Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

From where wisteria flowers hung on low fir trees, I descended a narrow path. The charcoal kiln came into view directly below. The narrow valley floor appeared completely filled with it. The surroundings were bright. A ton-ton sound echoed from the distant valley. When I reached the valley floor, a young man wearing leggings with fraying cords stood beside the charcoal kiln, driving a wedge into a large oak log to split it. Oaki-san came down the dried valley hollow carrying firewood logs on a carrying frame. Clamping her thumb under the carrying strap against her ribs and spreading both elbows, she walked slowly with downcast eyes. The firewood logs measured about five feet long. Carried sideways, they constantly threatened to strike rocky outcrops. She wore dark blue work clothes cropped at the hips, her leggings tightly fastened. The white hand towel covering her pale face stood out vividly. When she lay back on the stacked logs and rose again, only the carrying frame remained upturned on the woodpile. After unloading her burden, Oaki-san hooked the frame lightly over her left shoulder and climbed back up. She glanced briefly in my direction before lowering her eyes. True to form, she continued walking away with measured steps. Having finished transporting the logs, she began binding those split by wedges—two or three at a time—with strips of wisteria vine. She tied both ends and propped them upright. They appeared tremendously heavy. This was precisely what became charcoal wood.

I thought women’s work required remarkable resolve.

When I perched on the hut’s edge, a wagtail would occasionally come right to my feet with a bug in its beak, wag its tail, and dart away.
When I stepped aside to look, there stood a single clump of irises.
The presence of irises wasn’t strange in itself, but Jiisan’s explanation struck me as odd.
Halfway up the mountain lay a spot where water pooled deeply year-round—a place they called Ichibaimizu.
Because this plant grew there, they took immense pride in how it bloomed with red flowers when summer’s peak arrived.
Thus they saw it as nothing more than a plant that bloomed with red flowers.
But strange as it was, that was all there was to it.

The valley floor being narrow, the sky too appeared confined.
The narrow sky looked as if wiped clean.
There stood a fir tree stretching straight toward the azure sky.
Because its roots emerged well above the hut's roof, the tree seemed to stretch even taller.
At the treetop, a small bird began to sing.
It was a beautiful sound.
When I asked "What is it?" Jiisan said it was a kingfisher.
Then he added something incomprehensible.
Having two nests built at the hut was rare.
Thinking one nest would bring peace of mind, the wagtail had built another.
In other words, they were relying on humans.
"But if you look too closely," he warned, "the snakes will take notice."
He had said such things.
Finding this suspicious, I stepped aside again and found two bird nests within arm's reach at the eaves where cedar bark barely sheltered them from rain.
They sat right above the irises.
Both nests held chicks with fully grown feathers.
The nests proved unexpectedly crude, weeds spilling from their edges.
No doubt he assumed I'd discovered them during my earlier inspection.
He'd jumped to conclusions with those remarks.
I couldn't help smiling secretly.

As I ate my lunch, Oaki-san poured tea and gave me a plate of mountain yam.
She had removed only her straw sandals and knelt on the tatami with her leggings still on.
She had come up specifically to serve me tea.
The reason became clear when she immediately put her sandals back on after pouring a second round from the teapot.
The mountain yam tasted splendid.
Our talk drifted from yams to wild boars.
In Seichō there were wild boars.
They loved mountain yams and would dig them up with their snouts whenever found.
"If you're careless," said Jiisan with folksy charm, "you might meet one round a sharp bend, its snout all blackened."
"On rainy days like that," Oaki-san added from beside us, "even monkeys come down to these trees."
She rarely spoke.
Having wanted her to say something—anything—this alone satisfied me like a loosened thread.
It felt like watching irises suddenly shoot forth and bloom crimson before my eyes.

This marked the second day in the valley.

