Pathway to Japanese Literature

One

Taiju died.

He was called “the Northern Ossan.” That was because his house stood at the village’s northern edge. The gateway stretched unusually long, bamboo thickets looming over it from both sides. Though degraded from reckless cutting, the thicket still cast gloomy shadows across the garden and surrounding land. “Ossan” was neither “uncle” nor “old man”—it held both respect and mockery in its syllables. No one could say when it began; the name had long since taken root. Even past sixty, he kept company only with those in their thirties and forties—especially twenties. His elders were no companions of his. He stood alone among villagers. In childhood he’d suffered fierce smallpox. When lesions erupted across his body, they clogged even his nostrils. His breath turned ragged as he fought for air. His mother, unable to watch, gathered Japanese raisin tree fruits from the bamboo thicket and pressed them into his blocked nose, carving the barest path for breath. It was winter—frost stripping trees bare. The raisin tree stood deep in the bamboo grove. Yellowed leaves fluttered down from sharp blue skies, clinging weakly to bamboo tips before scattering away. Bamboo rustled as if annoyed. Fallen leaves slid helplessly off swaying fronds. Each frost sweetened the raisin tree’s bitter fruits until they fell at the lightest touch—even under varied tits’ unsteady feet.

The children would venture into the bamboo thicket, gather the misshapen fruits mingled with fallen leaves, and chew them. Before contracting smallpox, Taiju too had daily chewed on Japanese raisin tree fruits that he carried in his pocket. In those days, nearly all illnesses were treated with natural remedies. The use of Japanese raisin tree fruits to clear blocked nostrils had been, at that time, a makeshift method that was easily conceived. Among all fruits, if one were to speak of misshapen ones, there could hardly be any as bone-like as the Japanese raisin tree. One could say that from the very beginning, the fact he had been saved by those Japanese raisin trees demonstrated he was no ordinary person. Though he had survived, his face remained covered in pea-sized pockmarks. From that time onward, his nose stayed severely blocked and never properly cleared. He often sang, but whether due to his blocked nose, it merely produced a toneless sound as if blown through a bamboo tube. By nature robust, he had remained terrifyingly vigorous up until two or three years before his death. Until his death, his body stayed robust, yet he seemed utterly withered in some indescribable way. That was because the blind musician Oishi had abruptly ceased appearing in the village. His acquaintance with Oishi had now spanned nearly twenty years. When autumn *machi* came around, without fail a procession of blind female musicians would arrive in the village. Oishi was always among their number. When late autumn’s harvest season arrived, every village held shrine festivals. In this land, they called that *machi*. The date of the *machi* differed by village. The blind female musicians endlessly circled from village to village in pursuit of *machi*. To Taiju’s eyes, the sight of the blind female musicians brought immeasurably more joy than viewing the rice harvest spread across field ridges, fences, gardens, and even up to the persimmon trees.

Blind female musicians were，as their name implied，typically sightless． Among them，called *tedhi*，about one person would be sighted． They would place their sighted guides at the front and cross from village to village through the rice fields． With their hems tucked up to reveal red underkimonos，they all wore tall geta． Their tabi socks were spotlessly white． When their luggage grew exceptionally large，they tied around their chests that dark blue wrapping cloth which people said resembled the blind female musicians’ belongings． The large luggage consisted of their own futon bedding and pillows，which they always carried． This shamisen，too，stored in a dark blue bag—its body placed atop the luggage，its neck protruding diagonally from the right shoulder． They all wore large folded-brim hats． In what was called the blind female musician style，their precious hair was wrapped in white cloths，and atop their topknots，the folded-brim hats maintained their elevated position． The upturned brims，bent as if peering inward，deepened the interior of their hats，and together with the black silk crepe cords that crossed beneath their ears and fastened at the chin，they made the women’s faces appear elongated． Consistently，they were troubled by makeup even though they could not see． The black silk crepe cords drew a thick，strong line boldly across the white powder． They tilted their long，whittled wooden staffs at an angle and proceeded unsteadily in their geta． Despite their upper parts being exceptionally large from the luggage and folded-brim hats，their legs were comically spindly． Whenever their bizarre procession trudged along in a line，if Oishi was among them，there was never a time when Taiju failed to be by her side． However，until he turned forty，Taiju had been a fearsomely steadfast farmer． He was born into a poor family． So when his bones thickened，he was made to do nothing but farm labor． If utilized properly，he was an extraordinarily capable laborer．

He was a man of explosive temper. Once angered, he wouldn’t heed a word even if struck or prodded. This temperament was his father’s legacy. Yet he had never turned violent—if anything, his pronounced timidity came from his mother’s blood. His elder brother too possessed that volcanic temper. The two had never shared a heartfelt talk from their parents’ deaths until their own dotage. Still, Taiju remained fiercely dutiful, rushing to his brother’s house whenever trouble arose. Yet he offered neither opinions nor initiative on any matter. When displeased, he would mutter curses alone. At such times, the right side of his upper lip would twitch upward into a dreadful grimace. His rage mirrored a viper’s wrath. Find a viper by the roadside, hurl clods or sticks at it—it coils tight but stays rooted. It merely lifts its flattened head trembling, never giving chase to bite. Taiju too had never raised a hand against anyone. His anger flared and faded with equal swiftness. After growing close to Oishi the blind musician, any mention of her would crack his stern face wide. His gaping mouth exposed filthy teeth black as iron-stained gums as he laughed, shaking his head like a feverish man. Yet none among his contemporaries dared mock him with talk of blind musicians. Thus his companions remained limited to sturdy men in their thirties and forties. Even during his servitude days, he’d occasionally trailed youths on nighttime escapades.

