Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Sunlight veiled; earth below cool and pure. Dense clouds drape like curtains—as if one could gather them up.

其雨普等 四方倶下 流樹無量率土充洽

山川険谷 幽邃所生卉木薬艸 大小諸樹

“If I may be so bold, I would like to offer alms.”

At the gentle voice calling from behind, Kosaka—emerging from the dense foliage halfway up Mount Io into a sudden clarity where night seemed to lift, the sky pure and air crisp, as though early summer had borrowed autumn’s midday moon—looked up at the sun’s orb atop the distant peak ahead and whirled around in astonishment.

Even though he had ventured so deep into the mountains, far from any village, that he never dreamed of hearing a human voice—let alone seeing one—the one who called out was a woman.
However, Kosaka could immediately tell at a glance that she harbored no ill intent.

The woman pressed her white fingertips to her lips in a one-handed prayer gesture, bowing her head as she listened to the sutra while preparing to offer alms—

“No, I am not a monk.”

Declining nonchalantly yet pausing mid-step, he gazed at her resplendent figure: from her snow-white earlobe to the softly rounded curve of her cheek ran a thick pale-blue cord, its hue mirroring dew-kissed morning glories. A Kaga-style sedge hat—its deep brim concealing her brows—sat atop her head, while a flower basket adorned her back and gaiters wrapped her legs, all forming an attire both practical and ethereally elegant.

She peered through from beneath her sedge hat as if seeing everything clearly,

“I must apologize for my rudeness.”
“Though your appearance suggests nothing of the sort, you recite such splendid sutras that I thought—well—even if you are not ordained, you must be an ascetic practitioner.”

Wearing a Western suit, his legs properly clad, hat pulled low, with a small cloth bundle slung over one shoulder like a pilgrim.
His name was Mitsuyuki, and he was a medical university student.

At that moment, he had been holding the opened Lotus Sutra: Parable of the Medicinal Herbs—specifically the latter half of its fifth verse—in his left palm, but now he tucked under his arm the sturdy staff he had been supporting with his right hand.

“Well, I may be an ascetic practitioner, but I’m still a complete amateur—hardly someone worthy of receiving alms.”

“As for my recitation method—well, I mostly follow the university’s Zhu Xi commentaries, so it’s almost sacrilege to treat this venerable sutra so casually. But with all these medicinal herbs in the mountains, maybe it’s just the air affecting me.”

“Once I’ve come about a ri up from the foothills like this, the wind carries such a refreshing medicinal scent that it somehow seeps into my very being. So with this vow in mind, I’ve been reciting what I’ve recently memorized as I walk.”

Having judged that speaking openly now would benefit them both, Kosaka amiably began by explaining—and then,

“Miss, are you someone who lives in a village at the foot of the mountain?”

“Yes, it is Futamata Village.”

“Ah—that place where the road branches off here from the highway to Kakinami in Etchū? The one with horses passing through so often it’s dizzying?”

“Yes, that is correct. The roads have become so poor that vehicles cannot pass, so whether it be charcoal or firewood, we load everything onto horses to transport them.”

“Moreover, since the stone from Tomuroguchi—resembling the grand stone gate of a sacred mountain—is quarried and transported entirely by horse, each person ends up leading five of them.”

“So you came from the foothills alone, then.…”

Kosaka, who had been advancing quietly, looked again at the woman’s face.

“Yes, I am alone. And until reaching this place, yours was the only figure I have seen.”

With a look that said it all,

“Well, same here—about half a mile back, I met an old woodcutter on the path and asked for directions. Apart from that, it’s only been you.”

“I never imagined there’d be a single soul from start to finish.”

In this area—nothing but a gently undulating azure expanse—he gazed at the field of grass that resembled the open sea,

“Ah, every word we speak echoes back. For such a lonely place, you’ve come alone—quite brave of you.”

The woman clasped both hands on the wide peach-colored sash fastened across her chest and adjusted the flower basket.

“You should have asked those woodcutters,” she said. “Though not particularly steep, with absolutely no travelers passing through, the path proves truly difficult to find.”

“When venturing into these fathomless mountains,” he countered, “relying solely on that rock as a landmark makes navigation impossible, wouldn’t you agree? Had they at least carved ‘Mount Io Path’ north or south upon it—but no! It’s merely a great boulder lying in the riverbed, with nothing but a narrow trail hidden beneath grass behind. The woodcutter warned that one misstep would leave you unable to reach the summit even after six months—but truly—why must this mountain be guarded so secretively? Is there indeed no path anywhere save behind that stone?”

“Certainly not! If you are acquainted with this path, you’ll find only solitude removed from the world, with no fearsome beasts to speak of. But take one misstep—whether you end up stranded in a valley of unfathomable depths, collide with a sheer cliff, face rocks come flying in rapids, or find a giant fallen tree blocking your path ahead—amidst all this, wherever plants grow thickest, poisonous insects swarm thickly. Imagine the hardship!”

“If you return to the old path or exit through Kurikara Pass, you may safely reach some province.”
“If you press onward regardless, it is said that in the end it becomes a scorched mountain where not a single blade of grass grows, and you will starve to death.”

“Truly, as you say, the stone the woodcutters told of—the keystone of Io that fans outward even to Hida—if one missteps from it even once, why, the path itself will scatter into fragments.”

It was indeed fitting for a renowned secret mountain of the northern provinces, he thought—but,

“But considering it’s called ‘Io’—a mountain so renowned for medicinal herbs—why is it so isolated from the world, with no proper path?”

“That, well—as I understand it—is because since ancient times it has been His Lordship’s forbidden mountain, where people were seldom permitted entry.”
“It is not solely His Lordship.”
“The places where esteemed medicinal herbs grow are also where the guardian gods and Buddhas deign to restrict passage, I should think.”

It sounded as if there were supernatural beings in a fairyland capriciously forbidding people from gathering medicinal herbs, and this weighed not a little on his mind.

“Then—is it wrong for someone like me to enter, take the herbs I seek, and return?”