II

This was where they extracted charcoal.
When they broke through the kiln's mouth, flames burst out all at once with a poof.
I involuntarily stepped back.
Inside the charcoal kiln raged a fierce fire—deep red yet tinged with yellow.
Using a fir pole over three meters long tipped with an iron hook, Jiisan worked to rake out the embers.
The kiln's front burned so hot one's eyebrows might singe.
As I watched skeptically at this massive tool's practicality, someone lowered an adjustable hook made of wisteria vines from the ceiling.
They set the fir pole onto this contraption, making leverage manageable.
An unexpectedly clever mechanism.
"This why heavier ones handle steadier!" Jiisan laughed while hooking glowing coals.
When charcoal snapped apart, it clinked like stone.
The fir pole caught fire as we watched, crackling as it burned.
He kept raking despite the flames.
Finally plunging it into the nearby stream with a hiss, he used the water-cooled hook to resume scooping.
After gathering small batches into piles, he smothered them with ash.
Once finished, Jiisan's face glowed red as if scorched.
He removed Ryanko's hat—never before seen off his head—to wipe streaming sweat.
That hat seemed pure imagination—its fur three-quarters gone, likely stiffened by years of sweat.

Oaki-san had brought back small branches with green leaves, cutting them so vigorously that they rustled noisily.
The charcoal had already been raked out from the ash, but Oaki-san began sifting through the crushed pieces.
The thoroughly dried ash poured mercilessly onto the white hand towel.
As for how much powdered charcoal there was, it only covered the bottom of the straw bag.
She immediately set to work helping pack the charcoal into straw bags.
The small branches with green leaves were tightly rolled and placed at the bottom of the bags.

Oaki-san had been working so busily when suddenly she vanished.
I felt as though the valley itself had abruptly turned desolate.
Without any particular aim to search for her, I climbed up to the hollow where they’d carried charcoal wood yesterday.
On a sheer cliff face studded with knob-like protrusions bulging like tumors, footprints lay pressed into the dirt as though stamped by straw sandals.
Gripping those knobs with hands and feet, I scaled upward.
Oaki-san was there in that hollow, sawing a dead tree alone.
Beside her lay a stack of about ten firewood logs.
The hollow measured roughly a plate’s width in both depth and breadth.
The dense grove stood dimly lit, so damp it seemed dew might drip at any moment.
I settled onto the firewood pile.
Edging closer until I could discern even the crisscrossed weave of Oaki-san’s hand towel.
She stretched both legs out, resting her left foot on the dead tree.
Each push and pull of her saw set greasy strands escaping her towel swaying limply.
Only the saw’s drowsy rasp broke the silence.
Oaki-san kept her gaze fixed on the blade with peculiar intensity.
I remained seated too, staring at those stray hairs and her white collar.
To speak felt improper—yet silence grew more awkward still.
Telling myself to plunge into conversation changed nothing; easier thought than done.
In any case, I broke the silence first.
What words began it or how they flowed—even now I couldn’t say.

Oaki-san didn’t speak unnecessarily. The languor stretched endlessly. There are simply such things. In this mountain shadow, they called frogs "ango" and mantises "kendanbō," or so it was said. Then when going mushroom picking and finding many, they would say “aplenty aplenty.” At this I couldn’t help but laugh. I took out my notebook thinking it might help if I forgot something, and by chance found what appeared to be a Bon dance song from somewhere written inside: “This year’s Bon feels nothing like Bon—even if our house burns down, day laborers flee, we’ve whitened our Bon yukata.” When I had her listen, she stopped sawing for a while, repeating “Whitened our Bon yukata.” When she looked at me then, her smile held a warmth tinged with loneliness. “We’ve another here too,” she said quietly, reciting: “Become Ōsawa Yukawa’s bride and you’ll beg in splendid Edo.” She hadn’t sung it. It would have been charming sung properly, but with Oaki-san—try as one might to make her perform such things—it proved impossible. Far from it indeed—when I asked her to repeat an unclear part, she flushed crimson.

This was the third day in the valley.

