature.”

Sixteen “After all, even if someone like me were to glance at her in passing, I wouldn’t be able to make any sense of it. Of course, even if a monk were to appraise her, it would be beyond his capabilities, you know. The arch of her eyebrows, her gaze—it’s not that they lack charm. Her mouth too was composed in a way that made her seem incapable of uttering even a single flattery, yet somehow she appeared wise—as though she had fully grasped both love and impermanence. In both her physique and facial features, there was a state that could be described as emotions dripping.”

“Were one to adore her—be they stable hands, boatmen, or even us monks—she’d never coldly cast them aside. Though their love might go unrequited, she’d surely grant some fitting reply.” “The knot of her obi, the hem of her sleeve—wherever you might graze them, this dew of passion would melt a man’s bones without fail—such was her essence.” “Noble you might call her, yet hers was no likeness to celestial maidens. Picture rather a figure at Himeji’s keep: crimson hakama-clad, poring over texts beneath a lighthouse’s beam—alluring as dewdrops on petals, yet never one to rinse her hair in common tap water.” “Like one who bathes her snow-pale skin in mountain hot springs untouched by human tread, wringing out raven tresses longer than her frame.”

Rather than making them adore her or incite their longing, she captivates any man who catches but a glimpse of her—such is her vast power. "A lady who seems to have Hell, Paradise, and this earthly realm all clinging to her very being—consequently, her sins and karmic retributions appear anything but shallow, I tell you." At this point—being a bewildered soul—he might have imagined his pale yellow obi and crimson sash being dragged away by ox-headed demons to the twilight shore’s edge. Our guest—viewing matters through such a lens—would consequently pass before Tamawaki’s estate thereafter...

From the town leading to the shore, veering sideways toward the stream flowing by the back gate—from behind a reed fence redirected there—into the space between pine trunks emerged a figure: from collar to shoulders, ears distinctly outlined, with neither obi nor hem visible, appearing to materialize at the center. Before it, three men—only their upper bodies—aligned nearly brushing against pine needles, momentarily seeming like swaying bellflowers and miscanthus before gradually lowering and vanishing. He felt as though they were being escorted to a detached room or prison chamber for some matter concerning himself—the ferocity in the heads of these three brutes flanking front and rear unmistakably spoke of that intent. It seemed to him that he might never meet her again from this point onward into the future—he uttered such an unreasonable thing.

“Well now,” continued the monk, “if one were to imagine even this—the young madam amusing herself at the garden’s artificial hill with guests of the Tamawaki household and the master himself—that would suffice as explanation.” It appeared he could no longer content himself with merely passing through the main thoroughfares. Crossing a river near that back gate and rear entrance previously mentioned, he began wandering deep into the pine grove. “Though it remains Tamawaki’s property,” explained the monk, “this pine grove has been made publicly accessible. Within lies Shioiri Pond—a rather sizable body of water.” His voice took on a didactic tone. “A carpet of green grass beneath layered pine boughs—violets in spring, carnations in summer, bush clover come autumn—a place of true secluded verdancy. You really must take a stroll there.”

“Is it rather dim there?” “Not like some overgrown thicket.” “It’s a place of deep verdancy.” “While reading a book, it would prove most suitable for your walking.” “Are there snakes?”

He asked abruptly. “Do you dislike them?” “Well… I can’t quite say…” “No—by what twist of fate, there are few things in this world as disliked as those. However, if you observe carefully—despite appearances—they’re rather meek creatures. When they stretch their faces along roadsides and someone approaches, do take a proper, intent look. When they look back—you see—they hang their sickle-shaped heads as if embarrassed and shyly turn away. They’re not hateful creatures—ha ha ha ha—they do have hearts, you know.”

“If they have hearts, wouldn’t that be even more troublesome?”

“No, they seem to dislike saltiness—there’s not a single one around that pond. As for the estate these days—with that captivating young madam residing there—even if those hollow, pitch-black holes have become beehives at your feet, there’s no fear of them collapsing like crab burrows.”

Seventeen

"The guest must have seen even those holes as resembling the eyes of a white skull."

Circling the pond and facing the river, Tamawaki’s house structure—he must have conceived it as something like a prison for the young madam.

