Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Taijū died.

He was called "Old Man North." That was because his house stood at the village's northern edge. The entrance stretched relatively long, bamboo thickets overhanging from both sides. Though ravaged by reckless cutting, these thickets still cast gloom over the garden and surroundings. "Ossan" was neither "uncle" nor "father." The term carried both honorific and mocking meanings. This naming had settled long ago without discernible origin. Even past sixty, he kept company only with those in their thirties and forties - particularly twenties. Men his age refused to be his companions. He stood peerless among village males. In childhood he'd contracted fierce smallpox. When eruptions covered his body, they clogged even his nostrils. Breath came labored; he suffered. His mother gathered kobus magnolia fruits from bamboo groves, pressing them into blocked passages to grant scant breath. This happened during winter when frost stripped trees bare. The kobus tree grew within bamboo thickets. Yellowed leaves fluttered from crisp blue skies, clinging helplessly to bamboo tips before scattering. Bamboo shook with rustling irritation. Leaves slid helplessly across bamboo fronds to spill away. Astringent kobus fruits sweetened with each frost until even tits' timid footsteps could dislodge them.

The young ones would venture into the bamboo thicket to pick and chew the misshapen fruits mingled among the fallen leaves. Before contracting smallpox, Taijū too would chew kobus magnolia fruits daily that he carried in his pocket. At that time, almost all illnesses were treated with natural remedies. The act of clearing blocked nostrils with kobus magnolia fruits was considered an improvised method at that time. Among fruits, if one were to speak of misshapen ones, there could hardly be any as ungainly as the kobus magnolia with its bone-like form. That he was saved by the kobus magnolia could be said to show from the very beginning that he was no ordinary person. He revived but retained pea-sized pockmarks all over his face. His nose had remained severely blocked since then and never cleared properly again. He often sang, but whether due to his blocked nose, it merely produced a toneless sound like blowing through a bamboo tube. Inherently robust, he remained terrifyingly vigorous until two or three years before his death. Until his death, his body remained robust yet appeared utterly withered in some indescribable way. That was because Oishi the blind minstrel had abruptly stopped appearing in the village. He had already been acquainted with Oishi for nearly twenty years.

When autumn Machi came around, groups of blind female minstrels would invariably visit the village in organized processions. Oishi was always among their ranks. As late autumn's harvest season arrived, every village held shrine festivals. In this region, they called these events Machi. The dates for Machi differed between villages. The blind minstrels moved in continuous circuits between villages seeking these festivals. To Taijū's eyes, the sight of these minstrels brought incomparably greater joy than viewing harvested rice hung from every available spot—paddy ridges, fences, courtyards, even persimmon branches. Blind female minstrels were typically sightless. They included about one sighted guide called tebiki. With these guides leading, they traversed rice fields from village to village. Their tucked-up hems revealed red underrobes as they all wore tall geta sandals. Their tabi socks shone uniformly white. When carrying particularly large loads, they bound indigo wrapping cloths across their chests—those famously recognized as goze bundles. These substantial burdens contained their essential bedding and pillows. Their shamisens rested in navy blue bags too—the instruments' bodies loaded with luggage while their necks jutted diagonally from right shoulders. All wore large folded bamboo hats. In the goze hairstyle tradition, they wrapped their precious hair in white cloths before securing hats high atop their chignons. The hat brims curved back like peering eyes, their deep interiors combining with black silk cords that crossed below ears and tied at chins to lengthen facial appearances. Though sightless without exception, they meticulously applied makeup. The black cords stood out sharply against white powder in thick, bold lines.

Leaning on their whittled long wooden canes, they moved their geta forward unsteadily. Despite their upper halves being exceptionally large from the luggage and folded bamboo hats, their legs moved unsteadily. Whenever their bizarre procession filed along and Oishi was among them, there was never a time when Taijū did not accompany her. However, until he turned forty, Taijū had been a terribly steadfast farmer. He was born into a poor family. Thus when his bones thickened, they made him do nothing but farm labor. He was an exceptional worker if utilized properly. He was a man of sudden rages. Once provoked, he wouldn’t listen to reason no matter how much you beat or berated him. His temperament was inherited from his father. But he had never acted violently; if anything, his extremely timid disposition was something he had inherited from his mother’s temperament. His brother was also a man of sudden rages. The two of them never had a heartfelt conversation from when their parents died until they themselves entered old age. That said, Taijū was quite dutiful, so whenever something happened, he would invariably rush to his brother’s house. However, he had no opinions on any matter and never took initiative himself. If there was something he disliked, he would mutter angrily to himself alone. At such times, the right side of his upper lip would invariably twitch spasmodically, taking on a terrifying countenance. His anger mirrored that of a pit viper’s wrath. When someone finds a pit viper on the roadside and throws clods or wood chips at it, the snake coils tightly and refuses to budge. It merely trembles and raises its flat head, never chasing to bite anyone.