He too would don a hand towel like the others and tag along. When returning home, he would trudge back alone in dejection. The young men would all abandon him and steal away into nearby thickets or woods once they found their women. Taiju was disliked by every woman. It was exactly like oil repelling from water. Nevertheless, he would energetically lead out his horse by day. He wore a dark blue workman’s apron over a dark blue long underkimono with Tsutsu-po sleeves, a three-shaku belt tied at his front. He had deliberately opened his underkimono’s collar to expose the rounded neckline of his apron. He remained mostly in that horse handler’s attire even after passing sixty. Having always disliked drink and lacking any chance to know a woman’s affection, he had been a robust man with no diversions beyond labor. The fortune that rewarded his diligence guided him to his current home. He had been sought as an adopted son. The household had generations of able providers—the house and grounds were their own, with enough fields to cultivate themselves. If managed prudently, it would have made for an easy livelihood.

The couple grew old without children. He took a wife not long after moving there. The household’s property had readily facilitated Taiju’s marriage arrangement.

II

It was the autumn when Taiju turned forty-two. He had been invited to distant relatives in another village under the pretext of "festival duties" and gone. He returned after nightfall on the second day. When he reached the teahouse in the neighboring village, he found a crowd blocking the entrance. The neighboring village too was holding its festival. Singing and shamisen music drifted from inside the building. He knew at once that blind female musicians were lodging there. Rising on tiptoes behind the crowd, he glimpsed two musicians in white makeup beneath a hanging lamp, their shamisens harmonizing as they sang. Three or four others sporadically added fragmented rhythms. In the cramped shopfront, listeners pressed close to the musicians' knees. More stood in the earthen-floored area. They spilled past the threshold where front shoji had been removed, flooding into the street. Taiju stood among them, peering in. The lamp's slanted light sharpened the singers' faces. When a song ended, the room erupted in clamor. Tobacco smoke curled thinly around the lamp. A musician carefully slid her plectrum between the strings, set down her shamisen, and slumped. As was their custom—relying on hands and ears alone—they sat slightly bowed, utterly still. Then they tilted their heads upward toward the lamp. Even their dead retinas seemed faintly aware of its glow.

No sooner had one blind musician stood up than she collided with the tightly packed listeners in a single step. The blind musician kept stretching both hands out precariously ahead, probing with her feet as if feeling her way, trying to slip through the crowd. Mischievous listeners deliberately stood still trying to block her path. The pitiable blind musician moved forward slowly, as if on the verge of collapsing. Her body looked limp. The crowd began to jeer from all around, raising their voices in mocking falsetto. This pitifully feeble demeanor struck Taiju’s heart with profound intensity. The crowd still clamored for a while, but a gratuity wrapped in white paper was passed from one person’s hand to that old woman’s. The blind female musicians first performed a segment as a gesture of gratitude to the household that hosted them. And then, having received gratuities from the kind-hearted among the crowd, they would sing a segment. The shamisen’s body settled back onto their laps again. The crowd fell silent as a forest. When one segment concluded, the blind musicians loosened their strings and stored their shamisens in indigo bags. And then shoved them aside next to the large luggage. The crowd erupted into clamorous noise once more. At that time, night was deepening. People gradually left, and the narrow shopfront grew quiet. Taiju still did not leave. He couldn’t just plant himself alone at the shopfront. He peered through the sliding window of the side kitchen.

Two or three people hovered their hands over the sole hearth. The other blind female musicians sat with their hands tucked into their sleeves. Perhaps worn out from singing, they all sat with heads tilted as if sunk in deep thought. Taiju still did not leave. Suddenly, the door opened. Taiju started and drew back. In that moment, he stepped one foot into the ditch by the kitchen drain. The one who had opened the door was the teahouse wife. Taiju called out to her and tried to borrow a basin. True to her trade and accustomed to country folk, the teahouse wife drew water herself while apologizing profusely, then removed each of his split-toe socks and led him into the house. It was from this night that Taiju grew close to Oishi. And then he did not return for two or three days. It was through the blind woman that Taiju came to know the poignant affection of women. Women who could see and were brisk in manner had never been Taiju’s companions since his boyhood. Taiju knew this too. More than knowing, he had resigned himself. More than that, the women’s aloofness had become so natural to him that he no longer felt it as any particular deficiency. Even with his own wife, he never opened up outwardly. It was only natural that those who saw each other’s faces morning and night couldn’t bring themselves to exchange such effusive pleasantries. But since even with his own brother Taiju was not close, his rather sullen wife was in fact a distant presence.