It was not a matter of flowing with the mere ebb and flow of the tide. Along the gloomy, mouse-gray stagnant banks—where neither floating nor sinking prevailed—their ends perpetually crumbling as if to transform into carp or crucian carp, he saw five or six logs submerged since who-knows-when and thought: Ah—if one were to cut and assemble them, they would become a boat. If tied together, they would become a raft. Yet with neither rope nor pole—must he cross this abyss of love?

Mortal flesh could not cross it. A soul alone might have boarded it... “Within that tree-encircled gate—that person—” he stood on tiptoes, peering in. Even through a butterfly’s eyes, he must have appeared absurdly unmoored— staggering through young pines, feeling only shoulders upward remained, hem and legs vanished like some daylight bat. He drew a book from his breast pocket: “Candlelight hangs high, illuminating gauzy skies; Night-pounded crimson geckos guard floral chambers—” “From elephant-mouth censers waft warm fragrances; Seven Stars crown walls as water-clock boards sound—”

Cold penetrates palace screens, hall shadows dim; Colored phoenix curtains bear frost traces. "Yes, this place—where crickets chirp beneath moonlit balustrades—is said to be where Lady Zhen, once favored by Emperor Wen of Wei, later declined into obscurity and was confined: 'The Locked Away Lady Zhen.'" And then came "Dreaming, I enter my family gate and climb the sandy shore; Where the Heavenly River falls lies Changzhou Road. May you shine as brightly as the sun,"

He murmured the verse—“Release me... If you do, I shall mount a fish and part the waves to depart”—when tears suddenly streamed down his collar. Opening his eyes wide, he glared as if commanding: “O timber in the water—rise up, float forth, flap your fins and come greet me at the gate!” or so they say. “This is no ordinary matter.” “Could this poem be from the Tang Poetry Anthology?”

“What do you think?” “Ah, what was it again—in his dream, he enters the family gate and climbs onto the sandy shore.” “Like a soul wandering through desert sands—the Milky Way’s descent along Changzhou Road—isn’t it pitiful?” When I heard that, I too somehow began to feel as though the woman was being confined. “And then what happened?” “To put it plainly—his cheeks grew hollower by the day, his eyes sank deeper, and his complexion turned ever more sallow.”

One day, declaring "I'm making a grand effort!", he went to have his face shaved at the barber in front of the station. "It was at that very moment, as the story goes." After washing his head—something he hadn't done in ages—and feeling somewhat refreshed in spirit, he wandered out to find the countryside filled with hardware stores: shops selling paper, tobacco, mosquito coils, kitchen utensils—whatnot shops, you might call them. Across from the street stall stood that same hardware store, where they'd sprinkled water outside, the lanterns under its eaves still unlit, a bench straddling from the gutter stone to the roadway as two men played shogi face-to-face. The edge pawn was a promoted piece—the usual sort.

Being of no particular occupation, the guest approached and stood by the roadside as both players recklessly exchanged their hisha and kakugyo pieces—clatter-clatter went each swap—accompanied by spirited shouts of "Take that! Take that!" with every move. Moreover, one old man—apparently handed over by the maids during their bath—sat cross-legged holding a child, a pipe clenched downward in his mouth. With the pipe still clenched in his teeth, each time he exclaimed “Wait now!” or “Steady on!”, the kiseru nearly struck something. The child in his lap—more intensely furrowing its brow than the old man—kept trying to snatch at the mouthpiece. “Since there was no fire lit, he wouldn’t get burned, but in his frenzy to keep it from being taken, he kept shaking it—the child reached out—the rook fled.”

While dangling a long string of drool—he grabbed—! “And just like that—the Zen monk with a ruddy face shaped like a への character, tall-backed and broad-chested, who’d been watching through his gaping mouth—suddenly grabbed his opponent’s king piece with his crowbar-like thumb, then seized the victor’s nose tip and yanked it while roaring ‘Impressive!’, or so you should imagine—ha ha ha ha ha.”

Eighteen

“With a loud hacking cough, he dropped his pipe. The child burst into tears when thwacked on the forehead; the losing player erupted in laughter—all mingled with drool and such, it was. The Zen monk pinched his nose, face bitter, fingers fumbling—a perfect tableau.”