Taijū had never struck anyone. Precisely because his anger flared quickly, it subsided just as fast. After growing close to Oishi the blind minstrel, any mention of her would invariably soften his stern expression. His wide mouth would stretch further, exposing teeth blackened like traditional dye-stained iron as he laughed with convulsive head-shaking. Yet none among his elders mocked him about the blind minstrels. Thus his social circle remained limited to sturdy men in their thirties and forties. During his earlier service years, he'd occasionally join youths on nighttime escapades. Mimicking others, he'd cover his head with a hand towel and follow. Returning disheveled and alone became routine. The youths always abandoned him upon finding women, slipping into thickets. Every woman rejected Taijū. Like oil repelling water. Still he energetically led horses by day. He wore a navy work apron over long navy underrobes, front-tied sash deliberately loose. His opened collar exposed the apron's bib. Even past sixty, he kept this horse-handler attire. Having always shunned drink and lacking romantic experience, labor became his sole diversion. Diligence's reward brought him to his current home. He was sought as an adopted son. Generations of workers had cultivated the household's own house, land, and fields.

If managed prudently, it was a comfortable livelihood. The couple had grown old without children. He took a wife shortly after moving there. The family’s wealth had readily facilitated Taijū’s marriage arrangement.

II

It was the autumn of Taijū’s forty-second year. He had been invited by distant relatives in another village under the pretext of 'being summoned for the festival' and gone. He returned after sunset on the second day. When he reached the teahouse in the neighboring village, he found a crowd gathered there, blocking the entrance. The neighboring village too was holding its festival. Singing voices and shamisen music drifted from inside the house. He immediately understood that goze performers were staying there. Rising on his toes to peer over the crowd from behind, he saw two goze beneath a hanging lantern—their faces whitened with powder—singing in unison as they adjusted their shamisen strings. Three or four others outside occasionally shouted rhythmic interjections. In the cramped shopfront, listeners pressed close enough to touch the goze’s knees. Some stood on the earthen floor. The crowd spilled past the threshold where front shoji screens had been removed, overflowing into the street beyond. Taijū stood watching among them. The slanting lamplight sharpened the singing women’s features. When a song ended, commotion erupted within the house. Tobacco smoke swirled thinly around the lantern. With unsteady hands, the blind minstrels slid plectrums between their instrument’s strings, set aside their shamisens, and slumped forward. True to their habit—hands cupped to ears—they bent slightly at the waist and froze motionless. Then they tilted their heads toward the lamp’s glow. Even their deadened retinas seemed faintly aware of its light.

No sooner had one blind minstrel stood up than she was blocked by the densely packed listeners after a single step. The blind minstrel kept stretching both hands out precariously ahead, trying to feel her way through the crowd with her feet. Mischievous listeners deliberately remained still, trying to block her path. The pitiful blind minstrel, appearing on the verge of collapse, slowly advanced her steps. Her body appeared limp. The crowd attempted to mock her with falsetto voices from various spots. This very helplessness of hers tugged fiercely at Taijū’s heart. The crowd remained noisy for a while longer, but a white paper-wrapped offering passed from one person's hand to the old woman’s. The blind minstrels would first sing a segment as a gesture of gratitude to the household that had lodged them. After receiving monetary offerings from the thoughtful members of the crowd, they would then sing a segment. The bodies of the shamisens returned to their laps once more. The crowd fell silent. When the first segment concluded, the blind minstrels loosened the strings and placed their shamisens into navy bags. Then they pushed them beside the large luggage. The crowd again erupted into noisy clamor. By then, the night was growing late. People gradually left until the narrow shopfront fell hushed. Taijū still did not leave. He couldn’t simply remain standing alone at the shopfront. He peered through the sliding window of Yokote no Nagare Moto.

Two or three people were shading their hands over the single brazier. The other blind minstrels sat idly with their hands tucked into their sleeves. Perhaps due to the fatigue from singing, they all seemed to sink into deep thought, tilting their heads. Taijū still did not attempt to leave. Suddenly, the door opened. Taijū recoiled in surprise. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he stepped one foot into Nagare Moto’s drainage ditch. The one who opened the door was the teahouse landlady. Taijū called out to the landlady and tried to borrow a tub. True to her trade, the landlady—adept at handling country folk with appropriate tact—drew water herself while profusely apologizing, then had him remove his tabi socks before ushering him into the house.