No matter which village they visited, people would always try to toy with the blind musicians half in mischief. The blind musicians knew this well enough. Yet for their meager earnings, they kept compromising their principles. Even blind musicians—once they reached a certain age—longed above all to be admired; though sightless eyes couldn’t see, they painted their lips red and powdered their faces white. Oishi had endured countless such indignities through the years. Through their repeated encounters, she too became entwined with Taiju’s devotion. Even without such ties, when people met so seldom, they’d naturally exchange polite pleasantries. Each time he saw Oishi, that tenderness seeped deeper into Taiju’s marrow.

The blind female musicians came to the village every autumn. And so Oishi was always among their group. Eventually, Taiju began bringing the whole troupe of blind female musicians trailing into his own home. The wife, fearing her capricious husband’s temper, kept sullenly silent. Yet Oishi never neglected propriety. From that large bundle she invariably produced a gift for the wife. In time, the wife too came to serve soba meals before the sightless woman. For a woman who had never gone anywhere, having these alluringly dressed blind musicians play their shamisens and sing late into the night became her sole diversion from gloom.

III

It happened one autumn. Oishi had brought the puppy tucked into her bosom. The puppy was wrapped in old newspaper. The puppy lay wrapped in newspaper and asleep. When taken out from her bosom, it stood unsteadily, trembling as if shaking its whole body. It looked at people with sorrowful eyes. Its eyes were moist with tears. It was as thin and small as a plucked sparrow. Oishi said she had saved it out of pity. Taiju laughed alone as he tucked it into his own bosom, where it curled up and fell asleep. He gave it rice in a pot fragment, but it refused to eat. When he poured miso soup over it, the puppy lapped it up noisily. After a while, though still small, it wagged its tail and began scurrying about. After Oishi left the village, the dog came under Taiju's own care. Taiju had always disliked animals other than horses and chickens—creatures considered mere appendages of a farm household. He had tried keeping cats two or three times as well, but they all grew terribly emaciated, lost their voices, and died. With no cats around, rats proliferated. Taiju's house, shrouded by bamboo thickets, was so filled with soot inside that even daytime seemed dark. Having no ceiling, thick pitch-black beams could be seen laid crisscross overhead. When dry west winds blew fiercely, the soot would drift down in flurries.

For the rats, it was a perfect dwelling. Even so, from spring to autumn, snakes crossing the beams kept their numbers comparatively low. At times, snakes would show their pale bodies in the soot-blackened attic to stalk mice. After such appearances, the rats would lie low for four or five days. When harvest season ended and the snakes withdrew into hibernation, the rats gnawed through buckwheat and rice bales. Still, he kept no cats. Taiju alone tended to the dog. He packed straw into a broken crate and set it by the hearth. The puppy curled up inside to sleep. On frost-white mornings, he would rise without fail to peer into the dog’s crate. Though small, the dog had grown. By the time springlike light began piercing through hazily and wheat shoots flushed tender green, the dog had become unrecognizably large. Its red fur earned it the name Aka. Whenever Taiju went out, Aka invariably followed. Or rather—it would race two or three blocks ahead. At every fork in the road, Aka would perk upright and wait for Taiju to catch up. If Taiju turned left, Aka would instantly bolt leftward. But when Taiju meant to go left, he’d deliberately stride right first. Watching Aka scamper off, Taiju would veer left—only for Aka to come panting back moments later, frantically seeking him. There were times you might spot Taiju repeating this teasing game two or three times over.

Aka loved rice crackers. The sight of Taiju feeding rice crackers to Aka was often seen at the village snack shop. The hard rice crackers that weren’t fully baked were too much for him to chew two at once. His jaw would end up completely exhausted. Seeing the dog with its pleading expression yet twitching his nose, Taiju laughed to himself. Aka was a dog of terrifying affection. He could stand on his hind legs, bending his front paws to his chest, and remain standing indefinitely. And whenever he wanted something, he would stick out his long tongue and lap repeatedly at his own nose. When Taiju stepped into the garden, Aka would leap up in pure delight. When he carelessly picked him up, Taiju would often be licked by that tongue. Aka would sometimes lose Taiju and end up returning alone with a rustle. Though it was spring—during that time when shepherd’s purse spread sideways through mulberry fields with bundled branches stretching faint white flowers while wheat had yet to raise its head—skylarks scurried about among short stalks with small bodies crowned by fearsome-looking crests. Whenever Aka spotted a skylark he’d immediately kick up dust clouds chasing after it. The skylark flew low far ahead alternately hiding among tea bushes at field edges or taking flight again fleeing all along. The sound of Aka’s barking quickly grew distant then faded away. When buntings flitted lazily between mulberry branches he’d rise again barking. He barked until they flew from mulberry fields through paddies along moat banks disappearing across shores. Thus he’d lose sight of his master. At such times he’d tuck tail between legs lower head scuttle home in tiny rapid steps. He’d dash off even when sparrows landed in garden.