Seizing this moment to leave, he turned around to find a hardware store and a single reed screen—the neighboring house doubling as a makeshift post office. From that doorway smoothly emerged that very person. The train must have arrived—five or six carriages and carts clattered forth, likely having come to observe it—and from beneath the post office eaves, eyes peering out toward the street must have suddenly met the guest's.

Appearing self-conscious, she immediately withdrew into the shadow of the dividing reed screen—yet without turning her face away, she turned squarely there to look this way. When she retreated beneath the eaves—he feeling as though drawn by her gaze—he too peered through the reed screen. At that moment, her hair was swept back in a ginkgo-leaf bun with a single coral bead hairpin; whether due to her coiffure, they say her eyebrows appeared longer than usual. Though wearing only a yukata, they say she had fastened a golden chain to her obi—when it swayed with audible clinks, she shifted her chest while peering through this way, her face seeming to draw flickering mist across the reed screen sideways—so dazzlingly that he involuntarily gave a slight nod.

Just as she too lowered her gaze demurely—a shrill ringing resounded high through you: the telephone’s signal. “This is what we had been waiting for, indeed.” She immediately went to answer the call and disappeared from view, but through the receiver’s clarity, every word carried through. “Oh, I...” “You’re too much.” “You’re too much.” “Why won’t you come?” “I resent you.” “Well, you... I can’t sleep at night.” “Oh, there’s no reason for a train to arrive in the middle of the night... but even so, I keep thinking... maybe you’ll come right now.”

“As for me... well... you see... No matter how far we’re apart, I can hear your voice even without the telephone. You wouldn’t understand.” “It’s always like this.” “Even this waiting—all this waiting I endure—is for my sake... You needn’t keep agonizing over me so.” “Some might call it neglectful—no, not that I’d say it’s neglectful toward Father or Mother—but you see, I stake my life on it. I surely will.” “Tonight—I’ll stay awake waiting for you.” “Oh—oh, enough of that! Please don’t say such things! Since I can’t sleep anyway, it’s perfectly fine.” “I resent you.” “Let us meet in dreams... No—I can’t wait, I can’t wait...)”

O-michi or O-hikari—a woman’s name.

(...Mii-chan, goodbye—we'll meet in a dream.)—” “With a shrill click came the sound of her hanging up.” “Yes—”

I found myself utterly captivated by the sound.

“That day after returning home—in tremendous spirits—I did just as that verse about coolness says—dangling my legs from the veranda.” The guest entered the fire-heated tub at the wellside there and, while using the bathwater, engaged in conversation while fully exposed.

Over there and here, voices rang out loudly. Of course, there were no neighbors nearby. Without a care—through the telephone’s falsetto-laced voice or what have you—

“Oh, Priest! From the young plum leaves into the steam—a thread drawn through glistening in the moonlight—a spider has descended,” he proclaimed with theatrical flourish. “Hurrah! Hurrah! Come secretly tonight.” “Of course.”

he answered, vigorously shaking his head and looking up with a countenance showing no shame before heaven. "But judging from his daily conduct," I thought, "no matter how he might contemplate death—he wasn’t the sort of man to commit such impropriety toward a wedded lady." And so it proved! When chilled tofu with shiso seeds and pickled white gourd was served to me alongside rice, I tightened my obi again,

(Once more around there.)

“Oh no—this is—” I started in alarm, but my figure that had slipped beyond the fence didn’t head toward the sea—instead, toward those stone steps. While bathed in sunlight across its expanse, a wisp of cloud drifted lightly over the mountain grasses as if stirred by a butterfly’s wing; peering through the eaves revealed darkened peaks beyond—the warmth had grown too intense.

Nineteen Rain might well be coming. When snakes appear in sunny spots, they say rain approaches—he had seen this twice on his way. As clouds veiled the sky and dampness thickened the air—whether from humidity—the flutes and drums' fanfare from beyond a mountain ridge reached me like frogs croaking: distant yet near enough to grasp, a music both sunken and vivid that seemed to well up from waking reality. Like a gramophone whose wax cylinder had been spun from mist, yet resonating far away.