It was from this night that Taijū grew close to Oishi. And then he did not return for two or three days. It was through the blind woman that Taijū came to know the poignant affection of a woman. Women who could see and were brisk in manner had never been Taijū’s companions since his boyhood. Taijū knew this too. He had resigned himself to it more than simply knowing it. More than that, the women’s aloofness had become so natural to him that he no longer felt it as any particular lack. Even with his wife, he could not open up in public. In relationships where people see each other day in and day out, it’s only natural they cannot engage in such flattery. But given that even Taijū wasn’t intimate with his own brother, his sullen wife was in fact someone he kept at arm’s length. In every village they visited, people would half-mischievously try to toy with the blind minstrels. It wasn’t that the blind minstrels were unaware of this. Yet they defiled their integrity for the sake of meager money. Even blind minstrels, once they reach a certain age, deeply desire to be praised—applying rouge and painting white powder on sightless eyes. Oishi had endured terrible hardships through those times. In the course of their several meetings, Oishi too became bound by Taijū’s affection. Even without that, whenever people met rarely, they would exchange polite words. Every time he met Oishi, that affection seeped deeper into Taijū’s gut. The blind female minstrels came to the village every autumn. And so Oishi was surely among their companions each time.

In time, Taijū came to bring the entire troupe of blind female minstrels trooping into his house. The wife, fearing Taijū’s selfish temper, simply remained sullenly silent.

However, Oishi did not neglect her social obligations. From that large luggage came a gift surely meant for the wife. The wife too eventually came to serve buckwheat meals before the sightless woman. For one thing, as someone who had never ventured beyond her home, having these alluringly dressed blind minstrels play their shamisens and sing late into the night became her only means of dispelling her gloom.

Three

It was one autumn. Oishi brought a puppy nestled in her robe. The puppy had been wrapped in old newspaper. Wrapped in newsprint, it lay sleeping. When drawn from its cloth cradle, it trembled violently before finding precarious footing. It gazed up with mournful eyes. Tear-moistened eyes. Thin as plucked sparrow down and just as fragile. "I rescued this pitiful creature," Oishi explained. Taijū chuckled alone as he tucked it against his chest—where it curled anew into slumber. He offered rice on a potsherd; it refused. Miso broth made it lap with wet smacks. Soon its tiny tail wagged as it scampered about. After Oishi departed the village, the dog remained in Taijū's keeping. Taijū had ever disliked creatures beyond workhorses and chickens—farmstead fixtures. Cats he'd kept two or three times over; each grew gaunt beyond mewling before dying. No cats meant rats multiplied. Taijū's bamboo-shrouded house stood soot-choked—daylight dim as dusk within. Ceilingless, its blackened beams crisscrossed naked overhead. Fierce dry westerlies sent soot sifting down like mortal dandruff.

For the rats, it was an ideal habitat. Even so, from spring to autumn, because snakes crossed the beams, the rats remained comparatively fewer. Snakes would at times reveal their white bodies in the sooty attic while targeting rats. After such events, the rats stayed quiet for four or five days. When harvest season ended and the snakes became dormant, the rats gnawed through buckwheat and rice-straw bales. Even so, he did not keep cats. Taijū alone cared for the dog. He stuffed straw into a broken box and placed it by the hearth for her. The puppy curled up inside to sleep. On frost-white mornings, he would rise without fail to peer into the dog's box. The dog had grown despite its small size. Around when springlike sunlight began sporadically shining and wheat started showing lush green hues, the dog had grown nearly unrecognizably large. Because its fur was red, he called it Aka. Whenever Taijū went out, Aka would invariably follow. She wouldn't simply follow—she'd dash two or three hundred meters ahead. At every fork in the road, Aka stood alertly waiting for Taijū to catch up. When Taijū turned left, she immediately dashed leftward. When intending to go left, Taijū deliberately walked rightward. Seeing Aka scatter-running about as he walked leftward, she soon came dashing back with hurried breaths seeking him. There were times when one could glimpse Taijū repeating this mischief two or three times over.

Aka liked rice crackers. The sight of Taijū feeding rice crackers to Aka was often seen at the village sweetshop. The hard, underbaked rice crackers were too tough for the dog to chew two at once. Her jaw would grow weary. Taijū laughed to himself watching her gaze up longingly while twitching her nose. Aka was a dog of startling affection toward people. She could stand on hind legs with front paws bent to her chest indefinitely. Then, as if wanting something, she'd stick out her long tongue and lap repeatedly at her own nose. When Taijū stepped into the garden, she leaped up joyfully. If he carelessly held her, Taijū often found himself licked by that tongue. Aka would sometimes lose track of Taijū and return home alone, dragging her paws dejectedly. Even in springtime - when shepherd's purse spread sideways through mulberry field furrows with bundled branches, its faint white flowers just emerging before wheat raised its head - amidst short wheat stalks scurried skylarks, their small bodies crowned with alarmingly bristled feathers. Whenever Aka spotted one, she'd kick up dust clouds chasing after it. The skylark flew low ahead, hiding among tea bushes at field edges before fleeing onward. Aka's barking quickly faded into distance. When buntings fluttered lazily between mulberry branches, she rose up barking again. She barked until the bird vanished from mulberry fields through paddies beyond ditch banks. Thus Aka lost sight of her master. At such times she tucked tail between legs, lowered head, and scurried home in tiny steps. Aka would dash off even when sparrows alighted in the garden.