Seeing a sasakiri—its long whiskers twitching slowly after falling from the paulownia tree in the garden—Aka grew excited on his own and began dashing around in circles within the garden. Then, flipping the sasakiri over with his foot and watching its whiskers twitch, he would burst into motion and scamper about again. There were times when he went out to the fields with his son-in-law Bunzou. The autumn buckwheat field was filled to the brim with white flowers. Aka dashed through the buckwheat, perhaps having discovered the tunnels where moles had passed. As his body brushed against them, the buckwheat flowers rippled forward. After a while, he smoothly stood up on his hind legs from among the buckwheat flowers. Then, spotting Bunzou, he suddenly came scampering over. The tip of his nose was dirty with soil. Aka was a fearsomely spirited dog. And so he had fully matured. At night, he would often detect footsteps and bark. Even during the day, he would bark without fail at anything that struck his master’s eyes as suspicious. The next autumn festival arrived. Taiju brought in the group of blind female musicians as was his custom. Aka, upon seeing the unusual group, immediately barked and lunged forward. The musicians panicked comically. Taiju laughed without any particular reason. And then he scolded Aka. Aka clung playfully and leaped at Taiju.

Furthermore, he leaped at one of the blind female musicians as well. The blind female musicians let out a startled yelp. Oishi was delighted to see her own dog had grown so robust and spirited. Oishi tried to pick up Aka, only to have her hand eagerly licked by his long tongue. The spirited Aka was lovingly raised by Taiju for several years thereafter. The bond between Taiju and Oishi remained unchanged. Oishi’s face had begun to show small wrinkles, and she no longer applied white powder. The prime period when blindness most readily deteriorates had already passed. Even so, Taiju’s affection remained as deep as ever.

IV

The nineteenth year since he had known Oishi, it was the autumn when Taiju turned sixty. He waited restlessly for Oishi. In that autumn’s festival too, groups of blind female musicians came in numbers.

By that time, even the customs of the blind female musicians had changed considerably. Some of the more attractive young ones went about carrying moon lutes instead of shamisens, singing popular songs. And so there came to be more sighted people.

Oishi did not come. And after that, she never came again. Taiju was disheartened. The ones troubled by this were his family members. Taiju muttered to himself and lashed out at everything around him. Even to the villagers’ eyes, his despondent figure became visible. The mischief-makers, as if humoring Taiju’s expectations, put on a show of sharing his grief. Taiju took on a tearful look. Even so, the fact that Oishi was still talked about provided at least some consolation. Each time he was mocked by everyone, a pang of sorrow would well up within him, and yet his chest would feel strangely unburdened. From that autumn onward, a gauntly lonely festival repeated itself in his heart. Aka, the spirited dog, was still playfully clinging to Taiju. Taiju had continued growing watermelons for several years now. It was his scheme to earn spending money for the festival. Even so, it was not solely due to his own diligence, but also because his son-in-law Bunzou, though often grumbled, was put to work. After Oishi stopped coming, he devoted himself single-mindedly to nothing but obtaining money. That year, the rain fell favorably. He never neglected to prepare fertilizer during the winter months and leave it to dry. In anticipation of the watermelon seeds growing large, he would scoop up the Japanese sweet flag that had bent into the bottom of the ditches along with mud during autumn and leave it to dry. He would leave a row’s width between the wheat and sow watermelon seeds there.

Around the perimeter of the field, he sowed sorghum thickly. After the wheat was harvested, the days grew hot. Because red flies would come and nibble away at the watermelon’s tender leaves, Taiju stayed in the field constantly to prevent it. The agile red flies would fly off at the slightest hint of approach, making them impossible to catch easily. Taiju devoted his attention to cultivation, sprinkling ash while the morning dew still clung to the grass and leaves. Soon, the entire field was covered with wheat straw. The vines sprawled over it. The tips of the vines tilted skyward with contentment. Here and there among leaves resembling delicate lacework patterns, small yellow flowers bloomed. Several pale green spheres lay lightly placed atop the wheat straw. Taiju erected pillars in the corner of the field and built a guard hut. The roof was thatched with chestnut logs, with straw matting hung around its perimeter. Before they knew it, the sorghum had grown tall, its broad leaves rustling ceaselessly while occasionally bringing an autumn-like breeze. Watermelons that chilled one to the core lay scattered across Taiju’s field. Taiju tied bamboo to the surrounding sorghum to make a fence. The day remained intensely hot. The sorghum ears that had timidly raised their heads quickly began taking on a sun-scorched amber hue. Taiju crawled naked into the guard hut’s grimy mosquito net.