Up until then, there had been similar sounds—disjointed fragments that failed to coalesce into any discernible voices. It seemed as though the villages’ lattice shutters, pillars, paper-paneled doors, and kitchen implements—wearied by the interminable day—were stretching and yawning with restless vigor. Though it was still before noon—the occasional lowing of cows mingling—even voices that seemed to laugh and revel at times drifted motionlessly and quietly on the wind. I strained my ears briefly, but it soon gave way to the monk’s words,

“The Oita Town side seems rather bustling.”

“Might it be a festival?” “Given that you’re lodged near the station—it lies quite close at hand.” “The new station’s inauguration.”

Indeed, today was the very day that had been talked about since roughly a month prior. A grand-scale reopening ceremony with an expanded station building—a stage erected at the station, actors arriving from Tokyo, villagers performing their farce, mochi being scattered—last night’s all-night revelry left people this morning practically tripping over themselves in the crowded streets, yet he seemed to have completely forgotten about it.

“I must have been completely spellbound by your story—perhaps because this place lies secluded from the village in such quietude—that I hadn’t noticed a thing.” “To tell the truth, the commotion there grew too much, so I came here seeking refuge.” “Though it does seem rain approaches now.”

The monk’s forehead tilted back as he passed beneath the eaves, “It’ll be a lingering drizzle, I must say.” “Not quite a proper steady rain.” “Ah well—we’ve rain gear here too.” “If you’ve no mind for play-viewing, then do take your ease here at leisure.”

“That clamor too—so amusingly lively it makes one restless enough to want to join the spectacle—yet when you distance yourself from it so carelessly this way, doesn’t it make you feel as though severed from the world? A lonely, gloomy, most peculiar sensation indeed.” “Truly so.” "In ancient times, there were stories that when people dug wells, they would hear sounds beneath the earth—the barking of dogs and crowing of chickens, human voices, the creaking of oxcart wheels." "It does indeed resemble those tales."

From mountain passes—under veils of mist, along dark wave-lapped shores, in places where dimly flickering lights were reflected—in such realms beyond the belly of the mountain, what one heard seemed strangely inhuman indeed. “When heard at night, calling it ‘raccoon dog drumming’ is indeed most fitting.”

“Ah—and concerning the guest from that tale—”

With that, he hurriedly took a sip of tea and set it aside, "Now, as I mentioned before, he had climbed these stone steps at night." "However, this was not an act born of passionate impulse or sudden resolve." "For one such as myself, now accustomed to this hermitage through daily routines, these stone steps feel akin to walking along an indoor corridor—such was their familiarity." "The guest had gone to the hall where moonlight fluttered across pillared floorboards, while at the sea's edge remnants of sunset clouds burned crimson in scattered flecks. In that chaotic expanse after dusk—where water and mountains merged into a single vast pond—he was said to have beheld a vista like crimson and white lotuses blooming wild: shadows of evening sun filtering through eaves mingling with lingering fragments of twilight clouds." "In this way, being akin to the ship of Dharma—had he not strayed from the hall's edge, an incident like drowning at sea would not have occurred."

“Here occurred an extraordinary matter—”

“It is said persistent sounds of flutes, drums, and festivity came from behind the hall’s mountain—” “You can hear it now—right here.” “But that—that’s in an entirely different direction.”

With that, the monk abruptly stood up in his priest’s robe, extended a finger from under the eaves, and thrust it forcefully to the left toward the mountain behind the hall. The abruptness of his rising and its suddenness—with ink-black robes that blocked his view as if spilling darkness across the heavens—his sleeves enveloped the shoji screen.

Twenty "If one turns left before the hall, there lies a path that cuts through towering rocks on either side like a tunnel piercing the sky, passes beneath dense tree growth, and ascends toward the mountain behind."

In both valleys, where the mountain splits toward the sea, a steam train runs through the central track. One side descends valley after valley—mountains upon mountains from there onward—peaks piling up gradually as clouds and mist grow ever thicker. Here and there, mountain ridges converge like tree roots—some embracing expanses of young rice fields, others enveloping charcoal-burning huts.

There, the mountain-hugging path took the form of a high embankment traversing the cliff’s edge—occasionally emerging to vistas of islands and white sails—but elsewhere grew so thick and pitch-dark that while passable then, when grasses flourished, one could not proceed without parting their tangled mass.