Noticing a grasshopper that had fallen from the paulownia tree in the garden slowly twitching its long antennae, Aka boldly rushed out on her own and dashed around the garden in circles. After doing so, she would flip the grasshopper over with her paw, watch its antennae twitch, then scamper about again. There were times when Taijū went out to the fields with his son-in-law Bunzō. In the autumn buckwheat field, the flowers were entirely white. Perhaps having discovered mole tunnel entrances, Aka went dashing through the buckwheat. Her body brushed against them, making the buckwheat flowers sway onward in waves. After a while, Aka suddenly stood up on her hind legs from among the buckwheat flowers. Then, spotting Bunzō, she came scampering over abruptly. The tip of her nose was smeared with dirt. Aka was a frighteningly vigorous dog. Thus she had fully matured. At night she would often detect footsteps and bark. Even during daylight hours, she would bark at anything that appeared suspicious in his eyes. The next autumn festival arrived. Taijū brought in the group of goze as was his custom. Aka saw the unusual group and immediately barked and lunged forward. The goze panicked comically. Taijū laughed without particular comment. Then he scolded Aka. Aka affectionately jumped on Taijū.

Aka also jumped at one of the goze women. The goze woman let out a shrill cry of surprise. Oishi rejoiced to see her dog had grown so vigorously large. When Oishi tried to embrace Aka, her hand was thoroughly licked by the dog's long tongue. The vigorous Aka was thereafter lovingly raised by Taijū for several years. The bond between Taijū and Oishi remained unchanged. Small wrinkles had appeared on Oishi's face, and she no longer applied white powder. The vulnerable age when blindness most rapidly progresses had already passed. Yet Taijū's affection remained as profound as ever.

Four

Nineteen years had passed since he met Oishi; it was the autumn of Taijū's sixtieth year. He had been anxiously waiting for Oishi. That autumn’s festival too saw goze troupes come in numbers. By that time, the customs of the goze had changed considerably. Some of the prettier young ones walked around carrying moon guitars instead of shamisens, singing popular songs. And the number of sighted members increased. Oishi did not come. From then on, she never came again. Taijū was disheartened. The ones troubled were his family members. Taijū muttered to himself and lashed out. Even in the villagers' eyes, his despondent figure was visible. The mischief-makers pretended to share his grief as if to humor him. Taijū assumed a tearful expression. Even so, hearing people talk about Oishi remained his only consolation. Every time everyone mocked him, a poignant emotion would well up within him before his chest felt unburdened anew. From that autumn onward, a gauntly lonely festival kept recurring in his heart. The vigorous Aka still clung playfully to Taijū. Taijū continued growing watermelons for several years now. It was his scheme to earn pocket money for the village festival.

Even so, this was not solely his own diligent work but involved his son-in-law Bunzō being made to labor despite constant grumbling. Since Oishi stopped coming, he became wholly preoccupied with earning money. That year saw well-timed rains. He never failed to prepare fertilizer during winter months and let it cure. Believing this would enlarge the watermelon fruits, he scraped up calamus plants from ditch bottoms along with mud each autumn and left them dried. He spaced gaps between wheat rows furrow by furrow to sow watermelon seeds. Around the field's perimeter he densely planted sorghum. Once wheat was harvested, days turned fiercely hot. Tender watermelon leaves risked being devoured by red flies unless Taijū kept constant vigil. These agile insects detected any movement and escaped capture easily. Taijū focused on cultivation techniques like spreading ash while morning dew still clung to grasses. Soon wheat straw blanketed the entire field. Vines sprawled across it. Their tips angled skyward with vigorous curl. Delicately patterned leaves sprouted small yellow blooms. Pale green spheres rested lightly atop straw bedding. Taijū erected a pillar at the field's edge to build a watch hut. He roofed it with chestnut logs and hung straw matting around its sides. Before long sorghum stood tall, broad leaves endlessly rustling while occasionally bringing autumn-tinged breezes. Watermelons cool to their very cores lay scattered across Taijū's field.

Taijū tied bamboo poles to the surrounding sorghum to create a fence. The day remained intensely hot. The sorghum ears that had timidly raised their heads quickly began turning a sun-scorched russet. Taijū crawled naked into the grimy mosquito net of the watch hut. The evening moon visible in the western sky gradually swelled until it emerged from beyond the eastern sorghum fence, while watermelons in the field thrust up their vines to plant their weighty yellow undersides firmly. The watermelons had reached the stage where they emitted a muffled thud when flicked with a finger. He hauled them to a distant market. By day he made his son-in-law Bunzō stand guard while he himself went out shouldering a carrying pole. Later he led out the horse. Bunzō had already turned forty. Taijū was no villain yet always dismissed Bunzō summarily.