Kosaka grew somewhat agitated, but a sudden chill ran through him, and involuntarily, under his breath—

慧雲含潤 電光晃耀雷声遠震 令衆悦予

日光掩蔽 地上清涼 靉靆垂布 如可承攬

II

“No, as long as you do not defile the mountain itself, they say no harm shall befall any who come here.”
“Where medicinal herbs grow, poisonous ones too will be found.”
“Should reckless hands pluck them unwisely, who can say what misfortunes might follow? Thus since ancient times, prohibition markers stand posted.”
“You who recite sutras with such devotion—I imagine even if night overtook you on these slopes, you’d have no cause for concern.”

Having started to speak, he drew near again,

"In that case—have you come to gather herbs that can be made into medicine?"

"It’s a rather presumptuous request... There’s a sick family member... I’ve come... But tell me—have you come all this way just to pick flowers?"

"As you see... Every two or three days... Right now... peak blooming season."

“It’s called Senjagaike—a great, ocean-like pond at the summit. Nowhere along these mountain paths do clear streams flow. But when summer heat parches your throat, take the shade-grown grass with tiny blue blossoms—chew its leaves’ sap, and you’ll feel chilled through as if you’d gulped down a barrel of icy water. With so little moisture here—no irises nor rabbit-ear irises nor water lilies could survive—yet azaleas glow golden, peonies blush crimson alongside chrysanthemums and patrinia, all blooming together from June through August’s end. Such splendid flowers fetch fine silver coins in town—oh, what beauty lies here!”

“And you—do you have any idea where to gather the herb you seek?”

Peering out from under her sedge hat as she inquired kindly, her clear eyes flashed into view.

Kosaka somehow felt as though he had encountered someone from a tale—a shepherd guiding one to a hermitage in a secluded realm—and so his words naturally grew courteous.

“I also intend to go there.”
“A place where flowers of all four seasons bloom at once—what is it called?”

“Yes, it is called Bijogahara.”

“Bijogahara?”

“You see, it’s written with the characters for ‘beautiful woman.’”

The woman lowered her head with a bashful expression, smiling gracefully.

With an endearing charm, she turned around,

“Oh!” she said, tilting her sleeve diagonally and grasping its hem as she leaned slightly.

“Oh my, do take a look.”

Upon the grass-dyed left sleeve, fluttering down to dot it with five or three crimson petals—was it a pheasant’s shed feather? No. A butterfly? No. A spider? No. It was cherry blossom petals scattering.

“How about this? For these past two or three months, they’ve been fluttering down like this nonstop, from who knows where.”
“Even so, there’s no telling where the cherry trees are.”
“When you go to Bijogahara, you can see Noto Peninsula ten *ri* to the south, Etchu Tateyama seven *ri* to the north, and Kaga behind you. Even now, with neither haze nor mist obscuring the view, there are no cherry treetops here that one might mistake for their source—so these petals must have fled from the clamorous towns to frolic about.”
“Or perhaps they might be wandering through the mountains here and there as divine messengers.”

As the woman looked up high, Kosaka too stretched upward through the thicket.
The green of the grass deepened—whether reflecting inverted clouds or resembling the hue of water’s depths—the sky, steeped in an aura of divine secrecy, appeared only as a pale violet.

“How far is it to Bijogahara? Do you think we can make it before nightfall?”

“No, since the cherry blossoms are scattering down like this, it is close indeed.
I will accompany you there—though today I have someone like you with me, I usually come alone, so I can return to the village within the day.”

“A full day?” he muttered in disbelief.

“It seemed like such a distant place as the woodcutter had kindly informed me.”

“Oh, there’s no need to ask the woodcutter. I have a clear recollection.” First, I would have to walk through the mountains for two or three days, wouldn’t I?

To be sure, I had indeed heard beforehand how long the ascent generally takes—whether a full day or almost there—but I did not think it such an easily traversed place.

See here—proceeding like this, my body remains unharmed (that goes without saying); I haven’t fallen into any valleys nor stumbled on rocks; my clothes show no tears, and not a single fingernail has been broken.

“I’ve made preparations but feel neither hunger nor thirst—nor any desperate need to search for that blue-flowered grass. Of course, who knows what hardships lie ahead? But even so, since I’m going with you, Miss—on what’s meant to be a day’s outing from the village to gather flowers—it hardly feels like night could fall so abruptly. Truly, if I just take step by step… will Bijogahara be reached?”

“Ah, there’s no trouble at all. You, knowing it to be such a fearsome place, have you still come to gather medicinal herbs?”

Without a moment’s hesitation,

“I truly came here with my life on the line,” he answered earnestly. The woman replied serenely,

“In that case, it must be truly dire circumstances indeed.”

“But this is no forbidding sacred mountain at all.
However, this being what we call a sacred mountain, it is not a place where one overturns sake or discards bamboo husks carelessly.
Oh my, even if there were not a single stone beneath your feet as you walk—like the hallowed garden of a temple, shrine precincts, or within august palace gates—one cannot help but feel reverent.
And though you say you believe it would take two or three days to grace Bijogahara where your remembered herb grows—have you ever once made this ascent before?”

“Yes, once.”

“Oh my.”

“It must indeed be that Bijogahara you speak of. I recall azaleas, camellias, chrysanthemums, and wisterias blooming across the entire field.”
“But it wasn’t a matter of knowing the land’s name—I was utterly disoriented even regarding directions, where was what.”
“Even now, I remain a person of this same land—but back then, for some reason, I left home for over a month, entered the mountains, wandered about for what felt like half the span from birth to death, and only then do I think I finally glimpsed that place.”

Kosaka continued speaking, yet with each recollection of those days enduring hardship on the long journey—exposed to rain and dew—even now his spirit wearied and his resolve faltered; here in these deep mountains where not a single speck of dust troubled his mind, sweat still streamed down his back.

A thread-like path—partly due to the effort needed to project his voice behind him—Kosaka clutched the Yakubon to his chest, and with the hand holding his staff, removed his hat and wiped his clear brow.

Noticing this with keen eyes,

“If I may… I shall come guide you,”
“Please—that way I might also hear your story.”

Without a word exchanged, they lifted their straw sandals and shifted leftward on the path. Beneath their feet, grass roots yielded pliantly; leaf tips shrouded their shins—yet no thorns caught at their hems. Between heaven and earth stretched a stillness so profound that not even the faintest insect hum could be heard.

III

“Pardon me.”