III

A day passed, making it the fifth day. At the inn, I had them fill empty beer demijohns with alcohol to carry to Yaseo—this because I’d learned how Jiisan always endured his evening drink of harsh local sake. Planning to return via the camphor plantation, I’d asked directions and traversed a cedar-choked ravine, only to emerge not at the earthen bridge but descending instead to the riverbank. Finding this odd yet spotting what seemed like footprints across the water, I waded over to investigate. Between curtains of pampas grass and brambles lay just enough space to squeeze through and climb upward. As I pressed on, thorns from wild berry bushes caught at me until the thicket grew too dense to continue—one wrong move against the rocks would mean smashed alcohol jars. I picked and ate wild berries instead, their yellow globes fluffy and quick to fall yet intensely sweet. Though called wild berries, they stood six feet tall, forcing me to reach up and bend branches down. Suddenly I noticed bright yellow flowers blooming over blue pampas grass nearby—clusters of small soft leaves resembling honey locust foliage but finer, blossoms bunched skyward in bean-like shapes. Grasping a branch brought instant stabs from thorns that held fast even when I tried shaking free. After much struggle I managed two or three clusters. When later looking back from a distance, these yellow tufts stood vivid among dripping new greenery—here and there like scattered sunlight.

Later, when I asked about them, I learned they were flowers called cloud fruit or yellow soap pod.

Given that the banks were high yet the water shallow, I decided to head upstream regardless. I had given up on reaching the camphor plantation. The season had abruptly turned hot—having switched to single-layer garments just days before—making wading through the water all the more pleasant. A faint trilling murmur hovered here and there. As I went splashing along, a nearby sound abruptly ceased, and something unseen leapt into the water. Peering down, I found it clinging motionless to the streambed. Stealthily approaching, I pressed down from above and seized it—a gaunt creature resembling a frog yet unlike any I knew. At once I recognized it: this was unmistakably a kajika frog. Never before had I seen one outside illustrations, let alone caught one alive. That ethereal cry I’d heard belonged to this very creature. My heart swelled with joy. Though the water ran shallow and clear, the frog clung fast to the bottom stones, frozen in its futile attempt to hide. Enthralled, I caught three more specimens. Gathering butterbur leaves from the bank’s edge, I carefully wrapped my prizes and bound them with miscanthus fronds. Emerging into a sparse cedar grove where rapeseed flowers stood threadlike and spindly—competing in height like anxious children—I took comfort knowing this path led near Yaseo; I’d trodden it myself mere days prior.

Oaki-san was alone making calcium acetate—to explain what this substance is: if you channel the smoke from the charcoal kiln through horizontal earthen pipes, it cools within them into a pungently sour liquid reeking of smoldering. The sourness of it was enough to make one shudder. This was what they called wood vinegar; neutralizing it with lime produced calcium acetate, while using soda yielded sodium acetate. Having provided sufficient explanation—she was producing it. The alcohol jars were passed into Oaki-san’s hands. Oaki-san said, “Oh my, I’m so sorry,” while bowing politely, then immediately headed toward the charcoal kiln. I released the kajika frogs into the nearby water. If they sang, Oaki-san would hear them. The man from the island who had met daily with me at Oaki-san’s place did not come at all this day. The “island” referred to Sado, and he was a man who had come from Sado Province as a forestry trainee—a man who would exclaim in astonishment that despite Sado having what should be Mount Kinpoku, he had never seen such massive, steep mountains as these since coming here. This was the man whom Oaki-san had described as “an insect-like yet amusing person,” apparently because his family name was “Kera.” Because this man hadn’t come, I felt somehow relieved.

Oaki-san seemed to feel very sorry that I couldn’t go to the camphor plantation.
Jiisan had also come to the furnace’s side and was trying to have Oaki’s brother act as a guide.
Jiisan would invariably sit by the furnace whenever he came to the hut.
Even when it was hot, he sat there.
As for the brother, his physique was exceptionally large; though still fifteen, he stood even taller than me from the eyes up.
Sluggishly grinding the small stone he’d placed under his sandal, he wouldn’t say whether he’d go or not.
He was embarrassed.
Oaki-san took him aside, and after she said something, it was decided he would go.
He was searching for a sturdy pair of straw sandals.
While this was happening, a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boy wearing dirty clothes came climbing up, carrying a net filled with mountain mulberries he had picked.
Shiro, who had been lying beside Oaki-san, seemed to suddenly snap at the boy’s feet.
The boy started crying and came running over to us.
Oaki-san smiled with a flushed face and scolded Shiro.
To say she scolded him was only just barely done.
Shiro lay down beside Oaki-san again.
When I took what the boy was holding and looked, there were two bluish dumpling-like objects clinging to the tip of a supple young oak branch that had gently extended outward.
This was common in oak trees.
Oaki-san looked at it and said, “It looks like a mantis egg case.”
I was taken aback.
Oaki-san was earnest.