A moon as bright as daytime shone, and before long, the old calendar’s Bon Festival arrived. Taijū always slept in the watch hut. Aka too was surely sprawled out in the shadow of the watch hut.

One day, Taijū awoke from his afternoon nap upon hearing Aka's piercing bark. The dog did not bark after that. Taijū never neglected to keep watch over the dog. He immediately left the watch hut. Beside the sorghum fence stood a suspicious-looking man with a hand towel draped over his cheeks. It was the moment when Dog Killer tried to pull the club he had tucked into his belt. The friendly dog, wagging its tail at the thrown rice cracker, approached Dog Killer's feet. Dog Killer took a step back upon seeing Taijū's figure.

“What the hell’re you doin’?”

Taijū involuntarily roared. “I’ll kill it,” Dog Killer responded in a thick, low voice. “Then try killing it if you can!” Taijū abruptly grabbed the dog with his left hand as if yanking it away.

“You think I can just kill it now?!” Dog Killer cursed and left. Taijū’s enraged face was terrifying at that moment. Aka, being held, let her hind legs dangle limply and kept her neck stretched low. After the retreating figure of Dog Killer—who had slung an empty hemp sack tied with rough rope over his shoulder—disappeared from view, Taijū returned to the watch hut. As soon as Aka left Taijū’s grasp, she immediately ran back to the previous spot and bit into the discarded rice cracker. Taijū immediately barked. Aka came running while licking her nose with her long tongue, placed her front paws on Taijū’s body as if climbing up, and acted affectionately as usual. When night came, Bunzō came to the watch hut. That was to inform him that Dog Killer, having been ordered red dog meat somewhere and having targeted it, had gone around declaring he would definitely kill the dog. Bunzō had informed him out of genuine concern, but this was something that would have been better left unknown—for both Taijū and the dog’s sake. In truth, that was not the season for Dog Killer to be prowling about. In hot weather, not only was the valuable fur useless, but the meat couldn’t be preserved either. Taijū knew that. And if it were true that he had received an order for meat, he believed Aka could not possibly be saved. It was generally believed that the meat of red dogs had remarkable efficacy for syphilis patients. Taijū’s chest burned fiercely.

V

The next day, a close acquaintance visited Taijū’s field. He often came. And when their conversation grew lively, a clumsily split watermelon would be placed between them. The watermelon rind with tooth marks reaching down to the white part was thrown outside the watch hut. There were times when Taijū would tap it with his finger and boast "This one's sweet!" while emerging. Baked by the hot day, even a half-ripe watermelon would split open almost immediately. Taijū’s gloomy state became apparent even to his acquaintance.

“What’s eatin’ ya, old man?”

The acquaintance asked. Taijū remained silent for a moment,

“I’ve been thinkin’ maybe I should just kill her myself.”

He said curtly. “What do you mean?”

the acquaintance said. However, this was so abrupt that he felt like mocking him as usual. "You don't mean I'm the one who's gotta do it?" he quickly added. "If it's gotta be done by Dog Killer's hand anyway... I figured I'd be better off doin' it myself..."

Taijū twisted his mouth. “So then, old man—Aka, what’d ya end up doin’?” Taijū related Dog Killer’s tale. A sudden urge to kill her welled up in the acquaintance’s heart. He’d thought of eating her meat. Red dog meat was said to be tasty. Had it been someone else’s dog, such notions might never have sprouted—but the deeper Taijū’s anguish grew, the more absurd he seemed, till even innocent folk found wicked schemes budding in their hearts.

“I’ll kill ’er.” Taijū’s voice trembled as he spoke. The misfortunes that had struck the dog had thoroughly unsettled his fragile mind. He stated outright that he would kill. Yet his unconscious affection and anxiety made his voice quaver as though pleading with the acquaintance. Had someone told him not to kill her, his heart might have steadied—but now the dog had become nothing but a nuisance. Still, the acquaintance paid no heed to Taijū’s inner struggle. “You fixin’ to kill ’er yourself, old man?” This brash way of speaking only deepened Taijū’s confusion.

“S’pose so.”

Taijū tilted his head uncertainly. “Since it’s no use anyway, I’ll just kill her.” He said boisterously. No sooner had he spoken than he sank into silence for a while. “Guess I should’ve killed her after all.” He said in a low voice, as if throwing the words out. In those words lay a plea for the acquaintance to intervene and stop him. But the voice telling him not to kill did not reach Taijū’s ears. “So you’re gonna go through with killin’ her after all.” “Ain’t like there’s any hope left for her anyway.” “Old man, you’re really gonna go through with it then.”

Taijū did not respond. Yet his fragile heart lay pressed as if beneath a great stone and nailed fast; though deep within he found it repugnant, the matter had been irrevocably settled. His heart quaked violently and sank into utter exhaustion.

“Then go get Sanji or someone.”