The flower seller regretfully let the petals she had kept in her sleeve flutter down， pulled her sleeve to her chest， narrowed her frame， and brushed past Kosaka’s body—even that one foot of hers stepped into the weeds， so narrow was the path.

About five shaku ahead， her figure stood straight-backed；the grass where her hem had been tucked now flourished—green nearby， pale blue in the distance—the sunlight dappling through， with not a single tree to cast a long shadow.

A voice called out from behind，

“It’s getting quite overgrown here， isn’t it?”

“The summit grows gradually nearer,” he said. “When this thicket reaches full height and my figure becomes hidden from view, the place where you emerge through it will already be the flower field.”

Upon her gently sloping shoulders—the cord of her hat now loose—she turned her profile with crimson lips, a smile rising in her clear eyes as she glanced back.

“Why ever do you deem it such a distant place, as though journeying to far-off realms like Tang China or India?”

Kosaka roughly gripped his cane and, without disturbing the earth, carefully followed behind.

“It was a long time ago.”
“Since anyone would think of past events as being far removed, they might also imagine the path itself as distant along with those matters.”
“And so... it’s all just a dream.”

“But it is an undeniable fact.”

“The time when I previously gathered medicinal herbs at Bijogahara was already twenty years ago—ten years being one era, so roughly two eras past—in the summer when I was nine years old.”

“Oh my, at such a young age.”

“However, I wasn’t alone. I was brought here by someone—though when I first wandered from home, I was just a nine-year-old child who couldn’t tell east from west.”

People would say that Mitsu of Kosaka—my name—Mitsubo had been captured by a demon. “You know—what they often speak of here—being taken by a tengu. And perhaps that’s true enough. But in my childish mind, I believed I was acting out of concern for my parent.”

“I still had both parents at the time. Mother had fallen gravely ill—the doctors had already given up on her surviving the summer heat—so with single-minded determination to restore her health, I came searching for medicine.”

Kosaka fell silent for a moment.

"Saying this makes me sound like I'm boasting about filial piety—which feels rather unseemly—but Miss, I'm only telling you because it's you."

"Nowadays there are proper doctors and hospitals, but even if the castle town has expanded two ri in all directions, in these northern mountains there are no real physicians to speak of."
"Well now, back then even the doctor known as foremost in the region had thrown up his hands."
"To speak plainly—Father had no reason to tell us."
"Since Mother's illness was grave, they'd simply told me to stay quiet—but somehow, through people coming and going, the household's movements, you come to understand what constitutes a critical condition."

“And that so-called renowned doctor—a man around fifty with a bald pate yet unnaturally black hair, fair-skinned and gracefully proportioned—whether taking a pulse or holding a snake-eye patterned umbrella, he’d curl his pinky and gesture with three fingers as if playing a flute or a courtesan holding a pipe. Detestable fellow.”

Since I lived nearby, I would frequently dash out to fetch medicine. The pharmacy was run by what they called that doctor’s nephew—a man with an elongated face and a nose so red at the tip it looked as if crimson had dripped from his forehead. He would pull out small drawers from the medicine cabinet, line up papers on the desk, and prepare compounds—but first and foremost, his measuring technique seemed utterly dubious.

Since the pharmacy was thriving with many customers seeking medicine, and I grew impatient with the delays from constant visits, I became familiar enough to pull out those drawers myself—arranging five or six on the pharmacy’s desk—until eventually, without waiting for their help, I would mix the compounds and bring them home myself.
My method actually achieved more consistent measurements—how could anyone expect to recover from a serious illness with such haphazard medicine?

At that time, Father visited daily a pharmacist known for effective remedies in a place called Kodateno out of devotion, so I was occasionally taken along as well. After that, it was just me—I remember being led by the hand by my wet nurse to pray. I didn’t particularly know how to pray properly—so I simply clapped my hands together, wishing for Mother’s illness to improve, half in play.

June fifteenth was my birthday. On that day, I shaved my forelock, bathed, and then had someone dress me in a long-sleeved formal kimono with family crests.

To say “I” would be absurd—
It had five hem-patterned family crests and flashy noshi-me designs—what I’d recently heard called Kaga dyeing—with chrysanthemums, bush clover, and cherry blossoms rendered as bouquets of crests, dyed in various flowers without regard for seasonal appropriateness.
Of course, nowadays no one wears such formal kimonos with family crests—they certainly aren’t found in other regions.

It was said they dyed them exclusively in Kaga to showcase Mount Io’s scenic beauty—where flowers of all four seasons bloomed at once.

Well, I wore that formal kimono with family crests, fastened with a child’s obi from Hakata patterned with a single crimson vajra.

The little boy had been made neat and clean.
Mother swept back her stray hairs, used purification water, and slipped into the formal kimono with family crests that the wet nurse had draped over her shoulders from behind—wrapping a pale blue under-sash around her chest—but when she tried to take the obi and fasten it herself, her strength failed; her knees gave way. The wet nurse hurriedly steadied her, and she immediately pressed her solar plexus against a velvet-covered bolster before collapsing face-down upon it.

Having been instructed by Father that to express gratitude for being given birth, it would suffice to simply say "I hope you feel better," I rested my hand on the bedside and approached. When I raised my face and met Mother's gaze as she leaned against the pillow looking intently, she said, "Boy, I'll recover now," tears streaming down her face as she weakly bowed her head.

Father put his arms around her shoulders and gently laid her down.
The wet nurse draped the coverlet over her, adjusted the collar, and turned away.

From the kitchen, from the central room, around the entrance—the clatter of people coming and going.
When she tried to fasten her obi and collapsed in her dark navy formal kimono with under-sash attire, the wet nurse called out loudly for help.

Before long, the doctor rushed in, trailing the hem of his hakama.
Since the wet nurse told me to go outside and play, I left the garden.
I still haven't forgotten.
I felt an indescribable, sad and forlorn emotion.

The flower seller spoke in a soft voice,

“That makes sense indeed.”
“And did your mother recover well after that?”

“Please listen—this is what happened next.”

The child must have resolved to desperately cling to the Buddha statue’s sleeve.
Kodateno was what they called those desolate outskirts.
First came a plateau as large as a small hill—overgrown with grass, dotted with vacant lots, utterly devoid of passersby—where I made my pilgrimage to Yakushi Hall.