In the valleys bush warblers sang; on the peaks Japanese white-eyes and tits trilled; at the bases of indigo crags bloomed violets in spring and gentians in autumn. The path where mountain springs seeped with soft persistence resembled a medicinal grinding trough's hollow, and as one stepped over dwarf bamboo flanking both sides, advancing just a short distance brought them to an isolated peak. Then the terrain became cliffs where districts changed and the sea's character shifted—yet atop those precipices, if I may venture a comparison, sat a stone Jizo statue roughly matching a Great Buddha's stature, back-to-back with this hall and propped against the mountain's tailpiece, armless and cross-legged. "Well now—though we call it a stone Jizo statue," he said, "the carving's so crude it might as well be a monk-shaped boulder nature itself formed." "That strangely tapered part of its face—downright eerie when you pray before it, I tell you."

“Though the hall keeps its shape,” he continued, “it’s shamefully ruined—even if you crept in secretly, the floorboards would squelch and give way underfoot.” “The roof and pillars lie wrecked like a spider’s web,” the monk added, sleeves brushing the shoji as he gestured, “collapsed toward the cliff without letting feet enter the temple grounds. Yet where the building once stood has become a plaza with sweeping views. Mountain crossers often blunder there unawares and get their guts frozen by that sudden Buddha looming from the heights.” The place marked where the mountain chain ended, the descending path beyond nothing like these stone steps. For even a moment’s pause on that zigzagging slope—steep and studded with jutting rocks—you had to tiptoe and scramble down in haste. Not five hundred or a thousand lined both sides, but countless small stone Buddhas none reaching three feet tall, most standing neat at one or one-and-a-half feet. Over years some had rolled roadside or toppled, yet none showed signs of being stepped over. Even leaning, they kept alignment like comb teeth.

Regarding these, perhaps there was some legend—each bore carved women’s names alongside zodiac years like Boar and Horse, ages noted in years—from some bygone era when women from various provinces must have poured their heartfelt vows into them. Now then—their black hair turned to frost by rain and dew, their sleeve hems transformed into moss, leaving only silhouettes behind—one might say their finely pointed faces once bore female forms. Though of course there’s no such thing as a female-bodied Jizo! But doesn’t that very notion make it all the more uncanny?

“Ah, I may have digressed with trivial matters, but there is something I have pondered regarding the guest’s story. The guest—you see—had taken that mountain path after departing from this Kannon Hall—” “Ah, I see—to that unfathomable place with the stone statues—” He leaned forward slightly to observe his face.

“No, no—he didn’t go that far. He merely took that mountain path—the one passing through the crevice between rocks to the left of the hall.” “It was because the sound of festive music could be heard as clearly as if one could reach out and grasp it.” “Now, since they said thudding sounds had echoed through the mountain flank—as if from commotion in that very valley village nearby—the reasoning followed that should one simply circle around to the back mountain, they could peer directly down beneath their feet.” “The guest had intended to observe from a high place.”

The entrance still held traces of moonlight. Proceeding beneath the trees and parting the grass, he found places where mountains split like windows; from these openings emerged paths—where pine needle gatherers, branch collectors, and wild yam diggers passed toward the valley—leading down to the village below. Such places abounded here and there. When he emerged there, everywhere appeared open and expansive. First checking beneath a left eave, then a thatched roof on the right—he ventured to two or three such openings and peered through them, yet nowhere could he find any trace resembling a festival. “The sea was clear; the valley lay shrouded in mist.”

Twenty-One

“However, the sound of festive music seemed so near that if he were to push through just a clump of grass or a stand of trees, it would come into view immediately.” Two steps became three, five became ten—the deeper he ventured—having come this far, he felt it would be a shame to leave without seeing anything. Moreover, somehow thinking that proceeding forward might offer a clearer path than retracing his steps, he quickened his pace slightly. As the path grew steeper, almost surging upward, he pressed on through the pitch darkness, parting the grass and pulling himself toward higher ground. When he emerged onto a dimly lit, leveled flat hilltop—a place that felt almost like being within a cemetery’s bounds—the moon had either clouded over or sunk into the sea. To one side lay the path he had just taken; ahead stretched cliffs, valleys, or perhaps a shoreline he could not discern, for a mist hung thick over everything below. Within that mist glowed a faint reddish hue like a distant fire—or perhaps a bonfire burning—its clarity tinged crimson at the depths. From that direction came the sound of drums, flutes playing, and a roar of voices.