The evening moon visible in the western sky gradually grew larger until it emerged from the eastern sky over the sorghum fence, and the watermelon vines in the field thrust up mightily, settling their hefty yellow rumps firmly in place. When tapped with a finger, the watermelons began to emit a deep, muffled tone. He hauled them to a distant market. During the day, he had his son-in-law Bunzou stand guard while he himself went out carrying a balance pole. Afterwards, he went out leading a horse. Bunzou had already turned forty. Taiju was by no means a wicked man, but he always dismissed Bunzou out of hand. A moon as bright as daytime shone, and soon the Bon festival of the old calendar arrived. Taiju always slept in the guard hut. Aka, too, was surely sprawled out in the shade of the guard hut.

One day, Taiju awoke from his afternoon nap upon hearing Aka’s shrill bark. The dog did not bark after that. Taiju never slackened his vigilance over the dog. He immediately left the guard hut. Beside the sorghum fence stood a sinister-looking man with a hand towel draped over his cheeks, his bulk looming heavily. This was the dog killer in the very act of drawing the club from his belt. The trusting dog, wagging its tail at the thrown rice cracker, had drawn near to the dog killer’s feet. Upon seeing Taiju’s form, the dog killer took a single step backward.

“What’re you doing!?” Taiju involuntarily bellowed. “I’m gonna kill it.”

The dog killer responded in a thick, low voice.

“Try killin’ it if you dare!” Taiju abruptly snatched up the dog with his left hand. “You think I’d let some killer like you get away with this?” The Dog Killer left, cursing venomously. At that moment, Taiju’s enraged face was terrifying. Aka, having been picked up, let his hind legs dangle limply and held his neck stretched straight and low. After the Dog Killer’s retreating figure—with an empty hemp sack tied with straw rope slung over his shoulder—had vanished from sight, Taiju returned to the guard hut. The moment Aka was released from Taiju’s grip, he dashed back to where he’d been before and bit into the discarded rice cracker. Taiju immediately bellowed. Aka came running up, licking his nose with his long tongue, placed his front paws on Taiju’s body as if climbing up, and fawned over him as usual.

When night fell，Bunzou came to the guard hut． It was to inform him that after being commissioned somewhere for red dog meat，the Dog Killer had targeted Aka and gone around declaring he would surely kill him． Bunzou informed him out of genuine concern，but in truth，not knowing this would have been far better for both Taiju and Aka． In truth，that was not the season for Dog Killers to prowl． Because during hot weather，not only did valuable fur become useless，but preserving meat proved impossible． Taiju knew this． And if there truly had been an order for red dog meat，he believed saving Aka would ultimately prove futile． It was generally believed red dog meat held remarkable efficacy against syphilis． Taiju’s chest burned fiercely with anguish．

Five The next day, an acquaintance visited Taiju’s field. He came often. And when their conversation grew lively, a clumsily split watermelon would be placed between them. Watermelon rinds, their white parts still bearing teeth marks, were thrown outside the guard hut. Taiju would tap one with his finger, boast “This one’s sweet,” and sometimes even emerge. Exposed to the hot days, even half-warmed watermelons would quickly split open. Taiju’s brooding demeanor was not lost on the acquaintance.

“What’s eatin’ you, old man?”

The acquaintance asked. Taiju remained silent for a short while but

“I thought I might as well just kill ’im.”

he said bluntly. "What?" "What?" said the acquaintance. However, this was so abrupt that the acquaintance found himself wanting to mock Taiju as he usually would. "Don’t tell me I’m supposed to do it?" he quickly added. "If he’s gonna end up at the dog killer’s hands anyway, I figured it’d be better if I did it myself…"

Taiju twisted his mouth. “So then, old man—Aka, what’d you end up doin’ with him, huh?” Taiju told the story of the dog killer. A sudden intention to kill it arose in the acquaintance’s heart. He had thought to eat its meat. The meat of red dogs is said to be delicious. Had it been someone else’s dog, such thoughts might never have arisen. But the deeper Taiju’s anguish festered—and the more his demeanor struck others as peculiar—the more innocuous yet dark intentions took root in people’s hearts.

“Just kill him off.” Taiju’s voice trembled as he spoke. The misfortunes that had befallen the dog had completely shattered his fragile mind. He had declared outright that he would kill, yet his voice quivered as though his unconscious affection and anxiety were pleading their sorrows to the acquaintance. Had someone told him not to do it, his heart might have settled—it was simply that the dog had become a burden. But the acquaintance paid no heed to Taiju’s inner conflict. “You gonna kill him, old man?” Such tactless phrasing only deepened Taiju’s confusion.

“S’pose so.”

Taiju tilted his head. “Since it’s no use anyway, I’ll just kill ’im.”

he said defiantly. Then again, he sank into prolonged silence. “Guess killin’ him’s the way to go.” he said in a low voice, as though discarded. In that lay also a plea for the acquaintance to let him stay by clinging to him. But the voice telling him not to kill did not reach Taiju’s ears. “Then you’re gonna go through with it, huh? Since there ain’t no use keepin’ him around. That’s what you’re doin’, old man?” “Since he’s no good anyway.” “So you’re gonna do it, old man?”