Though I’d shaved my forelock and performed ritual ablutions that morning, departing home just past noon, when exactly did I reach Yakushi Hall? What paths did I wander? How did I come to sleep there?

The next morning found me descending from that Kodateno down Yatsusaka slope—eight tiers of darkness cascading like an obsidian waterfall—until I emerged at the river’s edge.
There at Suzumi village’s threshold roared rapids of terrifying clarity, their currents vicious.

The bridge—bleached white by rain and snow, its lengthy form sagging here and there in scale-shedding patterns as it listlessly spanned—and there upon it he stood dazed.

Only upon later reflection did I realize it was the next morning—but at the time, having no memory of where he had spent the night, the child thought it was evening. Because atop this Mount Io, a pure white moon was shining.

“However, it was the last moon of dawn,” he continued. “Why? Because when I crossed that eerie ferry far upstream around noon that day—clinging to the rope as if suspended midair—my face burned under that glaringly intense sunlight.

“When I recount this, it might sound like some twilight dream between dawn and dusk—but I did cross that ferry. Every word is true.

“Having prepared for a full day’s mountain trek, I stayed overnight at the base this time—yesterday I arrived precisely at noon again, just like before. When I crossed under that blazing white sun bleaching both rocks and river, everything—the landing stone and departure pine—remained unchanged from twenty years past, etched clearly in my memory.”

However, when I had crossed it at nine years old, there had been an old boatman handling the ferry.

Yesterday I simply pulled the ropes and crossed alone.
There were no fellow passengers whatsoever.

As you know, with that violent current and no shallows for poling, two ropes ran taut—their handholds spaced as tightly as fabric stretched on a dyeing frame.
The small boat required him to stand rigidly amidships, leaning forward while alternating his grip on the ropes—crossing thirty ken of river in under half an hour, startling so often he instinctively shut his eyes against the danger.
When he opened them, he later reflected, had those towering rapeseed flowers not been visible—scattered beyond the cliff rocks—he might never have believed it belonged to this world at all.

As if there were no human presence for ten ri in any direction, a sign stood on the trunk of a large pine tree where boats were tied, stating "Ferry fare: three mon."

"The story has gotten out of order," he said.

There, the child lingered on Suzumi Bridge. When he looked ahead, Tomuro Stone Mountain towered before him in the open sky—its form like Buddha’s outstretched palm, five finger-like peaks arrayed in a row. Shrouded in mist or haze—it being none other than Mount Io, which only reveals its azure form on two or three exceptionally clear days each year.

“That this mountain existed there was something he had long heard of—even through his child’s mind knew its bearing.”
“And though none could tell whether he’d gone astray or been demon-caught—ah! Wasn’t that tenderling blithe beyond measure?”

Perhaps because his mind had already become unhinged, but since he wasn’t hungry, he felt no discomfort at all. Gripping the broken bamboo railing while gazing at what he took to be Mount Io amidst the moonlit clouds, he clattered across the bridge planks.

In the mountain across lived three monkeys. The middle one chattered away skillfully. “Why don’t we children go pick flowers?” “What flowers could we pick on such a cold day?” “Peonies, Chinese peonies, chrysanthemums—we’ll pick them all.” “Break one stem and tuck it into your hat, break two stems and tuck them into your raincoat; with three branches here, four there, the sun sets…” So they sang as they went.
……

What vaguely surfaced in his heart was this notion—ah, if he could gather from yonder mountain a flower so crimson its hue would pierce even the moonlight, then place it in his mother's hair, her illness would surely be cured.
"And Mother was young enough that such a flower worn as a hairpin would have suited her."

Kosaka glanced back the way they had come, but there was nothing beyond the grass. The flower-selling woman walked a step ahead, head bowed as if listening with her entire being.

“And he truly believed this was the Medicine Buddha’s oracle.”

Once resolved, he couldn’t wait a moment—retracing his steps from the bridge he’d begun to cross, he headed upstream along the embankment.

Though it was a path where he would later have to cross the ferry again, from the bridge the mountain’s position sloped toward where the moon set—yet from here, it appeared as if the opposite shore’s endpoint floated above clouds—so turning back with a child’s heart proved fortunate indeed, and those rocks in the rapids between bridge and ferry landing might well be called Mount Io’s foremost fortress separating people.
At Tomuro Stone Mountain’s base where it meets the rushing river—with its piled rocks—the path ends there, you see.

With the rocky rapids visible on this side—he must have been barefoot—having hurriedly traversed five or even ten *ri*, what he arrived at around noon was Naruko Crossing.

Four

“To horse handlers, porters, and farmers tilling fields—encountering groups of two or three each time he passed through a village and emerged onto the riverbank embankment—they all merely stood still, staring fixedly as he passed by, with none uttering a word.”
“This was due to his wearing a formal noshi-patterned furisode kimono—a rare and peculiar attire for the countryside—so they were perhaps too awestruck to address this strange young lord, or wondered if a fox had transformed him in broad daylight?”
“They must have thought something like that.”
“Or perhaps he himself was so worked up that nothing anyone said reached his ears—it’s hard to say.”

Suddenly, just before that ferry landing, there was an old man who called out from behind for the first time.
“Brother! Brother!” came the deep voice.

I looked up.

A stout, broad-shouldered man of forty-five or six—his build like copper-colored boulders—had hitched up the hem of his old unlined kimono roughly above his crimson shins clad in gaiters. Barefoot in straw sandals despite the blindingly glaring sun, he wore no sedge hat; instead, he had tied a paulownia oil raincoat—folded small and lengthwise—to its cord and slung it over his shoulder like a split bundle. Large twin tobacco pouches dangled from his hips. For reasons unclear, he fanned his chest hair with a stiffened uchiwa fan that flapped noisily as he shuffled closer step by step. “Where you headed?”

When I replied, “To pick flowers in the mountain,” he went “Hmm,” then said, “Very well—this old man will go with you.”
“But we’ll have to cross that ferry up ahead again—if the ferryman makes trouble, it’ll be a nuisance—come on, get on,” he said, turning his back. He stepped into his raincoat, planted his feet firmly, and hoisted me high onto his shoulders in a monkey-cub piggyback.