The acquaintance left. Taijū crawled into the mosquito net with one corner detached. Outside the mosquito net legs were sprawled out. Flies swarmed on them but didn't stir. The dog lay stretched on damp shaded soil cooling her belly. The two men arrived. Sanji pressed his left hand against Aka's belly and gently lifted. Her hind legs stayed rooted. Aka smoothly lowered her head into her habitual pleading posture. A coarse rope crossed her diagonally. Startled she emitted a mournful whine. When Sanji withdrew his hand she crouched all limbs low bowed like prostration and coiled tight. Then stole glances at Sanji through pale furtive eyes. At her pained yelps Taijū jerked upright. His nerves had honed razor-sharp.

“Old man.” The acquaintance from earlier called out. Taijū flopped back down. “Old man, we tied her up!” Sanji barked.

“Enough already—just pull this out.”

A low voice followed. “Old man, you gonna pull out this stake or what?” The voice struck Taijū’s ears with force. Yet he remained silent. The two men pulled out the stake driven into the sorghum hedge. Sanji yanked the coarse rope he’d been gripping, and the dog curled tighter against the ground like it clung to the earth. When Sanji raised the club, the rope stretched taut enough to snap. In that instant, the club struck the dog’s head with a dull thud. The dog flung its head back. Foam gushed from its mouth as hind legs trembled violently. Not one whimper escaped.

“Old man, it’s done.”

The acquaintance from earlier thrust his head through the suspended mat. The interior of the mosquito net remained still. He rolled up Taijū’s mosquito net. Taijū was glaring fixedly.

“Old man, what in blazes happened here?” “Bury it.” Taijū finally said just that. “That may be so, but what if we take just the pelt from one side and keep it?” “Do whatever you want with it.”

The interior of the mosquito net remained still. The two men began peeling off the pelt with the butcher knives they had prepared. The butcher knife ran from the throat past the center of the belly. The limp and pitiful red dog Aka had its pelt peeled from all four legs up to its back, much like a sleeping child having its clothes removed by its mother’s hands. The area around the neck that had received the fatal blow was already black with coagulated blood. The dog, now stripped bare, was clenching its white teeth, its eyes glaring wildly. The pelt was tightly coiled from the tail and bound with rough rope. And thus it was placed on the sunny southern side of the guardhouse. Taijū got up. The pelt’s ears stood stiffly, appearing exactly like a small dog crouching. Taijū found it cruelly pitiable. He sorrowfully picked up the pelt and examined it.

“Old man, you’ve gone pitiful now?”

the two men said.

“Well then, we’ll handle what’s left.” The two men threw down the club there and left. Blood dripped upon the wheat straw. In Sanji’s hand hung the dog’s corpse bound with coarse rope. Afterward, Taijū stood vacant. He spread out the pelt and stared at it. As if seized by sudden purpose, he ran to his house and returned with a wooden plank and hatchet. He cut the end of bamboo fastened to the sorghum hedge, fashioned nails, then fixed the pelt to the board. A mournful day closed over Taijū’s watchman’s hut.

That night he could not sleep. Delusions ceaselessly welled up and tormented him. Each time he drifted into slumber, he would start awake imagining Aka barking and dashing out; then he would seem to hear the wet sounds of her lapping at miso soup spilled on broken pot shards; then grow convinced she slept beneath the floorboards where he lay—these visions refused to cease. By the following evening, fury and grief and remorse such as he had never known surged through him. This came from hearing how on the very day Aka died, that Dog Killer had slaughtered another red dog in the neighboring village—how its owner and villagers had beaten him mercilessly before casting him out under oath never to tread their lands again. He passed that night without sleep too. A man flawless but for one defect—honest and diligent—he had maintained a tranquil existence. Since first knowing those blind minstrels, he had drunk deep of such joy as his crude senses could grasp. Twenty years of joy had swerved abruptly, forcing him now to taste its lingering sorrow. Disaster came in swift succession.

VI

Each night, the moonrise grew later. Taijū drifted into a doze that night from mental fatigue. Mischievous village youths, four or five in number, plotted to steal Taijū’s watermelons under the cover of that night’s darkness. Until now, not a single one of Taijū’s watermelons had ever been stolen.

Their plan was as follows. Two or three of them would grab the watermelons they had marked during daylight and flee immediately. The others were to deliberately rouse Taijū by cutting his mosquito net's hanging cord before escaping. Taijū gave no response even when called that night. Thus had they refrained from this mischief, they would have found only Taijū's wrathful visage come morning. The stolen watermelons were split open in distant roadside grasses. They smashed them against their knees to crack them apart. Then scooped out and ate the flesh with fingertips. Even when nothing remained but pulpy dregs after the juice dried, they cared not. For them, the thrill lay not in sweetness but in theft's success. So were found watermelon husks - soiled and mutilated - strewn through patches of grass. When their plunder was gone and idle chatter began,

“Huh?”