Taiju did not respond. However, his fragile heart was crushed as if by a large stone and nailed down; deep within his heart, though he found it detestable, it had been irrevocably settled. His heart was violently agitated and utterly exhausted. “Then go get Sanji or someone.”

The acquaintance left.

Taiju crawled into the mosquito net with one corner undone. Outside the mosquito net, legs were stretched out. Flies swarmed on the legs, but they didn’t move. The dog lay stretched out on the damp soil in the shade, its belly chilled. The two came. Sanji placed his left hand on Aka’s belly and gently lifted. Its hind legs were touching the ground. Aka smoothly lowered its head and assumed its usual pleading expression. A rough rope was slung across the dog. The dog, startled, let out a pitiful, whimpering cry. When Sanji released his grip, the dog bent all four legs, lowered its head as if to press against the ground, and curled up its body. Then, with pale eyes that seemed to steal glances, it looked at Sanji. When the dog whimpered, Taiju sat up abruptly. His nerves had become oversensitive.

“Old man.”

The acquaintance from earlier called out. Taiju flopped back down again.

“Old man—he’s tied up now.” The acquaintance barked in Sanji’s voice. “Just get these pulled out already.” A low voice continued. “Old man, you gonna uproot these watermelon plants or what?” The words struck Taiju’s ears with force. Yet he remained silent. The two pulled out the stake driven into the sorghum fence. Sanji gave a sharp tug on the rough rope he gripped—the dog curled tighter against the earth. When Sanji raised the stick, the rope stretched taut like a thread about to snap. In that instant came a dull thud as wood struck canine skull. The dog jerked its head. Foam bubbled from its mouth; hind legs trembled violently. Not one whimper escaped.

“Old man, it’s done.” The acquaintance from earlier thrust his head into the hung-up straw mat. Inside the mosquito net, there was no movement. He rolled up Taiju’s mosquito net. Taiju was staring fixedly, his eyes narrowed. “Old man, what’re we s’posed to do ’bout that?” “Just bury it…”

Taiju finally said just that.

“That’s true enough, but what’re you gonna do ’bout keepin’ at least the pelt on one side?” “Do whatever the hell you want.”

Inside the mosquito net, there remained no movement. The two men began skinning the pelt with the cleaver they had brought. The blade ran from the throat through the center of the belly. The limp red dog was skinned from its four legs to its back like a sleeping child having clothes removed by its mother. Blackened blood had coagulated around its neck where the fatal blow struck. The flayed dog lay bare, white teeth clenched and eyes glaring wildly. They coiled the pelt tightly from the tail and bound it with rough rope. Then they placed it on the south-facing side of the guard hut. Taiju rose. The pelt's ears stood rigidly upright, resembling a small crouching dog. To Taiju, it appeared unbearably wretched. He lifted the pelt sorrowfully and examined it.

“Old man—you feelin’ sorry now?” the two said. “Well then, we’ll take care of the rest.” They discarded the stick there and departed. Blood dripped onto the wheat straw. In Sanji’s hand was the dog’s corpse bound with rough rope. Taiju was left disheveled afterward. He examined the pelt, spreading it out. He ran to his house as if struck by an idea and brought back a wooden board and a hatchet. He cut the end of the bamboo tied to the sorghum fence to make nails, then affixed the pelt to that board. A sorrowful day drew to a close at Taiju’s guard hut. That night, he could not sleep. Delusions ceaselessly welled up and tormented him. As he dozed off, he would jerk awake at the illusion of Aka barking and dashing away; he would seem to hear her noisily lapping at miso soup spilled on broken pot shards; he would imagine Aka sleeping beneath the floorboards where he lay—these visions would not cease. By the following evening, he was overcome by anger, grief, and remorse unlike anything he had ever known. For he had heard that on the very day Aka died, that dog killer had killed a red dog in the neighboring village and been mercilessly beaten by its owner and villagers before being released under oath never to return. He did not sleep that night either. Apart from being an Ikkoku, he had no faults—honest, diligent, having lived peaceably all his days. Since coming to know the blind female musician, he had drunk deep of such joy as he could grasp. Twenty years of joy had turned abruptly, forcing him now to taste its sorrow.

A great tragedy unfolded in relentless succession.

Six

Night by night, the moon rose later. From mental exhaustion, Taiju drifted into a doze that night. Four or five mischievous village youths plotted to steal Taiju’s watermelons, taking advantage of the darkness. Taiju’s watermelons had never once been stolen before. Their plan was as follows. Two or three of them would immediately grab the watermelons they had scouted during daylight and flee. The others were to deliberately rouse Taiju by cutting his mosquito net’s hanging cord before escaping afterward. That night, even when called, Taiju did not respond readily. Thus had they refrained from such mischief, the next day would have revealed nothing beyond Taiju’s enraged face. The stolen watermelons were split open in distant roadside grass. They smashed them against their knees to crack them apart. Then they scooped out the flesh with their fingertips and ate. Even when only dregs remained after the moisture seeped away, they paid no heed. To them, the thrill of successful theft outweighed any enjoyment of the watermelons’ taste. Thus were the pitiful remnants of despoiled watermelons discovered scattered through patches of grass. When the watermelons were gone and they began idly chatting,

“Huh?” one of them exclaimed in surprise. “What’s wrong?” “What?” Having committed their crime, they all pricked up their ears. One of them was frantically searching around his belt area. “What?” “What’s wrong?” The others all turned back and asked again. “My coin purse—it’s gone!”