Even amid this urgency in his heart, when he looked toward the mountains, Tomuro appeared lower, and Mount Io’s vivid emerald mass seemed to loom over him from above his shoulders as if gazing down.
The position had shifted—it now showed on the river’s opposite side. Indeed, we would have to cross the ferry after all.

Shifting the hand that had been pressing down his leg to his back and jingling the twin pouches at his waist, the old man shouted, “Old man—your aid! I’m Warou, sent to attend the guardian shrine’s festival!” At this, the ferryman who steered the boat closer had a waist even more unsteady than his companion’s pouches—a wizened elder resembling dried persimmon.

No sooner had they grabbed the rope and clung tight than they surged forward with startling speed!

“Like sparrows darting past a scarecrow, like monkeys leaping through treetops—swiftly, rustling—in a flash.”

Kosaka involuntarily stamped his foot; the thick grass rustled uneasily, and flower petals came scattering down once more—two or three fragments, from the void.
——

“The current gripped the tilting gunwales in blue, and with a sudden flutter of white, the old man aboard—accustomed to such things—stood firm like a Nio statue, still carrying the child.”

Into the indigo-blue water depths—blackly transparent, unfathomable—the boat was snugly sucked against the belly of the great boulder that loomed before them.
The bank was terrifying; the water deep.

Carving notches into the rock edges and using them as footholds, he climbed up to this embankment.
“When I crossed yesterday—drenched in sweat as I barely managed to cling on and climb up, expecting to encounter the first peril—that old man from back then… he remained utterly unfazed.”

Kosaka smiled gently,

“When he found footholds with just his fingertips, there was no difficulty at all; I, being carried, ended up merely covering my eyes.”

‘Well then, let’s walk a bit,’ he said, and set me down on the shore.
Then, gradually moving away from the river little by little, when we crossed about three rice field ridges sideways, we came upon a single red dirt path with pine trees sparsely planted on both sides.

Though it was mid-June, I thought it an unusually scorching day for this area, but from the time we finished crossing the river, Tomuro Mountain began spewing clouds, and jet-black clouds swirled over the water in scattered rice fields.

The gloomy space between the roadside pines darkened further, their treetops rustling—no sooner had he registered this than large raindrops began pattering down, and within moments, before they had passed five standing trees, a fierce torrential downpour poured like water streaming from cart axles.
“Whoa, wait, wait!” the old man muttered to himself as he grabbed my hand. “There—it’ll be ruined! Strip!” Complying, I untied my obi, removed my formal kimono, and took off every last stitch—even the light-blue undergarment with its narrow collar.

The child was utterly naked, not a thread on his body.

The rain poured down relentlessly, and terrified as I was, I trembled uncontrollably. Then the old man barked, “Stay strong! Stay strong!” bundled up my clothes into a ball, stuffed them into his pocket, untied the cord, and pulled his sedge hat down straight over his head.

Then he made me stand against the trunk and soon unfurled that paulownia oil raincoat, wrapping me until only my eyes peeked out from my head's crown—like a child bundled in persimmon-tanned paper.

“No—!”
“Done! With this, even diving into the sea won’t get you wet. Now run straight ahead!” With a “Hup!” he delivered what felt like a slap from a plank—a sharp smack to my buttocks.

The soaked fan split apart, leaving only its ribs.

Startled into motion, I staggered out into the downpour—swiftly enveloped by the raincoat until only my legs remained visible.

“A red frog transformed! Transformed!” bellowed the old man with booming laughter, but I could no longer hear anything in the pitch-black void.
I crashed into something like a black mountain, tumbled head over heels, and sprawled on my back—through the waterfall-like rain came the piercing whinny of a horse.

When I was gradually helped up by someone’s hands, the one who untied my raincoat was a plump old woman around fifty.
A horse handler stood alone with arms crossed imposingly.
From the verdant green of the gate’s willow, droplets streamed onto the black horse’s back; already clouds had parted swiftly, and through the willow’s swaying branches, a blue sky shifted beneath wispy clouds.

Something strange fell in.
“If this were tofu, you wouldn’t need any capital—or maybe you’ll just add a ceremonial wrapper and present it to the shrine deity as is?” remarked the horse handler as he rolled a cigarette butt between his palms.

The old woman asked, “Master, what happened?” but kept glancing around nervously.

“Where’d this beggar crawl out of?” he said again, cruelly.
Of course, with his naked body wrapped in persimmon-tanned paper, they wouldn’t think he came from any respectable lineage.

As he thought bitterly of the old man who’d stripped him, he gazed back the way he’d come. His small stature let him see beneath the horse’s belly: beyond stretched a path flanked by rain-freshened pines, rice fields edged by irrigation channels, and a white heron flying distant—all visible under a faintly crimson sunset. Yet the sudden downpour had cleared all traffic, and no trace of the old man remained.

When I began sobbing over my plight, he said, “This one’s too starved to speak! Though it’s merchandise meant to make coin—here, I’ll treat you,” and from a moss-covered tub in a cramped, filthy corner of the dirt-floored room where benches lay scattered, he piled half a block of tofu onto his wrinkled hands and pushed it right up to my cheek—but how could I possibly eat this?

Even so, my stomach was as empty as if dried out, yet my chest felt full. When I shook my head, he muttered, “Like a dog begging for scraps,” plopped it back into the water with a *blup*, then thrust his wrinkled, blackened hand—and a face like lacquer-hardened—against my chest, snarling, “Out with you, ungrateful wretch who knows no mercy!”

“Madam Kuroba—how heartless can you be? Though I suppose ‘Kuroba’ fits you well!” The horse handler cut in between them, then roared: “Repay your debt, you laborer scum!” Behind the tofu bucket stood a spiderweb-covered wisteria trellis serving as a boundary marker, beyond which lay a small neighboring house with neither walls nor fences—and there, crouching on the edge of its hearth with hands on her knees, was an old woman who looked about ten years his senior. Perhaps unable to bear watching any longer, she slid down from the veranda, stepped over the rugged stone blocks, and passed through the wisteria trellis to emerge—her face gentle, her complexion pale.

“Children, children, come to my place,” she said.
“Hurry to Madam Shiraba’s house! If there were no debt owed, we wouldn’t be tethering horses here,” barked the horse handler, thrusting his pipe into the cylindrical pouch at his waist.