“Huh?” one of them said in surprise. “What’s wrong?” “What is it?” The guilty youths all pricked up their ears as one. One of them kept frantically searching around his obi.

“What is it?”

“What’s wrong?”

The others all turned back again and asked. “The money pouch—something’s wrong with it!” The voice sounded extremely panicked.

“If we dropped that, it’d be a disaster! Where could we’ve lost it?” They peered into the darkness around there several more times. Yet there was no reason for it to be lying around there. When they parted ways that night then and there, the incident still hadn’t been stirred up. Upon returning home, he immediately found it. He’d forgotten it when he left. That night, their gathering had been purely for mischief. The prank inevitably had to be extended to their own companions too.

“That must’ve been dropped in the field,” another said. “Around where?” The one who thought he’d dropped it pressed eagerly. “The third ridge westways. When you grabbed that big ’un, there was a clatter—we paid no mind then, but that’s gotta be it. Sneak over and search proper.”

Around the time someone thought Taijū had fallen asleep again, one of them headed for the third ridge and quietly broke through the sorghum fence. The others were outside the fence, snickering as they watched. When he had wrapped himself in the mosquito net, Taijū flew into a rage. After adjusting the mosquito net's hanging cord and lying down again, he couldn't sleep. The throbbing of his heart—so loud that even he himself could hear it—gradually subsided as five, then ten minutes passed, 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. He thought that if Aka had been alive, she would surely have barked. And then, the fact that he had killed Aka struck him as unexpectedly painful, and a surge of emotion welled up in his chest all at once. He squeezed his eyes shut. The lively and affectionate movements of Aka kept appearing before his eyes one after another, no matter how he tried to shut them out. Now hearing Aka slurping noisily at the miso soup he'd poured over her meal as she always did, now imagining her sniffing and snuffling beneath the floorboards, now assaulted by the nauseating heat pressing in on him—he was tormented without respite. In the distance, the barking of a dog could be heard. That jarred his ears terribly. No sooner had he thought this than Dog Killer became vividly visible—standing with a hand on his club in the shadow of the sorghum fence. He shuddered, for it seemed as though the ill-omened Dog Killer was peering through the gaps in the draped mat. He opened his eyes. The lamp hanging on the pillar was glowing dimly. He wrapped the wind-wary lamp with a large leaf from a young paulownia tree. The light from the lantern shone through, making the paulownia leaf appear an astonishingly vivid green. Within that blue, the lantern's flame—visible as a small, distinct point—quivered faintly while peering into the mosquito net. A click beetle that had alighted on the paulownia leaf, drawn to the lamp, rustled its whiskers with a clattering sound, unsettling Taijū’s mind.

A click beetle that had alighted on the paulownia leaf, drawn to the lamp, rustled its whiskers with a clattering noise that unsettled Taijū’s mind. Taijū got up inside the mosquito net, thinking to smoke a cigarette. The sorghum rustled faintly. Taijū looked through the mosquito net. At that moment, the moon was beginning to stealthily reveal itself around the time when all had fallen into deep sleep. The field began to faintly brighten. Taijū noticed something moving. His anger enveloped his entire being. He quietly slipped out from the rear of the mosquito net. Even as he kept his gaze fixed ahead, at that moment he still had the presence of mind to slip on his sandals. He pushed the mat aside and went outside. The club touched his leg. He immediately took hold of it. And then he suddenly closed in on the intruder. At that moment, the unfortunate youth—who was no longer a thief—abruptly broke through the sorghum fence and emerged. The body collapsed into the neighboring mulberry field. Taijū took a step over the boundary and struck. The first strike hit the right arm diagonally. The second strike hit the back of the 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 settled at their base. A third blow was struck. Then the club that had beaten Aka to death snapped. The injured youth who had fallen victim to the prank was carried home by his companions without regaining consciousness. Taijū didn't sleep that night either. He was spent.

Seven

The injured person revived. He subsequently suffered a concussion. The family ranted about suing Taijū. During that interval, someone stood witness. Taijū's relatives too gathered to assess the scene, but upon learning there was no disputing the facts—for on the side where the injured youth had fallen lay Taijū's deeply imprinted footprints and his sandals, rendering any claim that he had struck while fleeing utterly untenable—they all fell into utter despondency.

In time, the injured person had passed through the critical phase. However, the doctor diagnosed that complete recovery would require a long time. If sued, Taijū believed he would have to pass through prison gates. How much fear must he have harbored toward police stations and prison offices? He became gaunt and listless thereafter, doing nothing but trudge about. To settle the matter privately meant paying an exorbitant treatment fee far beyond his means. After consulting relatives, he resolved to cut down the bamboo thickets and keyaki trees that had come to envelop his house. Being dragged to prison felt more agonizing than being cut down bodily. He wouldn’t regret losing them—bamboo or keyaki or anything else—he thought. Yet at that season it was still too early for felling trees, and merchants exploiting his desperation offered only paltry sums. Bound by old ties, he hesitated nonetheless. When fear gripped him, nothing seemed worth preserving. Still he found it unbearably mortifying—the mosquito net’s hanging cord cut in mockery, other such indignities inflicted without cause. The merchants pressed Taijū. When he judged their offers insultingly low, emotion surged hot in his chest.