"It seemed lively indeed, yet he could not discern where. The guest stood upon that dimly lit summit; though bordering Mino and Ōmi—where both human sentiments and customs differ entirely—he thought he might witness here the festival of Nemonogatari Village, or so it is said. Moreover, it seemed too lively for an eve-of-festival—could this be the night of the main celebration? By then, the bustling crowd had passed by; gazing at what now seemed a profoundly late-night scene, he stood dazed for some time. Somehow, he felt a profound loneliness. When he felt he had walked quite far along the path and grew dazedly weary—just as he thought to turn back—the mist shrouding that fiery glow seemed to stir as if by wind. From the valley floor upward, rising from its hem like a garment, it gradually deepened in hue until the vision reflected across the distant mountains became a scene that seemed to burn right before his eyes—all while remaining veiled in mist."

There, feeling a desire to discern something, he proceeded straight across that flat area—first, there it was—the mountainside came into view. Good heavens! The festival extended from the valley village, and here seemed to be its endpoint. Where he looked, the scene grew faint, but gradually downward, the lamplight's glow intensified and grew increasingly lively.

It was ground of similarly level earth—a winnowing basket-shaped area between the hill where the guest stood and the opposite hill. Without even his toenails slipping, he descended quietly and with ease.

“However—of this winnowing basket-shaped terrain—one side would be the valley path leading onward to the festival grounds. Nearer to that valley lay an expanse akin to eight tatami mats; its oil-stained earth now lay utterly bare, every blade of grass stripped away.”

As he was about to speak, the monk shifted the Seto-ware brazier slightly toward the edge, leaned forward, and partitioned the tatami mat with his hand. “Only this—on top of where red earth lies exposed—there’s something crouching vaguely.” He relaxed his posture and settled his hands on his knees. Involuntarily glancing outside, the young traveler noticed clouds drawing near to the eaves. “They say the figure raised its hand to beckon—slowly—and though he hadn’t meant to go forward, he did so anyway. Yet he stopped two or three ken away. When he looked, that crouching thing still faced downward without lifting its head—wearing what resembled work leggings—and took up wooden clappers lying beside its thick, grass-colored cross-legged knees. It clacked them sharply—a sound like teeth grinding together, they say.”

“And then—”

“Ah... ah...” “A dingy sailcloth-like curtain riddled with holes had been drawn open—” “The curtain—” “Indeed. The curtain had been drawn toward the mountainside opposite, but as it still appeared shrouded in mist, one could see a rope now lay in the figure’s hand—though it remained crouched, never rising.” It was a sunken, shallow horizontal hole. “They say it was large.” At its front stretched about one ken in width—though such things are commonly seen around here. Farmhouses near their back doors find them useful for storing pickling tubs or arranging greens. “And since the curtain had been opened, that became the stage.”

Twenty-Two

“Indeed, when he thought about it that way, it seemed coins had been tossed amidst the leaves scattered haphazardly before the stage.” The curtain had opened—so to speak—but there was only a shallow, flattened hollow. "There were neither decorations nor stage props." "He shuddered and apparently had little desire to keep watching, but since he had already begun observing it himself—with no one else present—he found himself in a predicament where retreating now seemed impossible. While fumbling with the wallet in his breast pocket, he continued staring blankly—or so it is told."

Again with that gloomy, damp sound, the wooden clappers clacked rhythmically. From its hand stretched an unbroken thread that seemed to connect straight onward. To both sides of the stage, slanting across the mountain's flank, a single strip of white mist served as curtain. When abruptly drawn toward the stage edge from both sides, it folded like swirling smoke, they say. Crudely made yet resembling windows or boxes, small black horizontal holes had been partitioned one by one - thirty or fifty along one side - within which women stood arrayed in perfect formation.