There I was—naked, my hand being pulled—passing through the corner of the earthen-floored area. By the time they dragged me into the neighboring house, a black kite screeched overhead while distant crowds murmured and festival drums throbbed.

Kosaka pondered,

“From the ferry landing onward—this is a place I’ll never forget for the rest of my life. And yet, even when I came this time with the resolve of retracing a journey from a past life, scrutinizing every single pine tree and bridge, I found no house resembling that one, nor could I identify any willow trees.”

“And nowadays, since the train just passes through about three ri ahead, there’s no foot traffic.”

“I suppose that horse handler and the old man are no longer of this world—somehow, their shadows were buried right there on that very spot, Miss.”

The flower-selling woman stopped as if restrained, her back remaining turned.
"I feel as though the two of us are walking here together."

“Then how did you amuse yourself? Please do tell me.”

She quietly moved forward.

Kosaka also began to move slowly,

“Until the girl came to tend to me, I couldn’t even manage to put on my clothes.”
“It’s the hot season, so this isn’t much, but you must be starving. Here—eat this.”

What had been pulled out from smoldering in the hearth ashes was a roasted eggplant skewered on a stick.

Swollen to a bubbling amber hue, steam rose from it.

Compared to grabbing raw tofu with my hands, I thought this was an extravagant meal.
The one who gave it to me was a kind-looking old woman.

They grew well in this soil suited to their nature and were considered the first harvest even in this village—those I gobbled down three of into my empty stomach. From where the hot liquid had seeped into my lower abdomen, when I awoke after a brief sleep, a stabbing pain erupted—soon I was vomiting and purging, an unpleasant story indeed, thrashing about in agony. Even now I think it’s a wonder I managed to survive. However, by that time, I was already cradled in the gentle hands of my mother, who had given me life. She was a woman of unparalleled beauty.

When my eyes—having suffered without a shred of human comfort—opened faintly, the first figure I saw had her glossy black hair tied in a male-style topknot, wearing a scarlet crepe underrobe with one shoulder bared. When days had passed and we went to gather flowers at Mount Io, she pulled my hand as we slipped out the back entrance of a hot spring inn with vermilion-railed towers under a moonlit morning sky—emerging onto the rice field path, she wore a medium-patterned yukata fastened with a silk crepe obi, a single sickle wrapped in a hand towel. During that time, when the White-Haired Madam carried me out from her home on her lap, her hair was tied in a Tang-style looped coiffure, her chest adorned with jewels, dressed precisely like a celestial maiden as she rode a cart pulled by an ox through the boisterous crowd—but then the villagers took turns parading with umbrellas held aloft.

At the village edge, when we rested at the temple and changed our preparations there, paying no heed to the many voices around us saying “Thank you for your hard work,” the girl pressed her cheek briefly against me—being carried by a young man—then crossed the stone-paved slope and entered the tallest-roofed house among the row of bustling two-story buildings, while I merely moaned faintly. To be sure, I slept three nights at the White-Haired Madam’s house. During that time too, I remember—even now with bitterness—how the girl would go out and return, make me rest my head on her lap, and constantly brush away the gathering horseflies. “When I was held by a celestial maiden riding in a cart and passed through surrounded by crowds, there stood a tall old man near the Kōshin Hall beneath a hazel tree—half-concealed, apart from the throng—who stared intently at us. Though I recognized him as the one who had stripped my clothes, the child was still too ill to speak.”

“Even now I still think of that noble, resplendent person as a god or Buddha—but upon later reflection, what seems most plausible is that she was the old woman’s daughter who had entered service at Shimizudani Hot Spring and been borrowed by village youths for the festival to parade her through eight or nine villages while they cried ‘Behold her!’”
“The girl might have been a bathhouse attendant or such.”

五

“After that, I was laid down in a clean small tatami room that seemed to be hers. Whenever I awoke, wanted something, felt thirsty, or began to cry, that girl was always there without fail.”

On the evening when even I thought I had recovered from my illness, she took my hand and led me down a long, glistening corridor to the bathhouse. There, we bathed together in a crystal-clear hot spring. Beside the stone-smoothed bathing trough, after thoroughly rinsing my body, she drew out a comb and gently ran it through my hair two or three times. Then, holding the comb up to the corridor’s light against the bathhouse rocks, she examined it with her noble profile and said, “Ah, how splendid—no beautiful hairs have fallen out, and no filthy bugs cling here.”
I too, feeling self-conscious, examined the comb alongside her, but I had never seen my own skin or another’s body as pure, white, and beautiful as they were at that time.

I was dressed in new clothes, and the girl—still wearing her pink obi—took my hand again and led me up the back stairs to the second floor this time. When we reached the top of the stairs, there stood a single room—apparently a newly added extension—with no sliding doors. Moonlight splashed across its white floor. The rooms on both sides were all dimly lit with lamps casting somber glows, and it was the still depths of midnight.

"What a lovely moon!" she remarked. Still holding my hand, she stepped onto the floorboards and led me out—where there was a small window. Since there were no shoji screens there either, when we peered out together, the roof tiles ahead streamed with dew like molten silver flowing.

The moon had broken free from the mountain's edge—its midsection lay dark while the pearl-crowned peaks gleamed with water-clear radiance. When I asked about the mountain, she said it was Mount Io.

The moment the fox let out a sharp cry, the girl suddenly pulled me close.
Pressing my forehead against her chest, I burst into tears uncontrollably.

“It’s not that you’re scared—no, it’s not fear,” she said, explaining my mother’s condition.

Gazing at this clear moon, I wanted to pluck that radiantly red flower and bring it back—for the first time thinking, “If it’s this person…”—and when I opened up and spoke, she fell silent for a while, fixing her gaze on my face. Then—“A crimson flower under the moonlit night… I will surely find it,” she said, then added afterward, “Very well, very well—through a woman’s resolve.”

The following night, when she roused me late into the night—though I had already been lying there awake with eyes open—I promptly prepared myself. At that moment, hanging from her tightly fastened obi was the sickle I had mentioned earlier, its blade neatly wrapped in a hand towel.