Upon closer inquiry, I found that "fuguri" referred to what they called a kite’s fuguri—apparently meaning a mantis egg case.

IV

The sixth day was the valley’s final day.
This day passed with extreme swiftness.
I had already intended to leave Yaseo Valley, but since Oaki-san said she would specially prepare sodium acetate to show me, I decided to postpone my departure by one day.
Oaki-san was already making preparations at the workplace.
Jiisan was by the furnace but wore a listless expression.
Upon inquiring, I learned a minor incident had occurred.
It was that the last remaining kingfisher chick had disappeared.
It must have been the snake that came at dawn.
They had intended to put them in a cage yesterday, but due to a moment’s carelessness had done this infuriating thing, and now were crestfallen.
The parent birds perched on a low tree branch, their commotion showing no sign of abating.
Perhaps in an angry posture, they were moving their upturned tails from side to side.
Even the wagtails were flitting about, chirping softly.

Since the day didn’t seem busy, Jiisan stayed by the furnace and initiated various idle chats. Before long, he had forgotten about the kingfishers altogether and was laughing, saying something like, “Yamaguchiya’s bathhouse must be one of a kind in the whole world!” “The landlady at my inn is such an eccentric—the sort who’d even lay out bedding for dogs—that while I wouldn’t say her strangeness explains the bathhouse’s oddness, it’s certainly unusual all the same.” “The front shoji faces a cliff, and in that cliff there’s a cave.” “The bathhouse is inside that cave.” When I was led by the inn woman into that dark place, I had such a strange feeling. “When I was told to remove my clothes and looked around, there was a wooden floor.” “As my eyes gradually adjusted in the dimness—though the six-mat space hollowed out there had been made all the darker by soot from the fire.” “Anyone would feel strange at first, I suppose.”

The sodium acetate Oaki-san had produced was crystalline like pure white snow. This was the raw material for producing food-grade acetic acid. If done by an amateur, it apparently sometimes turned a soy sauce-like color. After making the sodium acetate, she apparently found herself with free time and came to sit in the hut. When she removed her hand towel, her hair—coiled in tight ringlets—revealed a single coral-red bead hairpin she had inserted that day.

I thought.
Oaki-san was still young, yet she spent day after day working on straw sandals.
Even if she had things she desired, what use would they be to someone living solely in this narrow valley?
The hand towel alone served as her grooming.
The white hand towel was her sole ornament in ordinary times.
The work was tremendously back-breaking.
They would gather firewood, split it with a makiwari wedge, then dry and store it.
If there were lumps in the lime, they would pound them in a mortar and store them.
Even during their busiest times, they would haul charcoal sacks up to the hut halfway up the slope.
Even calcium acetate and soda required such specialized skill that their products were sold by master craftsmen, yet their daily wages amounted to a mere twenty sen.
Thus they assisted the elderly father through faithful labor.

Oaki-san was a rare woman with a strikingly straight nose.
However, she possessed none of the things that should bring satisfaction to the heart of a young woman in the world.
Thinking this way, I found myself overcome with an involuntary sense of sympathy.