The voice was terribly panicked.

“If I dropped that, it’d be a disaster—where’d I lose it?” They peered into the darkness several more times, searching. However, there was no reason for it to be lying around there. When they parted that night as they were, no further trouble had been stirred up yet. Upon returning home, he immediately discovered it. He had forgotten it when he left.

That night, their gathering was entirely for mischief. The mischief had to be extended to their companions as well. “You must’ve dropped that in the field.”

Another one said. “Where ’bouts?”

The one who thought he had dropped it asked eagerly. “It’s the third ridge from the west. When you grabbed that big one, there was a clatter—didn’t notice it then, but that’s gotta be where it is. Go sneak over and look.”

Around the time Taiju had fallen back asleep, one of them headed for the third ridge and quietly breached the sorghum fence. The others were watching from outside the fence, whispering and snickering. When wrapped in the mosquito net, Taiju flew into a rage. He fixed the mosquito net’s hanging cord and lay down again, but he couldn’t sleep. The throbbing of his heartbeat—so loud he could hear it himself—gradually subsided over five, ten minutes, until at last he became aware of his seething resentment. And so he concluded that the watermelons had been stolen because Aka wasn’t there. If Aka had been alive, he would surely have barked, he thought. And then he was overcome with an unexpected surge of emotion that filled his chest to bursting at having killed Aka. He forced his eyes shut. The lively, friendly movements of Aka kept flashing before his eyes, one after another, and he couldn’t stop them. The sound of Aka noisily slurping the miso soup he’d poured over his rice as usual would invade his ears; he’d imagine whimpering sniffs beneath the floorboards; assaulted by the sweltering heat pressing in on him—and so he writhed in ceaseless torment. In the distance, the barking of a dog could be heard. That mercilessly assaulted his ears. Then, in the next moment, he could vividly see the dog killer standing in the shadow of the sorghum fence, hand resting on his club. He shuddered, imagining the sinister dog killer peering through gaps in the hung reed screen. He opened his eyes. The lantern hung on the pillar was dimly lit. He wrapped the lantern in large leaves from a young paulownia tree to shield it from the wind. The lantern’s light shining through made the paulownia leaves appear an intense blue. Within that blue, the lantern’s flame—visible as a small, distinct point—flickered faintly while peering into the mosquito net.

A beetle drawn to the lantern had alighted on a paulownia leaf, its whiskers twitching as it clattered away, unsettling Taiju’s mind. Taiju sat up inside the mosquito net, thinking to smoke a cigarette. The sorghum rustled faintly. Taiju peered through the mosquito net. At that moment, the moon began to stealthily reveal itself, as though everything had fallen into deep slumber. The field faintly brightened. Taiju noticed something moving. His anger enveloped his entire being. He slipped out of the mosquito net from the back. While keeping his gaze fixed ahead, he still retained enough composure to slip into his sandals. He pushed aside the reed mat and went outside. The club brushed against his leg. He immediately grasped it. And then he suddenly lunged at the thief. By then no longer a thief, the unfortunate youth hurriedly broke through the sorghum fence. His body collapsed into the neighboring mulberry field. Taiju stepped across the boundary in one stride and struck down. The first blow struck the right arm at an angle. The second blow struck the back of his head. Had there been nothing there to cushion it, the injured person would have died instantly.

The club passed through the dense mulberry branches and stopped at their base. A third blow was delivered. Then the very club that had killed Aka snapped. The injured youth, victim of this reckless mischief, drew his last breath and was carried home by his companions. Taiju didn’t sleep that night either. He was spent.

VII The injured person revived. Subsequently, he suffered a concussion. The family raged about suing Taiju. In the interim, someone stood there.

Taiju’s relatives also gathered to see, but upon hearing there was no disputing he’d struck down the fleeing thief—Taiju’s deeply imprinted footprints and straw sandals lay beside where the injured man fell—they all fell into despondency and gave up. In time, the injured person’s critical condition passed. However, the physician diagnosed that full recovery would require a long convalescence. If charges were pressed, Taiju thought, he’d have to pass through prison gates. How much dread must he have harbored toward police stations and prisons? From then on, he grew gaunt and trudged about listlessly. To settle privately, he had to pay treatment fees far beyond his means. After consulting relatives, they resolved to cut down the bamboo and zelkova overhanging the house. Being hauled to prison tortured him more than being felled himself. He didn’t care if they lost everything—bamboo, zelkova, any of it. Yet it was still too early in the season for felling trees, and merchants exploiting his desperation offered paltry sums. Even he hesitated. When fear surged through him, nothing felt worth keeping. Still, he burned with humiliation—cutting his own mosquito net’s cord only to be mocked, all of it senseless. The merchant kept pressing him. When Taiju grasped how insultingly low their offers were, emotion clogged his throat.