Then, slipping out from the moonlit window last night, when we descended onto the tiled roof, a ladder had been hidden among the tangled evening glory leaves.
We climbed down into the garden, clattered open the back gate, and emerged to find the foothills bathed in the light of the bright moon.

Mount Io appeared close enough to touch, but this was the secret mountain’s rear approach, and since there was no ascending path from there, we must have circled around to the Tomuro entrance and climbed up.
Well now, until reaching what could be called our long-sought sacred mountain from this point, we slept two nights at Tsujidō.

“After that—how did we come? Each time a fearsome form or dreadful being would appear blocking our path, the girl shielded me behind her, brandished her sickle, and stood tall; as she became as reliable as an armored princess deity, the road would vanish like dispersing clouds, and we pressed onward boldly.”

At that moment, Kosaka heard a sound like cloth tearing. When he looked ahead, the figure of the woman who had stood before him was now concealed up to her shoulders by grass. Yet as she moved her hands behind her back, the sharp sickle—gleaming like a polished jewel—arced in and out in a bow-like motion. With each step she took, the blade swung up and down, slicing through the tall susuki grass from mid-stem in armfuls with a clean snick. The severed stalks bent and flattened, revealing hidden earth that sprang forth with every stride—five shaku, three shaku, one shaku at a time—carving a channel forward through the wilderness.

Kosaka shuddered and involuntarily raised his hand; then, just as the woman had once done for him, he prostrated himself in worship and grew solemn.

When he abruptly halted—apparently thinking he was lost—the flower seller glanced back lightly,

“You’re almost there.”

“Please,” said Kosaka, now even his words measured with uncharacteristic reserve.

“Might that flower still be in Bijogahara?”

“That story truly pierces the heart.”
“Please let me hear the rest quickly—and at that time, was the flower there?”

“The flower did indeed exist, but since you always make your way to Bijogahara in that manner, would you not know this?”

“When we arrive, I will search for it together with you, just as you did, Miss.”

“Even so, I intend to wait for the moon’s rising.”
“Once that flower basket alone fills, you will return by day’s end.”

“No—whenever I made this trip alone before, I grew accustomed and thought nothing of it. But now that I’ve been granted your company, I find myself too lonely to return alone. I shall wait until we depart together.”
“In exchange, pray assist me with the flower basket.”

“That goes without saying.”

“And well—what kind of place was it?”

“That must be what they mean when they say it was like a dream.”
Along the way—encountering shadowy obstacles time and again—I lost count of how many times I thought the girl would be drenched in blood and I would be captured and killed. But when I took it for twilight, that must have been Bijogahara.
Across an expanse of roughly eight chō square, shaped like a folding fan’s base paper, flowers saturated both sky and earth.

Just like that, the two of us knelt down, and I pressed my hands together as the girl was doing.
When the moon rose, it became all too easy.

Before my very eyes, the petals of a Chinese peony transformed, leaving a single crimson bloom.

When I picked [the flower] and pressed it to my forehead, she stroked my head while I overflowed with joy—then the girl began shedding streaming tears. “You must never forget this feeling until death,” she said, trying to make me insert it into my hair. But since my hair was unbound, she instead placed it in her own black tresses.
Even when it became a flower in a hairpin, its color remained crimson under the moonlight.

Due to Mother’s grave illness and our pressing need for haste, we immediately left Bijogahara.

On the return journey, we descended effortlessly and smoothly until hearing dawn’s rooster crow.

Joy—the village must be near now，I thought. As the moon sank into dawn’s lingering darkness，four or five figures came surging forward from ahead，torches held high.
They seemed approachable at first glance—eagerly drawing near—but proved to be burly ruffians all.

Among them，I remembered seeing one familiar face.
The horse handlers who had tied their mounts at Kuroba’s house—when those two appeared，someone suddenly grabbed me underarm shouting “Don’t let them escape!”，while three or four others seized the girl who cried “Ah!”，pinning her limbs.

Where they went, how they went—the direction or distance—it was all a blur.

When I came to my senses, the girl and I were sitting in a corner of a large hall, surrounded by seven or eight horse handlers.

Before an ancient folding screen of unknowable age—perhaps centuries old—with his back to what resembled a wooden-plank floor, sat cross-legged was none other than that remarkable old man who had once crossed Naruko’s rapids in an imposing stance like a guardian deity.

When he saw the entranced child’s face, he flung the four-season flower-dyed lined kimono from days past squarely before him and laughed with his mouth agape.

“Ah, I’ve taken a liking to both of you,” he declared. “The monk shall become a child, the woman his mother—and never return to the mortal world.”

The girl’s hair became disheveled, and still holding that flower, she placed her hands on her knees, hung her head, and remained silent.
Apparently as a means to hear that response, I was placed inside a palanquin—suspended in a terrifyingly high attic above the earthen floor—for two nights.
They put rice balls on paper and shoved them in, but how could I eat that?
Peering through the hanging screen, I saw the girl bound there, her snow-like face illuminated by the fire they had lit on the earthen floor—but then my vision blurred completely.
When the palanquin thudded down onto the earthen floor, five or six mice scurried out from inside, but then the girl entered in their place.

She chewed the fragrant medicine and transferred it mouth-to-mouth; since I was held on her lap, I clung desperately to her. Yet the hands that moved around my back seemed to caress empty air, and the girl appeared like an empty cicada shell—in just two nights, she had grown as thin as thread.

“Since I can no longer see you, please give me that flower-dyed kosode as a memento.”
“However, out of obligation, I must insist—even if I return to town, I will not say there is a hideout here,” she implored with a pallid face, all while the palanquin was carried drowsily onward for fourteen or fifteen *chō*.

“Madam, we’ve arrived here,” called a voice. When the palanquin was lowered, someone took my hand and led me outside.

On both sides, they prostrated themselves with hands braced, and among them were horse handlers.
When one of them hoisted me onto their back, the girl emerged from the palanquin to see us off—but pressing her sleeve to her face, she collapsed in tears against the long handle.
“That was the last of it—”

Kosaka’s voice grew somber,

“The man who carried me left the village, crossed the river, and deposited me at the distant edge of Suzumi Bridge before returning—but this man appeared to be mute, not uttering a single word throughout the long journey.”

“I returned home like one risen from death itself—yet exactly three months had passed.”