“Don’t matter—I ain’t cuttin’ nothin’.”

he bellowed. “If I go an’ die, ain’t nothin’ gonna get done.” And then he began speaking with self-destructive recklessness. If there had been even one person to console him sincerely, he might have been saved. Habit had numbed every heart. People did not cease to mock him. And thus they aggravated and confused his fear. He became completely isolated.

The day had been blisteringly hot since dawn. Taijū honed his sickle's edge and hacked through all the still-developing watermelon vines. He then forced his son-in-law Bunzō to dig deep into the wheat straw and severed vines until the man groaned. Bunzō toiled under the searing sun, moaning over this untimely fieldwork. To Taijū, even glimpsing the watermelon patch had grown unbearable. Madness overtook him. He slammed the sickle into the watchman's hut roof with a dull thunk. Through the flimsy thatch, the blade's tip gleamed like a fang. Crawling into his mosquito net, he collapsed heavily and emitted a guttural moan. Bunzō kept swinging his hoe without pause. When the sun passed its zenith and dipped westward, a monstrous black cloud—locals called it Sanbaiine—boiled up from the northwestern forest's edge. Sanbaiine meant 'three rice sheaves,' named for how thunder from that quarter brought downpours within harvest-time. The cloudbank advanced straight across heaven's vault—thick-bellied and all-consuming. Lightning flickered as thunder's first distant growls rolled forth. Matching pillars of cloud rose in the southeast sky. Bunzō dreaded these meteorological convulsions. He dashed into the hut calling for Taijū. The old man lay corpse-still.

“The northern sky looks awful.” “Old man, wouldn’t it be better if you got outta here?” “Shut up.” Taijū merely said this. He couldn’t bring himself to move due to mental exhaustion. The clouds hung low over the earth, darkening the surroundings like twilight. Buntings fluttered frantically in search of roosts. A frigid gust roared through, shaking the sorghum leaves. The distant rumble of an evening shower grew audible. Bunzō could endure no more. He shouldered his hoe and bolted out. At that instant, the sickle tip embedded in the roof grazed Bunzō’s forehead. When he pressed his hand to the wound instinctively, his palm turned crimson. Following traces of dog’s blood, Bunzō’s own now stained the watchman’s hut. Fat raindrops began spattering the sorghum leaves. Like mist, the pelting rain kicked repeatedly at feeble rice stalks as it advanced. Bunzō fled headlong across the paddies.

The evening shower came crashing down. Yellow-brown muddy water roiled and surged forth. The rain, striking ever more fiercely and violently, caused countless mouths to open across the surface of the flooded waters. Busily scattering bubbles, those countless mouths whispered. And then even more countless whispers tumultuously filled the space. As a white-hot wire-like arc of lightning flashed across the sky, simultaneously, the thunderclap brought forth a cataclysmic roar that shook all living beings. The azure sky, like a dome, was a great glass vessel. When scorching sunlight heated and heated this glass vessel further, the thunderclap—which seemed to have caused a massive rupture through the injection of cooled rainwater—spread crackling, desiccated sounds boundlessly across the sky. Then came what sounded like enormous shards of that glass vessel plummeting down—a thudding reverberation that shook the earth before rumbling away into distant dissolution. The rain filled the space like scattered glass powder, shining with lightning flashes. The white-hot lightning—seeming like scorching sunlight blazing through cracks in that great glass vessel—flashed incessantly, while thunder thundered ceaselessly and rain poured down relentlessly. And when the skies had abruptly cleared, the sun still rested atop the western mountains, laughing down upon all things on the stifled and exhausted earth. When Bunzō came to the field, the roof of the watchman’s hut that was always visible from afar was gone. The hut was burned. The four pillars stood charred upon the ground. The rest had turned to ash and were damp. When the family members rushed over and sifted through the ashes in the sunset light, they discovered Taijū’s body lying face up, charred and bloated. Evidently fearing the thunder, both hands were covering his ears. Perhaps the sickle with its bared white fangs beneath the roof had drawn down the electricity—the hut had been burned by lightning. By the time flames took hold of the hut, Taijū had already died without suffering any pain. Taijū, the solitary soul who had been alone in the fields, thus saw his mental strength exhausted in but a brief span.

The immense power of nature, driving through sudden meteorological upheaval, bore down intensely upon his minuscule terror. Simultaneously, it obliterated him from his simple existence. The board bearing the dog’s pelt lay facedown. Then its underside showed faint charring. (February 1910, Hototogisu)