“I don’t give a damn—I ain’t cuttin’ nothin’.” he bellowed.

“If I’m dead, there ain’t nothin’ to be done.”

And thus he descended further into self-destructive recklessness, voicing such words. If there had been even one person who could console him sincerely, he would have been saved. Habit numbed every heart. People did not cease ridiculing him. And thus they exacerbated and confounded his fear. He was utterly isolated.

The day was scorching hot from morning. Taiju sharpened his sickle to a fine edge and hacked away every last one of the watermelon vines that had barely begun to grow. Then he made his son-in-law Bunzou dig deep around the wheat straw and vines until he groaned. Bunzou groaned as he dug through the unseasonable field under the scorching sun. For Taiju, even looking at the watermelon field had become unbearable. He was driven mad. He drove the sickle into the watch hut’s roof with a sharp thud. Through the thin roof, the sickle’s blade gleamed like fangs. He crawled into the mosquito net, flopped down, and let out a despairing groan. Bunzou kept swinging the hoe without pause.

When the sun had passed its scorching zenith and begun tilting westward, black clouds—resembling monstrous heads and locally called "Three-Sheaf Thunderheads"—seethed upward from the northwestern sky, thrusting forth from the village woods' edge. The term "Three-Sheaf Thunderheads" derived from the belief that thunder heard from that direction meant an evening storm would arrive within the time needed to harvest three rice sheaves. Thick, broad clouds blanketed the sky and advanced straight onward. Thunder began rumbling distantly while flashing with light. To the southeastern horizon too, pillar-like clouds rose in answer. Bunzou feared the phenomena accompanying this violent meteorological shift. He dashed into the watch hut and shouted for Taiju. Taiju lay as though dead.

“The north’s got one hell of a storm front.” “Father-in-law, wouldn’t it be better if you got outta here?”

“Shut the hell up.”

Taiju barely uttered this. He could not bring himself to move at all due to mental exhaustion. The clouds hung low over the ground, shrouding everything in twilight-like darkness. The bunting fluttered about frantically seeking its roost. A gust of wind laden with cold air roared through, shaking the sorghum leaves. The distant rumble of the evening storm grew audible. Bunzou could no longer endure it. He shouldered his hoe and bolted out. At that instant, the sickle tip embedded in the roof grazed Bunzou's forehead. When he jerked his hand up in shock, his palm was crimson. Following traces of the dog's blood, Bunzou's own now splattered across the watch hut. Large raindrops began sparsely pelting the sorghum leaves. Like mist, driving curtains of rain bore down, trampling and thrashing the feeble rice stalks again and again. Bunzou raced headlong across the paddies. The evening storm crashed upon them. Yellow-brown torrents surged and swirled away. The rain lashed ever fiercer, forcing countless gaping mouths upon the flooded waters. Frenzied bubbles scattered as those countless mouths whispered. Then innumerable whispers swelled clamorously to fill the void. A flash of lightning seared a white-hot wire across the sky as thunder brought cataclysmic sound shaking all living things.

The dome-like azure heavens were a colossal glass vessel. When the fierce sunlight heated it and heated it further, the thunder—as if a colossal rupture had been triggered by an injection of cooled rainwater—spread its crackling, parched resonance boundlessly across the sky. Then came a resounding boom, like the crash of massive shards from that glass vessel plummeting earthward, shaking the ground before rumbling away into the distance. The rain filled the space like scattering glass powder, glittering in the lightning flashes. Blazing sunlight seemed to further glitter through the ruptures of that colossal glass vessel as white-hot lightning flashed incessantly; the thunder thundered on and on, the rain poured down without cease.

When it cleared up completely, the sun still rested atop the western mountains, laughing at all the earth’s blocked exhaustion. When Bunzou came to the field, the roof of the watch hut that had always been visible from afar was gone. The hut had burned down. The four pillars stood charred upon the ground. The rest had turned to damp ash. When the family rushed over and sifted through the ashes in the sunset’s light, they discovered Taiju’s putrid body lying on its back. It seemed he had feared the thunder—both hands covered his ears. Had the sickle lodged beneath the roof, baring white fangs like a beast, drawn down the lightning? The hut had burned in the strike. By the time flames took hold, Taiju must have already been dead, free from pain. Thus had Taiju—the lone outcast who lived wild in the fields—exhausted his spirit’s strength in but a brief span. Nature’s might, harnessing that sudden meteorological fury, pressed intensely upon his petty terror while burying away his simple life with it. The board nailed with the dog’s pelt lay toppled face-down. And its back was faintly scorched.

(February 1910, *Hototogisu*)