Some were seated, others stood, while some had one knee raised in disheveled postures. There were those wearing nothing but scarlet underrobes. There were those with blood dripping about their cheeks. There were those bound; with but a glance at them, those in the distance shrank into small, ghostly forms until only their faces remained like white lilies blooming across the valley. Shuddering in that inescapable place, once more came the clack-clack of wooden clappers. Then you—from one of those partitions stretching valleyward—a small woman’s form drifted out and soundlessly approached. Upon reaching the stage, she grew to ordinary height—nay, a slender stature—and with her chin resting upon those dejected shoulders, gazed intently toward the guest. Such beauty!

“It was indeed the young madam of the Tamawaki household.”

Twenty-Three "Her sleepwear bound tight with a sash around and around, frost-pale bare feet turned away as she collapsed onto the stage with a thud—knees bending." With a metallic clang, it drove in wood. From behind the guest—nailed rigid in place—something brushed against his back and thrust forward.

“It was a black shadow.”

He thought there might be other spectators, but there were none. The shadow staggered unsteadily onto the stage, sat pressed back-to-back with the young madam, then turned toward this side—and when he saw its face, it was himself. "What?!" "That was none other than the guest himself." And then, in my story— "If it were real, I would have had to die there—" he said with a sigh and turned deathly pale, they say. What would happen next—he had wanted to see, they say. Of course, his flesh quivered and his blood surged.

After some time passed, that self twisted slightly and gazed vacantly at the young madam’s retreating figure—then drew a mountain shape with his fingertip upon her pale sleepwear, marking one downward stroke to form a △—a triangle. His chest prickled with icy dread, drenched in cold sweat. The young madam kept her head bowed without moving. This time he drew a square—□. That man—the Guest himself. The fingertip resting upon the young madam’s knee trembled violently… and so it was.

The third time—when he drew a circle, a round shape, and the line's ends met—a wind that swept the earth and tore skyward blew through, sharpening the valley-bottom lamplight shadows into vivid clarity, their pallor tinged plum-red. To his ears as he wondered whether it was the beach or the sea's hue came a clinking sound—coins and tree leaves rustling against each other—swirling round and round.

When he came to his senses, four or five people were pressing down on him from behind like a mountain, and unbeknownst to him, other spectators had formed. At that moment, the young madam’s complexion grew even more beautiful beneath her tousled locks of glossy hair—then, with a faint smile playing at her lips, she swayed backward to lean against the man’s legs. As she rested her head upon his knee, her black hair dragged across the floor as she tilted back, exposing a chest of ghostly white. Under that weight, the man too collapsed; the stage slid rapidly downward, and with a start—he found himself back on bare earth.

A roar echoed from the mountain peak down to the valley floor. From there he ran back in a frenzy and clung to me—lying beneath my mosquito net—

“Water… please.”

He was roused at his request, but his entire body was covered in wounds and drenched in night dew. And then, as dawn approached, he confessed everything.

The next day, he slept through till evening. Past noon, when I saw the young madam visiting this hall with two maids in tow, I hurriedly—despite the sweltering heat—shut these paper doors tight so the guest wouldn’t notice, you understand.

Ever since, that pillar has borne the Half-Asleep Song. The Guest remained sequestered for two or three days more, confined like one entombed in a stone coffin—binding both self and self, as if shackling his own limbs—while I too kept vigilant watch without respite. But you, in that brief moment when your gaze wandered slightly, he vanished somewhere unseen. Then came a woodcutter, around lamp-lighting time,

“(I saw him just now—at Snake Turret—on my way here),” he reported. “The Guest must have wished to witness another performance like that night’s. The body was discovered in the sea. Snake Turret refers to an ancient horizontal cave at the base of the second peak on this mountain’s reverse slope—water-filled—where if you shout ‘Wa!’, it echoes ‘O—’ endlessly, reverberating leagues into unfathomable depths. They say its waters connect to the ocean, though what truth lies therein I cannot say.”

The rain came sweeping from the direction of the two-story house. It rustled without wetting the grass, its trailing hem seeming to glide along the path. The beautiful woman's spirit must have been beckoned away. With cloud-black hair and peach-hued robes—leading butterflies across rapeseed blossoms—she came to the garden, stood beside the heat haze, and gazed solemnly through the window.