When I announced my departure and left, Oaki-san was already halfway up the slope carrying a frame on her back. When she tried to climb further, Shiro was sent back and came down. I caught up in an instant. Resolved to walk alongside her as long as she kept moving—though unsure how far she intended to go—I took care to step as quietly as possible. “You won’t be able to take proper leave with me around—I must be such a bother,” Oaki-san said, quickening her pace. I marveled that she could maintain such steady footing when even bearing her own frame seemed arduous enough. “A deer once stood right here,” she remarked under the cedar tree where a thorn-covered sapling stood—its branches sparse but bearing white blossoms—with a single fallen fruit resembling a wolfberry’s crimson orb. Finding it unusual, I snapped off a twig only for her to explain: “It’s an aridōshi flower.” Upon reaching the slope’s crest—visibly winded now—she unloaded her cargo into grass dotted with irises. To better shoulder the frame, she’d donned an unusually small padded jacket that made her appear more diminutive than usual. When she removed her hand towel, her face flushed pink with exertion, sweat glistening along her hairline. On bright days like this, even modest labor deepened her complexion’s radiance—white fabrics glowing whiter against sun-warmed skin. “Wisteria here of all places!” she exclaimed toward the fir tree where scattered blooms hung heavy, their clusters stretched taut.

Emerging from beneath the large camphor tree that loomed over scattered leaves, everything opened up abruptly. Both sides were in the valley, and the single forest road was like traversing a horse’s spine. On both sides, fir wood planks were lined up and drying. Though there was a slight odor, the pure white planks looked refreshingly clean at a glance. From underfoot all the way down to the valley, iris flowers bloomed densely. “Please wait a moment,” I was told, and when I turned around, she said, “It seems quite strong—is the alcohol leaking?” The jar on her back contained alcohol extracted from wood vinegar, so each time her body swayed, a little would spurt out. Oaki-san removed her right hand, supported the carrying frame with her left shoulder, bent her left knee, and carefully lowered it to the ground. Because she asked me to hold it, I supported the carrying frame. When I tried lifting it slightly, I was surprised by how heavy it was. Oaki-san found a suitable stone and came back to drive the stopper in.

Small mountains stretched endlessly in winding folds.
There were no extraordinary elevation changes.
The peaks appeared as an unbroken expanse that made one want to leap from summit to summit.

The boundless ocean was not quite veiled in summer haze, yet hung somewhat murky as a solitary streak. When I stared intently, a fleck of white appeared as if someone had dabbed oyster-shell pigment from somewhere. It was a fishing boat. Two or three more came into view. The white sails were there all along. As I kept gazing, the pale speck seemed to draw gradually closer. Everything lay blurred in the distance. The valley's treetops, iris blossoms, and snow-white fir planks—the nearer things stood, the sharper their clarity. And nearest of all was Oaki-san. She set the carrying frame upon the rock, pivoted smoothly, and hoisted the load onto her back.

Passing Myōken-goshi, at the summit, large cedar trees grew densely.
There too, among sparse ferns and bamboo grass, iris flowers bloomed here and there.
They appeared all the more delicate.

When we reached the main gate of Seichō-ji Temple, mountain-working women—some shouldering fir planks, others charcoal sacks—were resting in a group of five or six. They all presented a fearsome sight. There may be countless mountain-working women, but I had never seen anyone even resembling Oaki-san. Oaki-san, standing alongside them, was like an iris flower blooming amidst ferns.

Intending to take my final look at the temple, I peered through the main gate and saw two white-robed novices picking tea leaves from a small plot of tea bushes atop the stone wall.
In front of the main gate, tea shops crowded together.

I stepped out a moment ahead and looked back to find Oaki-san, still shouldering the carrying frame, surrounded by old women and deep in conversation. When we happened to emerge from the valley floor, each found the other’s presence an oddity. I thought they must have seized her and wouldn’t relinquish their grip. That Oaki-san was beloved by others stood as an immutable truth.

I stood waiting in the shade of cherry trees planted in orderly rows with their young leaves, but Oaki-san never came for some reason.
Yet I couldn't even manage to go back to the tea stalls to check.
Suddenly feeling a lonely emptiness as if my very vigor had drained away, I returned to my lodgings.

Mount Seichō had satisfied me completely in every way. Yet I could not escape regret at having parted from Oaki-san without exchanging words. It felt like threading a needle but leaving the end untied.

(July 1906 [Meiji 39])