“When I placed the flower at her bedside, my mother—who had already ceased breathing in that moment—regained her breath. From then she grew healthier each day... until passing away five years later.”

“Some say Mother’s temporary recovery came from joy at her child’s return from demonic clutches—but I believe it was through the merit of those medicinal herbs gathered by that girl.”

And yet, whenever I think of my benefactor...
The girl, even through a child’s understanding, knew she had been taken by bandits. But bound by strict instructions upon her return, she kept silent when the great bandit who roamed three provinces later entered our neighbor’s house.

Yet after this, they traced them to a mountain temple built like a fortress among rocks at Futamata’s depths, Tomuro’s foothills. When it became known that vicious brigands were holed up there—back when they still called them *roso* police—the officers surrounded the hideout in force. At the main gate’s very center stood what they called that old man: six *shaku* tall, fully naked save for tightly bound gaiters and straw sandals, his back cross-strapped with a four-season flower-dyed *noshi*-patterned kimono. As his long sleeves fluttered wildly in mountain gusts, a woman’s black hair cascaded loose within the tumult.

Grasping a large spear in hand—had the woman he carried on his back not been a corpse, he would have built a mountain of corpses—he forcibly made her a hand-wrought flower, burying her in Mount Io’s Bijogahara among the blossoms as a token burial before returning.
“You lot will die if you follow!” he barked, scattering the five or six who had drawn near as he abruptly retreated. Charging through their midst, he leapt from rock to rock to rock, then propped his spear against a crag and hid—and with that, it was said to be done. Thereafter, on the birthday that marked my first encounter with that girl, I would come to Suzumi Bridge and pray toward this place before turning back again and again. But after Mother passed away the following year, I went to Tokyo for training, only managing to return to my home province just last year.
The act of following its traces and ascending this mountain I had always longed for—amidst being distracted by things—was an utterly selfish act without excuse.

"I must obtain that medicine once again.
Since we had to sacrifice even a woman of rare qualities once before for that purpose, this time I will not refuse any hardship whatsoever.
'By all means, I must have that flower.'"

As he spoke, his chest tightened—not just from the tears brimming in his eyes.
When he suddenly noticed her absence—as if she had vanished—it was because the grass had grown tall.

Ducking through susuki grass taller than his height, pushing it aside with his shoulders and avoiding it with his head—with no means to address the unseen person—Kosaka took the sutra scroll and pressed it to his forehead,

山川険谷 幽邃所生卉木薬艸 大小諸樹

百穀苗稼 甘庶葡萄 雨之所潤 無不豊足

乾地普洽 薬木並茂其雲所出 一味之水

Sunlight filtered through the weeds, casting grass shadows as blue as moonlight onto the sutra scroll. Yet as he advanced while gazing, flickers of red came, yellow came, purple departed, white passed by—a scene reminiscent of butterflies at play—until what had imprinted itself upon the verses in motley patterns were already the intermingling blooms of all four seasons.

Suddenly, the heavens opened. Enveloped in clouds veiled by wondrously fragrant sleeves, all he saw resembled piled snow—pure white streaked with crimson flickers. Emerald hues reflected in his gazing eyes as they swiftly parted, each becoming a petal, a leaf, until Bijogahara’s flowers perfumed Kosaka’s sleeves and bloomed upon his chest.

The flower seller put down her basket and stood resting.

Having removed her sedge hat and stretched her collar’s edge long and smooth, her lustrous black hair tied high now adorned with a single small flower—she stood amidst large, pale chrysanthemums with her hem disheveled and sleeves askew, waiting for Kosaka with a gentle smile. Her beautiful, noble countenance and majestic gaze struck him so profoundly that he no longer recognized her as the person who had just told the tale. Startled into awareness, the student found himself already stripped of identity—forgotten were his name and self—feeling instead like a mere nine-year-old child.

“Well now, we’ve arrived late after getting caught up in conversation, so the moon must be visible by now.”
“Before then, please help me gather them into the flower basket.”

Though she had asked him to assist as one would a man, Kosaka instead became utterly reverent—as though serving a deity—snapping chrysanthemums to his left, peonies to his right, plucking balloon flowers ahead, gathering morning glories behind—all while repeating tales of Suzumi Bridge, Naruko Crossing, Nawa’s evening storms, Kuroba’s fresh tofu, Shirauba’s grilled eggplant, ox-carriage celestial maidens, moonlit hot-spring lodges, sharp sickles on mountain paths, bandit dwellings, and farewells at Tomuro Pass. By the time he had completed this circuit, the flower basket was beautifully filled.

Then the basket, though itself a flower, vanished buried among the blossoms.

When the moonlight shone, he prostrated himself and peered intently with all his heart—gazing through gaps, squinting into shadows, scanning the distance—yet all that manifested was a phantom taking shape through fragrant traces, while clouds and snow and purple dissolved wholly into night’s palette.

At the brink of despair’s collapse, he looked up unthinkingly to find that solitary black-haired bloom—crimsoned by lunar light—standing slender with hands joined at shoulder height in perfect unison.

Needless to say, Kosaka prostrated himself at her feet.

At that moment, as the beauty lowered her shoulders and took his hand, he yielded—shifting his knee to cling closer while lifting his face near her obi. Bathed in moonlight, her gentle face—matured yet kind—gazed intently. When she tilted her cheek slightly, her hair cascaded toward him. With a hand pressing it discreetly, she plucked her hairpin and tucked it into the trembling medical student’s collar, entranced—yet her pupils stirred,

“Ah, how dear you are.”
“The illness of the one you hold dear will surely be cured through this.”

Alas, Kosaka’s hands—clenched tight—found only empty stems to grasp; his sleeves hung void while Bijogahara remained brimming with blossoms. As he swayed forward with unsteady steps, the figure grew distant across the flower field.

When he staggered up to pursue, toward the summit where peonies cascaded over rocks like a great white elephant’s skull thrusting into cloudbanks, he caught one fleeting glimpse of vivid eyebrows—then only moonlit stillness remained in the windless field.

Kosaka collapsed heavily to the ground.

And so through the night he sat—the lone crimson bloom at his breast serving as bookmark, the sutra laid upon a Chinese peony spanning one square foot beside him—palms pressed together in ceaseless recitation of the Medicine King Chapter.